Twenty-Two
I have this theory that the second half of summer goes by twice as fast as the first. June begins as a bright, blazing burst. All the energy that’s been building through spring semester can finally be released on swimming, barbecues, amusement parks, and best of all—doing nothing. The days are long. Night doesn’t arrive until nine. Everything is stretched out and saturated with sunlight. Then Independence Day strikes. The days get shorter, and school lurches nearer, and it feels like every subsequent day is robbed of another hour, until it’s August, and the scent of suntan lotion is replaced by that of freshly sharpened pencils.
This summer is no exception. The July weeks whiz by, a fast train of blurred colors. It’s a cycle of work and hanging out and, most importantly, filming. We inch closer and closer to our final film date, until suddenly, with no fanfare or ceremony, it’s here: the first weekend of August, the last day of filming.
It’s a Saturday afternoon, and the only two actors at my house are Serena and Eva. They sit on my bed, their backs against a wall of dried flowers and pictures of snow-covered Paris that Jack and I carefully arranged the night before. We’re on our fifth take, but it’s not because I’m frustrated or Serena and Eva aren’t hitting their lines. I’m just being a perfectionist about it. It’s the last scene of the series; it has to be flawless.
Since Jack and I decided to only reply to pressing questions online, we’ve definitely saved ourselves a lot of time spent on the Internet. But some days, just for fun, I poke around the hashtags and the fansites out there. The love of Kevin is going strong, and there’s even some girl on Etsy selling handmade jewelry engraved with quotes from the series. I guess that might be some kind of copyright infringement, but I don’t care, because it’s fan art people want to buy, and how cool is that? Not to mention, we’re the original thieves who stole our entire story from dear, darling Leo.
There’s still criticism out there too, but the last time I sniffed around—a couple days ago—the biggest issue wasn’t so much a critique of what we’ve done as speculation about what we might do. So far, our plot has made some significant deviations from the novel. Obviously, we couldn’t condense the entire book with all its characters. None of our characters are married, just dating. Anna doesn’t get pregnant with Vronsky’s kid, just really ill with pneumonia. And, as silverspunnnx23 so sagely pointed out, we don’t grapple with Tolstoy’s commentary on the political climate in imperial Russia; Levin’s relationship with his activist brother, Nikolai, was cut altogether. So now that we’re reaching the end of the story, fans want to know whether our Anna will or will not play true to the original plot and throw herself under a train.
Spoiler alert: She doesn’t. Jack and I decided this at the very beginning. We wanted a positive twist. We wanted Anna to find comfort, not in her relationship with Vronsky or any other guy, but in a friendship with Kitty. Was it fudging around the original plot? Sure. In the book, Anna and Kitty aren’t close. But in our script, they become close, and when life falls apart for Anna, and her past and current boyfriends leave the scene, Kitty’s still there to help her process and move on. It’s girl power to the tune of the Spice Girls’ “Wannabe,” and Jack and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
That’s the way we planned it from day one, but back then, it was just me and Jack huddled on the floor of my bedroom, throwing out ideas and excitedly jotting the ones that stuck in a spiral notebook. All we were thinking about then was the story, the drama, and how it would look on camera. It was pure creative energy, no inhibitions, no fear of what others would think.
Now, it’s impossible to look at our script without imagining what our viewers will say. I’ve read too many of their comments, good and bad, to shut off that way of thinking. I already know what the response will be when our last episode airs. Some will think it’s the perfect wrap-up, very feminist, good for us. Some will think it’s an oversimplified letdown. Some will say we’re idiot teenagers who totally missed the whole point of the novel. I know every variation of the impending criticism. It’s scary, but it’s a little liberating, too, to be creating something I know other people will hate. Because there’s no way around it. No matter how Jack and I finish this series, we are bound to make someone mad.
After our tenth and final take, Eva starts crying. It’s a quiet, leaking sort of cry. She’s obviously embarrassed and keeps touching her knuckles to the edges of her eyes. When Serena sees, she wraps Eva in a giant hug. I join them on the bed, rubbing my hand on Eva’s back in soothing circles. I’m crying a little too. So is Serena. Only Jack remains unmoved, watching us not with judgment but definitely like we’re an alien species.
“Hey,” I finally say. “No more crying until the wrap party, okay? That’s what wrap parties are for.”
Eva clears the remaining tears from her face and wheezes, “Okay.”
“It’s crazy,” Serena says. “I can’t believe it’s over.”
“Good thing,” I say. “Now you can focus on West Side Story .”
Serena shrugs. “Sure. But there will always be community theatres putting on West Side Story . There’s only one Unhappy Families .”
Serena is one of those people who says the thing you didn’t know you needed to hear until you hear it.
I’m afraid I’ll start crying again, so I just nod quickly and say, “I’m still really glad I met you last summer.”
Serena offers me a fist. I bump it, and we pull our hands away, making dramatic spirit fingers.
No matter what happens in the future, we share this: We told a story together, and we wouldn’t have been able to do it without each other’s help. No one else can share this part of our lives. No one else can fully understand it like the nine of us. This is the breaking of our Fellowship. I, Gimli, shall wield my ax again, but never in this same company.
I think that deserves some tears. And definitely a spirit-finger fist bump.
• • •
The wrap party is Sunday night. We’re holding it in the Harlows’ backyard. Everyone’s dressed for the oppressively hot weather—tank tops, flip-flops, and swimwear. We’ve ordered four boxes of extra large Papa John’s pizzas, and the party consists primarily of stuffing ourselves with cheese and then sending our stomachs for a ride by diving too quickly into the pool. Once everyone’s worn themselves out, we dry off and head to the entertainment room, where Jack and I have hooked up her computer to play Unhappy Families on-screen. The series in its entirety is long —over five hours. So we’ve decided to just play the last hour, which includes this past month’s as-yet-unpublished footage. (Jack was up most of last night editing the final shot of Serena and Eva.)
Brooks can’t stay for the whole thing—he’s a hall director this year and has to attend some mandatory orientation on UK’s campus. The rest of us stick it out, including Paul, who’s been invited to join the festivities. When the final episode rolls, I look around the room, clandestinely checking everyone’s expressions. Serena and Jay are crying. They’ve got their arms around each other. When the screen cuts to black, there’s a pregnant pause before the room erupts into applause and cheers. Jay leaps up and demands high fives from everyone. Eva blindsides me with a bear hug. She pecks my cheek and says, “It’s great, Tash,” and she looks ready to do the same to Jack, until Jack says, “I’ll take the compliment, not the hug, thanks.”
Someone’s playing “Another One Bites the Dust” on their phone. Tony, of course. He’s doing a sad attempt at the moonwalk while Jay claps in rhythm, looking on with such affection you can almost see little emoji hearts radiating off him.
It makes me happy. And then I feel kind of bad for feeling happy and turn to Jack, who’s looking on.
But Jack doesn’t look pissed. She doesn’t even look like she’s trying to be cool with it. She looks actually cool with it.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“It’s fine,” she says. “I’m serious, it is. Tony talked to me about it. Apparently he thought Jay liked this other guy at SCAPA , and he’s been trying to make him jealous.”
“Holy crap. They could be their own Tolstoyan storyline.”
“Yeah. But, anyway. Tony’s a better person when he has someone in his life. And who could deny Jay anything? That guy’s an effing angel. He deserves to be happy.”
I think this is very big of Jack, though of course I can’t tell her so, as she is allergic to affirming words of any kind. I have to be sneakier about it, so I say, “I’m glad things are okay.”
Jack says, “Yep.”
“You’re nowhere close to an angel, but I think you deserve to be happy too.”
“Blech, Tash. You used up all your genius on this script. No good words are left in you.” Then, “Someone should stop Paul before he breaks his neck.”
Paul has joined the Queen dance party—they’ve moved on to “We Are the Champions”—and is standing on top of the coffee table, belting the chorus into a remote control. When he catches my eye, he motions for me to join him.
I say, “We’ve broken enough furniture in this basement, don’t you think?”
So he jumps off the table, grabs my hand, and twirls me around, all while managing to sing the second verse into the remote. Afterward, we collapse into the beanbag together, and we stay there as the rest of the cast say their good-byes and leave. Everyone says we have to stay in touch and they’re sure we’ll all see each other again soon. George approaches us in an awkward shuffle, as though Paul and I are holding court and he’s a peasant come to ask for more grain for the winter.
“I guess I’ll see you Friday morning, Tash,” he says.
I nod, not bothering to be super enthusiastic. Of course I’m excited about the Golden Tubas, but not so much about being there with George.
“I guess so,” I say.
“You nervous?” he asks.
Am I nervous. Ha. I’ve been wailing about that to Thom for so long, sometimes I forget that the entire-world population does not know how absolutely, completely, incurably nervous I am.
I reply, “Que será, será.”
Tony, who is leaving through the back patio, pops his head back in and begins singing the Doris Day song, flourishing his hand toward the two of us: “Que será, será! Whatever will be, will beee! The future’s not ours to seee!”
Jay stands on the other side of the glass, laughing. Beaming.
Unamused, George gives me a look that says, Can you believe this guy? And I reply with a look that says, It’s Tony. It’s what he does.
“Anyway,” says George. “See you at the airport.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
I wave as he follows Tony and Jay out of the house. And that’s it—that’s a wrap to our wrap party.
Jack closes the patio door, shaking her head. “I hope he has a paralyzing fear of flying. Or has to use a barf bag.” Then she tilts her head to one side, looking annoyed. “I’ve got water in my ear. I’m gonna pour in some hydrogen peroxide, take a shower. You sleeping over, Tash?”
“Haven’t decided yet,” I say, though my current state of laziness, combined with my position—mushed next to Paul in this beanbag—indicates I’ll probably stick around. Jack bounds up the stairs, and I close my eyes, listening to her quick footsteps above our heads. I feel exhausted, but in the nice way. My skin is damp and smells of chlorine. My mouth is still coated in a buttery layer of garlic sauce.
Paul shifts slightly beside me and asks, “So, are you nervous about the Golden Saxophones?”
I laugh, despite the terribleness of Paul’s purposeful mess-up. “You have such dad humor,” I tell him.
“Answer the question,” he insists.
“Okay, fine. I am extremely nervous. I don’t know if I’m more nervous that we’ll win or we’ll lose. Because if we lose, it will be bad for obvious reasons, but if we win . . . I don’t know. It seems the more famous we get, the more people feel like they can post really vicious comments. Like because we’ve got so many views, we’re invincible. I don’t want our series to be something people end up resenting. I’d rather it be underappreciated, I think, than slammed for getting so popular.”
“Oh yes. The price of fame.”
“Stop making fun of me.”
Paul laughs. “I think it’s great. Not many people our age can say they’ve made a five-hour-long adaptation of Anna Karenina . So no matter what happens at the Platinum Trumpets, at least you’ve got that.”
“At least I’ve got that,” I repeat distantly, my thoughts taking a familiar bend in the road. “And even if everything else at the convention is a total flop, at least I’ll have finally met Thom in person.”
“Right. There’s that, too.” Paul shifts again. It feels like he’s trying to move over, put some space between us, but it’s wasted effort, because our weight on the beanbag drags us right back together again.
“It’s weird,” I say. “We know so much about each other, but it’s all these little things, like our favorite fandoms and movies and what we’d do with a time machine. None of the huge things like—”
“Actually talking to each other,” Paul supplies.
I smile to myself. “I think that makes it special, though. When we meet in Orlando, it’ll be like meeting an old friend. But in another way, it’ll be like meeting each other for the first time.”
“Oh yeah, total voice virgins. That’s really hot.”
There’s something horrible in Paul’s voice. Something contentious and sharp-edged. It’s a voice I’ve only heard him use with Jack and, on occasion, his dad. Never with me. The word “virgin” hangs in the room, flashing like a neon sign. Paul and I are sitting way too close to each other.
I climb out of the beanbag with difficulty, stumbling once before righting myself.
“Tash,” Paul says. “I—”
I round on him, heat rushing up my face. “Because ‘virgin’ is an excellent punch line, isn’t it? That’s great, Paul.”
“Shit, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry.”
“Why do you get like that? What’s wrong with Thom?”
Paul’s staring straight at me, but he’s unreadable, his brown eyes locked and closed off.
My jaw is trembling. I blurt out, “Are you jealous?”
Paul opens his mouth, but only wide enough to let out a breath, not words. He shakes his head and breaks our gaze to stare at the DVD collection behind me. I move over to block his view.
“Are you?”
“Jesus Christ, Tash.”
Now I’m the one to shake my head at him, hard and fast and disapproving.
“Because you don’t get to be,” I say. “Not when you know everything about me. Not when you don’t even want me. Not when you can’t even be a good friend.”
A recognizable expression is finally spreading over Paul’s face: confusion.
“How have I not been a good friend?” He sits up straight in the beanbag, which makes a loud farting sound. In any situation save this one, we’d laugh about it. Which makes the noise twice as unpleasant.
“You don’t tell me things,” I say. “You keep things from me.”
“Like what ? Just because I’m not constantly talking—”
“What about your dad?” I take a step forward, pressing the question into him. “Why didn’t you tell me about his headaches? That’s something a friend tells another friend. But instead you specifically tell Jack not to let me know?”
“You can’t call me a bad friend for that. You don’t tell me plenty of things.”
“Like wh—”
“How do you really feel about guys?”
I startle, going still and silent.
“I’m just . . . I’m trying to figure it out,” he says. “I’m not saying I don’t support you or that I don’t believe you, I’m just trying to get you. Because one minute you’re telling me you hate men—”
“I never said—”
“And the next you’re telling me that you’re falling in love with this vlog dude. Which I didn’t think you could do. Because if I’d known, I would’ve . . . Because I’m just trying to figure it out .”
I swallow hard. I should tell Paul it’s my fault. I’ve made things confusing, because I’ve been confused. I’ve been trying to figure it out.
I should, but the words don’t come.
When it’s clear I don’t intend to reply, Paul sinks into the beanbag and stares at the ceiling. His eyes are wet.
“I’ve had a crush on you since we were kids. I’ve probably been in love with you since our moms arranged that playdate at Holly Park.”
These words are not coming from Paul’s mouth. They cannot be. It is surreal, absurd.
I say, “We’re best friends, Paul. You and me and Jack. We’ve always loved each other.”
Paul shifts his gaze back to mine. To my relief, he doesn’t look like he’s on the verge of a cry anymore. But then he speaks, and everything falls back apart.
“Yeah, Tash. I’m jealous. Okay? I’m jealous. Because you have this epic thing going on with a guy you met on the Internet, and you didn’t even want to try with me.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “You didn’t want to try with me . You’re the one who dated Stephanie Crewe.”
“I’m the one who broke up with Stephanie Crewe.”
“Oh my God, don’t even tell me that was over me . You never saw me that way. You never have. I’ve always been your little sister, or yeah, your friend. You’re just rewriting history now that you definitely can’t have me. Because, what? I’m all enigmatic for not wanting to have sex? Or maybe you think you can fix me, if I just give it a try with you?”
Paul’s face contorts into disgust. “What? No. I never said that. I’ve never thought that.”
“Really? Then you’re an idiot. Because you’re a red-blooded guy, Paul. You want sex. And you can’t have it with me. So if you want to be with me, you’re an idiot.”
“Let me get this straight: I’m either an asshole or I’m an idiot, no in-between. Is that it?”
I’m aware of how unfair I’m being, but it’s too late. I’m too committed to stop. “Pretty much.”
“Fuck that,” Paul says, raising his voice. He propels off the beanbag and comes toward me with disorienting speed, stopping just a foot away. “Fuck that, Tash. You can’t tell me how I used to feel or what I want.”
“So, you’re this totally normal nineteen-year-old guy who doesn’t want sex?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want—”
“I’m not going to magically change, Paul.”
“I never—”
“Just because we’ve known each other our whole lives, just because you get me more than anyone else—that doesn’t mean you’ll be the perfect guy who changes my mind. Okay? I know I’ve been confusing about this, but I know that part for sure.”
“If you—”
It could be the adrenaline pumping through my system. It could be adrenaline or anger or just that my self-destructive alter ego has taken over. Whatever the reason, the resulting action stops Paul’s words: I yank my T-shirt over my head and throw it to the ground.
I’ve worn less in front of Paul. Just an hour ago, I was dunking him underwater in my swimsuit. But this is different, because the air is charged, and this isn’t my bikini top, it’s my bra.
Paul glances down once, briefly.
“What are you doing, Tash?” he whispers.
“You’re a liar,” I say. “I’m proving it. I’m proving you’re a liar.”
I unzip my skirt and release the waistband, letting the material fall and pool around my feet. I point a finger at him, drive it into his chest.
“This is what I’m like underneath. Which apparently turns people like you on. And if you want to be my boyfriend, you have to know all the time what you can’t have, and you might say it’s fine at first, but it won’t be fine, because you want what’s underneath, and it will ruin everything. It will ruin our friendship. It will ruin my friendship with Jack. And I won’t let that happen. So yeah, you’re either an asshole or an idiot, and I’d rather you be an asshole, because then at least we can stay friends.”
That’s when I hear movement behind me, on the stairwell. I hear Jack’s voice say, “What in the holy fuck is going on here.”
And I don’t even turn to face her. I stoop to grab my shirt and skirt and I run for the door. Jack shouts my name. I turn the handle and flee, leaving the door wide open behind me.
• • •
I hide myself behind Mr. Harlow’s well-manicured hedges, where I clumsily re-dress myself. I forgot my flip-flops; they’re back in the basement. I run barefoot through the dark, my heels hitting the pavement in uneven thuds as my brain chants, What were you thinking, why would he say that, why would he say it now?
When I’m finally locked away in my bedroom, I realize my shirt is on backward and inside out. I don’t bother with it. I don’t bother with anything but crawling into bed and pulling the covers over my head.