Then Everything Happens at Once, page 8
“Mom,” I say, “I feel worse today than yesterday.”
She puts down the jug of formula she just mixed and comes over to check my face. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m just sore and tired,” I say.
“Fine, you can stay home. But please text me every hour to let me know how you’re doing,” Mom says. Rebecca whines as she’s placed in her wheelchair. Mom and the nurse start strapping her in and zipping her into her coat cover. “I mean it, Boss—every hour.”
I nod and head back upstairs, setting an hourly alarm on my phone before I curl up into a ball under my duvet, thinking about the pain in my face and not about Freddie. Definitely not about the very real possibility that the brief thing I had with Alex might be over now.
My late-afternoon lunch is almost a whole box of Cheez-It crackers. I left ten at the bottom, which means I did not eat the entire box. Mom won’t be home from work for an hour or so, which means the afternoon worker she hired for Rebecca is here. She’s a physiotherapy student who comes after classes to take over for the school nurse until Mom gets home. Sometimes she also comes on weekends so Mom can pop in at work to take care of things.
[Freddie] You didn’t come today. Are you OK?
[Baylee] I’m fine. Just tired.
[Freddie] Do you want to come over?
[Baylee] Now?
[Freddie] Whenever.
Then it dawns on me that I completely forgot about his Monday-night plans.
[Baylee] Sorry, I totally forgot about babysitting Shaya.
[Freddie] Don’t worry about that. Anyway, I’m not seeing Jess anymore. We can just hang out. If you want.
Did he cancel his date because of me? That possibility is enough to lead to my first smile of the day.
[Baylee] Who else is there?
[Freddie] No one.
Just me and Freddie.
[Baylee] OK.
[Freddie] Cool
[Baylee] I’m not trying to ignore you.
[Freddie] That’s how it seems, though.
[Baylee] I ruined your car.
[Freddie] It just needed to be shampooed. I got it detailed, which I already planned on doing. It looks fine now.
[Baylee] You can drive it still?
[Freddie] Yeah. It’s just cosmetic stuff on the bumper and fender. Not a big deal.
Maybe I can just go and feel the vibe.
I spend an hour getting ready, blasting a pop-hits playlist. I settle on a pair of tight black jeans, one of the several black baby-doll tops I own, and a khaki-green cropped jacket over that. I add lots of gold bangle bracelets and gold hoop earrings. When I make it downstairs, Mom is rocking Rebecca, who is clearly in a terrible mood, judging by the way she’s trying her best to whack herself in the face, self-soothing having turned into self-harm.
I head for my sister’s small dresser and grab a pair of her thick fuzzy socks.
“How’s your face feeling now?” Mom asks.
“A little sore, but I feel a lot better. My headache’s gone,” I say, handing my mother the socks, and she slips them over Rebecca’s hands. “Can I go to Freddie’s for a bit?”
“I guess we’re no longer avoiding him?”
“Well, he’s being nice.”
“That’s great, Boss,” Mom says. She gives me a funny look. “You and Freddie are still just friends, right?”
“Um, obviously. What else would we be?”
“A lot of big events and emotions in your world over the last few days. I just like to know what’s going on.” Mom fakes an innocent expression. “That’s all.”
“Well, everything is still unchanged, Mom. There is nothing happening,” I say. “I don’t want to date anyone or . . . any of that stuff anyway.”
It’s like, literally, all I want to be doing—all the stuff.
“Well, I have to admit: it’s nice that I haven’t had to worry about you getting wrapped up in boys.” I let her words slide off my back, but there’s more: “I feel like I’ve been lucky with you. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders.”
“My head is just a big stupid ball, Mom,” I say. A big ball crammed with thoughts and obsessions.
“Come on, Boss,” she says. “You actually remind me of me when I was your age.”
“Because you also never had a boyfriend in high school?”
“Not just that.”
Mom gets distracted, repositioning Rebecca, who went quiet when Mom and I started talking.
“How come you’ve never dated anyone?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“You never wanted a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend, even?”
Mom shrugs. “Maybe when I was a lot younger. I had a couple dates, and it was fine. But then I got older, I got busy, and then I realized I like nonromantic relationships a lot better.”
“Oh.”
“Maybe you’re feeling like that, too, huh? It’s not easy when you’re surrounded by people who want other things. The world is still so focused on everyone partnering off, getting married, having babies—that’s not the only way, right, Boss?” she says. “I wish someone had told me that when I was young.”
I think this is supposed to be a nice, uplifting mother-daughter talk, where she’s telling me she understands me, that I can continue being the way I am because even though it’s a different path, it’s still a super-legit one.
I’ve let her believe I’m completely unconcerned with the fact that there’s nothing going on in my life when it comes to romance, love, and sex. That I’m completely uninterested. I wonder what she would think, knowing that even when I’m focused on something else, my ridiculous yearning is always right there below the surface.
Mom places Rebecca into her bed and brings out the compressor for my sister’s breathing treatment. The machine starts rumbling loudly, and Mom attaches the already-prepared little cup of breathable liquid medications to the tubing, and mist starts flowing out of the mask Mom holds against my sister’s face.
“Right?” Mom says again, turning to make eye contact with me.
“Right, yes, Mom,” I say. “Anyway, I’m just walking over to Freddie’s place. We’re not going for a ride or anything.”
“Well, good,” Mom says. “I know that accident wasn’t his fault, but it still makes me feel better that you’re not getting into the car again today.”
On the walkway that connects my street to Freddie’s, my stomach clenches. It’s dark at this hour, but the walkway is well lit, and I spot Garrett, the jerk from down the street, kicking empty bottles around and flicking cigarettes in every direction. He’s tall and a little heavyset, but I guess he’s more accurately described by the word solid than fat. His hair is always unbrushed, a mess of thick dirty-blond waves, with ears that stick out too far, and a round nose over pouty lips. His only decent features, in my opinion, are his eyes and his height. I’ve known him for years, but he doesn’t go to my school. He’s just one of the guys in my neighborhood who would make fun of me. He and his friends picked this walkway as their hangout spot, which means I was often within view or earshot.
It used to be direct comments when we were little, calling me fat, acting like my walking by was causing an earthquake, but the last few years, it’s changed to looks or the sound of hushed, gritty little laughs that my whole body feels as an attack. I guess they don’t have to be outwardly vicious when they know I’m completely aware of what’s going on, so the tiniest action will totally lead to the reaction they want.
If I really loved myself, would I just strut past Garrett, totally untouchable?
“Hey, look!” Garrett says as I approach. “It’s B.”
One could think he’s saying B for Baylee, but that’s not what I hear when he says it. When we were twelve, he told me he was going to start calling me B for Bertha because it suited me better.
I roll my eyes as acknowledgment and keep walking.
Sometimes I wonder about those big girls on Instagram, the ones who build their whole online personas around being confidently fat. Would they walk by in crop tops, strutting their stuff right past those who cringe or laugh at them, if they were alone like I am now? Because I feel like maybe it’s easier to act like you’re totally worthy of worship when there are four hundred thousand people commenting below with daily encouragement and envy. I’ve got no followers, no entourage—I don’t even have any fat friends to talk about this with. The only one telling me to keep my head up is me, and the reality is, I can’t even hear me. The voice of my judgy self is always so loud. She instructs me to suck it in, but simultaneously, she reminds me that sucking in is a waste of time because everything is bulging and hanging regardless.
I’m not turning around, though, because I’m not a pushover. I want to go see Freddie, and he’s only a little farther away.
“Hey,” Garrett says. “Hold up! Stay and chat. I just wanna ask you a question.”
“Um, no thanks?”
“Come on. It’s just one tiny question.”
I’m older now, and I talk back instead of pretending I don’t hear. “You must be next-level bored now that you have no friends, huh?”
“Yeah, well . . . they’re all a bunch of dicks. Most of ’em, anyway.”
Something must’ve happened last summer, because the three or four guys he used to hang out with went away. Only Garrett walks up and down the street by himself now.
He takes a few steps toward the middle of the path, like he’s hoping to intercept me when I reach that point.
“Winter sucks, am I right?” he asks.
“Yeah, it sucks.”
Garrett pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “You want a smoke?”
“No.” My nose throbs, probably on account of my heart rate doubling in beats and force since I noticed Garrett’s presence. He’s not even that scary anymore, but I can’t get rid of that leftover physical reaction. “What do you want?”
“I’m just saying hi.”
I stop, tipping my head to the side. “You’re not trying to say hi to me. You’re trying to find a new way to call me ugly and fat just so you can laugh, right?”
“You’re not ugly,” he says matter-of-factly, and it stops me for a second. “Your face is nice.”
My face is nice—those are the words I hold on to. It’s so pathetic that I manage to extract a compliment out of that whole interaction. The confusion is heavy right now.
“Okay, well,” I say. “Thanks.”
A furrowed brow is the response he gives me.
I continue walking, hugging the fence to my right, putting as much distance between myself and Garrett as I can.
“I’m just trying to have a conversation with you,” Garrett says from behind me. “I’m not always an asshole, ya know.”
“I feel like your whole purpose here on earth is to be a nuisance.”
“It’s just jokes!” Garrett says. “Everyone gets so offended over the littlest things, am I right?”
“Hey, Baylee,” Freddie says from the end of the walkway. Sometimes Freddie walks over to meet me, which usually fills me with glitter, but today I wish he’d stayed home.
I glance back to see Garrett give Freddie the middle finger. Freddie returns the gesture, then hitches his chin up at me to carry on walking over.
“Okay, fine. But I got a question for you, Freddie, since B here doesn’t seem to wanna talk to me,” Garrett says. “I’m asking for a friend, all right? Is B your main chick? Or maybe your side chick?”
“Whatever, Garrett,” Freddie says, not even looking his way. “Keep talking. No one is listening.”
“I’m getting some secret side-piece vibes, am I right?” Garrett says.
“You couldn’t be more full of shit if you tried, Garrett,” Freddie says.
“Hey, man, some guys are into that,” Garrett says, and when I glance over at him, he gives me a wide grin. “Some guys are like, ‘Damn, I want me all of that!’”
“Oh my god, shut up!” I yell. “Seriously!” This isn’t about Garrett actually thinking Freddie and I could be a thing. This is him making fun of Freddie and using me to do it.
Freddie stares at the ground, and Garrett is quiet behind me.
“Can we just go?” I tell Freddie, who seems to snap out of it and spins on his heel, me following close behind.
I already know this whole scene will forever be etched in my mind. Later, I will replay this, coming up with better dialogue. I might even picture myself smacking Garrett right across the face. It’s not that this kind of trash crushes my soul or anything. It just has a way of lingering as this icky, heavy feeling of wrong. Rewriting it makes it less icky.
I hate Garrett. I have always hated him, and it just makes me so mad that I’m still thinking about the fact that he said I’m not ugly, which might mean that he thinks I’m the opposite and . . . what would that mean?
Eleven
Freddie leaves the garage door up a couple of feet and takes a seat on one side of the couch. I stand by the other end. The heater blows heat all around us. Freddie’s car is parked in the garage, the bumper cracked and scuffed in a couple of places.
“Garrett is a tool,” Freddie says, pulling his vape out. “No use wasting any mental energy on him, right?”
“It’s not an intentional thing that I’m doing, Freddie.”
“Are you just going to stand there?” he asks, blowing thick, strawberry-scented vapor my way. “Sit. Stay awhile.”
So I do, my back straight, purse on my knees, legs crossed at the ankles. When I’m uncomfortable and hyperaware of my size, my purse becomes my shield. I’m not exactly sure what the act of holding up a small object in front of my huge self does to reassure me, but it works.
“Want me to beat Garrett up for you?” He taps my knee, trying to get me to return his smile.
It works, because the idea of him defending my honor makes me tingle all over.
“You can’t beat anyone up, can you?”
“I bet I could. Look at this,” he says, then he’s unzipping his jacket, slipping an arm out, and flexing his bicep, which is definitely there. “Bench-pressing a hundred pounds is paying off. Touch it.”
“No way!” But my hand is already in the air, not ready to pass up an opportunity to touch him. I squeeze, keeping my touch as light as possible, and my shiny red nails against his brown skin is making me forget who I am. “That’s pretty . . . firm.”
He nods in satisfaction, putting his jacket back on. “How’s your nose?”
“If I take Tylenol, it’s fine. If I don’t take Tylenol, then I feel my heartbeat in my face.”
“That’s a really cool description,” he says. “I am going to write this down real quick, in case I can use it in my script.”
“You would have to credit me, then,” I say. “Or pay me for my clever—cleverity.”
He laughs. “Cleverness, Bay. What the hell is cleverity?”
“I make up words, too. If you like them, you can also credit me, and/or pay me.”
He laughs. “How much is cleverity worth?”
“I charge like, thirty dollars a word.”
“That’s a lot. I’m broke, remember?”
This conversation is like totally ridiculous improv, and the bad vibes from earlier fade away.
“Look, I feel really bad about what happened,” Freddie says, dragging the vibe right back. “I didn’t realize the seat belt—”
“Can we not? Honestly, it’s totally fine. I don’t want to talk about this.”
“I know, but if I’d known—”
“Okay, thanks. Thanks for the apology. Anyway, this coronavirus stuff is kind of weird, right?”
He shakes his head while I flash a fake, innocent smile. The reality is, if he’d taken a regular girl out for a ride, there would’ve been no seat-belt catastrophe. It was me who was the problem, not the seat belt.
“Yeah,” he says, typing into his phone. “It’s definitely weird.”
“Who are you texting?” I ask him.
“Jess,” he says.
Oh, to be able to go back in time and not ask a question. “Rescheduling, I guess?”
He shakes his head. “Not even a little. It is now officially over.”
“How come? What happened?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be serious with her. But she’s looking for a boyfriend, and now that I have a car, she thought I’d be driving up to see her on weekends.”
“So it’s done?”
He nods. “I told her I’m not looking for that.”
“What are you looking for, then?”
“I don’t know.” He sighs. “Maybe that’s why I keep feeling people out. No one’s really been it, you know?”
I nod, but no. Not at all, actually.
“I think I’m just looking in the wrong place, or at the wrong people,” he says.
My feelings for him swell.
“Do you talk like this to your friends?” I ask. “To Trey or Rav?”
He snorts. “No. I talk like this with you.”
“Well, I think that’s super mature, what you said.”
We settle into a new kind of silence, and I let myself relax into the couch.
“So, I gotta be honest,” Freddie says. “I’m kind of having some thoughts about someone else. Someone different.”
There’s anxiety in the air now, and not all of it is mine. “Okay . . .”
He nods while his hand moves to the back of his neck. “The thing is . . . ,” he starts. “You know how you and I are pretty tight, right?”
Wait—what? Waves of electricity move through me. I sit up straight again.
He’s clearing his throat, fidgeting with the way the hem of his jeans falls over his scuffed, weather-beaten high-tops.
He drops his vape, then accidentally kicks it while trying to pick it up.
Oh. My. God.
“I feel like we’re usually on the same page, but I’m sort of nervous about bringing this up, because for some reason I’m kind of thinking your reaction to this might be . . . intimidating. And now there’s this vibe.”
