How to Be Brave(41)

“Gregg, I hate to disappoint you,” I say, “but you’re never going to find a girl better than Liss. And you’re an * for trying.”

I slam my locker shut, turn on my heels, and head toward my best friend.

Maybe she’ll see what I’ve done and forgive me. Maybe she’ll see that I saved her from what certainly would have been the worst mistake of her life.

She gives me a look of death, shuts her locker, and runs away from me.

Daniel runs past me toward Liss. They’re out the door, together.

I deserve that.

There’s nothing I could say or do that will change what I did.

But I’m sorry.

God, am I sorry.

For so many things.





11

Two weeks of winter vacation. Fan-f*cking-tastic. Two weeks of sitting at home, alone, watching TV, and playing on my phone. After four months of not logging on, I check Instagram, but it’s really not that interesting since I don’t follow that many people—mostly my suburban cousins posting happy-family pictures of them sledding and ice-skating and other Rockwellian scenes. Liss is on all the time, but I never post anything. I check to see if she’s blocked me yet, but she hasn’t. I guess she has better things to do, like fly to Belize with Daniel Antell. I see that on the first day of break, she posted a photo of the runway before she left Chicago O’Hare International Airport (#goodbyesnow #belizebound #wanderlust #adventure) and then the next day, she posted a shot of her legs in a hammock and palm trees in the background (#hammocklife #travel #belizecity #neverleaving). And then that Sunday, she posted one of her standing in her bikini on the edge of a boat: “Great day snorkeling the Belize Barrier Reef. Turtles, sharks and stingray. #unbelizeable #youbetterbelizeit #bucketlist.” Avery and Chloe like this. Ugh.

I look out the window. No palm trees here. I wish I could say that winter in Chicago looks as pretty as a postcard, but the truth is that it doesn’t. All of that snow that’s been accumulating over the past few weeks started to melt last week when the temperatures rose for a few days, but then it got cold again, which means the city streets are now blanketed by huge drifts of frozen brown slush. You can’t walk three feet without slipping. I went down to Walgreens on the first day of vacation to buy some wrapping paper for my dad’s present (socks and undershirts—it’s what he asked for), and I nearly broke my neck. It’s the opposite of romantic. It’s a veritable winter wretchedland.

At least on break, I can sleep all day.

At least on break, I don’t have to talk to anyone.

At least on break, I don’t have anyone else to piss off.

I shut off my phone and go to bed.

*

I spend the first few days of vacation reading and sketching and watching shitty movies on Netflix. Considering everything that’s happened, it’s not so bad sitting here, doing nothing. I don’t know why I ever tried doing anything in the first place.

But it’s Christmas Eve. I should do something. Really. My dad will be home from work soon, probably in a bad mood since Christmas is on a Thursday this year, which means he has to close the restaurant on a weekday and, of course, also means money lost.

I don’t think my brain can take any more inane suggestions from Netflix. (Based on your taste preferences: Witty Independent Romantic Dramedies Featuring a Strong Female Lead and Anime! Huh?) And my back is starting to hurt. I peel myself off the couch. I can work up some last-minute Christmas spirit before Dad gets home. Maybe dig out the decorations. Light some candles. Muster up some goodwill and joy. Positive thoughts, Georgia. It’s been a while.

I can do it, I think. My mom was always able to make the day mean something, even when things were awful. Maybe because it wasn’t about her—it was about us. Last Christmas, my mom somehow got us excited about the holiday, even though she had just come home from the hospital after having her fourth stent in six years. That last one was an especially rough procedure since they had to reach a part of the heart that is usually pretty hard to get to, and she was in the CCU for ten days before she could come home just two nights before Christmas Eve. Still, through her breathing tube, she instructed us to “get everything ready for Christmas.” A few Christmases before that, she wasn’t feeling well, either, because she had just started dialysis, so we skipped going to Oak Lawn and stayed home and watched A Christmas Story, It’s a Wonderful Life, and Miracle on 34th Street while my dad threw together a pastichio dinner. Even so, every year she directed my dad and me to get a small tree and pull out all three boxes of decorations from the communal basement, and I’d drape the entire house in twinkle lights and foil garlands. And somehow she always managed to fill the living room with mounds and mounds of presents. I think she shopped all year and hid them under her bed. It was usually cheap crap from the sales racks of Marshalls and World Market, but she loved watching us rip open our gifts and the wild mess of papers that we’d have to swim through each Christmas morning.

This year, we’ve only really managed to buy a tree. Well, it’s not quite a tree. It’s a tiny rosemary bush that my dad bought at Trader Joe’s last week, but other than that, the decorations consist of a string of picture-perfect photo cards sent by the various branches of the suburban clan and other long-lost relatives and compatriots of my dad’s who check in only once each year when the U.S. Postal Service allows them to conveniently relay how wonderful and perfect their lives are without actually having to talk to us. We haven’t sent Christmas cards in five years, maybe. Last week, one night at the restaurant, Dad asked me what I wanted for Christmas, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s not supposed to ask, that Mom never asked, that asking ruins the fun. Instead, I told him some art supplies, canvases and pastels and new oil paints, and he lit up when I said that, so I guess that’s good. There will be some presents.