22
jo
“How many times are you going to say that?” Amy whined, dragging her arms in front of her little body as she walked across the living room.
“As many times as it takes,” Beth said. “You have to finish your work tomorrow before we go to the park.”
I wasn’t paying attention to their entire conversation because I was taking my version of an adventure across the room, sitting cross-legged on the floor. I put Amy’s old step stool in front of me and rested my laptop and tea on top of it. It was the closest thing to a useful desk I had; the desk in my room blanks out my brain every time I sit behind it. I’ve never written more than one hundred words sitting at it, and Meg and I have had it in our bedroom since we moved to Texas. I didn’t even know how many years ago that was. The desk was cursed.
I was reading a Teen Vogue article, a piece by an at-the-time freelancer named Haley Benson. She wrote about taking a trip alone and how it changed her life. She took herself to breakfast, lunch, and dinner and went on walks across the white sandy shore of an island somewhere far from Louisiana.
When I googled her, I found that she was born in Georgia and recently got a promotion at the magazine. Her brown hair was medium length, twisted into a loose braid in her Facebook profile picture. Imagining what I was doing in reverse, the idea of a random, somewhat nosy, but mostly admiring teenager looking me up online and hoping to have a little bite of what I had didn’t seem possible.
I hated times like this, when I started wondering what in the world I was thinking when I had set my mind on moving to New York City someday.
I wasn’t like the other girls in my school or online who binged on too many Gossip Girl episodes and thought they belonged in the Big Apple. I was more like the wishful, somewhat sad, but mostly hopeful want-to-be journalist with zero experience, but tons of knowledge, who stayed up late every night staring at a screen and consuming every bit of the world that I possibly could. In school they never tell you that most of the arts- or media-related jobs are on the two coasts. I wasn’t into the California sun, so NYC it had to be.
Plus, living in a big city would afford me invisibility among the sea of floating souls. I couldn’t wait.
I should have been working on my piece instead of fantasizing and worrying about my escape, but I was ready to move on. I hoped that people weren’t lying when they said that high school will only make up a tiny part of your life. According to my teachers, my performance in high school would shape who I became as an adult, what kind of job I would have, how accepted I would be in the world. They preached about how important SAT scores were and brainwashed me to believe that I would actually use long division in my life after White Rock High.
Meredith confirmed that I wouldn’t.
Then there’s Roy Gentry, one of my favorite poets, who was severely bullied in high school and practically screams that high school doesn’t fucking matter once you leave it. He says that half of his graduating class didn’t even remember his name or why they made four years of his life hell; it’s always the popular ones who fall the hardest in the real world. Reading his social-media posts made me happy that I didn’t peak in high school, and I really, really hoped for Meg’s sake that high school never mattered in the real world. Her experience was much worse than mine.
I started thinking about the vast numbers of people who move to big cities and have crappy, strange roommates and make minimum wage folding T-shirts while waiting to get hired at their dream company. This was on my mind because another thing the internet taught me was that a huge percentage of the articles making it online and into print were written by seasoned journalists, not by high school students who share a room with their older sister. I had to make my voice stand out from the veterans’, and in my piece I needed people to know about what was happening in Cambodia.
I closed out Haley Benson’s Facebook page and her piece and opened my browser. I was almost finished with my article, and afterward I would get sucked down the rabbit hole that were internet forums. I could spend hours reading the insanity in the forum comments and was mildly obsessed with seeing what the people in the deepest, darkest corners of the internet had to say. I opened a private tab and closed out whatever Amy had opened. I hoped Amy wasn’t seeing things she shouldn’t be seeing on my computer, and a quick look at the history seemed to indicate all was safe. I closed another tab, a Google page.
Last week Amy was on LiveJournal reading my old entries that I posted in junior high. They were full of drama and essays about school lunches, and they made me laugh now, but I still didn’t want my little sister reading them and harassing me over them for the next month. It was my fault because I left the site open, but still.
It pissed me off that I never had any privacy. I hated that my parents wouldn’t let me put a password on my computer. Even though I should have known better, I defied them once, and my dad randomly checked it, found the password-prompt screen, and took away my laptop for two weeks.
I guess I should be grateful that Amy uses her phone for most of her internet usage, and Meg only uses my laptop when she wants to watch makeup tutorials on YouTube. She says her screen is too small to see the contour, whatever the hell that means.
I opened my Word doc and scanned through the paragraph I stopped my last round of editing on. Just as I finished reading, the screen went black, and I panicked immediately. My throat tightened. I yelled for my mom—what else could I do? My finger repeatedly tapped against the power button, and I let out a little burst of breath when the low-battery warning flashed on the screen before it all went black again.
“Can you hand me the power cord?” I said to nobody in particular. I shared my parents’ charger ever since Meg randomly brought a mutt puppy with skin tags hanging from his cheeks home last summer and it chewed through mine. I should use some of my next check to buy another one. I always meant to. Less than a year later, the dog ended up being part pit bull, and Fort Cyprus animal control took him from our yard and euthanized him within forty-eight hours because we couldn’t find him a new home. My dad had to carry me out of the shelter office and cover my mouth when I wouldn’t stop screaming at the asshole behind the desk.
My mom stepped in and, seeing the situation, replaced her alarm with the usual gentle look on her face, a velvet smile, and cloud-soft blue eyes. “Jo, you’ve been online for a while now. Why don’t you go do something? Go to the movies, ask one of your friends if you can come over. Something.”
“What friends?” Amy said, and laughed until Meredith shushed her. “Take me to the movies!” Amy righteously demanded, reminding me just how great her company was.
Meredith shrugged and looked me flat in the eyes. “Or you can help me organize the garage.”
I closed my laptop and stood up immediately. “Actually, I think I’ll go for a walk.”
I stretched my arms out with somewhat of a flourish and slid my feet into my dirty Vans. Meredith kept promising to take us to the outlet mall right after Christmas, but now we were at the end of January, and Christmas itself barely came last year. So, for now I hoped the small hole over my big toe didn’t expand.
Right before I closed the door, I heard Amy ask Meredith if she could go with me. I hoped my mom would say no, but I held the door open a little just so I could know whether I needed to run.
“Amy, let’s make something cool, like zebra-striped cake or sugar cookies shaped like flowers,” Beth began, her voice full-on sweetness, convincing and easy to cave in to.
Amy’s excitement rang out and I closed the door. I was glad I dodged that one, honestly.
On my way down the driveway, I texted Meg to make sure everything was going okay with John. What happened tonight made no damn sense. From the breakup emails to her smearing makeup everywhere, to him pulling up like a white knight with a rental car instead of a horse, and, finally, to her riding—well, driving—off into the New Orleans sunset with him.
Honestly, I didn’t know if he was lying, or if she was confused, or what the heck
was going on with them. All I know is that I wouldn’t be so quick to run off with him without an explanation of the emails—or any proof that he hadn’t sent them.
I hoped that it was miscommunication. I didn’t think Meg could handle rejection like that. Especially not after waiting months and months for him to finish at West Point.
The sound of a stick snapping jolted me back into my surroundings. Looking around, I didn’t see anyone, but I crossed the street anyway. Likely it was an animal, hopefully not a skunk. I had been sprayed three times in my life already, and that just wasn’t normal. Skunks obviously had it out for me, and I wasn’t in the mood to scrub my body with cans of tomato juice again.