The Calculus of Change Read online

  “Let’s play truth or dare,” Marissa says.

  “We’re not in middle school,” Tate says. He glances at me, and I shrug.

  “Don’t be such a prude. What do you have to hide?” Marissa nudges me with her elbow as though Tate can’t see. I could kill her.

  “Fine,” he says, flopping down on the couch. “I’ll play truth, but no dare.”

  “Why?” she says.

  “Because dares are stupid, and I’m not making out with either of you tonight.”

  I don’t know what it is about the way he says that, but it’s humiliating. I can feel myself going hot from embarrassment.

  “Fine. You in, Ade?”

  Everything in my body is screaming no. Though there’s so much I want to know about Tate and his feelings, I want it to be given, not forced out of him like this. With Marissa. I glare at Marissa. Here’s where I’m weak. The part where I don’t say no because I doubt Tate will ever give me the pieces of himself he withholds. So I let Marissa play this game. Because maybe this game will answer the questions that burn in me about Tate and his feeling for me, or his feelings for Maggie.

  “What? It’ll be fun. Come on, Ade. What do you have to lose?”

  A lot. I have a lot to lose because what’s at stake here—what I feel for Tate, it’s big. And if I get shredded by this, or if what could be ends tonight, it’ll destroy me. But maybe that’s what I need. A little destruction.

  “I’ll start,” Marissa says. She tosses a coin, and the truth ends up on me.

  “This is boring,” she says. “I know everything about you.”

  “Nobody knows everything about me.”

  “Let’s see,” she says. “Would you rather die in a fire, or drown?”

  “Definitely drown.”

  “Why?”

  “Quicker.” All you have to do is close your eyes, and wait for that moment when inhaling is inevitable. Or at least that’s how I imagine it would be.

  “My turn.” I end up on Tate. I want to ask him so much that would make a fool out of me. But I can’t. I won’t. I tread water with “Have you ever been in love?”

  “Of course,” he says. “Haven’t you?”

  My insides are ripping out of my skin. But is what I feel for Tate love? Can I love him without knowing what it is for him to love me back?

  “I’m not up,” I say.

  Tate gets Marissa. “How many guys have you slept with?”

  My mouth drops open. Marissa doesn’t flinch. She looks at Tate, those wide eyes, long lashes, unblinking.

  “Eleven is my best guess.” She pops a raisin into her mouth as though she’s bored, and then flips the coin. She gets Tate and smiles.

  “If you could date anyone besides Maggie, who would it be?”

  When the question registers a millisecond after it’s out of Marissa’s mouth, it’s like she’s kicked me hard in the stomach. I can’t look at her. I can’t look at him.

  Tate’s sigh is loud, strained even. “I don’t know,” he says. “I hate these games. Not answering. Next.”

  “Dude,” Marissa says. “You signed the dotted line when you agreed to play the game, and sealed the envelope when you asked about my sexual conquests, so play.” Her eyes are ice on him.

  “Fine.” He looks at me for an eternity before he finally says, “Liz Weedle.”

  Something inside me just cracked, and I’m trying so hard not to cry. Liz Weedle. Skinny Liz Weedle with her Converse sneakers.

  I wanted it to be me so badly I could almost hear my name on his lips.

  Tate’s confession ends the game, and he gets up to leave. Something is different. When he says goodbye, the fire that usually burns between us has fizzled. There is no mischief or glint in his gray-blues. I can’t be sure, but as he turns to leave, I think I hear him exhale in relief.

  “I don’t think he was telling the truth.” Marissa’s voice reflects my own sense of defeat as we lie on the couch head-to-head, staring up at the outdated popcorn ceiling.

  “Why?”

  In the texture of the ceiling I see ripples of water. I think of diving into a deep pool and staying under for as long as my lungs can stand, the water suspending me in weightless escape, momentary freedom from everything, even breathing.

  “Why don’t I think he was telling the truth?” Marissa says, “Or why would he lie?”

  “Both.”

  “I don’t think he was telling the truth, because no one can miss the way you two are in a room together. It’s fucking annoying. You’re lucky I love you so much. And I don’t know why he’d lie. Probably for the same reason you haven’t told him how you feel about him. Because it could change things. And he probably likes the way things are.”

  I laugh, sadly. “I’m sure he does. It’s like he gets the best of all possible worlds. Maggie, me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But I’m left feeling so empty.”

  Marissa rolls onto her stomach and looks at me, softness and understanding in her eyes. “Want me to braid your hair?”

  “Sure.”

  I slink onto the floor and Marissa sits up. She starts a tight braid near my temple, making a crown out of pieces of my long brown hair, rendering me a queen when I feel like a beggar—wounded, needy, and low.

  Dad

  “Dad, have you ever thought about dating again?” I say as the two of us sit on the porch together, after the dust has settled from the truth or dare incident, and Tate has moved on as though everything is the same, his eyes full of light every time he looks at me. Even though he’s still with Maggie. Even though he wants Liz Weedle before he wants me.

  I can see my breath, and beyond my breath is the pinkish hue of the clouds hovering over dead-looking plains.

  “No.” He says it like it’s a simple matter of fact.

  “Why not?”

  “Because nobody could be your mom.”

  So that’s it? When your wife dies, you just give up on love altogether?

  I trudge on, tired of stuffing the truth down into unreachable caverns. Tired of muting myself. “Just because nobody could be her doesn’t mean you couldn’t be happy with someone else.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Enlighten me,” I say.

  He finishes the last of the beer in his bottle, while I watch, willing him to respond. But he ignores me in favor of the view. As if I’m not right in front of him asking a question.

  Something in me snaps. Because I’m angry. Angry at Tate for not loving me enough. Angry at my dad for not trusting me enough.

  “Why can’t you just let her go?” My voice is loud, cracking as the question forms.

  My dad looks back at me, his eyes piercing.

  “Okay, Aden, you want to talk like an adult. Let’s. She’s gone. There’s no holding on or letting go. We have no choice.”

  “I’m not—”

  He cuts me off. “Enough!”

  I reach for something to say as my dad and I sit side by side. But I’ve been silenced by his anger and the wall he’s built around my mom, as though he owns all the grief there.

  The quiet of our unfinished conversation stretches as we look out over the grassy land, the color of the night having changed with the setting sun and our words.

  I leave him sitting there alone and go to my room to do homework.

  I stare at a blank computer screen, the glow of the lamp a rich, warm orange. I can’t get my fingers to type the words of this stupid history paper, so instead I pick up my guitar.

  I strum first A, then E-minor, then D, filling the silence between me and my dad—because at least a song can say what he won’t.

  Marissa

  “What is it about him?” Marissa says. She’s leaning against the locker next to mine. A messenger bag hangs on her shoulder, hitting her near the purposeful rip in her jeans. I don’t know how she can get away with carrying a messenger bag when I have to haul a hundred pounds’ worth of textbooks, not to mention binders and notebooks. But t
hat’s Marissa. Slightly underprepared, but ever more cool for it.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tate. What do you see in him?”

  “Shhhhh. Jesus, Marissa. I don’t know.”

  I think about Tate and Maggie. Tate and how he doesn’t want me second, but Liz Weedle. My skirt is too short today. I shift my backpack and adjust the skirt as best I can, but I look down and my leggings are too tight, thighs bulging.

  We’re walking through the thinning hallways, headed to my car. It’s our lunch hour. It’s a little stupid to take the car somewhere, but we’re both craving pizza, and the only reasonably good pizza in town is a ten-minute drive. We’ll probably end up eating our slices in the car on the way back to catch seventh period.

  “Is it his eyes? Is it because he’s tall? Are you thinking he has the whole tall, dark, and handsome thing going on? Because, I’ve got news for you, he’s got a ways to go before handsome. Cute, maybe. But handsome? Meh.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s more than his looks, okay? Although for the record, I think he’s handsome.”

  I wish the Liz Weedle thing had knocked it out of me. Maybe it should’ve.

  “You guys are kind of crazy together.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I know exactly what she’s talking about. The way Tate and I are together. Like two sparklers. I wonder if it’s like that with him and Maggie.

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I do,” I say. “But let’s pretend I don’t.”

  Her turn for eye rolling. “It’s like you’re in some kind of secret club. It’s weird and, honestly, a little uncomfortable hanging out with you guys. There. I said it. You definitely have something. Happy?”

  I smile. I am happy. “I know. That’s what it feels like when we’re together. It’s us. Him and me. And the rest of the world is just background noise.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Marissa says. “But I think I know what you mean. It’s like that with Lance sometimes, too. Just us. And nothing else matters.”

  A picture of Danson and Marissa flashes in my mind. I’m not sure she knows exactly what I’m talking about, but I guess she can relate in a primal-attraction sort of way.

  “I just love being with him. I can’t get enough,” I say.

  “Because of the secret-club phenomenon?”

  “Yeah, that and because he sees me in this way no one else does. And I see him. It feels like I really see him, you know?”

  I unlock the car doors, and we both get in.

  “Like how?”

  “I don’t know. He just . . . gets me. We get each other, really. When we’re together, it’s like we step into this other dimension, and it’s just the two of us floating through the world together. I guess that all sounds stupid.”

  “Hmph.” Marissa pulls a cigarette from her backpack. She says she only smokes in certain company, in certain circumstances, but it’s getting to be a habit. I start to say something when she cuts me off: “Don’t worry. You know I won’t smoke in your car. I just need to hold it. But yeah, I get what you’re saying about Tate. It’s weird. It sounds like—” She pauses, searching for the word. And then she says, “Love.”

  Is this what love is? To be fully seen and heard by another person and do the same in return? I think it could be. But then, he doesn’t really want me. Not like that. I keep wondering why he’s not attracted to me, but everything about the way he is with me says something different. I’m so confused, and all I really want is to be with him. I want to be his girlfriend.

  “I wonder why he’s with Maggie,” Marissa says. She’s holding her cigarette in one hand, a purple lighter in the other. She’s flipping the lighter on and off, off and on.

  “Because she’s perfect.” She can wear black skinny jeans, and shirts that show her midriff, and short shorts. I wear flowing skirts and tunics and long earrings.

  “I guess. If you like that kind of thing. But you’re more perfect.”

  I laugh. “I’m so far from it.”

  “Who wants perfect anyway? It’s so boring.”

  “Well, at any rate, it’s unfair to compare me to Maggie. We’re nothing alike.”

  How I could I ever compete with Maggie? She’s a vanilla cupcake; I’m a veggie kabob.

  “That’s good,” Marissa says. “I was never a big fan.”

  I bet Marissa never gave Maggie Tiley a second thought until just now. But she’s being the best friend every girl needs, and I love her for it.

  Marissa’s Un-Mom

  I would rather suffer the loss of my mother, my frozen-forever loving mother-of-small-children, twice over than suffer Cassandra’s mothering for a lifetime.

  I was eight when I first met her. Marissa invited me over for a playdate at her house. We stayed in Marissa’s room the whole time. We played dress-up. Marissa had a shoebox full of Cassandra’s old makeup. It was the first time I’d been allowed to play with makeup without adult supervision. Not because my mom hadn’t wanted me to, but because she was sick by the time I was old enough to do so. I poked my eye with a mascara wand that night. When we went to Cassandra for help, she yelled at Marissa, calling her an “irresponsible little slut.” She was already drunk and slurring her words at that point. I was standing in the doorway to Marissa’s room holding my watering eye. Marissa grabbed me by the hand and led me to the bathroom. We dabbed at it with washcloths and tried rinsing it. Shhh, Marissa kept saying. But all I wanted to do was cry out every time the abrasive washcloth came near my scratched eye.

  When it was time for dinner, Marissa made us macaroni and cheese out of the box while Cassandra sat on the couch with friends, drinking and smoking. I knew deep down in my little-girl self that Cassandra wasn’t really there to protect us. She was just there. I remember the smell of alcohol and cigarettes everywhere. Stronger in the living room but still present in Marissa’s room. In her bed sheets. The faint smell of it on her clothes. Ashes. The color of Marissa’s childhood is ash.

  When we woke up the next morning, Cassandra had forgotten I’d slept over. Who are you? she croaked at me from underneath the hairy, big arm of the man with whom she’d shared the couch. I can’t remember where Marissa was—she must’ve been in the bathroom. Cassandra’s satin top swooped to the side, making one breast appear twice the size of the other as she lay pressed under the arm. I’m Marissa’s friend Aden, I said. Do you know how to make a bowl of Frosted Flakes? she said. If so, get me some. Then she’d added please, as though it made up for having forgotten me. As though it made up for being the least protective mother on the planet. A mother who wore satin lace and slept under hairy arms and smelled of stale alcohol and cigarette ash while her daughter played with makeup and made boxed macaroni for dinner.

  I never told my dad about the awful feeling of being unsafe at Marissa’s—how must Marissa have felt her whole childhood? But I think he got the picture after a few playdates, because we rarely went to Marissa’s house after that.

  I have faulty memory for a mother, but Marissa? She’s motherless.

  Marissa

  Marissa and I lie on my bed while she flips through a magazine. I’m not a fan. Magazines just make me feel crappy about myself. Instead, I’m devouring a bowl of microwave popcorn. Marissa grabs a kernel every ten minutes and chews it agonizingly slowly.

  “So truth or dare the other night?” she says.

  “Whatdoyoumean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.” She stares at me intently, willing me to talk.

  “You’re so melodramatic.” I throw popcorn at her, and it lands in her mess of hair. Messy hair that even now is managing the bed-head sexy look.

  “Watch it,” she says. Then she adds, “You okay?”

  I sigh. “He said Liz Weedle.”

  She sighs back. “I know. But I still don’t think he meant it. He didn’t even want to answer the question.”

  “Yeah, because he can probably guess how I feel about him and he didn’t want to hurt my feel
ings. Let’s just stop talking about it. I’m such a fool.”

  “You’re not a fool, Ade. It was weird. The way he hesitated to answer. But can you imagine how things would’ve changed between you guys if he’d said you? It’d be weird.”

  “What would be so bad about change?”

  Marissa doesn’t answer but gazes at me as she pops another kernel.

  I think about Tate’s body leaning into mine or the way he held my hand the other day like it was no big deal when I could’ve spontaneously combusted in that moment and died happy. I don’t want that to change.

  Marissa looks toward the door. “Where’s Jon?”

  I roll my eyes. “Practice.” I don’t add that he’s eating at Sabita’s. I think Marissa knows he’s been seeing someone, but she’s never seen the way they look at each other.

  “So what’s the latest with Danson?” Part of me cringes at the question, but curiosity is burning my conscience, and it’s a good way to change the subject.

  “Lance?”

  “Shut up.”

  She laughs. “Don’t be such a freak, okay?”

  “I will make no such promises.”

  “We . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “Good I-don’t-know, or bad I-don’t-know?”

  Marissa makes a hmph noise, and there’s something sad in that small sound. I look at her, and for a minute, I think maybe she is sad, like maybe she gets that this is a bad idea. Then she puts her head in her hand, sending her hair to one side, and says, “I stayed after class the other day. I wanted to ask about the flipping B I got on my last paper. He’d helped me so much with it. I thought for sure it was an A.”

  She says this like her grade is the point of the conversation. I know it’s not, because Marissa barely gives a crap about her grades. She wants to graduate, but her aspirations beyond that are nil. I put my pencil down so she knows she has my full attention.

  “I leaned. A lot.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “I saw him looking down my shirt,” she says.