Then Everything Happens at Once, page 28
[Rianne] So you’re like, friends with benefits then?
[Baylee] Something like that. But I don’t want anyone else to know. We might just have to pretend we were dating and broke up.
[Rianne] That’s actually cool, the friends with benefits thing.
[Baylee] You think so?
[Rianne] It’s better than when I had sex with that guy Rod. And the other stuff I did with that guy from St. Peter’s.
[Baylee] I know! It sucks to just expect that it’ll either be super awkward and cringe or it’ll be something to regret.
[Rianne] I’m kind of jealous. The thing with Rod wasn’t fun at all. And the guy from St. Peter’s . . . ☹ I definitely realized that I prefer my boys online.
I remember being so jealous of Rianne because the stories she told back then sounded so exciting. She clearly kept the ugly parts to herself.
[Baylee] 😱 Oh no. What happened with the guy from St. Peter’s? Are you OK?
[Rianne] Totally. It wasn’t even that bad. He just cut me with his nail or something, but he acted like it was MY fault for making a mess.
[Baylee] That’s terrible. That would be so awkward. I’m sorry.
[Rianne] Maybe I’ll find myself a Freddie someday. 😁
It’s so complicated, the idea of being with other people, but I think what I’m starting to realize is that I can separate the stuff I do with Freddie and the butterflies I felt for Alex. I’m lucky to be able to figure this out, because I’ve got the opportunity to explore and learn and it feels safe. I get to have fun.
The way Freddie looks at me makes me feel pretty. It makes me feel wanted. The things we do, well, they’re fun and I don’t really think it’s wrong to admit that I just . . . like it. All of it combined—well, it all makes me feel different about what I see in the mirror. I’m not saying I’m going to tuck in my shirt or anything drastic such as that, but it is addicting to feel good, to feel about myself the way I imagine sparkly girls feeling about themselves. It’s just about that feeling and getting to hold on to it a little bit longer each day.
“Hey, Freddie? What do you think about the idea that you can’t be loved by someone else until you love yourself?” I ask as he puts away some of the fresh laundry he did earlier.
He turns. “Seriously? Are we going to be this deep right now? It’s midnight.”
“I’m just curious.”
“About what?”
“Do you think it’s a valid statement?”
He carries on putting sweaters away. “Kind of but not really.”
“Why?”
“I think it’s the word. The word ‘love’ makes it too romantic sounding. I think that takes away from it.”
“How do you interpret it, then?”
The basket is empty, so he kicks it toward the door. “I think it means that unless you think you’re worthy of it, you won’t get someone else’s time, or attention.”
“Hmm. Interesting.”
Freddie takes the space next to me on his bed, fingers interlaced behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling. “It’s like—okay, so if you sit there thinking you’re a piece of shit, sure someone might find you interesting, they might want to be around you, but if you think all those negative things about yourself, that’ll sabotage it. You’ll push them away, whether it’s intentional or not.”
I let his explanation sit in the air. “I literally thought it meant you’re supposed to like, love yourself. Like, ‘Self, you are so amazing, and I love everything about you!’”
“No one loves everything about themselves. Doesn’t mean they can’t also believe they’re decent people. Everyone’s a work in progress.”
“A work in progress,” I repeat. “Okay, well, what about the idea that you can’t love someone else until you love yourself?”
“Isn’t that what you just asked me?”
“No, I asked about being loved by someone. Now I’m asking about loving someone else.”
“Okay, well, I think the same thing applies. Like, if you’re convinced you’re a piece of shit, how are you going to be a decent person to be around? You’d be super self-centered, wallowing in self-pity, always bailing on them, thinking they deserve better,” he says. “If you think you’re a decent person, and you’re always working toward being a better person, then, what’s the problem?”
These are words I need to write down.
I guess I never believed Alex could have real feelings for me. I felt like a loser, and why would she have a crush on a loser?
It was doomed to begin with, but that doesn’t make me feel any better about it. I completely despise the idea of Alex becoming this person I think back on and feel awkward and cringey about. I know better now, and there’s nothing I can do to fix it.
Fifty-One
One Saturday in early May, Freddie and I make our way down the walkway that connects his street to mine. Our hands are full, and once we reach my front lawn, we lay the things we were carrying onto the grass. It’s windy out, not very sunny, making for a gloomy Beck Field Trip Day.
Freddie runs to the open garage, plugs in the long power cord, and unrolls it on his way back to me. He plugs the big Bluetooth speaker we borrowed from Rianne’s house into the cord, along with this disco party light Rianne also let us borrow for the day. In the large garbage bag I carried, there are six multicolored pool noodles that I, of course, got from Rianne. Freddie and I made a trip yesterday to pick everything up from the bottom of her driveway as she waved at us from her big dining room window.
“I can’t believe it’s so ugly out today,” I say, connecting my phone to the speaker.
“At least we’ll be able to see the lights better without so much sun, right?” Freddie says.
Mrs. Morales is next to arrive, pushing Shaya in her stroller. She stays by the curb, ready to walk away should anyone try and call us out on the fact that we’re about to be bending the rules a little. We’re allowed to gather in groups of five maximum, outside, with plenty of space between us. There are about to be six of us.
Mom pulls the front door open and starts pushing my sister in her chair over the accessible ramp that runs next to the front steps of the house. My sister is in her purple spring jacket, quiet and fidgeting with her hands as she is pushed onto the lawn, her chair angled so she can turn her head one way and see the front of the house, and if she turns her head the other way, she sees me and the speaker.
Right on cue, I press play on the worst playlist of all time, starting with my personal favorite, the song about the teddy bears that go out for a picnic.
Freddie turns on the party light, and multicolored squares project against the house, catching Rebecca’s attention, especially with the strobe effect it has to the music coming from the speaker right next to it.
I take a red pool noodle from the garbage bag and throw it across the lawn to my mom. I grab a pink noodle in one hand, a blue in the other.
Mrs. Morales motions for Freddie to take over watching Shaya, and she comes to grab a purple noodle. Freddie stands next to Shaya in her stroller, holding a yellow pool noodle so she can play with it.
The music plays while we wave pool noodles around frantically. My mother gets Rebecca’s attention with the red noodle, and once she realizes she can touch it, her arms start waving.
My mom starts singing along with the song while spinning my sister in her chair. Mrs. Morales gets a little closer, waving her pool noodle around and making a show of attracting my sister’s attention. Shaya looks ready to bust out of her stroller, so I wander over to pick her up.
“I’m literally going to lose my sense of hearing over this song,” I tell Freddie.
“It’s kind of catchy,” he says, with a laugh. “No, but for real, have you ever considered the fact that she only pretends to like it because she knows you hate it so much?”
My mouth hangs open. “She would totally be sassy enough to do just that.”
I bring Shaya closer, and we spin in circles as the lights dance around us.
The whole thing seemed better in my head when I thought of the idea, mostly because it was going to be warm with nothing but a cool breeze. It’s still good, though. I’m sure my sister is just as sick of seeing nothing but her bedroom as I was when I was stuck in mine.
Later, Freddie brings the car over to load up Rianne’s things and take them back to her. I stay behind to talk to my mom for a bit. From where I stand on the welcome mat, just outside the screen door, I can see my sister on the carpet next to her bed, rolling around on her floor mat. Mom stands on the other side of the door, and the window is down so there’s only a screen between us, and we’re both wearing masks. Mom is telling me about work, how her main supervisor agreed to take more of an in-person role so Mom can stay home and avoid getting sick.
“How are your midterm grades?”
“There aren’t really midterms, Mom. It’s all different. But I’m doing okay.” I reach into my bag. “I brought something.”
I hold up the blue binder, and my mother opens the door to grab it.
She opens it, taking in the cover page I made. A real smile breaks out on her face as she flips over to the next page, no doubt taking in the index.
“I made sure to organize all of Rebecca’s information into categories, keeping track of page numbers. It’ll be easier to use.”
“How long have you been working on this?” Mom asks.
“Three weeks. Dawn helped me with some of the terminology and specifics.”
“Oh my god, Boss. You put information about her feeding pump and suction machine in there.” Mom looks amazed, running her hands over the pages like they’re precious jewelry. “‘The battery should last for sixty minutes of continuous suction’—where did you get this information?”
“Dawn sent me photos of the equipment, and I googled the user manuals.”
“This thing is seventy pages!”
“There are many details to be aware of,” I say. “And I’ll email you the digital copy so we can add to it.”
Mom shakes her head in disbelief, carrying on flipping through. She looks at the pages where I’ve included photos of my sister’s favorite positions, where we should tuck pillows in to make sure she’s comfy and properly supported.
“Dawn took them with her phone and texted them to me,” I say.
“This is such amazing work. Such attention to detail. Wow.”
Mom’s eyes are shiny.
It’s complicated, everything that’s happened. But just because I did certain things that appeared careless, and just because I picked myself over other people, it doesn’t mean that I don’t actually care, that I’m nothing besides selfish.
“I guess I’m going to go,” I say.
“I miss you, Boss.”
“I miss you, too, Mom.”
“Rebecca misses you, too.”
“Really? Do you think so?”
“I can tell she does. You’ve seen how wild she gets during your video chats,” Mom says. “This was a great idea, the Beck Field Trip Day on the lawn.”
“It worked out pretty well,” I say.
There is silence for a little while as I look at my sister, thinking it would be nice to walk over and pick her up or wiggle her with a hand on her chest at least. It’s so quiet at Freddie’s at night, and although sleeping all through the night is really nice, it feels weird and usually leads to a sense of homesickness that’s difficult to shake. I’m used to the noises at my house, to the rumbling of the compressor and the mixer, to the crying and hysterical laughter that find their way into my dreams.
“You know the pandemic isn’t over, right, Boss?”
“Yes.”
“When you make a decision that you think is just about you, it isn’t. Do you understand that?” Mom says, and I nod. “Before you make a decision, you need to consider all the things that could result from it.”
“But then, what if . . .” I wait, unsure if I want to take the conversation down this path and risk my mother getting mad at me again.
“What if?”
“What if I still want to make the decision?”
“Then you deal with the consequences,” Mom says. “There are very serious risks involved with every decision we make. You have to ask yourself if the reason you’re taking the risk is worth it, because you’re taking on the risk for everyone else who’s close to you.”
“Does it make sense to know you made a bad decision but also that you wouldn’t go back in time to change it?” I ask.
“I think you’re only saying that because you have the benefit of knowing that nothing truly awful happened because of it.”
Oh.
“Sometimes nothing happens when you take a risk, but other times, something bad happens. I know you’re young, and you haven’t really learned that lesson yet,” Mom continues. “Sometimes risks pay off, and other times, they can ruin everything. A pandemic is not the time to take a chance—that’s the point, Boss.”
“Okay, okay. That makes sense.”
“You were impossible to reason with. Lying and sneaking off.”
“I know.”
“None of this was easy for anyone involved. Do you think I was glad to lock you in your room for so many days? I barely slept that week.”
“Being home in prison upstairs was the worst thing ever.”
“I’m sorry, Boss,” Mom says. “But I didn’t know what else to do. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say.
Then it suddenly feels a lot colder, the wind making it up my back, and it’s not like I can walk right into my house. Part of me wishes I could just open the door and go up to my room right now.
But I can’t. I made a deal, and it included no back and forth.
So my mom and I say goodbye, and I head back the way I came.
As I step onto the walkway, I get a text from Freddie confirming that everything was dropped off at Rianne’s.
“Hey, B.”
Garrett comes up the sidewalk as I head through the walkway. He makes his way over to me, in a pair of black sneakers and a T-shirt. It’s May, but the short sleeves are still a little inappropriate, and I have a hard time thinking this is a choice of fashion over comfort. He stops about six feet away from me, but I still keep my hand on my purse, ready to pull my mask any minute.
“Hi,” I say.
“How have you been, B?”
“I’ve been fine.”
“You’re going to see your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend. I told you that before,” I say.
Garrett leans against the fence, across from me. I stay because I need a couple of minutes to reset myself mentally after just having walked away from my house and returning to Freddie’s. Garrett’s presence is surprisingly . . . well, I wouldn’t say zen, but it’s definitely not the total opposite either. For the next few minutes, we are silent. Garrett smokes what I presume to be weed, although the scent isn’t making it to me owing to the wind blowing the other way. He exhales O’s into the sky.
I check out my Instagram feed, flicking my thumb on the screen as fast as I can. When I stop, it’s a sepia-toned selfie of Lara’s. I take it as a sign from the universe, and I leave a comment.
[Baylee] Flawless. ☺
“How are you still managing to get weed and cigarettes?” I ask.
“I got my ways.”
“I’m sure you do.”
He grins and we go back to silence. I pull up my phone to Rianne’s latest text when I feel Garrett’s eyes on me.
“So, listen. If Freddie’s not your boyfriend, and Pen’s friend isn’t your girlfriend,” Garrett starts, offering me his joint, at which I flash a look of total confusion. “Oh, right. My bad—old habit. Anyway, that means you’re a free agent, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“It means you got time to focus on someone else now, right? Catch my drift?”
I don’t catch drifts very well, not normally, but my body understands something, because there’s a spark in my belly. A tiny bit of excitement.
“I just thought maybe you and me—maybe we could hang out,” he says.
“Hang out?”
He shrugs, then he’s locking eyes with me, and for a second, he’s not as ugly as I always thought he was. My mouth wants to pull up into a smile.
But no. Stop.
This isn’t right. This isn’t real.
This has to do with me, and not with him. I like that feeling, of someone looking at me, but it coming from Garrett? That’s not right. I can feel something similar to what I get when Freddie looks at me, except with a big layer of wrong attached.
“I have to go,” I say. “Sorry.”
“All right, whatever, B.”
He hops off the wall, headed back the way he came.
I watch Garrett leave, and I delete my DM conversation with him.
A text from my mother pops through just then.
[Mom] Come home, Boss.
I head back to Freddie’s, thinking about my mom’s text.
Fifty-Two
June is warm and sunny, and my bedroom window is permanently open a crack to let in the summer vibes. I’ve been home a little over two weeks now, an agreement having been reached between my mother and Freddie’s mother that I could continue going over there to nanny Shaya four days a week. There’s a paycheck attached now, which means I have a very honest job. Freddie is responsible for Mondays, which he does out of the goodness of his heart. The new thing is social bubbles, a new provincial guideline authorizing one household to carefully mix with another. I went ahead and made the decision for my household when I chose to preemptively mix with Freddie’s, but at least now it’s officially okay. It’s officially acceptable to my mother.
It’s Friday evening, almost nine, and my mother is upstairs having a bath and doing whatever else she wants to do on a Friday night. I am in the living room, my sister tucked in safely on the couch next to me. I am cozy on my corner of the couch, eyelids becoming heavy, just as my sister whacks at the child-size keyboard that I’d propped next to her so she could fill the room with truly atrocious sounds. It crashes to the floor, and I roll off the couch to fetch it.
