Monday, October 31
(Kate)
I wake with a splitting headache at five o'clock, but I don't have the energy to even get out of bed to hunt down some ibuprofen. The pain sticks with me through all my morning classes, just like I knew it would, like I want it to. Today's a day I've been dreading since September turned into October. It's Grace's birthday.
This is the first day I've been in Minnesota that I've been homesick for San Diego. The kind of sick that makes my stomach turn and my head hurt so bad I can't see straight. And the only thing that will make it better, manageable, is talking to Gus. He's on his way to Denver to play tonight.
Because my class load is stacked on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I don't even have ten free minutes between 7:30 am and 2:00 pm. So, when I'm out of the lecture hall at 2:01, I'm dialing Gus.
"Bright Side, you okay?" This is not the standard Gus greeting.
I try for cheerful. I haven't had to fake cheerful in a long time. "I've been worse." Barely.
"Rough day, huh?"
So much for faking it. This is Gus. "Yeah."
"Yeah." It's acknowledgment, and agreement, and acceptance in one small word.
My chest is tightening and the back of my throat itches and swells. I know as soon as I open my mouth to speak I'm going to cry. And I pride myself in not crying. I've only cried once in my life that I can remember. It felt so awful, like my entire being was coming apart in a million pieces and would never fit together again. I never want to feel that again.
Gus allows me my silence and then he starts in with a story. God, I love this guy. Even over the phone he knows I just need to listen to his voice right now. "I've been thinking about Grace all morning, and I decided if I could be anywhere in the world today, doing anything, I wish I was in San Diego fishing from the pier with you and Grace. I'll never forget the first time Grace caught a fish. She reeled it in like mad and was totally hyped until she realized that there was a real live fish on the end of her hook. The excitement drained, and she was so bummed. She begged me to take it off the hook and throw it back in the water before it died."
Thinking about her like this lightens the load I've been carrying today. "Yeah, but she still wanted to go again the next week."
"And we never baited her hook after that." He doesn't sound so sad anymore. I can hear the smile in his voice. "She could sit there for hours on the edge of her seat and watch her line move with the tide. And every five minutes or so she was convinced she had a big one on the line, and she would spin that reel like hell until the hook was out of the water. But, she was never discouraged when there was nothing. She was always relieved."
I can picture her like it was yesterday. This is what I needed. "What did she used to tell you on the way home? 'Looks like I'm having a bit of bad fishing luck, Gus.'"
He laughs. "Every time."
"And you'd tell her, 'It's not that you're having bad luck today, Gracie, it's just that the fish are having really good luck. Besides, we don't eat them anyway, and Ma can buy fish at the store if she wants to eat it.'"
"She would always smile wide; you know the one when her eyes were almost scrunched closed."
"And then you'd suck in your cheeks and make fish lips at her, and she'd giggle and giggle and tell you how silly you were."
Gus laughs harder now. "Gracie had the best laugh. She laughed all the time. That's one of the things you two had in common. You both loved to laugh."
"She was so damn happy, Gus. The happiest person I've ever known. Even when life was shit, she didn't care. She always smiled. God, I miss her."
"Me too, Bright Side. Me too."
I usually try to avoid negative talk because it perpetuates negative thoughts and worse—negative action. It's like the catalyst for misery. A downward spiral ensues. All that aside, by eight o'clock tonight as I'm leaving the cafeteria I've reached my limit and have to admit...
Today. Really. Sucked.
My day was shit missing Grace, my head is still throbbing, and my stomach still aches. I'm praying the entire walk back to the dorms. Please God, let Sugar be gone tonight. I need some peace and quiet and a good night's sleep.
I hear Sugar's voice lilt through the door before I even have it open and realize maybe God's not on call tonight.
The first thing I notice is Sugar sitting on her bed talking on the phone. She throws me one of her best you're-interrupting-me-I-wish-you'd-go-away glares. She was at the concert Saturday night, and I can't help but notice she's taken the bitchiness toward me to an all-time high.
I half-smile and nod in her direction. "S'up Sugar."
The second thing I notice is the paper I finished and printed earlier today in the library (because I don't have a printer), the same paper that's due at 7:30 tomorrow morning (because my professor is the old-school-doesn't-believe-in-technology/electronic-submission type and demands an actual hard copy), is strewn across the floor and graffitied with dirty snow boot prints.
I immediately look to Sugar's feet. Sure as shit, she's still sporting the incriminating footwear.
This is the point at which I should proceed to the library to reprint my paper and decompress before I confront her, but like I said, I've already submitted to negative talk, and it's been a shitty day, so the conversation begins with, "What the hell?" albeit quietly. I just want to go to bed.
She doesn't even look at me.
I walk to the side of her bed. My blood is boiling, but I keep my voice even. This is the voice I used with my mother when I was angry with her and needed to get a point across but Grace was in the room, and I didn't want to upset her at the same time. I've had this voice mastered for years. "Sugar, what the hell, dude?" I point to the papers.
She ignores me, continuing to murmur into the phone. I can't believe it. The girl has the balls to destroy my property and now she's fucking ignoring me.
I raise my voice slightly. "Sugar, what happened to my paper?"
She's still ignoring me.
Fuck that.
Now I'm pissed. And I'm not a yeller. I've never been a fan of losing control and to me yelling feels like the culmination of losing control. So, I don't yell. Instead, I find it much more effective to lower my voice to a level that's so quiet the other person almost has to strain to hear it. That way you know they're really listening to every word. "Sugar, I swear to God I am not a violent person, but if you don't hang up that fucking phone and tell me what happened here, I am going to take that fucking phone out of your fucking hand and shove it up your fucking ass."
Her eyes widen. "Um, I gotta go. I'll call you back." By the time she hangs up, she looks defiant again. "What?" she snaps.
"Dude?" I point to the floor.
She rolls her eyes. "Oh, that was an accident. I must've knocked them off your desk when I walked by."
I'm shaking my head. "And then what? What? You accidentally did the motherfucking Mexican hat dance on them?"
She shrugs. "Sorry." It's the most insincere apology I've ever heard. She may as well have said, "Fuck you."
I snatch up my bag and flash drive off my desk and point my finger at her from the door. "You know what, Sugar? I'd like for us to be friends, but you're making that pretty fucking difficult. You've ruined or not returned several of my shirts this year, you eat my food out of the fridge, and you put me out of my room a few nights a week. That I've dealt with up to this point." My accusing finger drops its aim from her to the floor. "How dare you destroy my paper. I'm not sure why you're here, but I'm here to get an education, and that's what's important to me." I narrow my eyes and threaten through gritted teeth, "From now on, just keep your hands off my shit."
There's fear in her eyes, but she attempts a brave eye roll. It's pathetic. I can smell fear a mile away, and she's scared of me right now. She manages a snotty, "Whatever."
I want to strangle her, but I settle for something completely juvenile, yet effective. "Fuck. You. Sugar." And slam the door behind me.
The walk to the library is cold and snowy. It only takes a few minutes to print out my paper, but I sit in the stacks and read for another hour until I'm cooled down enough to return to my room. I hate getting this angry. I feel even more drained than before. But in truth, I'm not good at holding grudges.
Sugar is gone when I return. Strangely enough, I feel a little guilty that she probably isn't here because of me, but the guilt fades fast when I get a good night's sleep in my own bed.
I guess God was listening after all.