Twisted Fate(11)

She said, “Whatever, Ally. Suit yourself. I’m going over to Declan’s!” That was her solution to everything. She barely spent any time at home anymore. And if you said something that made her upset or contradicted her, she went over to Declan’s.

I like Becky and Declan fine. Even though they act like I don’t exist. I remember the first time Declan came over and Syd brought him to our room. He looked at her posters and he looked at mine—looked at the stuff on my side of the room—and he laughed really hard. Right in front of me. He said, “You’re a master of irony.” I walked out of the room. I’m sure they needed their privacy anyway.

Becky, I actually like a lot. I mean she and Syd have been friends since they were little kids. And we used to play together sometimes. My friends, of course, don’t want to spend time around Syd at all. So I stopped introducing her to them. I generally see them at school or at work. The few times I tried to hang out with her and one of my friends she was really rude. We were baking a quiche together and she wouldn’t help with anything or clean up. She just sat on the counter, swinging her feet, acting bored, and kinda making fun of us. She kept saying, “So who’s your boyfriend?” It was really awkward. Or, “Have you ever even made out with a boy?” Not very classy.

I think the only friend we really had in common was Graham. In fact he may be the only person we really spent time with as sisters—Graham brought us together. At last. But not for very long, obviously. Things went really fast once Graham moved next door. Life changed in the blink of an eye.





Since Graham moved in it seemed that all he did was mess around with his car. He would keep the garage door open and I had a pretty good view of him from the screened-in porch on the west side of our house. So I would sit out there sometimes and watch him. I didn’t feel bad doing this. I knew he watched us too and I knew he was really interested in Allyson.

A lot of the time he would go into the garage with a cup of coffee in his hand, wearing his jeans and a ratty V-neck T-shirt. Sometimes he would stand there looking at the car not doing anything for about half an hour. Other times he’d be bent over the engine.

Something about the way he moved really got to me. I couldn’t decide if I liked it or thought he was a creep. His body was more relaxed than Declan’s. He seemed lithe like a puppy, but sleepy. He moved slowly. And I could see the muscles in his back when he was leaning over the hood of the car.

Also he was a superrich kid doing manual labor, which seemed like a contradiction somehow. Most of the preppy boys I knew sailed or snowboarded or did other things like that for hobbies. No one rebuilt cars, or fixed things. I liked that he was different, but there was something that seemed dangerous about him. Even by himself—not talking to anyone and tinkering around all alone, he seemed moody. I watched him throw a wrench across the garage because he was frustrated. And another time I watched him sit in the car staring straight ahead—lost in thought, it looked like he was wiping tears out of his eyes.

There was something wrong with Graham. And I wanted to know what it was. I wanted to know what made him the way he was, to be his friend, to talk to him and hang out, to go driving with him. I wanted to know his secrets.

I wanted to make him disappear.





1:42—Yacht club 5:37—Best Buy 7:00—Woods

18:54—Roof



Dear Lined Piece of Paper, I have to figure out a way to talk to her. If I had more confidence—just normal confidence—I’d have asked for her digits. I’d have gotten her email at least. I’d have said, “Are you on Facebook?” I would have done whatever regular people do when they meet someone.

What is that anyway? I guess the kind of stuff I used to do with Eric. I’d have taken her for a ride in the Austin, I’d have shown her the screening room in my house or Kim’s paintings. And maybe some of the things I didn’t do with Eric. But of course I didn’t think of any of these things at the time. I thought about kissing her. Right there in the driveway. I thought how nice it would be to just reach out and hold her hand. She was standing so close I don’t know how I could have thought of anything else. And I think she must have felt the same way. I’m hoping she did. The way she joked. The way she looked right at me when she talked.

Thanks to Dr. Adams, though, I can fix this shyness. I thought I was taking enough to make me feel a little better in these social situations, but apparently I am not. I mean, I’m fine talking to strangers now and that kind of thing, but being around her made me feel so nervous. The way I used to feel going to school or talking to other kids. So you know what? I’m just going to take more. What can they do about it? Nothing. And besides, I know that taking more makes me feel better. I can’t spend my time stammering at the end of a telephone or hanging up or just looking at her out of my window.

I’ll never get her to be in my movies if I can’t talk to her. Or take her for a ride or go to the beach or anything. I want so badly to just drive. To just drive around with her.

The thing is we all have a choice now about who we want to be. We don’t have to be how we were born. If there’s a problem, if you don’t do something right, you can fix it. That’s why these drugs exist in the first place. Imagine what the world was like without them.





Becky grabbed me after biology class just as I was headed outside to the unofficial smoking lounge—the benches under the big maple just two feet off school property. She had a distant, goofy grin on her face and she was carrying a pile of books.