Monday, October 24, 2016

There was a change that crept in at the end of October, when autumn hinted at its inevitable turn from bursts of color and gentle chills and pumpkin spice everything to something darker, cold and bleak, but beautiful in its own way. That sense of being on the cusp of something was strong one morning as I drove in the dark to school.

There was a coating of frost on the ground that sparkled where my headlights skimmed the edge of the road. As the sun began to rise, the sky turned red, streaked with deep smoky purple clouds. The road curved into town near the winding little river and a cemetery, where the smooth surfaces of the water and the gravestones reflected the sky in shades of rose gold. Houses decorated for Halloween had their decorations lit for the dark morning hours. Porch rails wrapped in magenta and orange string lights, gauzy ghosts hanging from tree branches and glowing plastic blow mold pumpkins on front steps.

I was still drowsy enough that the scenes from my dream of Pete that night hadn't completely vanished yet and they took my breath away as they replayed in my mind. I pulled into a parking spot on the street and stayed in my car, hoping to bask in my recent memory of Pete's smile and the changing colors of the sky as the sun rose, before stepping into crowded hallways and fluorescent lighting. But instead the spell was broken by something slapping the roof of my car. I yelped in surprise and saw Eric's face as he ducked to peek through the passenger side window.

I grabbed my bag and slung it over my shoulder as I got out of the car, slamming my door louder than necessary.

"Sorry Nessie, I didn't realize you were in a zone," Eric said as he walked alongside me.

"It's fine," I said, yawning. "I'm always in a zone."

"I wanted to tell you that I figured out which one I am."

"Which what?" My voice was slow and tired. It was too early for Eric Anderson.

"I did my research and I figured out which Disney prince I am."

"You did your research?"

"Yeah, Nora and I had a princess movie marathon on Saturday. I'm definitely Prince Eric. He's into sailing and he seems like an all-around good guy."

I groaned. "Aw, don't ruin Prince Eric for me."

"Ha! He's your favorite one isn't he?" He bumped his shoulder into mine, making me stumble.

"No, he's too boring. But he's very cute with his dog."

"Which one's your favorite then?"

"Kristoff," I answered without hesitation.

"He's not even a prince."

"Exactly. And he doesn't like people, his best friend is a reindeer, he has his own business and he's outdoorsy."

"You're into outdoorsy?" Eric asked skeptically.

"Maybe," I shrugged. "I don't think you're Prince Eric though."

"Which one do you think I am?"

"You're obviously Prince Naveen, pre-frog transformation."

"Come on! Give me some more credit than that."

"I think you give yourself enough for the both of us."

"Do you think I should get a dog? Or a reindeer?" His brow was creased in thought like he was actually considering both equally.

"No, I think you should turn into a frog to learn some humility."

"Ouch," he said as he opened the door for me. "See you later, Nessie."

In Lit class, Mr. Baer passed back our latest essays. He walked the aisles slowly for dramatic emphasis and placed the papers upside down on our desks because most of them were covered in red marks. I watched Eric turn his paper over and waited for his reaction. The paper trembled in his hands and his chest rose and fell. Then he noticed me watching and winked at me.

After the bell rang, Eric caught up to me in the hallway.

"I got an A," he announced. "Thanks to your advice."

"Congratulations."

"Do you want to read it?"

"Um, do you want me to read it?"

"I do." I reached for the paper he was still holding taut between his hands, but he quickly folded it and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans.

"Not now. Can I come to your house after school?"

"I guess so. But my house is farther away than your house. I live-"

"I know where you live, Nessie. I'll see you later."

After school, I didn't even have time to grab something to eat before Eric knocked at the door.

At least at home I didn't have to worry about Sophie seeing Eric and I together and getting the wrong idea. Since Sophie and I started talking again, we were fine, but not quite back to normal. Our friendship still felt tenuous and I didn't want Eric's unwelcome attention to ruin the bit of progress we'd made. Even if he claimed there was nothing happening between them, clearly Sophie wanted something to happen and I needed to stay out of the way.

I opened the front door and spoke to Eric through the screen. "Hi. Do you want something to drink? Or food? I don't think we have any canned salmon, though."

"I'm good, thanks," he said with a weak smile. "Are you gonna let me in?"

"No. If you're in the house when my dad gets home, he'll freak. Let's sit on the porch."

Eric held the screen door open for me and inspected the tall wooden signs that flanked the front door. Jackie had a cutesy, whitewashed porch sign for every season.

"Hello, Fall," and "Welcome," Eric read aloud. "What is it with these signs? Everyone has one."

"You don't like the signs I painted?" I asked, deadpan, as I sat in a rocking chair.

"Oh, no, I like them," he backpedaled as his cheeks flushed. "The pumpkin is nicely shaded."

I cackled. "I'm messing with you. My stepmom painted these at one of those drink wine and paint wooden pallets classes. They're all the rage."

He pulled the wrinkled essay from his back pocket and unfolded it as he sat in the other chair. As he smoothed the paper against his leg, he was getting twitchy and a little pale. I wasn't used to seeing him anything but calm and self-assured, and it was unnerving. I suddenly felt afraid of whatever was on that paper.

"I don't have to read it," I blurted. "I'm sure it's good. You don't need to prove it to me or anything."

"That's not it. I want you to read it." He reached over, dropped the paper onto my lap and then stood abruptly. I thought he was going to leave, but instead he sat on the porch steps with his back to me and started raking his hands through his hair.

The essay topic was, "In The Great Gatsby, Tom, Daisy and Jay lie to conceal who they really are, and their deceptions ultimately cause irreversible harm to others. Which type of lie- a lie of commission or a lie of omission- is the most damaging and why?"

Eric wrote about a lie of omission that changed his brother's life. During Owen's fall semester when he was a sophomore at University of Michigan, he'd been more and more out of touch with his family, and while his parents were irritated and worried by his lack of communication, they assumed it was a normal part of being away at college. They tried to hide their concern when they casually asked Eric if Owen had been in contact with him at all. He hadn't.

Owen's behavior at Thanksgiving was strange, and instead of staying home for the rest of Thanksgiving break, he went back to his apartment in Ann Arbor. One Saturday evening at the beginning of December, while Dr. Anderson and Dr. Navarro were at a wedding, and everyone else in the house had gone to see a movie, Owen showed up at home. After driving an hour and a half to get there, he only stayed for a little while before heading back. It was long enough to shoot some baskets in the driveway with Eric and swipe a bottle of tequila from the liquor cabinet. Owen asked Eric not to tell their parents he'd stopped home, and because Eric's loyalty lay with his older brother and he felt honored to be entrusted with his secrets, he never told anyone he'd seen Owen that day.

Not even when Owen was hospitalized that night. Not when they'd found out Owen had overdosed on fake oxycodone laced with fentanyl. Not when his parents later found cash missing from their bedroom.

Owen had his wisdom teeth removed at the end of the summer and returned to school with a bottle of opioid pain medicine. Once he ran out of refills from the oral surgeon who pulled his teeth, he found a couple of doctors to prescribe more, and when that didn't work anymore, he found other ways to get pills.

After Owen overdosed, he left school, went through a rehabilitation program and moved back into his parents' house. Almost a year later, he had a job stocking shelves at the local grocery store, classes at the community college and a daily jogging regimen. He was sober, but Eric wrote that Owen's daily struggles made his personality different. He was easily frustrated and angered, impulsive and sometimes rude, like he had no filter anymore.

Eric listed all the what ifs and could haves that constantly crept into his mind. When Owen was home he could have followed him to see what he was doing, and stopped him from taking the money. He could have locked him in a room and called his parents. He could have even called his parents after Owen left, to let them know Owen had stopped home while they were gone and let them make their own conclusions. But he didn't do anything of those things, and still blamed himself for Owen's overdose.

I walked over and sat next to Eric on the steps and handed his paper back to him.

"You can't tell anyone," he said. "My parents still don't even know."

"Okay. But why do you want me to know?"

"So we're even. Now I'm not the only one with blackmail material."

"You do realize Mr. Baer knows, too, right?"

"Yeah," he sighed. "Why do I feel okay with confessing to our Lit teacher?"

"I can't imagine Baer gossiping in the teacher's lounge. I get the feeling he hates- no that's too passionate- more like moderately dislikes everyone."

"Yeah, that's probably why. He seems like he keeps to himself. I kind of hate that I got an A for writing about this. Or like maybe I deserved an A for the paper but a D for being a shitty person. Or maybe it was a pity A. Look, he even wrote 'Good' next to my terrible metaphor."

He pointed to the sentence where he described how Owen had become "a tightly-wound coil that could spring- into a rage or into a relapse- at any second."

"It's not terrible at all. Baer said it's good and he's not generous with praise."

"I guess it's better than the 'Blah blah blah' he wrote all across my last essay."

I gasped. "He did not!"

"He did. Covered the whole page with red 'blah's."

"See? He's not a teacher who'd give a pity A."

He folded up the paper and shredded it into tiny pieces that he pushed into his pocket.

"I'm so sorry about what happened with your brother," I said. "It's not your fault though."

"Even if it's not exactly my fault, I could've done something to stop it. But I didn't."

We both looked up to see my dad's truck rolling up the driveway and I was suddenly aware of how close we were sitting. I stood up and sat back in a rocking chair on the porch and Eric followed. After parking in the garage, Dad walked around to the front of the house to investigate the situation.

"You lock yourself out or what?" Dad asked.

"No, just enjoying this lovely afternoon," I said placidly. "Dad, this is Eric. This is my dad." Dad strode up the porch steps and reached out to shake Eric's hand, but Eric stood and stepped forward too quickly and they nearly collided.

"Whoa, buddy," Dad said in a low staccato voice, like he was calming an overeager horse.

"Sorry, sir." Eric stepped backward into the "Hello, Fall" sign, knocking it to the ground. They briefly shook hands and Eric turned to pick up the sign and prop it back up against the wall.

"I hope you didn't break that thing," Dad said, crossing his arms over his chest. "My wife'll kick your ass."

Eric let out a weak laugh that sounded like a deflating balloon and my dad chuckled.

"I'm kidding. Now Eric, if you'll give me your full name, address, and social security number so I can perform a background check."

"Ha ha ha. That's enough," I said.

"Alright, alright." Dad slapped his hands together with a loud clap. He was being weird and obviously enjoying it. "So, how's the football season going?" he asked with uncharacteristic pep.

Eric quickly glanced at me and answered, "Oh, we're done for the season. We didn't make it to playoffs."

The question had probably made Eric assume that I had told my dad about him, which was completely untrue. But it made Eric stand a little taller and made me glare at my dad to silently express my annoyance.

"Welp," Dad said with a smirk when he caught my eye, "I'll leave you two to your-"

"School stuff," I clarified.

"School stuff. Nice to see you, Eric."

Once my dad was no longer in sight, Eric fell back into the chair and sighed. "What were we talking about?"

"Owen. And how what happened is not your fault."

He sighed heavily again. "I don't really want to talk about Owen anymore. Let's talk about your family."

"Why?"

"So I can get to know you better, Nessie." He gave me one of those classic Eric Anderson teasing gazes, and while it annoyed me, I was relieved that regular Eric was back. "This is called normal social interaction."

I groaned dramatically and shrunk down in the chair. "Ugh, not that."

"What about your brother? What's he doing?"

"He goes to State."

"I remember him, he graduated with Owen. He wore a tee shirt under his graduation gown that said 'Eat The Rich.'"

I laughed. "I forgot about that. That shirt was my dad's from the seventies, when he was like an anarchist or something."

"Your dad is intimidating." He cringed. "I can see where you get it from."

"Oh, he would love to hear you say that. Actually he might have heard you say it. He's probably listening to us through the doorbell."

Eric's head swiveled around to check out the video doorbell mounted on the door frame behind him.

"He's really into security," I explained. "And emergency preparedness. You really think I'm intimidating?"

"Very." He glanced over at me and caught the satisfied grin on my face. "Happy about that?"

"I'm not sad about it," I admitted.

He turned around and stared at the doorbell again while he gripped the armrests on the rocking chair. "I'm afraid to talk," he whispered, "but I don't want to go yet."

"We can talk about dad-safe topics, if you want."

"Sure, okay."

"So, pre-med, huh?"

He grimaced. "Predictable, right?"

"Very. But what kind of doctor do you want to be? There's like a zillion types."

"I want to be an orthopedic surgeon. It's gonna take like twelve years."

"You don't sound excited about that."

"I'm excited about the part when the four years of med school and four years of residency and all that is over."

"So, you're excited to be," I paused to do the math, "thirty years old?"

"Ugh," he groaned, "when you put it that way, it's depressing."

"I have this fun way of making everything depressing."

When Eric eventually said he had to go, he nodded toward the doorbell and then jerked his head in the direction of his car. "Walk with me."

Once we were safely out of my dad's listening range, Eric reached through his car window and opened the glovebox.

"I wanted to return this."

In his palm there was a slim pack of gum in a wrinkled apple green and pink paper wrapper. Adams Pepsin Tutti Frutti Gum. The sight of it took me back to 1886, horse-drawn carriages on dusty roads, and the tobacco shop. Paul in his little wire rim glasses and hat, playing the role of a pharmaceutical salesman. Sitting next to the city pool in the quiet darkness of the early morning, trying to explain to Eric what had happened. Slapping the wet pack of Victorian era chewing gum on the concrete to try to prove I wasn't making it all up.

"Sorry there's a piece missing," he said. "It probably has lost some value if you planned to sell it on eBay."

"You must have been desperate for some gum," I croaked through my dry throat as I took the pack from his hand and pocketed it.

"I wanted to test it. It tasted fresh," he said with an apologetic smile.

"Okay." I gulped to try to suppress whatever was bubbling up inside me. A sob or a laugh. Or vomit. "That gum was soaked in boob sweat and river water."

"It was flavorful."

I don't know how I managed to look him in the eye then, but I did and found his were bright with humor. And I laughed. And then tears unexpectedly fell down my cheeks. I didn't laugh until I cried; I did both at the same time, for only a few seconds. Eric was quietly shaking with laughter, too. It was all so absurd, that when faced with it, all we could do was laugh.

I wiped the tears from my face and apologized.

"It's okay." He reached out and wiped a tear from my chin. "Missed one."

His touch felt nice, and then it felt awful. I dropped my chin to avoid his gaze. Why did I feel guilty? Sophie. And Pete. But Pete was gone. Gone, gone, gone. Never going to see him again ever in my life gone. And as much as I wanted him to be real, the Pete in my dreams was an apparition. A ghost couldn't catch my tears.

When I faced Eric again, his expression had changed and was giving me that curious chemistry experiment look. "Sometime I want to hear more about your adventure last summer."

I backed away from him and shook my head. "Oh...I don't think so. Just forget about whatever I said."

"There's no way I'll forget what you said, or what I saw. So, if you want to talk about it, I'll listen. You can trust me, alright Nessie?"

"I wish you wouldn't call me that," I said in a hardened voice. "I'd like to lose the whole 'Loch Ness Monster' association."

"It's my nickname for you. Nobody else knows that's what it means."

I rolled my eyes. "Unlikely."

"Okay, I'll stop if you want me to."

"I do. Want you to stop."

I crossed my arms and gave him a serious look that I hoped conveyed that I wanted him to stop everything. Stop texting, stop touching my face, stop watching me all the time, and stop being so nice. I didn't deserve or desire his attention. And he'd reminded me that the only thing that peaked his interest in me at all was my stupid time-travel confession.

Because what else was there to hold anyone's interest? I felt like a sad shell of a person. All I wanted was to curl up alone in my little cove of despair until one day I woke up with Pete gone from my mind and I'd feel like my full-fledged self again. Whoever that was.

"So, we're good then?" I asked. "Now that we're even?"

"We're good. Ness? Can I call you Ness instead?"

"I'm not sure that's any better, but okay."

He held his hand out waiting for a handshake and I let it hover there between us long enough to make it awkward. When I finally took his hand, I gave it one firm shake before quickly pulling away from his grasp.

Inside, Dad had emptied the contents of his lunch bag on the counter. He was standing at the kitchen sink and staring out the window while washing his Thermos.

"So is that kid your boyfriend?" he asked without turning around.

I scoffed. "No."

"Good," he said with a firm nod. "I don't like him."

"That's fine, 'cause I don't really either."

I slid onto a stool at the kitchen island and absentmindedly touched my chin where Eric had wiped that stray tear away. Once I realized what I was doing, I rubbed my skin vigorously as if I could create enough friction to burn away the memory of how I'd held my breath, how my eyelashes fluttered. Ugh. He'd weakened my resolve by confiding in me and by making me laugh. Or by laughing with me.

Dad dried his hands on a dish towel and raised his eyebrows in surprise as turned to find me sitting there doing seemingly nothing. Normally I would have passed right by him while exchanging as few words as possible and gone up to my room.

"So, what was he doing here?" he asked.

"He wanted me to help him with something for school."

"I see." He grabbed an apple from a white paper bag on the counter, inspected it and shined it on his shirt.

"Out of curiosity, why don't you like him?" I asked.

"Entitled golden boy," he responded without missing a beat. "The 2014 Highlander in the driveway that his parents probably bought him for his sixteenth birthday. Football player. Something about his face."

"How did you know he played football?"

"The way I can look at a Canadian goose and know it flies South for the winter." He took a bite of the apple and grinned.

"Stereotype much?"

Dad shrugged as he chewed.

"He's smart, actually. Really smart. Not a dumb jock. Real people aren't eighties movie cliches, you know."

"What?" He feigned disbelief. "You're kidding me. And I never said he wasn't smart. You're the one who felt the need to defend his intelligence."

I took an apple from the bag and rubbed it against my sleeve. I bit into the skin with a satisfying snap and revealed a spot of bright white flesh. The apples were from a local orchard and were juicier and more delicious than apples from the grocery store.

"Maybe I am stereotyping," he admitted, "but I'll bet he's the type of guy who's used to getting what he wants and pitches a fit if he doesn't. You'd better watch out for those ones."

"Okay, Dad. So, serious question: were you an eighties movie cliche?"

He chuckled and shook his head.

"Come on, I'm pretty sure you weren't the preppy kid or the jock. Quirky weirdo? Science nerd?"

"I don't remember." He considered it for a moment longer and continued, "Alright, maybe it's not that I don't remember, but that I'm an unreliable source. It depends who's doing the remembering, you know? The version of myself that I remember is a story, and someone I went to school with might have a different version of the same story. That is, if anyone remembers me at all, but you get the gist of what I'm saying."

I nodded. "You were the quiet, introspective stoner, weren't you?"

He laughed out loud and waved his hand toward the stairs. "Get outta here."

I guessed that meant I was right.