Finding Mr. Brightside Page 4

  Possessed by something cosmically dumb that I don’t have the energy to question or make fun of, I hold out my fist and knock on the glass, right as it starts to rain. I watch Abram’s brain process the sound, probably doesn’t hear it very often unless he’s got a late-night side-skank I’m unaware of, and he better not. He turns his head, sees me outside getting my bun wet—Hi, I can’t believe I’m here, either—and I’m impressed by how fast and agile he is in jumping off the bed and bounding toward the door. His excitement kind of makes me want to laugh, or run in the opposite direction, or do an aerial cartwheel, which means I must be getting ready for my even-crazier time-of-the-month. Always something to look forward to.

  He slides open the door and rushes me inside.

  “Hey,” he says, with more eye contact than I’m comfortable with.

  “My laptop died,” I say, looking around at nothing in particular. “Can I use yours?”

  “Sure, yeah … it’s over there being dusty,” he replies nonchalantly, like I swing by for fake favors all the time. He has a knack for absorbing all the toxic energy I bring to a room.

  I walk over to his dresser, pick up the computer, and there really is dust on it, he wasn’t just saying that. I wipe off the top with a Taco Bell napkin I find on the floor and carry the laptop over to his bed. I sit down, sign in to my Dropbox account, pull up my dad’s latest draft, and start typing over any future small talk. Abram must’ve expected me to take the laptop and leave, because he continues to stand off to the side until I give him a look like I’m probably not going to kill myself if he joins me. He flops back down on the bed and reunites with his bagel bite. He holds one out to me, I’m assuming as a joke, but I accept it just to keep him on his toes, biting into the crust. He nods like, Good, aren’t they? He’s going to be waiting awhile for my reply.

  * * *

  “There aren’t any bugs down here, are there?” I ask Abram later, taking another bagel from his plate.

  “Not that I’ve noticed.”

  There’s a huge cobweb in the corner of the room. Intricately woven, as if the spider sensed she had all the time in the world. Am I going to let that go? I think I am. Because I feel comfortable existing here, in this space, with Abram and his whale show and his hidden tarantula. My mind is almost, but not quite, quiet.

  “Is this whale show okay with you?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “Cool,” he says, and goes back to watching.

  All conversations should be so brief.

  Maybe we really did meet as whales in a past life.

  10

  ABRAM

  I TOOK A PAGE from Juliette’s book and pretended not to be surprised when she showed up at my sliding door last night. Between the dog and me? I thought she was either a super-dedicated UPS guy or a polite serial killer. She stayed until I fell asleep, which is another way of saying that once again I have no idea when she left. Her note on the top of my laptop said: Thx for the Wi-Fi. There looked to be the beginnings of an X or O toward the bottom, but I’m thinking that was an accidental pen mark. I put it in my wallet and saved it for my next rainy day.

  The problem with good things happening out of nowhere with minimal effort on my part? Can’t think of any, except maybe that I want the magic to happen over and over again afterward. So tonight I’ve been doing my best to re-create the miracle that was last night. Got the door unlocked, my snack at hand, a fresh whale documentary on TV, and my shirt in the off position.

  Approximately two beluga segments later, I hear the door sliding open. I squeeze my fingers together in a silent fist pump because I knew she’d prefer letting herself in over the blah-blah formalities that go along with her knocking and me answering. She doesn’t say anything when she walks into my room, just grabs my laptop from the same spot on the dresser, sits down on the bed, and opens it. Takes everything I have not to point out what I remembered to do for her.

  “Thanks for charging it,” she says, looking at me with a newfound something-I’ve-never-seen-before in her eyes. Seems too presumptuous to call it admiration. Appreciation, maybe.

  I give her a lazy, it-was-nothing smile and proceed to fill my facehole with popcorn, letting her get settled for a minute before holding out the bag. She reaches her elegant hand inside and brings a few kernels to her lips. Then she does it again. I like this documentary, starring her in captivity, better.

  Even if she’s not into me, per se, we’re definitely developing a connection per my snacks.

  Juliette

  HE SURE DOES fall asleep a lot. Must be the Paxil. He takes his pill and a half hour later it’s like he’s roofied himself. Now I’m sitting here, observing him like a science project, wanting more popcorn. I scrape the last kernel from our second bag and give Orville Redenbacher a look like I’m going to punch his face off, with all my rings on, for not putting more inside. Then I wonder whose idea it was to make that face the face of the brand. His good friend, Colonel Sanders? Then I google “Orville R.” and learn he died of a heart attack/jacuzzi drowning. I didn’t need to know that, Wikipedia!

  I should leave Abram a nicer note tonight. Something less robotic than Thx for the Wi-Fi with half an X at the bottom, which I’m hoping he mistook for an errant pen mark. Still trying to figure out why I started writing that kiss in the first place. Must’ve seen it in a terrible movie once—Prescription for Love?

  Having issues focusing, obviously. Worried that I can’t stop worrying about Abram’s lack of tennis motivation, his excessive sleeping and eating and whale-show watching, his growing dependency on my unreliable presence, and, most of all, his Paxil prescription. All of this is a sign, right? A big red STOP sign with a Seriously, girl, you’ve gone way too far subhead. And yet my eyebrows continue furrowing. I’ll have to pluck the movement out of them tomorrow. Meanwhile, let’s check out these comments I just found on a sketchy online drug forum re: Paxil.

  PaxilSkeptic: Worked okay at first, but then I gained forty pounds and became even more depressed!

  BradG77: Ruined my life for the three years I took it, then experienced horrible zings and zaps, like I was being electrocuted, when I tried to get off of it.

  JFWhatever: Why does anyone take this **** of their own free will?! Here’s my prescription: Get some Adderall and go exercise!

  Okay, that last person was me, just typed it in, couldn’t help myself. In summary, Abram needs to get off of this FDA-approved brain poison—slowly, to prevent spontaneous electrocution—and I guess I’m the only halfway-invested bystander around with the organizational skills to help him do it.

  I open up an Excel spreadsheet and name the file “Abram’s De-Paxilization.” I’m confident it’s going to be the first decent plan he’s had in a while. When I’m done, I leave him a note straight from my heart murmur:

  Hi. We need to talk (without the TV on). I’ll be back tomorrow night. Probably. And you were right—the popcorn was “extra tasty” tonight. I should have let you make a third bag.

  11

  ABRAM

  “WHAT ABOUT ADDING a ‘Juliette’ tab next to mine?” I suggest on night seven of her using my bed as a Wi-Fi hot spot, the second consecutive weekend we’ve hung out. I point to the “Abram’s De-Paxilization” spreadsheet as she ignores my legit idea and reiterates the exact dosage I’m supposed to be taking each day to safely taper off the Paxil in under a month. When she’s finished, I thank her for the detail-oriented plan.

  “Why do you look like you’re not going to follow it?” she asks.

  “Isn’t this the same face I’ve been making all night?”

  Her eyes widen like, Yes, Abram, that’s why I’m not convinced.

  “Sorry, Juliette, I’m ready to stop taking this stuff.… I was just thinking it’d be more fun if I had someone to stop with me?”

  “I can’t be that person,” she says.

  “You can be that person. You just refuse to realize it yet.”

  “True. Plus, my withdrawals would be five h
undred percent worse than yours.” And with that figure in mind, she turns back to the computer and starts stabbing the keyboard, filling the “Abram” tab with even more clear-cut directions. I like to give her intermittent breaks from my presence, and now seems like an opportune time. So I mention something about making popcorn, her only known snack-food weakness, and sure enough she un-tenses her neck and tells me twice to remember the napkins.

  I’m surprised to find my mom upstairs in the kitchen; Aunt Jane was supposed to pick her up for the casino a half hour ago.

  “She’s running late,” Mom says, as I rip open the popcorn package and plop it inside the microwave.

  “Aunt Jane’s never late,” I say, setting the timer and pressing Start.

  “She was trying to make it past the Rainbow Runway on Candy Crush,” Mom says, glancing longingly at the iPad by her purse.

  “Are you out of lives?”

  Mom nods, goes over to the cupboard on the far side of the kitchen, and pulls out the Crock-Pot. She’s not slow-cooking a roast, just getting one of the money envelopes she keeps inside there, I’m guessing the one labeled CASINO FUND. Mom has a fund for everything. NEW CAR fund. NEW PATIO FURNITURE fund. ABRAM NEEDS $$$ fund. I put that one in there as a joke.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me before I go?” she asks.

  “Good luck?”

  She knows. Moms always know, according to her. Not sure where the dads are when they’re getting the eyes surgically implanted into the backs of their heads, but I bet my dad was familiar with the tennis courts in the area. Speaking of Dad, she’s wearing red again, even though I overheard Aunt Jane, a loud phone talker, specifically forbidding it.

  “Oh, and your hair looks good,” I add.

  “Really?” Mom touches her highlights, her face going through about fifteen different hair emotions. “I’m thinking of going a little darker next time.”

  She’s always thinking of going a little darker, or getting bangs, but she doesn’t really want to do either.

  “Do you think your secret guest downstairs would like it?”

  I give her what I hope is my most charming smile, but she’s not having any of it.

  “Would you do me the favor of at least sending me a text when you’re planning on entertaining?”

  I nod, even though I have no way of planning for that. I’m on Juliette’s schedule. The spreadsheet she’s modifying right now makes it official.

  “And I want to meet her. Soon. Before it gets serious.”

  “Mom,” I say, like she cannot be serious.

  “I could just pop my head in and introduce myself right now, if that’s easier for everyone.” She walks toward the hallway, like she’s heading for the basement. She can’t fully commit to it. We both laugh, and then I’m saved by the car horn—Aunt Jane just pulled into our driveway.

  “Gotta go,” Mom says, kissing me on the cheek. “But I was being Strict Mom just then, you know that, right?”

  “Yes. Obedient Son will get something on the books, ASAP.”

  When I walk back downstairs, I fully expect Juliette to tell me to get that off the books. But she’s not there. Ran away, forgetting to take me with her. She took my dog, though.

  Juliette

  AS WE WALK ALONG the jogging path, I apologize to the dog for spacing out and thinking back, once again, to a few months before my mom died. I was in the kitchen stressing over my taking the ACT later that morning. Standing at her usual spot by the Keurig, a wry smile on her lips, Mom said casually, “Why don’t you try one of my ‘B12s’ today?” She seemed genuine, like she wanted to help, not weaken my suspicions of her adultery with a bribe. I was putting just enough unnecessary pressure on myself to nod my head in agreement. “I’ll make more coffee,” she said, sliding a peach-colored Adderall across the countertop. I took it. Then I cleaned the kitchen, went to school, and made the ACT feel stupid about itself. The next morning Mom gave me an extra bottle she happened to have lying around in the cabinet where she hid her stash, and we laughed at the f’ed-upness of it all. Truthfully, I was relieved to be on the same page of crazy as her for the first time in a while.

  The dog’s tail starts to wag, responding to the familiar sound of flip-flops.

  “I can’t meet your mom,” I say, when Abram catches up to us.

  “Why not?”

  Because he knows me too well already, for starters, having skipped over being surprised that I was eavesdropping.

  “Because I don’t feel comfortable introducing her to a crackhead,” I say instead. “It’s bad enough she had to share a husband with one.”

  I explain how Adderall and I came to be such an inseparable pair, introduced by my mother. Abram listens, waits a little longer than when it’s his turn to talk, just in case I’m not finished, then says encouraging things that discourage me from letting my habit define my entire identity. He’s so frustrating sometimes.

  “Do I really look like mother-meeting material to you?”

  “More so than anyone I’ve ever met, yeah.”

  “Well, looks can be deceiving,” I say. “I lie to you about food all the time.”

  “That’s okay, I know how you really feel about the Doritos Locos Supreme.”

  I ask him to please not talk that way in front of the dog.

  “By the way,” he says, as we approach the basement, “if you’re not mother-meeting material, then what kind of material are you?”

  “The black kind. That doesn’t go with anything else but black.”

  He laughs, asks, “And me?”

  I’m about to say something off-putting like Polyester! but then I glance over at him trying so hard to keep up with me, still managing to be interested in this metaphor that I blame myself for starting.

  I sigh. “You’re linen.”

  Warm, unpretentious, counter-intuitively better with each wash.

  “Linen,” he repeats to himself. “Nice. Linen comes in black, too.”

  ABRAM

  JULIETTE AND THE DOG continue walking slightly ahead of me until the dog sits down in the middle of the path, her way of saying she’s over it. Juliette loves the dog’s honesty, and their bond deepens, which I’m happy about. We turn back around toward my place, which I’m ignorantly starting to consider ours already. Ignorance is bliss trying to pretend nothing will ever change. That saying doesn’t sound like me—probably borrowed it from someone. Juliette would tell me to give it back.

  “We can do breakfast with Mom, less pressure,” I say, as we reach the patio area. “You don’t have to answer yet. Just think about it.”

  “Count me in as a firm maybe.”

  She frowns, slides the door open, and walks inside.

  A short while later, she looks over at me and says, “Don’t let her go darker.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your mom’s hair,” she says patiently. “Darker is a mistake.”

  “I agree.”

  “Good,” she says. “If we ever do meet, I don’t want to feel sorry for her hair the whole time. I’ll feel bad enough because of my mom.”

  I assure her everyone’s hair will be in proper order except mine.

  12

  Juliette

  HELP. FOR THE PAST few weeks I’ve been having trouble getting rid of something at school. It’s standing next to my locker right now, actually, not falling for my disinterested-face tactic.

  “I feel like skipping eighth period today,” Abram says, even though he did that last Friday. It’s the Paxil talking—still two more weeks of tapering to go before his last pill. He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back and forth on his flip-flops, nodding in the opposite direction from class like I’m more than welcome to join in on the lazy.

  “You could probably use the attendance points,” I point out. Then we both start laughing for different reasons: me, because I just sounded like some sort of girlfriend he should break up with immediately; Abram, no idea—because he thinks laughing with others is fun?

&
nbsp; I slam my locker harder than I typically slam it, once again trying to snap myself out of this companionship phase I’m going through. Abram doesn’t flinch or say anything stupid, like, Easy there, slugger. He knows by now that, whenever possible, I prefer to slam doors. All the more disappointing that the one to his basement slides.

  “I’ll go to class if you hold my hand there,” he bargains, once again forgetting to include what’s in it for me. He just places his fingers between mine in his easygoing manner that’s hard to object to, and the least-developed part of my brain—the prehistoric, reptilian lump of useless near the stem—signals that letting his warm-blooded palm incubate my cold one is smart, not dangerous.

  As we walk down the senior hallway together, awkwardly entwined, another weird thing happens: A few of our peers smile at me like I’m not a loose cannon to steer clear of. This feels like a mistake on their part, in addition to mine.

  “Do you think that Asian girl over there is pretty?” I ask Abram, testing him, wondering if I’m really his type, or if I’m just his type until that rare breed of slutty Asian drops into his lap.

  “Only when she lets me cheat off of her,” he answers, and I feel my grip tighten around his hand. I like the way he says the wrong thing sometimes. Also, the way he carries himself: his broad shoulders back, his stride long, easy, confident. Confident about what, I’m still not sure. Couldn’t be his Honey Badger Don’t Care T-shirt, practically a bare midriff because his long arms are causing it to ride up on his chest. Nor that overgrown organism of blond waves around his head. Or the perversely cute little paunch where his six-pack used to be that I’ll miss when it’s gone, because it’s already shrinking. Or the butt I previously over-described a few weeks ago, barely hidden underneath the perma-droop of his sweatpants.…

  “Has anyone ever told you that you think too much?” Abram asks.