The Memory Book(10)

“I don’t have to, no.”

“But I asked.”

“Why?” I asked him.

“Because something’s going on.”

“How can you tell?”

Coop shrugged and smiled.

Maybe he could tell because he’d seen me pee my pants in this very church, when the homily went too long. Maybe because I’d seen him pee his pants once, in our car on the way back home from Water Country.

Or perhaps it was that I had come from the doctor’s office, where someone had just pressed on every part of me so hard that I could feel her cold wedding ring against my skin, and I had to tell her that yes, it does hurt when you press there, and there, and there. Dr. Clarkington touched my neck and my spine and my butt and my boobs and my belly button and the soft part between my hip bones, and told me how each part would dissolve or melt or harden, like Play-Doh left out too long, and she could already see my body changing.

I said, “Let’s sit. Can we sit?”

“Of course we can sit.”

We sat down, our backs against the cross.

I told him about today.

I told him about two months ago, when I found out I couldn’t turn my eyeballs upward and went to the doctor for what we thought was some sort of migraine. I told him about six weeks of medical tests, reading AP Euro while waiting on the freezing tarmac because the Mayo Clinic has to be all the way in Minnesota, and telling Maddie I had to miss debate practice because my great-aunt was dying, because it seemed closer to the truth: My great-aunt did die and she did have what I have, which is another reason Maddie can’t know that I’m sick, because if she thinks I’m going to die it will throw her off, and she’ll start telling me I’m doing good work even when I’m not, and she’s one of the only people whose opinion about debate I can trust. I told him that watching Harrison get confirmed brought back all these memories and, in turn, curiosity and fear about the future, which looked narrow and hard but not impossible, and how now I feel more determined than ever to get what I want and get it now.

Coop’s eyes were blazing red by the time I was finished. To clarify: not from getting emotional, but from getting high, I’m pretty sure.

“Shit, man,” he said. To his credit, he hadn’t interrupted once.

“So, yeah,” I said. I felt like I had just thrown up. I may have been sweating. But I was empty and calm.

Coop nodded for a second, forming words. “Sammie, I am so sorry.”

He stared at the ground. His phone lit up in his pocket and he pulled it out. I caught the name “Hot Katie” on the screen. He ignored it. But it was already enough of a reminder of who we were now. He would not have ignored the call if I wasn’t here. We would not be standing here if he hadn’t wanted to smoke weed. This was not how his night was supposed to go, or mine. We were just space rocks bouncing off each other temporarily in this strange little Upper Valley void, but our trajectories were still separate. We were not friends.

“It’s cool.” I wanted him to go then. I wanted Coop to take with him everything I had dumped on him so I would never have to talk about it again. Hot Katie lit up his phone a second time.

I pointed to his pocket. “You can take that.”

“’K,” Cooper said, unlocking the screen. “Be right back,” he added, and flicked the butt of his joint forward so I had to jump to avoid it.

“Sorry!” he said, darting back, phone to his ear. He ground the tip with his Adidas.

While he cooed to Hot Katie, I ducked inside for the conclusion of the service, and when we came back out, Cooper was gone. Good to see him, though. Good ol’ Coop.

Oh, f*ck. I really hope he doesn’t tell anyone about the disease thing.

He won’t.

Oh well.

He won’t.





AFFIRMATIVE CASE FOR ATTENDING ROSS NERVIG’S PARTY FRIDAY NIGHT: AN EXPLORATION INTO TEEN SOCIAL HABITS UNDER THE GUISE OF DEBATE PREPARATION


Good afternoon, Future Sam. The topic for debate is that Sammie will attend a party at Ross Nervig’s house, Friday, April 29. We define the topic as follows: A party is a gathering of adolescents in a residence where no parents are present and alcohol is present. “Sammie” is an eighteen-year-old who has not previously attended a party. “Ross Nervig” is a former student at Hanover who regularly facilitates parties as they have previously been defined. We, as the affirmative team, believe this statement to be true, and that Sammie will attend her first party.

As the first and only speaker, I will be discussing the professional benefits of attending said party, the feasibility of Sammie’s parents allowing her to attend, and the likelihood of the presence of Stuart Shah at said party.

My first point addresses the conditions under which Sammie’s attendance at the party was requested, and how Sammie’s fulfillment of this request will further her professional goals. Sammie aspires to win the National Debate Tournament in two weeks. At debate practice, Maddie Sinclair mentioned the party as a reward for their hard work.

We define “Maddie Sinclair” as Sammie’s debate partner of three years, a regular attendee of parties at Ross Nervig’s house, and a future student at Emory University. Find Maddie in every school play, as the head of the Queer Union, and in the center of an orbit of theater kids and film kids. (She once told me she’s like Rufio in that old Peter Pan remake Hook, and all of her friends are the Lost Boys. For the record, I Googled it, and her hair, currently a bright red Mohawk, is pretty close.) Today, Maddie and Sammie were trying on their National Debate Tournament pantsuits in the girls’ bathroom next to the government classroom. I will now relay the transcribed exchange verbatim, in support of the affirmative: