The Last Time We Say Goodbye
Page 38
What is it with people trying to force-feed me drugs? I shake my head. “It wasn’t that bad.”
She hesitates.
“I’m fine, really,” I insist.
“All right, honey.” She leans to kiss me on the temple. “I love you.”
It wasn’t fair for me to be blaming her, before. Not for Ty. All she’s ever been guilty of is loving too much.
“I love you, too,” I say.
She gets up and goes out, closing the door quietly behind her, as if there is someone else in this house she doesn’t want to wake up. I lie back.
0. 1. 1. 2. 3. 5. 8. 13. 21. 34. 55. 89. 144.
But sleep doesn’t come for a long time, and when it does, the dreams are all still waiting.
21 February
The last time I saw Ty
22 February
Dear Dave,
This writing thing is killing me. Can I please stop now? I’ve been hanging out with a new friend, by the way. Well, an old friend, technically. But a new friend. Healthy, right? Cathartic, right? I’m the picture of sound mental health, I swear
23 February
Dear alien race in the future:
Please don’t read this journal as a representative of the typical life of a human adolescent. It will screw up your research for years to come. In fact, it’s probably best if you simply disregard what’s written here entirely.
Also, if you haven’t already, please don’t annihilate the human race. We can be charming.
Yours truly,
Alexis P. Riggs
15.
MY CAR WON’T START. I’m in the parking lot at Dave’s office, after yet another scintillating hour of non-productive conversation, and now, to top it off, the Lemon is screwing with me. It does that sometimes—some kind of electrical short that would cost me more than the car is worth to have fixed. I put the key in the ignition and turn it, and nothing happens. I do all the stuff that normally works in this situation. I open and close the door, bang on the dash a few times, turn the heater to the off setting, jiggle the key, and try again. Nothing happens.
I wait five minutes and try again.
Nothing.
This is a problem.
I’m all the way across Lincoln, at least twenty miles from home. It’s getting dark.
I take out my phone and stare at my contacts list. I can’t call Beaker—she’s at play practice for Brigadoon. Eleanor doesn’t have a car—her mom drops her off everywhere. My own mom is working until ten.
Crap.
I could call Dad. We were supposed to have dinner tonight, Tuesday, as usual, but he left me a message earlier that he wanted to reschedule for Saturday morning.
I check my watch—5:17. He might be home by now. Megan’s house is only a few miles from here. I know he’d be happy to come pick me up.
I sigh and try the key one more time.
Nothing.
I’ve never called Dad, is the thing.
Not since he left.
He calls me, if there are plans that need to be made. We meet at a rotating set of restaurants every week, and these meetings last about an hour at most. We talk about work. We talk about school. Sometimes he gives me money, an offering that communicates that he is sorry he messed up my life, words I know I will never hear him say out loud. I take his money. The bad-father tax, I like to call it. Which I don’t feel bad about, since most of the savings my parents had put away for my college education was eaten up by the divorce.
We have our rituals. Our unspoken rules.
We don’t talk about Megan.
We don’t talk about Ty.
I don’t go to Megan’s house.
I don’t call Dad at home.
If I did that, it’d be like me saying it’s okay, what he did. Like I’m accepting his new life, the one he built without us.
I won’t do it.
I dial Sadie’s cell, but she doesn’t pick up. I dial her house. The phone rings and rings, and I’m about to hang up when I hear a disembodied voice.
“Yeah,” it says. “I’m here, yo.”
“Seth?” I ask, but who else could it be?
“In the flesh,” he says with a sleepy laugh. “What can I do you for?”
I try to ignore his atrocious grammar. “Hi, it’s Lex. Is Sadie home?”
“Sadie? Nope. Did you try her cell?”
“Yes, Seth. I tried her cell.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, then. Do you want to leave a message?”
“No.” I try the key one more time. Nothing. I beat my fist against the steering wheel. Stupid, stupid Lemon. “I was just hoping she could give me a ride home. My car’s . . . stupid. Never mind.”
“I could give you a ride,” Seth says. “Where are you?”
“A ride? On your bike, you mean?” I’ve seen Seth tearing around the neighborhood on that thing. It makes so much noise you can hardly miss it.
He snorts. “On my Kawasaki Ninja 300. Her name is Georgia. Because she’s a peach.”
Right. I try to picture it, me balancing precariously behind Seth on his motorcycle, clutching him around the middle as we careen twenty miles over the icy roads across town.
“No thanks, Seth,” I decline as politely as I can. “I can get someone else to pick me up. I only called because I thought Sadie might want to hang out.”
“Oh, so me and Georgia aren’t good enough for you?” he says, his voice teasing. “Come on, Lex. Where you at?”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “You probably have to be at work soon, and I’m all the way downtown, and I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
She hesitates.
“I’m fine, really,” I insist.
“All right, honey.” She leans to kiss me on the temple. “I love you.”
It wasn’t fair for me to be blaming her, before. Not for Ty. All she’s ever been guilty of is loving too much.
“I love you, too,” I say.
She gets up and goes out, closing the door quietly behind her, as if there is someone else in this house she doesn’t want to wake up. I lie back.
0. 1. 1. 2. 3. 5. 8. 13. 21. 34. 55. 89. 144.
But sleep doesn’t come for a long time, and when it does, the dreams are all still waiting.
21 February
The last time I saw Ty
22 February
Dear Dave,
This writing thing is killing me. Can I please stop now? I’ve been hanging out with a new friend, by the way. Well, an old friend, technically. But a new friend. Healthy, right? Cathartic, right? I’m the picture of sound mental health, I swear
23 February
Dear alien race in the future:
Please don’t read this journal as a representative of the typical life of a human adolescent. It will screw up your research for years to come. In fact, it’s probably best if you simply disregard what’s written here entirely.
Also, if you haven’t already, please don’t annihilate the human race. We can be charming.
Yours truly,
Alexis P. Riggs
15.
MY CAR WON’T START. I’m in the parking lot at Dave’s office, after yet another scintillating hour of non-productive conversation, and now, to top it off, the Lemon is screwing with me. It does that sometimes—some kind of electrical short that would cost me more than the car is worth to have fixed. I put the key in the ignition and turn it, and nothing happens. I do all the stuff that normally works in this situation. I open and close the door, bang on the dash a few times, turn the heater to the off setting, jiggle the key, and try again. Nothing happens.
I wait five minutes and try again.
Nothing.
This is a problem.
I’m all the way across Lincoln, at least twenty miles from home. It’s getting dark.
I take out my phone and stare at my contacts list. I can’t call Beaker—she’s at play practice for Brigadoon. Eleanor doesn’t have a car—her mom drops her off everywhere. My own mom is working until ten.
Crap.
I could call Dad. We were supposed to have dinner tonight, Tuesday, as usual, but he left me a message earlier that he wanted to reschedule for Saturday morning.
I check my watch—5:17. He might be home by now. Megan’s house is only a few miles from here. I know he’d be happy to come pick me up.
I sigh and try the key one more time.
Nothing.
I’ve never called Dad, is the thing.
Not since he left.
He calls me, if there are plans that need to be made. We meet at a rotating set of restaurants every week, and these meetings last about an hour at most. We talk about work. We talk about school. Sometimes he gives me money, an offering that communicates that he is sorry he messed up my life, words I know I will never hear him say out loud. I take his money. The bad-father tax, I like to call it. Which I don’t feel bad about, since most of the savings my parents had put away for my college education was eaten up by the divorce.
We have our rituals. Our unspoken rules.
We don’t talk about Megan.
We don’t talk about Ty.
I don’t go to Megan’s house.
I don’t call Dad at home.
If I did that, it’d be like me saying it’s okay, what he did. Like I’m accepting his new life, the one he built without us.
I won’t do it.
I dial Sadie’s cell, but she doesn’t pick up. I dial her house. The phone rings and rings, and I’m about to hang up when I hear a disembodied voice.
“Yeah,” it says. “I’m here, yo.”
“Seth?” I ask, but who else could it be?
“In the flesh,” he says with a sleepy laugh. “What can I do you for?”
I try to ignore his atrocious grammar. “Hi, it’s Lex. Is Sadie home?”
“Sadie? Nope. Did you try her cell?”
“Yes, Seth. I tried her cell.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, then. Do you want to leave a message?”
“No.” I try the key one more time. Nothing. I beat my fist against the steering wheel. Stupid, stupid Lemon. “I was just hoping she could give me a ride home. My car’s . . . stupid. Never mind.”
“I could give you a ride,” Seth says. “Where are you?”
“A ride? On your bike, you mean?” I’ve seen Seth tearing around the neighborhood on that thing. It makes so much noise you can hardly miss it.
He snorts. “On my Kawasaki Ninja 300. Her name is Georgia. Because she’s a peach.”
Right. I try to picture it, me balancing precariously behind Seth on his motorcycle, clutching him around the middle as we careen twenty miles over the icy roads across town.
“No thanks, Seth,” I decline as politely as I can. “I can get someone else to pick me up. I only called because I thought Sadie might want to hang out.”
“Oh, so me and Georgia aren’t good enough for you?” he says, his voice teasing. “Come on, Lex. Where you at?”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “You probably have to be at work soon, and I’m all the way downtown, and I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
