Opposite of Always(35)
“I was thinking . . . maybe . . . you should . . . head back without me?”
“What are you talking about? How are you going to get home?”
“Bus,” I say softly. I dig a gravel-hole with my shoe.
“I’m an idiot, right? Because I was under the impression we were going to hang out this weekend. But then we go to a party and you’re a ghost the rest of the night. I think to myself, It’s okay, we’ll meet for breakfast like we’d planned, but then you don’t show up . . .”
Damn. I totally forgot about our breakfast plans.
“And then you send your phone straight to voice mail all morning, only to finally show up at my car and tell me you’re gonna find your own way home.”
“J, it’s not like that. I’m sorry. I really meant . . . something crazy has happened.”
“Something crazy is still happening, Jack,” she says. “I hope you have a great time, really. Give Sweater Dress my regards.”
“J, I just . . . don’t be that way, please. You don’t understand.”
She flings open her car door. “Nope, I have an excellent handle on things. Maybe I’ll see you back home. You know, if you remember how to work a phone. Later, Jack.”
She pulls out onto the road. I wave at her.
And this is what feeling happy and crappy at the same time looks like.
Kate and I find a quiet spot in the library; she spends her time studying economics, while I spend my time studying how cute she is. My primary study method consists of staring at her and then quickly averting my eyes when she notices.
“What, do I have something on my face?” she asks, looking up from her book.
“No,” I assure her. “But my lips are up for the job.”
She groans loudly. “Just when I thought humankind couldn’t be any cornier . . .”
“I came along.” I finish the sentence for her.
She rolls her eyes, but she smiles, too.
“Kate, can I ask you something?”
“What, you thought of another school dance?”
“Are you feeling okay? Like, how do you feel, like, uh, physically?”
“Why would you ask me that?”
“I don’t know.” I lie, because why would I ask her that. “You’re a little pale?”
She studies my face. “I feel fine, Jack. Thanks.”
“Cool,” I say. “Good.”
“Actually, I may have slightly overdone it the last twenty-four hours.”
I nod. “We’ve been running all over the place.” And I feel bad, because I don’t want to be the reason Kate’s not well. But also I’m not sure what to do about it. “Maybe we cut back on our grocery store marathons,” I suggest.
She smiles. “Cereal aisle sprints are more my speed.”
High Off Life 2.0
I catch the midnight bus home, which my parents are less than thrilled about.
MOM on the phone: Crazy people take the bus late at night.
ME: I’m pretty sure crazy people aren’t as strict with their bus-riding schedule as you think.
DAD: Don’t be sharp with your mother. She’s worried about you.
MOM: Your father grilled steaks.
ME: I’m sorry, guys. Really.
DAD: There’s not much we can do now.
MOM: Maybe we should come pick you up.
ME: I don’t think that’s . . .
DAD: That’s not necessary.
ME: I agree with Dad.
DAD: But we will have a talk about being trustworthy, Jack-O.
ME: sigh Okay.
DAD presumably speaking OFF-PHONE to MOM: Guess you and I will be dining alone tonight, baby. I say we bypass the main course and skip straight to dessert.
MOM presumably speaking OFF-PHONE to DAD: Two or three desserts, if you think you can handle it.
DAD: Oh, I’m feeling extra hungry, baby girl . . .
ME: Uh, guys, maybe hold the phone farther away from your mouths the next time you want to engage in what sounds like a private conversation, or you know, there’s also this rather cool thing called the mute button.
DAD: See you in the morning, Jackie.
MOM: Be safe! Call us when you’re on your way!
ME: Okay, I’ll probably just walk from the bus stop, since you know it’s only like two blo— DAD: Excellent! Nighty-night!
Click.
Love you guys too.
So.
With stops, it’s a two-point-five-hour ride.
I decide I should get some shut-eye.
Which means, of course, I can’t sleep.
And it’s not even that the bus smells like a dirty-diaper factory. Or that there’s more duct tape than vinyl on my “seat.”
It’s more like, I may never sleep again. How can I?
Because if this really is the past The Past THE PAST!, why am I here?
I mean, out of all the places for God, the cosmos, whomever, whatever, to plunk me down in the stream of time, why here—on a set of decrepit steps, with the girl that I almost-love, the girl who died, now alive and well and annoyed with me for blocking her staircase descent? A girl with zero memory of me or the last four months.
Am I supposed to do something different? Change something this time around?
I mean, it can’t be a coincidence that I respawned (too video-gamey?) right after Kate died.