Then Everything Happens at Once, page 27
I nod, a half smile pulling the right corner of my mouth up. “You’re the only one I want to have fun with, too.”
“All right, come read this,” he says. “And please keep my feelings in mind. If you laugh at me, I’m going to act all tough, but inside, I will be crushed.”
“I would never laugh at you.”
I settle on the couch with Freddie’s pages as he hangs around, trying not to look over my shoulder and stress me out with his anticipation. The story is about a college guy who has to drop out when his dad suddenly dies, and the guy has to spend days in this massive old house he doesn’t know, clearing memories, feeling super conflicted about his past with his dad. But then he comes across mementos of a girl he went to high school with. So he spends the whole time remembering her. And then . . .
I don’t know. I only have the first two acts to read.
“So?” Freddie asks when I put the pages down.
“You’re pretty deep,” I say. “This is really . . . emotional.”
“Was it interesting?”
“Yes. I really like it,” I say, and then I think about what Mrs. Morales said, about loss, and it’s obvious a lot of his feelings ended up in this story. “Does he find the girl?”
Freddie shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Shut up! You haven’t even decided?”
He shakes his head and hops up on the workbench. “The end is really hard to write! I don’t know what I’m trying to say with this story.”
“Well, maybe you should write it different ways? See which one is best?” I suggest.
“That’s a pretty decent idea,” he says.
“I could read each one and tell you which one people would rather see in a theater.”
“Because you’re a film critic and an expert on film audiences?”
“No,” I say. “But I’m literally almost always right.”
“About movie stuff?”
“About all things, in general.”
“Ah,” he says, winking. “I’m sure that’s a fact.”
We head inside, and for the next few hours, I lie on Freddie’s bed as he sits at his desk, working on his script. Turning on my phone leads to an avalanche of texts and alerts, mostly from Rianne and Lara.
[Lara] I can’t believe you would do this to me.
[Baylee] I didn’t do anything to you.
[Lara] You knew I liked him.
We could flip this conversation, reverse the roles, and it all sounds very familiar. I give myself a solid five minutes to consider responses. Then I decide to go with:
[Baylee] I’m really sorry. I know that sucks, but he wasn’t yours. Maybe you wanted that more than anything, but it wasn’t going to happen. That’s not my fault.
[Lara] That’s so condescending, Baylee.
[Baylee] I know. That’s exactly how I felt when you said those exact words to me.
[Lara] You should’ve told me what was going on.
[Baylee] You should’ve told me what was going on, too.
[Lara] I have a real reason to be upset.
[Baylee] All I can say is I’m sorry. Sometimes you get caught up in the feelings and you have to follow them.
[Lara] Stop quoting my own words back to me!
[Baylee] Well, do you want to actually talk for real or do you just want to keep talking down at me?
[Lara] I want to talk for real.
[Baylee] OK. Give me 5 minutes.
“I’m going to go to the garage for a bit,” I say. Freddie starts gathering his things, meaning to follow me. “I need to talk to Lara, okay?”
He nods and gives me a thumbs-up.
Forty-Nine
In the garage, the only lights I put on are the Christmas ones hanging above the couch. My hope is that it won’t be obvious that I’m in Freddie’s garage, which would distract needlessly. There’s a part of me that still wants to rub things in her face, but my living here right now isn’t one of them.
My phone screen reflects a stone-faced Lara, hair gathered up high on her head, delicate gold earrings shaped like leaves hanging from her earlobes, white silk cami top on. We say hello, then we are silent.
This conversation seems to call for an apology, but there won’t be one offered from my end, and I suspect it’s the same from hers.
“So Freddie’s your boyfriend,” she finally says.
My sigh is louder than I meant it to be. “No.”
“But you’re dating.”
“Something like that, I guess?”
“What about the other person you’re dating?”
“I . . . messed that up.”
“Because of Freddie?”
“No. Just for . . . reasons.”
We are quiet again, the very important things that need to be said waiting to be released into the conversation. But I don’t know how to start.
“Is all of your family okay?” I ask.
“So far. But Kavith had the nerve to go to a party in Toronto last weekend,” she says. “He ended up going to the emergency room the next day, totally freaking out about having the rona. So now my uncle’s house is in quarantine because of him.”
“Are they sick?”
She shakes her head. “He smoked a ton at the party, so when he woke up with a scratchy throat the next day, he totally lost it and thought he was dying. He’s fine, but it was a big party in Toronto—he’s an idiot.”
“Sounds like it.”
“How’s your family?”
“They’re fine. We’re being careful.”
“Well, that’s good,” she says. “I’m still mad at you.”
“I’m mad, too.”
“Freddie and me—we could’ve been something,” she says. “I can’t believe you don’t feel bad for getting in the way.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you sorry? Because it doesn’t seem like you really are.”
“I’m sorry for the situation,” I say, “and for you being upset.”
My words are not acceptable, I can tell by the look on her face.
“I can’t believe you were my best friend,” Lara says to me. “I honestly sometimes wonder what I was thinking, being best friends with you.”
“You don’t know what you were thinking?”
“No.”
“We’ve both always known why you picked me as a best friend,” I say, letting my gaze drill into her.
“What are you talking about?”
“Do I really need to spell it out?”
“Yes, because I literally don’t know what you’re going on about.”
I watch her a few moments, and the look on her face seems to dare me to tell her the truth.
So I do.
“That’s why this is so much worse, this Freddie thing,” I say. “That’s why it’s such a huge deal. I just don’t buy that you’re suddenly convinced you’re in love with him.”
“You don’t know how I feel.”
“I don’t, but I still don’t buy it. I think that you just never expected something like this to come from me. To lose out on a guy because of me, the poor envious fat girl who was never supposed to be a threat. That’s what this is really about,” I say. “You’re insecure, and you kept me close as a reminder that however shitty you feel about yourself, at least you’re not me.”
Her mouth hangs wide, and I can tell it’s a struggle for her to maintain her usual maturity and levelheadedness for difficult conversations. “You are like, literally so wrong.”
“I think I’m right. I also think that you really like the feeling of having some sad, desperate girl thinking you’re so awesome, wishing she could be you.” I say. “Except I don’t. Not anymore. And like, why would I continue to be friends with someone who thinks I’m pathetic?”
“I never thought you were pathetic.”
I make a face, daring her to be honest, to tell the truth.
“I didn’t,” she says. “I think it’s pathetic that you’re picking a guy over our friendship, though.”
“That’s not what this is about,” I say. “But if you really want to go down this road, then should we talk about all the guys you picked over our friendship?”
“Not this again,” she says. “I already apologized for that, and I’m not the one who ditched this time.”
“Lara, this is stupid,” I say. “I don’t want to argue about the same dumb details. There is a big problem with our friendship, and it’s the fact that you think you’re better than me. You’re up here,” I say, holding a hand up, “and I’m down there. That’s how it’s been. Since day one.”
“I’m so confused right now. Here I am, trying to talk to you about a very current problem that I’m upset about, and you’re going back in time to tell me our friendship was always bullshit?”
“I guess,” I say. “Yes, that’s what I’m doing.”
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Just think about it, I guess. See if it starts making sense. But for me, I just can’t even picture myself talking to you about any of the super-serious, super-important things that have happened to me in the last couple of months. It doesn’t work anymore.”
“Fine,” she says.
“Fine.”
I close the chat.
I’m different now, and the version of me that I’m trying to become would never be friends with Lara. At least not the way we have been. The bad things about our friendship are suddenly very noticeable, and carrying on without addressing all the shittery between us feels very fake and like a total waste of energy.
My head spins when I think too hard about all the ways my life is suddenly very different. The last thing I want is to waste time feeling homesick for the way things used to be, deluding myself into thinking everything used to be great when it wasn’t. Familiar, that’s all it was.
Fifty
I’m fairly certain that I’ve broken up with my best friend for good, judging by the total silence from both sides since we had our video chat.
But there are more important things to be dealing with, worse things to be worrying about.
There have been so many deaths of old people that the army has been called in to investigate how this could even have happened in the first place. I’ve started scrolling through the local obituaries, just to see what some of these people looked like, what kind of lives they had. Yesterday I came across a photo of the lady from the hospital, the one with chin hairs, talking about stocking up on cans and pantry foods. Looking at that website, seeing everyone’s faces, the names of the people they left behind—it leads to a terrible feeling inside that wants to linger and come back at night when I try to fall asleep. I want to stop looking at the website, but I don’t.
The more the days pass, the less likely it seems that things will just go back to normal.
Within three weeks of having me as her full-time nanny, Shaya can say six more words, and I’ve taught her to pick up her toys. Sort of. She’ll throw all her plastic food to the floor, but now she will put each item carefully back into its bin before throwing it all over the floor again. She’s doing it right now, flinging a fake strawberry, ice cream cone, and potato over to the kitchen floor. I sit on the living room rug, laptop on the coffee table and assignments up on the screen.
Rianne, the only person I still have a real relationship with, sends me a link to a video of some designer she loves, where they duetted the vegetable-fruit-salad video of Rianne’s.
[Rianne] She legit teared up!!!!! My grandpa gave her the feels! It’s got over 5 THOUSAND likes!!!!!!!!!
[Baylee] Your grandpa deserves so much recognition. He is the star of the video.
[Rianne] I know, right?!?! He’s letting me dye his hair green later.
[Baylee] Photos, please!
[Rianne] For sure. I’m totally going to film a react video to the duet with my grandpa tomorrow.
[Baylee] Yes!
[Rianne] How’s things with Freddie? 🍆🍆🍆🍆🍆 🌮🌮🌮🌮🌮
[Baylee] OMG you’re such a loser!
[Rianne] I KNOW! Listen. I started talking to this guy online. I seriously think I’m in love.
[Baylee] What about the guy from the dating app?
[Rianne] That guy was a bag of crap. This new guy is from a different dating app I just got. He’s SO sweet.
She sends me screenshots of their messages. Shaya runs over to me for the Goldfish crackers I hold in a cup. Her diaper is starting to look full, so I make a mental note to catch her the next time she runs by me to change her. Mrs. Morales usually comes up from her basement office for lunch right around now, and she gives me time to go have lunch on my own while she feeds Shaya.
I pick up my phone, scrolling until I get to Alex’s number.
Since that day—the day she found out, the day I got sent to Freddie’s—I haven’t heard from her. I haven’t tried to text her, either. Whenever I feel the need to send her a desperate text, I go for my journal instead. I scroll through our old DMs and remember the three times I was with her. It just feels like I met her at the wrong time. All the things I was scared about, the nervousness, the total inexperience getting in the way, stopping me from just being there—it feels like I took a test I hadn’t studied for, and here I am now, weeks into cramming and prepared to ace it, except the moment’s passed. I can’t take the test again.
I tap the call icon. It goes nowhere, no voice-mail greeting anymore. She’s no longer visible on Instagram either. She erased herself completely.
I’m reading Freddie’s latest text when I notice Shaya red in the face, not exactly breathing. Her eyes register confusion, then her arms start flapping with panic.
It happens so fast that I don’t even have time to feel anything about it. I’m up and grabbing her, letting myself fall to the floor while I sit her on my knee, leaning her forward, the way I’ve seen my mother do with my sister so many times, and I give her quick hard smacks with my palm between her shoulder blades.
She coughs and drools the chunk out, already catching her breath.
“Oh my god, you little shit!” I say, and she smiles even though she’s got tears in her eyes from the choking and coughing.
“Down!” she says, and she struggles to get out of my grip. I let her go, and she tries to grab the piece of mushy cracker off the ground to eat it again. “Yummy!”
“That’s so gross!” I say. “Don’t eat that!”
I turn around to see Mrs. Morales watching, standing still with her arms out, maybe frozen with panic? Maybe relieved.
“It’s okay. She’s fine,” I say.
Mrs. Morales scoops up Shaya, who immediately starts trying to get out of her mother’s arms. “Baylee, you just took care of that like it was nothing! Oh my god. I need to sit down.”
“I had to take CPR a couple of times because of my sister—not real CPR, but my mom and one of the nurses taught me. My mom says gravity is your friend when this happens, to prevent the stuff from being sucked in farther.”
Shaya’s back to throwing her plastic food around. Mrs. Morales moves to the kitchen to take out the lunch I prepared for Shaya earlier.
“I’m giving you a raise.”
I laugh. “You’re not paying me, though.”
“Well, I’m going to give you a bonus. You have no idea how much of a help you’ve been. I get to focus on work, knowing Shaya’s being well looked after. I clearly don’t have to worry. That’s a gift for a mother,” Mrs. Morales says.
My insides swell with pride. This is the kind of stuff my mother says to the nurses she relies on most, like Dawn, so I know exactly how much Mrs. Morales’s words mean. I head to my room for my lunch hour, smiling to myself all the way up the stairs, my laptop tucked under one arm and sandwich clutched in my right hand.
Freddie’s bedroom door is open, and he sits at his desk, bent over his keyboard. He looks deep in thought until I notice his eyes are closed.
“Wake up! Get to work!” I call from the hallway.
He shakes the fatigue off and turns. “This is tedious as hell, Bay. I keep falling asleep.”
“You could come downstairs and do homework with me,” I suggest. “Shaya will keep you up.”
“I can watch her, you know,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“If you want to go do something else for a while,” he says. “I can deal with her for a bit.”
“Really?”
He nods.
“Well, I kind of want to do my nails,” I say. “Maybe I can do them at the kitchen counter, and we can study for math?”
He nods. “Math. Gross.”
“I know!” I fake a gag.
“Wake me up when it’s time,” he says, letting himself fall face-first diagonally on his bed.
In the guest room, I lie on the bed, closing my eyes and pretending I’m home, in my own bed. I’ve barely seen my mother in three weeks, just through the window while picking up some things, or from the lawn while she stands on the porch.
[Baylee] Can I call today?
[Mom] Yep. She’s awake.
My sister appears on my screen. The second I say hi, she starts babbling. Long-winded sounds of gibberish that I imagine might be her telling me a story about what’s been going on in the last few days. It sounds very serious by her tone, so I match it with my response.
“Wow—really?” I say. “Then what?”
More serious vocalization in a language I don’t understand, and she brings her head close to the screen. Then, all of a sudden, she starts yelling and laughing, like she just delivered the punch line to this very ridiculous story.
“That’s the craziest thing I’ve heard!”
“Don’t believe a thing she says,” Mom says in the background. “She lies.”
“Don’t worry—I believe you,” I tell my sister.
Rebecca starts swatting at my mom’s phone, and the screen goes wild. Suddenly, I’m looking at the carpet and a leg of the crib.
That night, I sneak into Freddie’s room, my mind full of thoughts and considerations after an hour of scribbling in my journal about Lara, about Freddie. And Alex—a lot about Alex. I lie on his bed, in skinny jeans and a black oversized tee, fresh pedicure exposed. I stare at my toes as the shiny black polish catches the light.
