Undecided(92)

Equally frantic parts of me are warring over whether or not I should hope it’s something from Crosbie or just something Kellan accidentally tossed in here. He’s forever throwing things from the couch into the kitchen, swearing he can land them in the sink. Why he would do that with a red velvet box—

Okay. I’m just going to open it.

I take a deep breath and lift the lid, feeling the strong fight of the springs, as though it’s never been opened before. When I see the fine gold chain bearing a tiny book pendant, I know this has nothing to do with Kellan. Nothing does. I’ve known this for a long time; the one person who needs to know it is the only one who doesn’t.

If I were smarter and saner, I’d snap this box shut and leave it in Kellan’s room, asking him to return it to Crosbie when—and if—he sees him again. But I’m not feeling even remotely smart or sane right now, and instead I lift the necklace from the box and study the delicate little book, half open to reveal dainty gold pages. It’s small enough that I have to squint to read the characters etched on the cover, but when I finally make them out, I confirm what I have known for a while: I have made a huge mistake.

I love you.

The tears that have been threatening for days take advantage and pour forth, stupid and sloppy, until I’m just a sobbing mess on the floor. I cram the necklace back into the box and slide it away, as unreachable as the guy who put it here in the first place. It must have been a Christmas present; he must have brought it that last night and hidden it under my pillow, and sometime in the terrible aftermath it must have slid down between the mattress and the wall and gone unnoticed.

Until now.

Which is ironic, because now that it’s found, everything it represents is farther away than ever.

The buzz of the washer finishing its cycle nearly gives me a heart attack, and I lurch to my feet and swipe at my eyes, grateful for something to do beyond sitting here weeping foolishly.

I stick the wet clothes in the dryer and load up another batch, then take a seat at the breakfast bar and stare at my room like it’s the mouth of a dark, terrifying cave.

Poor Crosbie. Always working so hard to present the perfect, strong image to the world. The exercise, the studying, the sweet gestures no one saw because I insisted he remain a secret. He gets so much attention being the guy people think he is, but the guy at keg parties and on bathroom walls isn’t the real Crosbie at all. It’s the person behind those ideas, the guy who works so diligently to keep the wheels turning, that counts.

I, on the other hand, worked so hard to be seen that I let all the other things slip away. Study, be responsible, be honest, be kind. I didn’t study; I got arrested. I lied to Kellan and Crosbie; I unfriended Marcela because I needed a scapegoat to justify last year’s stupidity. Everything I did was to cultivate some ridiculous phony image, either a party girl or a studious homebody, but I’d never taken the time to shore up my defenses, to make sure the person inside was solid and sound. And to what end? The one person who finally noticed me saw past the fa?ade to the real me and liked me anyway. Long before I was smart enough to realize it.

I think of Nate sending those gifts to Marcela last year, her not-so-secret admirer. I think of all the times he’d listened to us recount our weekend exploits, all the times he must have wished it were him in those stories, that he could be that guy. But still he’d loved her, supported her, admired her. Until he couldn’t anymore. And then these past months, the furtive looks they’d exchanged, the not-so-significant others they’d paraded around when really it was the things they weren’t saying, they weren’t doing, that spoke volumes.

I think of my parents, their lives together but not, residing in separate halves of a home. They insist on presenting a united front for my benefit, but nobody benefits from this arrangement. When my back is turned they resume hating one another, a festering and unnecessary contempt that should have ended long ago.

We can scream and fight and cry and ignore, but really, it’s the things we do when we think nobody’s watching that reveal the most. Well, I’m done. No more messes, no more lies.

Starting now.



*



Snow crunches under the tires as we pull into the dingy bus depot in Grayson, Washington, and I see my parents fighting for top billing as they stand clustered with the small crowd gathered just inside the terminal doors. In typical fashion they’d both dressed in neon colors to try to stand out more than the other: my mother in pink, my father in yellow. I’m pretty sure I remember those jackets from an ill-fated ski trip when I was six. In any case, they’re effective: there’s not a single person on the bus who hasn’t noticed them.

“Hi!” my mom exclaims, folding me in a hug when I enter.

“Hi,” I say, the words muffled against the rayon fabric of her jacket. I extricate myself from her grip only to be pulled into my father’s hug.

“How you doing, Nora Bora?” he asks. “Got anymore luggage?”

“No,” I say, stepping away and hefting my backpack onto my shoulder. “Just this.”

“That’s not very much for a week.”

“I don’t need much.” There’s not a whole lot to do in Grayson, and given my non-existent high school popularity, I don’t have many friends to catch up with or places to go. Unfortunately, the same can currently be said about Burnham.