Hope and Other Punch Lines(28)

“I say go find new friends,” my grandmother says, and her hands move on to my arms, cradle my elbows, the slope of my neck. Like she’s reading braille. “Ones that fit better.”

“I’m trying,” I say.

“Want to practice being dead with me? It’s weirdly fun,” she says.

“Sure.”

And so we both fall backward, flat on our backs, and our hands clasp automatically. We may no longer be in her old house in Maine. I may no longer be six years old and entertained by something as small as putting a colander on my head. And yet, we find ourselves palm to palm, like always, each of us reaching for the other.

Together we practice. We keep our eyes open, though. Just in case.





Back in the safety of my room, I take out my phone, but I can’t concentrate. Jack texts asking if I am coming over and I write back: Long day. I can’t stop seeing Chuck and his cracked-open face. Or Abbi’s eyes as she leaned in to hug him. Those kids dead on the news.

Crap. Today was brutal.

Jack’s doppelg?nger explanation is bullshit. Photographs don’t lie. Still, there has to be a way to do this that doesn’t take Abbi down with me. I wish I knew what that was.

I type: Abbi, I’m sorry.

I delete. Start over: We don’t have to do this.

I try again: I’m not really an asshole. There’s something I should tell you.

On the car ride home, we were able to move away from Chuck. The two of us hanging out in her little Prius, headed somewhere we didn’t mind going. Despite everything, we had fun.

Not sure why I feel the heaviness again, like Chuck has followed me into this house and up the stairs and into my bedroom.

I cut and start over: Thanks for today. You’re the best.

I click send and then power down my phone so I can’t see if she writes me back.





Three days after the Chuck interview, I’m surprised to find myself, of all places, in Jack’s basement, sitting with Jack and Noah and nibbling on salami from an artfully arranged platter of fancy snacks that includes three varieties of cheese. But here I am on an old couch that looks passed down a few generations and has gaping holes that spit out fluffy yellowed guts, right in the middle of the two boys. We face a dark television set, and we line our feet up on the coffee table, like a picture on an indie album cover. Converse, flip-flops/glitter-toes, Vans. All dirty and well loved.

“So you going to Moss’s party this weekend?” I ask about an hour into our impromptu hangout. I still don’t know who Moss is, but I like the way it feels to drop his name, to let Noah and Jack think that I am the type of person who gets invited to parties. Which is silly because they know full well that I’m not. In fact, when Noah invited me over this afternoon, he actually said the words You don’t have plans after camp, right?

“You’re going?” Noah asks. I feel relieved that he doesn’t sound surprised.

“With Julia. I bet it would be okay if you came too.” I have no idea if it’s okay for me to invite people to the party of a person I have never met. I suspect that as soon as we get there, Zach will work his mojo on Julia and I will again be left to fend for myself.

And who knows? Maybe Noah and Jack could become my real friends, which is something that would have seemed absurd to me even a week ago. Yet, here we are. Eating cheese and crackers and cured meats. Despite the blackmail, things are surprisingly not awkward.

Noah looks at Jack, and Jack looks back at Noah.

“That’d be great,” both of them say, in unison. Then they laugh. In unison.

“We spend a frightening amount of time together, if you haven’t noticed,” Noah says.

“That’s why we lured you over. We desperately need to mix things up.” Jack runs his hands over his mini-Mohawk, not so much a nervous gesture, like Noah’s hair rub, as a contemplative one. “Hey, you think I could invite Brendan to the party?”

“Who’s Brendan?” I ask.

“So give me your take on this,” Jack says, and leans forward. “There’s this guy at the supermarket. He works a lane over. Everyone else thinks he’s straight.”

“He has a tattoo of a mermaid. A boobtastic one. On his bicep,” Noah says. “I think it’s fair to say he thinks he’s straight.”

“I never should have told you about that,” Jack says.

“He has a tattoo? How old is this guy?” I ask.

“Tattoos. Plural. Seventeen. He’s in community college,” Jack says. “But, like, his tough outsides don’t necessarily match his warm and mushy insides.”

“Tell me more,” I say, relishing this. I had forgotten how good it can feel to get out of your own head and become invested in someone else’s life for a change.

“He’s smart and nice, in a good way, not in an annoying way. He gives me these looks. I swear he finds excuses to ruffle my hair. I can’t explain it. I get a vibe. It’s not often I meet, like, good guys who give off a vibe,” Jack says.

“What kind of vibe specifically?” I ask. “A gay or bi vibe?”

“The vibe that says Let’s go make out in the back next to the frozen fish because I think I dig you,” Jack says.

“That’s pretty specific. Why the frozen fish? What about the cup o’noodles?” Noah asks. “Or the aluminum foil?”