Life Before Page 2

  Graber says, “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

  “Yes. Of course. Diplomacy. Tact.”

  Focus.

  Graber recites a paragraph with his suggested changes. I nod. Focused.

  I know exactly what I want to say in the stupid speech, but I’m having trouble saying it without offending the valedictorian or the administration. Turns out it’s hard to inspire everyone without offending the people who will live their whole lives here, or the people who wanted to leave but didn’t get into college, or the people who hope to leave and never return.

  What I want is for everyone to stick together this summer, before life pulls us in opposite directions. I love these people. We share a history.

  Well, mostly. We share social and academic histories, for sure. But my fellow seniors know only the happiest version of my life. I’ve kept some things secret, like how I actually broke my clavicle in the second grade. Or why my mother used to wear turtlenecks in summer and never had any friends until after the divorce.

  Jill knows, of course, but she’s Jill. A best friend loves you no matter how awful your life is. Instead of expecting everyone else to overlook my family’s abuse, I’d rather they not know the truth. And when I go to college in August, I can leave all that truth behind.

  THREE

  After the final bell, the senior lot teems with overeager near-graduates crammed into cars of every vintage.

  In the wild wind, Jill’s blond hair clings desperately to her scalp. “Come on, Xander! Do I need to light a fire under your skinny white ass?”

  I pick up the pace. Jill’s ass is just as white and even skinnier than mine, but this is no time for fighting.

  “Tucker called shotgun already, so you’re in the back.”

  Damn. Neapolitan is a sorry excuse for a car. Any car with a back seat needs four doors, unless the passengers have four legs or are under four feet tall. Tucker is two whole inches shorter than I am, so he legally belongs in the back seat.

  “Where is he?”

  “Kissing the girlfriend good-bye, I imagine.” Jill lays on the horn and screams, “Tucker!”

  We have left Tucker in the parking lot on more than one occasion. If he isn’t in our car in two minutes, Jill will leave. And I can ride shotgun. Perfect.

  “Hey, guys!” Gretchen is right next to me.

  I don’t know what to say to the girl who may have asked me out this morning.

  “Happy last day of school,” she says. “See you at Tucker’s.”

  Jill and Gretchen kiss each other on the cheek. Is that a thing now? I’d take a kiss on the cheek.

  Gretchen turns to me, but no kiss. “Xander, I saw your dad in the front office this morning?” Pulling her hair out of her face, she tries for a ponytail like we’re not hanging onto her every word.

  Jill and I have one of those private conversations that involve eyebrows and foreheads. Maybe Gary is cyberstalking me again and knows about last week’s senior prank. Who knows? Neither Jill nor I can imagine what Gary wants now.

  Gretchen isn’t privy to our silent conversation. “Why does he need two extra tickets for graduation? I mean, I get that divorced parents don’t necessarily share, but why would he need two tickets? Did he remarry?”

  “Dunno.” I had no idea he would be at graduation! And, frankly, no matter how big the music hall is, his attendance doesn’t jive with my mom’s Order of Protection against him.

  Gretchen doesn’t know about the Gary situation, so I have to play it cool. Everyone knows my parents are divorced, but Gretchen believes that I broke my arm falling off my bike in sixth grade. And that the two-inch scar on my forehead is the result of playing too near our brick fireplace when I was four.

  Gretchen has probably heard rumors of how Gary treated my mom, because the Laurel Woods rumor mill never forgets its juiciest topics. But everything else is between me and Mom and Jill. Tucker knows not to ask, and no one else has ever been interested.

  Amazing Gretchen changes the subject, “How was Graber today? Is your speech ready?”

  “It’s done. He threatened to yank me off the stage if I try any hijinks. Like I would.”

  I totally would, if I could address the crowd after receiving my diploma. As it stands, my speech is before diplomas, so I must deliver exactly what Graber has approved.

  Gretchen says. “Great. Con-grad-ulations. See you at Tucker’s then?”

  “Yeah.”

  Gretchen spies Tucker first. “Here he comes. See you guys later.”

  Jill and I say farewell in unison as Gretchen heads to her car. When she’s out of earshot, Jill whispers, “What the hell? Maybe Gary is trying to impress a client? The Vindicator and the Trib ran stories about your triumphant election to the graduation podium. Maybe that’s it. Is he working these days?”

  “No idea. Maybe?”

  Gary is a self-taught computer programmer, so sometimes he has a job and sometimes he doesn’t. I never know. He’s the quintessential two-faced person. Jovial, good-natured guy-next-door Gary is good fun at neighborhood barbecues—playing freeze tag with the kids and working the grill like a pro—and he’s happy to help people build a new shed, or move furniture around, or whatever. But lurking beneath that guy is the Gary who kicked me down a flight of stairs when I ate the last frozen egg roll. The evening of the neighborhood barbecue.

  I never know which version I’ll get. That first guy is awesome. I could hang out with him. But the second guy is always just under the surface, ready to pounce if I put one toe out of line or otherwise piss him off. And then he apologizes like five days later. Sorry you broke your arm … save the last egg roll for me next time, okay buddy?

  Living with Gary was a terrifying emotional roller coaster. He’s a phantom to me now, and as long as he keeps his distance, I’m happy. In a crowd of thousands of people, I still won’t feel safe from him.

  My stomach turns over as Tucker joins us. His skinny (black) ass is barely in the seat when Jill puts the car in gear.

  “Seatbelt, Tucker!” Jill yells. Turns out, when your dad is the chief of police, you refuse to drive unless everyone is buckled up.

  I do, too. Or I would, if I had a car.

  Tucker buckles and we’re off. I get another twinge: the days of our little threesome are numbered. This is our last drive home together. In August, Tucker will move south to Ohio State and I’ll move much farther south to New Orleans. Jill starts at Oberlin the first week of September. This is the beginning of the end of our joyriding.

  I want to memorize this feeling, hang on to right now as long as possible.

  My real life starts when I get to Tulane, but I can hardly fathom life without Jill. College hijinks probably won’t include jumping from a second-story window on a dare. I probably won’t sneak off for pizza at midnight or attempt to discern the melting point of everything in the kitchen. Will there even be hijinks without Jill?

  We stop at her house for our bags. I toss my gear in the trunk and run a few laps around our neighborhood. Running usually calms my nerves, but today the Gary-related nausea persists.

  I had convinced myself all that Gary stuff was over, but I was wrong. Panic and nausea build in my stomach as our secrets consume my mind. I need to tell Mom that Gary will be at graduation so she can be on full alert Saturday night.

  Tomorrow. I’ll tell her tomorrow. For now, I need her to think everything is fine because I want to go to that party.

  When we finally head to Tucker’s house, I’m 80 percent sure I’m going to vomit. Jill’s driving doesn’t help.

  _______

  Tuck lives on the hill, which means his house is twice the size of mine and his yard goes on forever.

  Tuck’s mom keeps us on our toes for three hours—shifting food around, cleaning up the bathrooms, mowing the lawn. It’s our party, so we have to work for it.

  She bought the beer, so I can’t complain.

  Gretchen arrives at seven, followed closely by Tucker’s girlfriend, Ashley.
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  Ashley grins at Tucker. “The Booremba twins are coming. I told them I don’t think there will be enough beer.”

  Tucker says, “I’ll check the larder.”

  Tuck’s larder, or what I would call a pantry if we ever had that much extra food, is in his basement. His mother stockpiles groceries; if World War III broke out at this instant, the five of us could survive in Tuck’s house and repopulate the world.

  I’m sure that’s what Ashley is thinking when she volunteers to help Tucker audit the alcohol.

  Jill rolls her eyes and redirects. “So, Gretch, did you decide to join my book club?”

  I declined a week ago because it’s a terrible idea. Gretchen and Jill are straight-up contemporary fiction, and I am almost exclusively a nonfiction guy. I devour biographies, science, and travelogues in single sittings, but every time I read a novel, I think now you’re just making up shit.

  Genres aside, Gretchen is on my side here. “Book clubs are for old people, Jill.”

  “We’ll still share what we’re reading,” I say. “But because it’s brilliant and insightful instead of a forced dissection of some long-dead author’s motives.”

  Gretchen says, “And we won’t be limited to books. Last weekend: the merits of reality versus scripted television. And I opened Xander’s eyes to abstract impressionist art.”

  True. And while I still think it’s complete bullshit, I’m a better person for understanding. I think.

  Jill says, “Just as long as you keep reading, Xander. I don’t want your brain to atrophy over the summer.”

  “I feel like you’re my mom today.”

  “Yeah, and I have been utterly terrified since we saw Gary’s car this morning, too.”

  I can’t believe Jill is bringing this up in front of Gretchen, who believes my family is sort of normal. If I had my way, Jill wouldn’t know about the Gary stuff either, but she witnessed his abuse firsthand.

  Jill’s second little brother was born during the hottest summer ever. While her parents were at the hospital, Jill and I unrolled our sleeping bags on my parents’ bedroom floor because only their room had A/C. My father thought we had fallen asleep, but when he tried to get some action, Mom refused. When she refused again, their mattress moved slightly and she yelped.

  Six years later, I can still hear Mom’s yelp in my head.

  I was mortified, both because it was happening and because Jill was there. In the pitch black, Jill grabbed my hand and held tight until my parents’ bed started creaking in rhythm. I put my hands over Jill’s ears and she covered mine as we laid there, holding onto each other for dear life.

  We haven’t talked about that particular night for years, though it repeats in my mind when I’m stuck in a cringe-loop, and now Jill is bringing it up in front of Gretchen. If Gretchen was asking me on a sort-of lunch date, this definitely is not the time to reveal family secrets.

  Gretchen focuses instead on our friends in the basement. “Should I go get Tucker and Ashley, you think?”

  “You wouldn’t want to walk in on anything indecent,” Jill says. “Give them another few minutes.”

  I guarantee nothing indecent is going on down there. And even if it is, Gretchen has seen it all anyway; she has been dating Jameson for two years.

  Jameson!

  I’m totally casual. “Is Jameson back from OU yet?”

  “OU gets out in mid-May.” Gretchen excuses herself to track down Tucker, leaving Jill and me in the kitchen.

  Jill says, “Straight out of left field, Xander.”

  “What?”

  “We’re talking about the make out artists in the basement, and you blurt out some random question about Jameson. We all know where your mind went between topics.”

  “Yeah, well look where your mind went. Talking about my idiot father right in front of Gretchen.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, thanks. And come on, Jill: Infinite Summer! I have to know about Jameson. If Gretchen is genuinely free this summer, imagine what a summer it could be!”

  Spectacular. It would be spectacular. Summer brings lots of co-ed pick-up soccer, which puts Gretchen’s legs on the same field as mine. Our legs could get tangled up together, possibly. When she’s on her game, Gretchen is utterly unlike herself. She is super focused and super aggressive. And that competitiveness is super-sexy.

  If Jameson is out of the picture, some of that super-sexy could move to my couch.

  Jill doubts it. “Xander, if you could untie your tongue and find the balls to make a move, something great could happen. Otherwise, Gretchen will just be the twelfth in your long line of first dates.”

  “She would be number thirteen. And I already know we fit. Familiarity and intelligence put her lightyears ahead of the last three.”

  “Ahead of the vapid daisies, yeah, Xander. But you’re the same guy: timid and shy. Grow a set and go after the girl you really want.”

  Someone rips through the neighborhood and parks less than two feet from Neapolitan. Jill freaks out until Grant Blakely steps out of the car. Grant Blakely is one of those guys who plays sports year round: football in fall, basketball in winter, soccer in spring. And in summer, for good measure, he competes in the Youngstown Swim League. Girls swoon over him like he’s a movie star; that’s probably why we always call him by his full name.

  Five other guys tumble out behind him like it’s a clown car.

  Tuck’s mom makes us drag some huge logs out of the woods and arrange them around what will be a campfire. We won’t be breaking any of her lawn chairs tonight.

  _______

  Our party grows remarkably quiet when Pizza Works delivers. My first slice of sausage and onion doesn’t sit well in my stomach, so I hang back while everyone else devours the pies.

  I can’t get Gary out of my head.

  If I could fast-forward through the next three days, this Gary episode will be over, and so will the speech. No more nausea, and hello summer!

  Smooth sailing. No seasickness.

  It’s still choppy waters in my stomach at this juncture. I probably can’t even touch the beer. Nausea plus alcohol is a surefire recipe for barfing in front of—or all over—everyone I know.

  Free beer isn’t worth a reputation I can’t possibly live down in the next ten weeks. Damn.

  My stomach and brain are on overload. Can Gary even come to graduation? Maybe he got special dispensation from Mom’s Order of Protection for my really special life event.

  Or what’s supposed to be special. Instead, I’m nine years old again, scheming about getting out of his way. I used to swear that if my parents’ fighting got any worse, or if I took one more beating, or if Mom wound up in the ER one more time, I would skip town. Jill and I called it the Youngstown Escape Plan, and any time my parents did something annoying, one of us would say, “YEP.”

  Jill helped me plot the whole scheme—hell, she practically plotted it singlehandedly—and promised I could hole up at her grandparents’ house in Youngstown, a mere seventeen miles away. (When you’re nine, you don’t think big.) I had just wanted some peace. I hated both of my parents, and I hated my life, and I hated all our family secrets. Having a plan made me feel better—nevermind that Jill’s grandmother would have called Jill’s house the second I showed up on her doorstep.

  I never told another soul about that exit strategy. And now I desperately need a new one for graduation. Bonus points if it gets me out of the whole public-speaking thing.

  I am in serious danger of barfing, even without the pizza and beer. Maybe I could go the other way: chug several beers and my mind will float away, taking my nausea with it.

  Too risky. Damn. Double damn.

  FOUR

  Maybe because the world is quieter, or maybe because the truth is easier in dim light, or maybe because the visual landscape shrinks—whatever the reason, intimate things are more apt to happen after dark.

  Several couples—mostly the newly dating—have retreated to tents at the far end of the
lawn. The socially awkward people are fumbling through conversations and board games in the garage, but most people are hanging out in the yard again.

  Jill and I settle around the campfire with a group of her friends and my soccer buddies. The logs are perfect benches for those of us who aren’t drunk. Everyone around my campfire has a red plastic cup. Mine is half-full of Cola. Not Coke. Not Pepsi. Turns out, if you’re feeding a hundred teenagers, you go generic.

  Someone plays guitar nearby, because someone is always playing a guitar. Play a measure, stop. Play a measure, stop. I think the musician is going for Modest Mouse. The harder he tries, the harder I cringe.

  No one else notices the party melting all around us. People are slurring their speech or losing their thoughts in the allure of open flame. Being the only sober one in a huge group of drunk people is … sobering. I can’t alter the slippery slope; I can only watch as everyone else slides down it.

  Unfortunately, Jill has slid right down with everyone else. “In two months, you will disappear for good. I know you will, Xander. You will never come back from New Orleans or your new best friends, Mr. Mardi Gras and Little Miss Beignets. Tucker will go to Ohio State and find ten thousand new friends. I’m just not ready for it to end.”

  Managing Jill is my job. God knows she’s done far more for me—letting me stay at her house during the really bad times with my parents and sharing her mom’s amazing breakfasts every Saturday—but it’s still a drag. While Grant Blakely plots his midnight soccer scheme and Tuck pitches a tent of one kind or another with Ashley, I slide from the log to the grass and put my arm around Jill.

  “You get to stretch out the end as long as you like,” I promise. “And then you also will make ten thousand new friends, at Oberlin.”

  Jill’s heavy head falls onto my shoulder.

  We’re all silent for a while, the drunk ones mesmerized by the fire and I by their vacant stares. I have known these people all my life, and soon our paths will diverge into the world.

  “Take a walk, Xander?”