elanie

 

 

 

 

The library’s basement classroom is even more drab without Jake as the teacher. Some chubby cop has taken over, and he makes dumb jokes and tries, but it’s painful to sit through class.

It’s painful, too, to pass Jake’s apartment, to know he’s no longer there. He’s back in Chicago. And even though we promised all sorts of things to each other—we’ll talk every day, we’ll text all the time—I feel like we’re growing apart by the minute.

Graduation’s coming up, and prom, which of course I’m skipping. Stacey’s on the prom committee, and though we don’t talk, I see her hanging up posters and giggling in the hallways about dresses and shopping and renting hotel rooms for after parties.

But I don’t care. I’m almost done. Out of here. Chicago and college are so close I can touch them.

On prom night, I stay home. My mom goes to bed early, and I sit on the living room couch watching videos on my phone. All I can think about is how Jake showed up that one time with Thai food. Part of me believes he’ll do that again, that he’s driven back from Chicago because he knows it’s my prom, and he’ll knock on the door with a huge bag of food, and we’ll go to his vacant apartment and eat out of the containers while we sit on the floor, like a picnic. And then he’ll make love to me, over and over again, so I know he’s mine and I’m his.

But he doesn’t show up. I go to bed and lie awake for hours, listening to cars pass by every once in a while and wondering if things are over or just beginning.

We text a little bit.

Me: All the assholes are at prom tonight.

Jake: Why didn’t you go??

Me: Not my thing.

Jake: You’re probably not missing much.

Then nothing from him for the rest of the night. I wanted him to say: If I was there I’d be your date. Or: I’ll take you out to make up for it when you get to Chicago. But he just gets silent, and I refuse to be the one always keeping the conversation going. I have too much pride for that.

Graduation comes and goes without Jake too. We talk sometimes, and I know he’s busy getting back into his job in Chicago, and spending time with his mother. But I can’t help feeling —knowing—that he’s making excuses. That the distance I feel isn’t just because we’re not in close proximity. It’s another kind of distance, the kind that can’t be overcome by an hour drive to visit someone. And speaking of visits, so far he hasn’t come back once to see me. There are a lot of reasons: I’m working this weekend. I’m helping my mom move.

But I can’t shake the feeling that if he really wanted to see me, he would.

~~~~

“Why don’t you move to Chicago now?” Mrs. Hart is wiping down the knife display case when she turns to me with a smile.

It’s a bright day in early June, the sun streaming through the front windows that I just cleaned. Molly is curled up in a cat bed by the front door sleeping. Since Jake moved, she’s been living here. My mom’s allergic so I couldn’t take her home, and Mrs. Hart was glad to have her.

“Move now? School doesn’t start till late August.” I put the spray bottle of glass cleaner under the counter and sit on the stool.

“Honey, I can see it in your eyes.” She stands in front of me, her own eyes kind and soft. “You’re ready to go. There’s extra money in the account. You could probably get into the dorms early. Or get an apartment, if that’s what you’d rather do. I want you to be happy. You deserve it.”

“I don’t know.” But inside, I’m shivering with excitement. The thought’s crossed my mind, but I didn’t think I could really do it. Maybe, though, I can.

Summer in Chicago. Bustling downtown. The busy and beautiful lakefront. Stores and shops and people and the chance to really live.

Mrs. Hart takes my hands in hers. “What’s keeping you here, Melanie? Not this job, certainly!” She laughs. “You’re done with school. Not that I’m trying to get rid of you, mind you! But I’m ready to see you make something of yourself. And I’m ready to see you happy.”

“I’m ready to be happy,” I say. It’s true. I am.

~~~~

Sight unseen, except for photos online, I rent a tiny apartment in a red brick three-flat near the university. I’m on the middle floor, with two students above me and one below me. The landlord says I can have a cat, so I’ll bring Molly with me.

Mrs. Hart plans a small going-away party for me behind the antique shop, on a patch of brownish grass. It’s a warm day, and I make lemonade from a powder mix that I buy at Save Lot. Mrs. Hart makes me a grocery list, including the lemonade powder and a package of iced oatmeal cookies, and some deli meat and crackers, and we set up a few plates of food.

Principal Evans comes, and my mom, and of course Mr. and Mrs. Hart, and even Mr. Tallman, my math teacher.

I didn’t tell Jake about the party, but I still wish he’d show up, that somehow he’d found out about it and decided to surprise me. I’d be half-embarrassed and kind of horrified, since everyone would know our secret. But he doesn’t come.

I haven’t even told him I’m moving to Chicago early. It’s a huge deal, but that’s the problem. I don’t want to put pressure on him, especially when he’s being distant. I don’t want him to think I’m moving now because of him, that I need him, that I’m trying to get his attention.

But maybe I should let him know. So when I’m packing up the leftover party food after everyone’s gone home, I dial his number. But it goes to voicemail, and I don’t bother leaving a message.

~~~~

My mom helps me load a giant duffel bag that came through the antique shop into the trunk of her crappy old car. It’s stuffed with my clothes and bedding. The apartment comes partially furnished—at least there will be a bed and couch and a small kitchen table with two chairs. Which is good because I don’t have much to bring.

I have two boxes of books and odds and ends I don’t want to leave behind. And Molly’s stuff—litter box, bucket of fresh litter, cat bed, the giant scratching post treehouse that Jake bought. I actually think she’s got more luggage than I do.

With Molly mewling in the cage in the backseat, my mom and I set off for Chicago. My heart beats hard with excitement the farther we get from Bells Park and the closer we get to my new home. Even the taped-up vinyl car seats don’t bother me, scratching my bare leg. I’ve got on a tank top, and the window’s rolled down—there’s no AC in this car—and the breeze blowing back my hair is fresh and real and makes me feel so alive.

We hit traffic just outside Chicago, and I stare at the tall buildings and cars and people as we drive into the city.

“I’m going to miss you.” My mom glances over at me before turning her eyes back to the road.

“I’ll miss you too.” I think I will. Not right away, but eventually. “You’ll stay busy, right, Mom?”

She laughs. “That rapper, Kenlo, really got me noticed. I have so many followers on YouTube, you wouldn’t even believe it!”

I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it—she has hundreds of thousands of followers, enough people viewing her videos that she’s making money off ad revenue. Who knows how long it will last, but for now, I’m happy for her. Thinking about her in the dark house drinking wine and clacking away at her keyboard is sad, but knowing she’s enjoying herself makes it easier to think about.

The landlord’s name is Simon Chooch, and he’s a strange man with a whimsical lilt to his voice. He gives me the key to my apartment, sticks his fingers into Molly’s cage (she hisses at him), and hands me a card with his number so I can call if anything breaks in the apartment.

New leaves are growing on vines that crawl over the bricks of the building, and the street it’s on is both busy and homey. It’s midafternoon, and there are people my age or a little older sitting on front porches and walking down the street, and it’s hard to keep my heart from soaring. This is it. I’m here.

My mom helps me bring my stuff up to the apartment, and then she hugs me awkwardly and leaves, heading back to Bells Park. I guess I should feel scared or nervous at suddenly being alone in a new place. But I don’t. My apartment is small, but the living room has huge windows looking out at the street, and the old wooden floors are scratched but shiny, and even the couch, though obviously old, is more comfortable than the one back home.

The bedroom is minuscule—just barely enough room for the twin bed and dresser that came with the place. And the kitchen has just enough space for one person to cook, then a tiny area by the back door with a table for two.

The floors creak, and the windows need to be propped up with a piece of two by four to stay open, and the paint on the doorframes is chipping, but there’s so much natural light. And it’s mine.