HERE NOW, A LIST:
THINGS TO DO TO MAKE NEXT YEAR PERFECT
Okay, that’s way too much pressure. I cross out Perfect and replace it with Not Suck, knowing full well that even Not Suck might be reaching for the stars.
1) Get completely ready to go back to Fitzpatrick.
I’m not sure how to accomplish “completely ready to go back,” but writing it down feels like a first step. I’ve spent the last semester in a study abroad program and now I’m home. My high school is still here, right where I left it. It didn’t, for instance, explode in a blaze of white-hot glory while I was gone. When the holiday break is over in seven days, I’ll have to exist there again.
2) Start your book. Then, for the love of all things holy, FINISH it.
My novel is about the end of the world, and so far I’ve come up with a title, Together at Midnight, and drawn sketches and written bios of all the main characters. Now I just need to begin the actual writing. That’s the no-fun part, which is why I never do it, which is why I have to put it on a goddamn list.
3) Achieve quality time with Ari.
My best friend. We haven’t been apart this long, ever. We emailed back and forth a bit while I was away, but I need to know she still fits snugly into her spot in my life. Especially because now that spot has to accommodate her boyfriend. (Sigh.)
4) Get in touch with Jamie.
I stare at those five too-simple words. Then I add:
Let him know I’m home. Set up a time to meet.
Still doesn’t seem like enough so I add more:
Become a couple. Have a great spring together. Go to the prom. BE IN LOVE.
Nope. Dial it back, girl. I scratch that last part out.
I met Jamie last summer, when Ari and his friend Camden started dating. We clicked and I really liked him, until he told me he didn’t think of me that way. Then, after I left for Europe, he emailed me one of his photos. I sent him one back. Over the last few months, we’ve been having the kind of correspondence that makes you obsessed with your inbox and you hate hate hate that but also, you love it.
There. A list that will either motivate me out of bed or drive me deeper under the covers. We shall see. But at least it’s done what all my lists are intended to do: coax the Thought Worms in my head to wriggle out of hiding, whispering to them, You don’t need to bother Kendall anymore! Come play on this nice clean page!
I put down the notebook and pencil and look around my room. During my time with the Movable School program, I went to Paris, Rome, and London, Saint-Tropez and Monaco, the green hills of Ireland and the white cliffs of Dover. Now I’m back within these pink-and-purple walls, staring at a poster of kittens eating cake. (The kittens are as cute as they were when I was eleven, but still.) How do I fit inside this space again?
There’s another person in my house who knows what this feels like and might be able to tell me what to do about it, so I get up to find him.
On my way out of the room, I pat my enormous red suitcase on the shoulder. It sits just inside the door, only partially unzipped. For three days since I got back from Europe, it’s dared me to unpack it, and for three days, I’ve wimped out of that dare.
My brother Emerson is sprawled across his bed as if someone threw him ten feet and this is how he landed. At first, I can’t tell which blanket-lumps are which. I definitely don’t want to touch his head and have it turn out not to be his head. I’ve made that mistake before. I watch him for a moment, parts of him hanging off the mattress because it’s the same mattress he’s had since he was twelve.
One of the lumps moves. Definitely his head. I reach out and flick it through the covers.
“Hey,” I whisper.
My brother groans like an animal in pain. A woolly mammoth sinking into a tar pit.
“It’s Kendall,” I add.
“I know,” says Emerson. “Strawberry shampoo.”
“I have to ask you something.”
“Ken, it’s too early for one of your random questions.”
“How do you stand coming back home?”
Em laugh-grunts. “Welcome to the rest of your life, kid.”
“Be serious,” I say, flicking him again. “I need to know before you leave.”
He rolls over and pulls the covers down so I can see his face. Looking at him is like looking at myself, in the alternate timeline where I was born a boy. Same auburn hair, same awkward nose. But of course on him, it all works. Me, not so much.
“Sometimes I pretend I’m not actually in my body,” says Emerson, “and the thinking and feeling part of me is hovering near the ceiling, watching all the action.”
“Like the way people describe near-death experiences?”
“Try it sometime.”
“What time did Andrew move?” I ask.
Andrew is Emerson’s boyfriend. Even though they’re both twenty-two and live together in Manhattan, and my parents have known Em was gay since he was thirteen and probably way before that, my dad’s enforcing an “unmarried couples don’t sleep together under my roof” rule. He says it was the same when my other two brothers brought girlfriends home to visit. He says changing the rules because Andrew and Emerson are both guys would be reverse discrimination, which is a good point none of us wanted to admit out loud.
Emerson gives me his best fake-innocent look, complete with big eyes, something I can’t pull off even though we have almost the same face.
“Oh, come on,” I say. “He came in right after Mom and Dad went to bed, right?”
Emerson laughs. “What can I say? I sleep better if he’s here. He went back to the couch sometime early this morning. What time is it now?”
I glance at the clock above his bed. “Eight forty-five.”
“Jesus!” he says, throwing back the covers. “We have a cab coming at nine to take us to the train. Can you see if Andrew’s up?”
As Emerson starts frantically getting dressed, I rush downstairs. Past my brother Walker’s room, where Walker will probably be asleep most of the day. I always get a two-second whiff of marijuana when I walk by and I think it’s permanently embedded in the wood of his door. Then I pass my oldest brother Sullivan’s door, shut tight and unopened for so long, I keep forgetting it’s not a closet. He’s not there because he and his wife are staying at a hotel for this Christmas visit, which is one of the many reasons why being twenty-six sounds awesome.
Yup, we’re Sullivan, Walker, Emerson, and Kendall. People joke that my dad was trying to create his own law firm, but my brothers are actually named after artists and writers my parents admire. I was the accident baby, aka the “I can’t believe our parents are still having sex” baby. You’d think that after three boys, my mother would jump at the chance for a girl’s name, something that ends with a Y or A sound and has i’s that can be dotted with hearts. But, no. Kendall was the last name of the teacher who inspired her to be a history professor. Thanks a lot, dude-who-died-right-before-I-was-born.
The door of my parents’ room is always left open a crack so the cat can come and go. I see my dad asleep in bed, but not my mom.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Andrew’s already making coffee. For the record, I really love Andrew.
“Hey, monkey,” says Andrew. (I also love that he calls me this.) “Is he up?”
“Just now,” I say. “Where’s Mom?”
“She went out for a run but said she’ll be back before our cab comes.”
I nod. Of course she did. Janet Parisi doesn’t let Christmas Day calories just sit there in her body, being useless.
Suddenly, the sound of a car horn makes us both jump.
Andrew glances out the window. “Good God. The cab’s early.”
“Dammit!” yells Emerson from upstairs. “It’s early!”
Andrew sighs. “I’ll go ask him to wait.”
He pulls on his boots and coat, then grabs his neat little rolling suitcase and heads out the door. Painfully frigid air from the outside world rushes in. I watch him steer the suitcase down the icy path to the street. The cab driver hops out and pops the trunk, then takes Andrew’s bag for him.
I watch myself running toward the cab and throwing open the door and leaping inside.
No, wait. That’s only happening in my head.
I press my hand to the window and force myself to lay my whole palm against the cold, cold glass. This should keep me here, in reality.
Emerson jets down the stairs, a big leather satchel slung across his body, a shopping bag full of opened Christmas gifts in one hand. His hair, which is never rumpled, is rumpled.
“Why do you have to go back?” I ask him. “Andrew’s the one who has to work. You have the week off.”
Andrew writes for an online magazine. Emerson teaches sixth-grade science at a private school. They’ve been together since their sophomore year in college and it’s all unbearably adorable.
He shakes his head. “I wish I could, but another night here is beyond the limits of my out-of-body coping mechanism.”
Andrew comes back into the house. “Ready?”
Emerson takes the coffeepot off the burner, swigs some straight from the pot, then puts it down and wipes his mouth. “Ready.”
“Your mom’s not back from her run yet,” says Andrew. “She’ll be mad she didn’t get to say good-bye.”
“Eh, we’re seeing her and Kendall in a few days when they come in to see Wicked.”
Andrew takes Emerson’s shopping bag from him and hands him his coat. Emerson turns to me. “I’m glad you’re home, Ken. I’m glad you had an amazing time in Europe.”
For some reason, this makes me want to weep.
“It was a good Christmas,” I say, nodding, my hand still on the windowpane.
“See you on Wednesday.”
I pull myself away from the window so Emerson and I can hug. Then I hug Andrew, and then they leave the house. As the door opens, the air lashes my face and it feels horrible but I also don’t mind it because I’m having that flicker again.
This time, I picture myself sitting between Emerson and Andrew in the backseat of the cab.
Before I really understand what I’m doing, I step onto the porch and shout, “Wait!”
Holy crap, the cold through the soles of my feet in socks. Andrew, Emerson, and the cab driver all turn to me and I guess I’m supposed to follow that up with something.
So I yell, “Can I come with you?”
They both just stare, as blank as the snow between me and them, until Emerson asks, “What do you mean?”
“Can I come stay with you guys? In the city? For a few days?”
Emerson steps gingerly back down the path toward me, not taking his eyes off my face. Does it show? How much I need to go with him?
“We have to leave right now or we’ll miss the train,” he says.
“Give me two minutes.”
“Mom will be furious. And confused.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“We do have a guest room now,” adds Andrew, to Emerson. “It would be great to break it in.”
Emerson sighs. Glances back and forth between Andrew and me. “Fine,” he finally says, cracking a smile.
I dart into the house, up the stairs, into my room. Tuck my phone in the pocket of my pajama top. When I grab the handle of my suitcase, I can almost hear it hissing, Yes! To avoid making any noise, I pick the thing up. It’s obscenely heavy. I could die this way.
I make it to the front door, pull on my long wool coat and my winter boots, then haul the suitcase outside.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” says Emerson when he sees it.
Within moments, the trunk is full and slammed shut and it’s just as I pictured: I’m sandwiched between Emerson and Andrew on the way to the train station in Poughkeepsie.
This was totally not on the list.