I Like You I Love Her: A Novel Page 2

  I knew this truth of me, reminded myself of it daily, because if I had that power he wielded so carelessly, I would have used it on him already. It had been two years of this torturous crush, and I needed a release. One he could give me, or a self-given freedom from this attraction.

  He wasn't always this person in front of me, with this ability to pull something, anything from me, so quickly.

  Hell, I remember joking with my friend as I passed him in the hall freshman year. I remarked at the fuss over him, not understanding it. He was skinny, all spindly arms and a mouth too big for his face. His eyes were too small, and his voice cracked every time he spoke. He was a late bloomer, his beauty was ready to wound us though.

  Sophomore year Bryan got his braces off. And he grew taller every damn summer.

  My infatuation, my obsession, was instantaneous. I had come out of the restroom at a basketball game. He was arriving late, running down the hall.

  Suddenly I was on the floor, and he was on top of me. Just for a second, I felt all of him. Warm skin and his voice near my ear. Unintentional, but devastating. He jumped to his feet, reached for my elbow, and hauled me upright.

  “I'm so sorry, so so sorry,” he muttered.

  I never knew the color of his eyes before that moment. Navy blue, wide and worried about me. Heavy brows and full lips so close I could reach out and touch them. I was done for. A goner. Stick a fucking fork in me.

  "It's okay," I managed. His hand was still on my elbow, those long slender fingers wrapped around it.

  I looked down at them. Pale and soft. His eyes followed, and he dropped my elbow quickly, rushed past me.

  I kept my eyes on him the rest of the night. Watched him run back and forth across the court. I didn't tell my friends, Akia, Britt, and Christina, of my crush until a few weeks later. My sudden interest in basketball games finally made sense to them. When I confessed, they laughed at me, knowing full well how useless it was to be in love with a boy like him, so above us.

  Mrs. Michaels returned, pulling me from my memory. It felt like a bucket of cold water had been dropped on me. She smiled at me, and I mirrored her. She was my favorite teacher, and I sometimes worried she suspected my crush, had observed my lamely disguised wanting and watching. It was her job to pay attention to us.

  The bell rang before she made it to her desk, and the students started to stir, picking up their tests, bringing them to my desk.

  I reached for my backpack on the floor. I didn't need to stay for this. My desk was merely the landing place for finished and unfinished tests. I slipped between two students, making my escape. I didn't want to be there when Bryan walked up. I didn't need to be set on fire again.

  It would be simple, right? Hijack homecoming. That's what we called it a week later when the plan arose. We didn't want to see the same faces competing for the crown. We didn't want to stand in the shadows anymore.

  “Okay. We have four crowns to capture,” Christina said. She held up her hand and listed them off as she leaned against the back wall. At the top of the bleachers, we could see the entire school, assembled, ready to vote for an arbitrary crown that always went to the same names. Maybe it would work. Maybe we could pull this off. I looked down at the popular girls below us, laughing and looking like porcelain dolls. Aurora, Amy, Jenny, Angela, and the new foreign exchange student they took in, Luta. My eyes pulled from their perfect hair and perfect skin, to the rest of our class.

  I wrote in my notebook as my friend spoke. "Fall Fest queen. Miss Merry Christmas. Homecoming queen. Prom queen."

  I dotted my last period and looked up from my papers. “This isn't going to work.” I sounded as defeated as I felt. I was fiery when it came to battles we could win. This was out of our league.

  “Yes, it will,” my other friend Britt said, with a light in her eyes. “We outnumber them. It's simple math. What have the popular kids done for anyone but themselves? They have all the trophies from every year. Every crown. I'm sick and tired of it. It's time we took control of this.” Britt loved control. She was a science nerd, and I had the unfortunate luck of being her lab partner junior year. My artistic, flighty mind, did not mix well with her type, A traits.

  And maybe I agreed with her. Some part of me thought it would work, but I feared the crash. I feared for the first of us, putting ourselves out there only to fail. It would be humiliating. And the popular girls would never let us live it down if they caught on to what we were doing.

  Then, I thought about the guys. Who would be nominated on their end? I looked over at my three friends and tried to guess who we would nominate for which crown, how we would choose.

  Prom, for example, would be a bigger crown, both physically and metaphorically, than Fall Festival. Akia answered my question as she reached for my notebook.

  “Okay, so let's write them on pieces of paper. Britt, give me your hat. We will throw them in and pick. That way it's fair.”

  I handed my notebook over and sucked in a breath. I didn't want Akia to flip to the poem I wrote during study hall about Bryan.

  They all knew about my all-consuming crush on our classmate, the most popular boy in school, and our star basketball player, but I didn't want them to see my lame rhymes and longing.

  Across the gym, I caught Bryan's eyes. He was turned around, talking to dickhead jock Rodney Bartholomew, but he was watching me. I blushed and looked back at my friends.

  Why did he always have to stare? I wanted him to stop, or act on it.

  When Akia finished, she tossed the tiny folded scraps of paper that held our fate into Britt's hat. Christina went first, reaching in, grabbing hers. “Do I open it now?” she asked.

  “No, wait. Let's all pick and open ours at once,” Akia answered. We nodded, murmuring our consent.

  When I reached in, I felt the hairs on my arms lift. Was Bryan looking again? I didn't investigate. I couldn't let him see me staring back for the 20th damn time today. I had some pride. Some.

  My thumb ran over the tiny scrap of paper, over and over, as I waited for my friends to pick their fates. We all leaned back in our seats, silent, lost in our own unique thoughts. Perhaps all mulling over our escort options if we were lucky enough to choose Homecoming Queen. Fall Fest and Miss Merry Christmas nominees didn’t have school dances erected in their honor. And the prom candidate would walk in with one of our male classmates who was nominated.

  We all had crushes, no boyfriends. Akia couldn’t ask her crush to walk her in since she spent the better half of French 1 lusting over Mr. Arseneau, with his full head of hair and lulling accent. Britt spent most hours in between classes giving us play by plays of her latest sighting of Ritchie Tenfield, a Burlingame High graduate who came home on the weekends to visit his family from the community college he attended in Topeka. And Christina, she was in purgatory, like me. Her crush, going six months strong now, was on Rodney. He was one of Bryan’s best friends, our baseball team’s pitcher, and a complete dick. In my opinion, and in Akia’s opinion, and in Britt’s opinion, most days. She often tried to play mediator or to pacify Christina when she was upset with us for pointing out his multitude of flaws. Love was blind, I knew that well enough. But was it deaf too? His loud booming voice grated on me.

  Down on the gym floor, I saw our principal talking to Mrs. Michaels. “Guys, we better get this going. We better pick and start talking to everyone if we plan to pull this miracle off.” I pulled my hand up and tapped my tiny paper to my forehead. For luck? I didn't know.

  “Okay. Yes. Let’s do this.” Britt bounced in her seat. “One. Two. Three.” I watched her open her paper. Then Christina. Then Akia. I watched their faces. The multitude of emotions rippling.

  I pulled my eyes away, locked onto my long white fingers. I gripped the paper so tight it hurt. Slowly I let the pressure release, unfolding, opening my fate. I heard my friends murmuring, naming their crowns, their goals. It was all jumbled, garbled, white noise.

  “Sev, we need to get down there and start talkin
g to everyone! Britt needs to take Fall Fest Queen. We need to start on a good note. We need to take this first one. That confidence is going to help us take the others!” Akia was electric, excited. “Are you okay?”

  I looked up, away from my paper. “No,” I whispered. And then louder, “How the fuck am I going to get nominated for Homecoming Queen?”

  And how am I going to get the guts to ask Bryan to escort me in, in front of the entire school?

  Three

  Not Friends, Not Lovers

  My old house looks the same. White shutters and yellow siding. When I walk in, I can hear the attic fan going. The whoosh of air I always associated with the blistering Kansas heat. So many open fields, no reprieve. Nothing to stop the memories from finding me.

  My father never believed putting in air conditioning was a necessity. He could afford it if he saved. But there was always something else he placed first.

  Our college savings.

  New school clothes.

  Sasha's first car.

  I remember hot summer nights falling asleep in my underwear; a box fan shoved in the window. The one above my bed whirling as well, lulling me to sleep, singing with the cicadas.

  How could I have forgotten this? All the clothes I packed to sleep in are taking up valuable space I could have used for something else. It’s too hot for that shit.

  I try to ignore the sound of construction across the street, but all the open windows make it difficult, they betray me. He never was easy to hide from. I had to move away to feel unwatched.

  Maybe I’ll escape to my car, turn the air on, the sound up.

  Of all the people and things I thought I’d have to face when I came home, he was the one I dreaded most. Well, him or Aurora, or the one I cannot speak of.

  I find my room, and it makes my heart thunder in my chest. I’ve stepped into a time capsule. Nothing has changed. My pale-yellow bedspread is sitting on my full-size bed, and ivory wrought iron scales the wall, still covered in striped wallpaper.

  To the right is my nightstand, made of stacked suitcases I found at flea markets with my father on our weekend adventures. To the left is a peeling NSYNC poster. I should pull it off the wall, but I leave it and walk to my little vanity, next to my dresser. My jewelry box is sitting on top. When I open it, a tiny ballerina twirls.

  My father kept me happy, whole, fed, and growing in this house. What will become of it now that he no longer lives here? I should have come home. More than never. At least a few times. It was selfish, stupid. I didn't have the money to drop everything, and I convinced myself that was a good enough reason. A lie can be a good reason if you repeat it over and over again.

  Sasha has been home. But she is motherly. She had to be. She raised me until she left home, that habit never left her. She is still that woman, always caring for me, no matter the miles.

  My father is just a few blocks away, and I am terrified to see him in a couple of hours. To see how far he has fallen. My aunt says he has more good days than bad. But the bad ones are often.

  He remembers the war. The friends he lost.

  He remembers losing my mother.

  And on the tough days, he forgets losing her, and won't rest until someone tells him where she is.

  There are even days when he forgets he has two daughters, and he thinks he has a son. This is how I learned my parents had a miscarriage before my sister and me. More than one.

  It shouldn't be surprising. They had me so late in their lives.

  I walk to my bed and fall back onto it. A trust fall into my past. A light puff of dust flies up, swirls around me, and is ripped away by the fan.

  The sound of a hammer makes its way to my ears when everything settles, as I close my eyes. I wanted to take a small nap before getting around, but that's not going to happen. I have business to take care of.

  I need to see Bryan.

  Twenty minutes later I cross my lawn, cross my street, walk onto the school property. I don't know where my nerve comes from, but I want to see his face and his reaction. I want to store it away with every other memory of him.

  They say everything looks smaller when you come home. It does. Smaller and sadder. There is a melancholy laced in the smallness of this place. Maybe it isn't there for everyone, but not everyone has lost all that I have. Not everyone left here, scarred and shaking.

  I walk into the school and take in my surroundings. My eyes need time to adjust, so I breathe, in and out. I clutch my chest, then laugh at my dramatics.

  Tools and tarps litter the hallways. I hear loud banging, clanking sounds in the distance. A hammer to a wall.

  Somewhere near my old English class seems to be where the noise is originating. I wonder if it’s Bryan. This project can’t be a one-man job. What if someone else is in here and I get caught trespassing? I'll just blame it on nostalgia. On wanting to see my old desk, my old locker, my past captured in brick.

  I’m playing with fire here; this is the truest thing I know. But I was always with him, the break in time and miles hasn't lessened this need. This need to play.

  My feet are covered in sawdust when I glance down. I reach for the wall and let it guide me, watching my step, less brave than I wish I could be.

  I turn the corner to step into the classroom, and I pull my eyes up.

  I see Bryan’s back. His hips, his calves. The shape of him I'll never be able to scrub from my brain.

  He has headphones in, and he is sanding down drywall. His hammer is at his feet. I know I need to make some noise, to stop creeping around.

  I reach for the light switch and flick it up and down, causing his body to whip around. When his eyes meet mine, they are not kind.

  I break the silence, pulling my hand up in a small wave. “Hi.”

  He drops the sanding brick in his hand. “How did you get in?”

  “The main door was unlocked. Was it not supposed to be?”

  “Richard was supposed to lock it.” Terse words. Dismissive and biting. Fitting for someone who fled, who never learned how to say goodbye. But sometimes an ending cannot be given. Sometimes the ones we place on pedestals lose our trust.

  “Who’s Richard?” I ignore his tone. Our missing goodbye plays in my head, all the scenarios I ran away from, avoided.

  “My uncle. He bought the school.” He crosses his arms.

  “So he has money, eh?” Dumb question. Fillers, mostly. I want to touch him, hug him. The need is surprising, annoying. I scratch my arm so I can feel something.

  “You’d be surprised how cheap this place went for on the courthouse steps. It was auctioned off. And in worse shape than you’d think.”

  “I’m sure it'll look great when you’re done fixing everything up.” I talk as though we are friends. As though we are catching up, and everything is erased. He won't allow it.

  “What are you doing here, Sev?”

  No one has called me Sev in years. My body reacts to the moniker in a way I refuse to dissect. I reach up, pinch the bridge of my nose. “I wanted to come see how you’ve been. How you are.”

  He laughs, but there is no warmth there.

  There are still school desks in the classroom. I see our old teacher’s desk shoved against the blackboard. I walk to it, hoist myself up.

  Bryan takes a seat at one of the small desks close to the window. He reaches out to a glass full of dark liquid on the windowsill.

  “I shouldn't be talking to you.” No mincing words. They echo sentences offered to me in the past, in our past. We are doomed to repeat our mistakes unless we face them. My father told me that, back when he was able to give advice. What will he be able to give me when I see him later today? I frown and bury my head in my hands. I can feel Bryan; he swells in the room.

  I wish for nothing more than to touch him once again. Just once.

  The brush of a hand.

  The graze of an arm.

  He is still beautiful and the realization that I still want him hits me all at once.

  “Why
shouldn't you be talking to me?” Don't say it. Don't. He does.

  “Aurora.”

  The name chills me. The one girl who had everything I ever wanted.

  “You guys are still together?” I knew they got married. Facebook is a glorious and horrible thing.

  “Not quite.” He leans back in the seat.

  I feel transported. Fixated.

  He was always that way – leaning back, making me stare. So comfortable in his skin, never in his work or his mind, but his flesh, he lived in it so entirely.

  His eyes hold no mischief now. Not like they used to.

  “What’s not quite mean?”

  “Separated. At the moment.”

  “I’m sorry.” My mind races, the way it always does. Trying to find my in. My plan and all the ways I can approach this. I miss the old schemes, I miss my old friends. I have no one in my corner to help me figure this out.

  “Are you?” He challenges me.

  I am. I am sorry to hear it. I find no delight in knowing they are not doing well, if only for the sake of the child I know they had together. “Yes.” I stare into his eyes, embrace the burn of them. He can give me his malice. I will eat it up. “Why wouldn’t I be? You think I’m still harboring a high school crush?” I am. Will it ever die? Or will it always lie dormant, in wait for my weak moments?

  “Well, it’s not like you’ve thought of me since graduation. The whole world knows you haven’t.” He throws his arms out wide. He always had an impressive wingspan. I remember his arms around me, the temporary warmth of him.

  I roll my eyes before I can stop myself. I should have known it would come up, the screenplay I penned in college. Not Friends, Not Lovers. “I wrote it. I didn't star in it. It was an indie film, not some blockbuster. So don’t act like it was some scandalous thing. To everyone else, it was just some movie. Some made-up story.”