Who Put This Song On? Page 10

  I dodge and weave through the main hallway and its conservative zombies, pretending shouts and giggles around me are just white noise. I desperately need food and some air-drumming to Fugazi songs to find my center again. I need me time.

  You can always escape.

  I open my texts and scroll through the last few messages between me and David. I didn’t text him back last night, and apparently sometime as I was driving to school this morning, he texted, hi did you get raptured.

  I grin and type, Long story. Then: When will I see you again? Part of me immediately regrets the text, but not the part I like.

  Meg catches up to me at my locker, cheerier than I’ve ever seen her. She was eying me all throughout class, trying to get my attention. I don’t want to talk about it. Definitely not now.

  “Wanna go give blood and then get lunch?” She adjusts the straps on her yellow JanSport.

  “I already did it. Even ate the cookie. I think I’m just gonna drive thru somewhere and read in my car. Today sucks.” I toss my government textbook haphazardly into my locker. We didn’t even open it in class.

  “Are you upset about class? Tim is such a dumbass. And Mr. K is like, stuck in the eighties. Don’t listen to them.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s not really that. I’m just tired.”

  James clomps up to us and leans his shoulder into Meg’s as a greeting. “What are we talking about?”

  I sigh theatrically, “Oh, just how Barack Obama is very likely the Antichrist, according to many of our peers.”

  “Do you wanna go get blood cookies with me? Morgan already went.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “It’s the blood drive today. Wanna go? By the way, you’re up.” (James accepts the notebook graciously.)

  “Oh right. Yeah, I went earlier too. Gross.”

  When? I wonder idly. James has English first period, and he never skips it; his papers are a hot mess, so he lives and dies by participation points. Whatever.

  I turn to Meg. “Sorry, dude. See you in the yearbook room after school?”

  “Okaaaaay.” She frowns. The three of us scatter in different directions, like atoms splitting and becoming new, lonely units.

  Darkness isn’t a bad thing.

  You can escape.

  * * *

  —

  I drive through Del Taco and sit in the parking lot listlessly, kicking my feet up over my steering wheel. I find Bright Eyes on my iPod. Everyone else is into “First Day of My Life,” but my favorite album is still Fevers and Mirrors. I don’t think their music is about love. It sounds more like mania, but a wild, celebratory madness. The way Conor Oberst slurs and screams and doesn’t hold back. Even though we aren’t screaming about the same things, I feel like he understands.

  I take two bites of my disappointing Del Beef and feel gross, so I wrap it back in its waxy paper. I am a miserable combination of the following: annoyed, woozy, sad. I don’t want to go back to school. I don’t feel like talking or smiling. I need an outlet.

  I sort of think I’ve felt this way for longer than I can remember.

  David texts back: how about Friday night, my dear?

  Butterflies. It’s so dumb, I know, but it’s the kind of dumb I need to hold onto right now. A distraction. A harmless surface delusion. Some Seventeen magazine fluff that has nothing to do with politics, or curses, or rules, or chemical imbalances.

  It’s a date, I reply, and it’s enough to get me to turn my engine, blast No Doubt’s seminal Tragic Kingdom, and return, armored, to the united states of my stupid fucking school. I have time to go to Jamba Juice before English.

  PART WHERE I AM TOTALLY CASUAL, I SWEAR

  Whatever, sometimes you just need to cry for no reason. Not because you have depressive disorder not otherwise specified, or because you’re lonely even with your friends, or because of the Bible or David Santos, or because you gave a blow job to Tim McCloud. You cry instead of thinking about the reason. A Tilly and the Wall song fills you with feels. Whatever. They sing, It all went to my heart. It feels good.

  I let the tears come. Then, neatly and calmly, I flush the evidence in the farthest stall of the girl’s bathroom.

  When I step out of the stall, Marissa and Jenn Hanson are at the other side of the sink, outfitted for soccer practice and acrobatically pulling their hair into messy buns. I smile at them in the mirror while I’m washing my hands, but I don’t know if they see me.

  * * *

  I have the yearbook room all to myself tonight. The newbies are out getting quotes about the upcoming homecoming game. (A bullshit assignment. They’ll come back with stuff like “ ‘Go Eagles!’ said front office assistant Ms. Fischer,” or “ ‘I’m excited,’ said freshman Jill Matthews.’ ” I’ll have to rewrite the entire article myself right before deadline, but it’s worth it for the peace and quiet now.)

  I’m brainstorming story ideas for my editorial features. (Ostensibly I am. I know all the best ideas will come to me at the last minute, so I’m mostly just hanging out. It’s my process.)

  The empty yearbook room is a rare and heavenly gift. I put on some music and start the electric kettle, which will take approximately four whole songs to heat water for tea, and I settle in at my desk to catch up on the latest episodes of The Notebook. No one really has assigned computers, but I’m the editor, and mine is mine because it’s tagged with the sticker from a pink lady apple and an orange Post-it that says TL, DR. Above the screen, there’s a sign handwritten on computer paper: Please do not hover. It makes Morgan very uncomfortable. Ha! I don’t know what I would do without this place, a little sanctuary in the middle of a battlefield.

  The Yellow Notebook has traveled from Meg to James to Kelly and is now back to me.

  Ok so you guys know that cute sophomore with all the hemp bracelets and the hair who also works at Coco’s? He’s in my Spanish 3 class AND TODAY HE SAT NEXT TO ME. James knows him from Computer class and says he is single…And, um, he asked me if I want to come over sometime and play Halo with him. I said you’re on. And you know what? I know how to play Halo. Dang, we are HOTT. We are so good at boys!

  Doesn’t it suck when the person you <3 doesn’t appreciate you AT ALL!!!

  Anyway, that’s why I’m sad face…

  So exciting, Morgan! I’m so happy for you, Meg! James, I totally get how you feel! Ugh! What are you guys wearing to the homecoming dance? I’m going with girls from cheer, and they’re making us all wear matching shirts. Ew!

  You guys are all doing awesome!!!! Meg, teach me how to be good at boys!!! Every time I talk to David I feel like I’m gonna say something stupid and he’ll snap out of it like, whoa this girl is a freak, and go back to his adorable funny weird-in-a-charming-way life where he could date any Abercrombie model he wanted. Him being my boyfriend would be like Seth Cohen from The O.C. going out with a sad Muppet. So, James, I feel you. Maybe that person just isn’t the one. Maybe the one could be waiting for you at Coco’s. I’m hungry.

  * * *

  Meg slinks in right as I’m really going for a pitch I cannot reach, singing “Maps” by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. She smirks and takes a seat next to my computer. “Hey girl.”

  I try to laugh myself away. “Hey. I can’t sing. What’s up?”

  She lets out one of those what-a-day sighs. “Oh, just wasting time. Today is weird.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. I skip to the next song, trying to shift the vibe. “You don’t have copyediting to do, right?”

  “No, none of the children have turned in their stories yet.”

  “Good, me neither. I was thinking of reading for English, but I don’t feel like doing anything.”

  “So are you okay, dude?” she asks, and the kettle finally steams.

  “For sure. Yeah, I’m fine.” I pour a cup of Constant Comment, which is an orange-flavored black tea with th
e name of an indie pop band. I keep a stash of the stuff in my purse, in my car, and in the yearbook room. “Did you get your blood cookie?”

  “Oh, um, I didn’t, actually. I mean, I didn’t give blood. They said I couldn’t.”

  “Huh? Is that a thing? I didn’t know those vampires turned anyone away. What happened?”

  “I guess they said I didn’t weigh enough?”

  Caught off guard, I subtly scan her body. She’s just as skinny as she’s always been, thin wrists and ankles, T-shirt billowing out at her hip bones. I think back—yes, she always eats lunch, and never significantly less than the rest of us. She doesn’t talk about her body like all the vapid girls do. Then again, she’s tight-lipped about her insecurities, if she even has any. Only her face looks a little different. Grayer, maybe, and the valleys beneath her eyes sunken, like she hasn’t slept in days. Still, most of us look like that right about now—the PSATs are only a few weeks away.

  “Are you okay?” (Sometimes it’s like that’s all we can say to each other, without saying too much.)

  “Yeah! You know I’m a fatty. Anyway, they told me I wasn’t the first one to get sent away. They have a bunch of random restrictions.”

  “Weird.” I sip, folding my legs beneath me in the swivel chair. “Oh, hey, what’s the deal with homecoming? When is it, again?”

  “Friday. Should we go?”

  “Oh, dangit,” I gasp. “David just asked me to hang out on Friday! Oh my god, what do I do?”

  “See if he wants to come?”

  “No way, are you serious?”

  “Why not?” Meg shrugs. “Just ask him casually.”

  “Meg, I am not asking him to be my date to a dance, that is not how my song goes.”

  “Well, we’re obviously going as each other’s dates, so he can be our third wheel. Or fourth, with James.”

  “Okay I like that better. But wait, how do I say something casually?”

  “All you have to do is be like, I’m sexy and I know it, bitches! Let me see what you have so far.”

  Hello, David. I’m so sorry!

  “Oh, girl.” Meg confiscates my phone and helps me craft a normal message.

  oops, I totes forgot about our homecoming dance, and lol we should probably reschedule.

  “God, why am I having so much anxiety right now?” I hit Send with one hand and absently prod at a forthcoming pimple on my chin with the other. Closing my eyes, I exhale slowly. “Okay.”

  “Good job!” She pats my back. “And, like, if he’s not into it, he’s an idiot. You’re a catch.”

  “You know what? I am!” I mostly believe this, minus my pesky diagnosis, the black mark on my record. “So are you, dude. Plus, you know how to play Halo! Total package!”

  Meg giggles and dances in her seat. “I’m terrible, but who cares!”

  I throw back my head laughing.

  “You know, I get that,” she offers, neatly lining up a row of paper clips and avoiding eye contact. “Anxiety.”

  “Yeah?” I push my sweaty palms together, awkwardly clear my throat.

  “One time it got so bad I had to go the emergency room. I thought I was having a heart attack.”

  “Whoa, really? That’s scary.” It doesn’t feel like the right thing to say. I know what panic attacks are. They suck.

  “Yeah. They gave me Klonopin. My stepmom wants me to see a shrink. But I did that when my parents got divorced, and I’m not going back there.”

  “Actually…I, uh, see a therapist.” (I regret my confession instantly, but maybe I don’t even remember why I was supposed to be ashamed.)

  “Oh, I didn’t know,” she says quietly. “For the anxiety?”

  “For anxiety and depression, yeah.” She widens her eyes. I exhale, and I think it counts for seven exhales. “I haven’t really told anyone. It sounds so dramatic, it’s embarrassing. Therapy does help, though.”

  “Well, I’m here if you ever want to talk about it. I wouldn’t judge or tell anyone. You know I’m good at keeping secrets.” In the moment, I realize I do know this about Meg, though I’m not sure how I know it.

  I hate the squeamish feeling I have: all of my terrible worst business, right there for another person to dig around in.

  “Thanks,” I creak shyly.

  “How is it? Therapy.”

  “It’s not bad. I feel better than I did before.”

  Finally, my phone buzzes. Meg snatches it up while I burrow my face into my hands.

  yesssss so perfect. i can escort you and bring flowers and the whole thing. that would be hilarious! so down.

  (Hilarious because David actually being my date to a school dance, taking me by the hand and twirling me by the waist, would be a complete joke. Of course.)

  “Fine,” I say, nailing the whole casual thing. “If we’re going to the dance I think I need new shoes.”

  Meg squeals, does jazz hands. At least we’re in all of this together.

  The Diaries of Morgan Parker

  September 30, 2008

  Dream that doesn’t feel like a dream: I’m walking through the mall at school, and I spot James under the stairwell near the girls’ bathroom. I’m desperate and fed up; I grab him by the collar of his polo shirt; I’m begging. I say, “James, I feel like killing myself.” His gaze at my forehead, for a moment, is pity. But then he says, “I know.” He chuckles, “You say it to everyone. All the time.” I step back dramatically in horror. No one believes me.

  SOMETHING LIKE A PHENOMENON

  We insist we’re only going to the dance because we’ve already seen all the movies playing, and the mini-golf place in Ontario closes early on Fridays. I’m still kind of excited about our plans: it will just be Meg, James, David, and me. Meg and I are gonna wear jeans under our dresses, and David’s wearing a tie over his T-shirt. James, of course, will don a full tux.

  I’m in charge of packing the water bottles full of booze, and David will drive us all from my house. He doesn’t drink much, he told me; he charmingly claims everything bores him. Meg and I eventually gave up shopping for shoes—we drove from store to store in Orange Plaza with “Phenomena” by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs on repeat, agonizing over boys and blowing everything out of proportion—so we’re just wearing our Chucks. (Meg’s are classic black and white with impressive scuffs and a red star Sharpied on each toe; mine bright green, with the Modest Mouse lyric “I don’t feel at all like I fall” written on the outer left sole. Pretty much every song on This Is a Long Drive for Someone with Nothing to Think About gives me feels.)

  I flip my hair with the big curling iron and shred my jeans at the knees. I watch a YouTube video on the perfect smoky eye. My dress is strapless and turquoise with a full skirt. Looking in the mirror at the finished product, I avoid my face (yep, still the same, despite all efforts), but quietly decide that my boobs look fan-tastic.

  Tonight, we do everything our way: paper flower corsages, disposable camera pictures with our tongues hanging out. David parks when we get to the school, and we all stare in the direction of the gymnasium. Some of the Popular Christians are shrieking and exchanging lip gloss. Jenn Hanson’s geeky boyfriend, Isaiah Engelman, dutifully hangs at her side with a brain-dead smile. The Fake Burnouts, Hermit with the Korn T-shirt, all those guys are kicking soda bottles in the football stands. I spot Marissa and Jordan holding hands, throwing their heads back in laughter as they approach the school entrance, decorated with wimpy balloons and posterboard signs. They look like different people. In this moment, I want to be them. That’s another thing I hate about myself—that sometimes, I want to be basic like them.

  David’s car is so stuffy, and I have the boob sweat to prove it. I glance over at him, the constellation of freckles on his cheekbones. Why can’t that be us? What’s stopping me from taking his hand in mine, closing the deal with that half smirk I’ve seen in
every single teen movie?

  “Hoo boy.” David exhales, wiping the sweaty back of his neck. James snorts a laugh.

  “You guys,” Meg says.

  “I know,” I groan.

  “Fuck it,” James says.

  “Okay then,” David concludes, and peels out of the lot.

  Someone giggles and it grows, collecting momentum into a growl of laughter. We head directly to our spot.

  * * *

  —

  Our spot is a construction site on a hill above the orange groves overlooking downtown. Meg and me stumbled on it one day driving from a lunch picnic in Prospect Park, drunk on stolen oranges and spicy September wind and in no rush to go back to school. From a ledge at the center of the cul-de-sac-to-be, we can see I-10, all of Redlands, and parts of Yucaipa. The view is nothing, really, but to us it feels significant. It gives us perspective, gazing down at all the bullshit, untouchable. All of us weird and confused and trying to figure ourselves out, smoking and looking and cradling warm beer from the stash in David’s trunk.

  As we watch traffic light up the night air, we pass Black & Milds and water-bottle-vodka shots around. We talk about nothing and everything; we scream at the traffic below, the fog above. After a while, we get quiet, take turns letting out super-reflective sighs. I know this moment is small, that they all are, but I allow it to feel profound. What book is it—The Perks of Being a Wallflower?—where they say they feel “infinite”? I don’t care if it’s cliché in the history of teen-angst narratives, this night feels close to that. Finally, I think. Finally, for even just this moment, I get it, how to be light and full of love and confidence. My life looks like it’s supposed to.

  “Thank God,” James says, shaking his head like a church lady.