You (You #1)(103)

Nicky: Wasn’t I right? Your boyfriend can’t read what he doesn’t know exists.

You: You’re terrible but you’re also right.

Nicky: You like your new toy?

You: It’s too much a whole computer ahahahha

Nicky: Stop.

You: Make me

That’s all I need to see. There are over 437 e-mails between you and Nicky and I’m not crazy. That middle-aged hunchback has been defiling you and taking advantage of you and letting you pay him to fuck you. When I felt like you were pulling away, you were in fact pulling away. You’ve been reduced to secret e-mail where it’s all about Nicky. All those times you apologized to me for being late/tired/overwhelmed with work/busy/in class/full, you were either sleeping with Nicky, talking about sleeping with Nicky, or writing to Nicky. I open the photos and there’s one thumbnail of particular interest. Nicky stands over my bed holding your naked calf. He’s laughing and he’s wearing my Holden Caulfield hat you were going to bring back to Macy’s.

I’ll admit it, Beck. That hurts. But I can’t put all the blame on you. I’m the one who fucked up and let you down. I knew something was wrong. I have instincts and I ignored them and now you’re locked in a cage because of me. I had the opportunity to take the mouse out of your house and I didn’t. No wonder you couldn’t stop screaming at me. You have every right to be mad at me for failing to protect you from this lecherous, Vans-clad semidoctor. I send Lynn and Chana a note from your secret account:

Things got ugly with Nicky. I’m so afraid Joe is going to find out and I am sooo behind on writing. I’m running away from it all to write for a few days. Love you girlies xo Beck

We can’t have your classmates worrying about your whereabouts, so I switch to your legitimate e-mail account and reach out to Blythe in a way that ensures she won’t be trying to track you down:

Blythe, omigod big secret, you know my maid story? Your notes were incredible and I sent it to you-know-where and . . . they want it! I have so much writing to do (they’re brilliant with notes, you should be interning there). Good luck with your workshop and I want us all to get dinner when I’m done writing. Your choice, it’s on me. xo B

I take out your phone and open your Twitter app:

#SocialMediaVacation starts now. Xo B





48


I think I have memorized the treacherous e-mails between you and Dr. Nicky. I had to know them because I had to prepare an exam for you. I am cold, calm; I put us before my own selfish rage and I write the questions on a yellow legal pad that I bought at the deli on the way to the shop. I am ready and I carry my heavy messenger bag of computers to the bottom of the stairs and try to calm you down. You are shrieking. You should preserve your energy. “Okay, Beck, that’s enough.”

You look like hell, you poor thing. Your hair is a wreck and you’ve been crying. “What are you trying to do to me, Joe?”

“I’m here, it’s okay.”

You look at the computer I set up and you shriek again and clap your hands over your ears. I don’t understand because Pitch Perfect is your favorite but I fucked up and forgot to hit PLAY. The intro screen has been repeating since you woke up, which appears to have been a long time ago. I hit the MUTE button. “There now. How’s that, Beck?” Alicious1027.

You blubber and whimper and you’re a mess but you nod, I think, and I tell you to walk over to the sliding drawer where I deposit two flashcards.

You look around. “What the fuck is this?”

“The drawer, Beck.”

I tap the drawer where Mr. Mooney gave me pizza, where I gave Benji club soda. Sometimes people do change and I want you to pick up the cards.

I explain. “You need to take the two cards. Then we’ll begin. One reads ‘yes’ and one reads ‘no.’?”

“Joe,” you say and you’re not walking, you’re not listening.

I point to the drawer in the cage and you obey and you plead, “Joe, look, I overreacted.”

“Beck, take the cards,” I say and you look at me like I’m crazy. “Pick them up. The sooner we get started, the sooner you get fed.”

You pick them up and you do love a test. You sit down on the bench and you face me. I see that you ate some of the pretzels and drank most of the water. Good girl.

“This is an oral exam,” I begin and you laugh. I’m rooting for you to succeed so I look the other way. “Each question is true or false. And after each question, you’ll have the opportunity to back up your answer.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

I ignore you and you’re blubbering. I can’t get mad. If I had to watch and listen to the DVD menu for Pitch Perfect for more than five hours, I too would be a mess. I look down at my yellow legal pad and begin. “True or false? You’re having an affair with your therapist, Nick Angevine.”

“False,” you snap.

I want you to pass this test, so I press. “Again. True or false? You are having an affair with your therapist, Nicholas Angevine.”

I deliberately left out the world doctor and you hang your head. “False.”

I sigh. “You sure about that?”

Finally, you open up to me petal by petal, as spring opens. You pull your hair behind your ear. “It’s complicated.”