Fiction

It begins like this:

You are thirteen. Four girls sit around you at the lunch table. Their lips shimmer with layers of gloss, the air around them is thick with the smell of vanilla perfume. They talk about boys and you think about how their lips shine.

There’s a game they play called boy crazy. They tell you that if they tickle your leg and you laugh it means you’re boy crazy. One of them runs her fingers over the top of your thigh, laughing, and you feel the hot burn of blood rushing to your face. You laugh but you don’t think it means what they think it means. You don’t know what to think.

There’s one girl. Her hair is curly and her eyes are brown- she says they’re brown like mud but you think they’re brown like chocolate- and she looks at you. Asks you which boy you like. The answer is clear, it’s there, it’s burning holes in the pit of your stomach. No one, you want to tell her, I don’t like any boys. Something inside you says she won’t like that. They won’t like that.

So, you say your first lie- your first lie that really matters. And the game begins.

There’s a boy on the football team. He’s tall and blond and he’s not quite handsome yet, but he will be. Everyone can tell he will be. The girls all know it; they talk and talk and talk about him and you know that if he’s the one you pick, they won’t think anything is wrong with you.

When she asks you who you like, it’s his name that you give her.

You’re fifteen and summer’s changed everyone, changed everything. The brown eyed girl’s got legs that stretch for days and days and days. Everyone stares at her. They can’t help it. She tells you about how she wants that football player, the almost handsome one, to look at her.

She asks you if you think they’d be good together and you tell her yes. You tell her they’d be great together.

It’s another lie, but she can’t know that.

You watch as it happens, as she bats her lashes and he takes her to the movies, to dinner with his parents, to nights out in his car. You see them kissing against her locker and you feel something rise in you. You feel like you’re going to be sick, but you push it down. Deep, deep down. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

You still haven’t had your first kiss by the time you turn sixteen. The other girls tease you. They smack their glossy lips and they tell you how pretty you are, how smart you are, how you could have any boy in the school if you only tried. They don’t understand, but you’re starting to. You’re really starting to.

Boys ask and ask and ask you out and you always say no. You’re not ready. You’re the kind of person that dates in college, not high school. You have homework, you’re too busy, you don’t need the hassle of it all.

You’re the worst kind of liar because you lie to yourself.

The brown-eyed girl wants you to be happy the way she’s happy. She talks to her football player boyfriend and gets you the number of one of his friends, the quiet, dark haired one who’s always looking at you. Please, she says, please please go. You’re perfect for each other.

You’ve gotten close to her since middle school. She seems so excited, she wants you to go so bad, you don’t want to disappoint her.

So you say yes.

You’re starting to figure out that you don’t know how to say no to her.

There’s a movie showing at the theater near your house. When you go to see it, he leaves his hand open on the armrest. For the first half of the movie, you watch his hand lay there waiting for you. But for the second half, you reach out and you hold it.

It’s what you’re supposed to do. It’s fine, you tell yourself. It’s fine it’s fine it’s fine.

Afterwards, he parks his truck in the middle school parking lot. The town stretches out in front you, shining. Burning. It’s practically on fire. He’s looking at you and you don’t want to look back at him, but it’s what you’re supposed to do. His eyes are so very green.

There are no butterflies when he kisses you. No magic. No fireworks. But it isn’t bad. It’s not horrible. It’s not the worst thing in the world. It’s nothing. There are lips against lips and nothing more.

Later, she sits on your bed, wet nail polish shining on her fingernails, and she asks you how it went. You think about telling the truth, but it catches in your throat. Great, you tell her. It was great.

He tells you he loves you three months later and you tell him that you love him too. It’s not a lie, you tell yourself, because you do love him. You love the way he laughs at all your jokes, the way he reads every book you recommend to him, the way he always wants to stay up late talking to you. You can’t help but love him.

But at some point, you have to admit to yourself that it’s not the same. Maybe you love him, but he’s in love with you. He’s seventeen and he’s fallen in love for the very first time and you’ve broken his heart before he’s even realized it.

She calls you crying at three in the morning. You put on your jacket, you go to her house, you knock on her window like you’ve done a thousand times before. She pulls you into her bed and you hold her until she tells you what’s wrong.

It’s the football player. Because of course, it’s always the football player. He’s decided he just can’t love her anymore. You try and try and try to wrap your mind around something like that, but you can’t. It doesn’t make sense, not loving her.

You get her to stop crying. You get her to start laughing. You’re good at that. You’ve always been good at knowing just the right things to get her to smile. She holds your hand while she falls asleep and you think, just for a moment, of how nice it feels.

He cries when you break up with him and even though you thought you wouldn’t, you cry too. You cry because you wanted it to work so, so badly. Because you’ve been lying to him and to yourself and to everyone else and for what? You couldn’t make it work. You couldn’t make it feel right.

She crawls through your window. She holds your hand. She tells you about all those fish in the sea. The two of you are going to go off to college and find someone right. The right boy.

You don’t know what to say. Or maybe you do and you just don’t know how to say it.

You’re eighteen when you have to face the truth. College is so close you can touch it and you’re running out of time.

She hasn’t dated anyone since the football player. Instead, she spends all her time with you. She reads all the books you recommend to her. You take her to the movies, throwing popcorn at the screen. She stays up late every night talking to you.

You think of the way your name sounds in her mouth.

You’re alone with her in her car the night before you leave for college. You’ve been talking and talking and talking about everything and nothing and you’re so tired of not telling her the truth. She looks at you and you look at her. You say her name.

There must be something about the way you say it, because her face changes. Her eyes soften, her lips part just the smallest bit. She says your name too.

This is the moment.

You can feel it in the air, in the silence that stretches out for miles in between the two of you. It is hot and heavy and endless and for the first time you think maybe.

Maybe you can tell the truth.

Maybe, just maybe, she’ll love you the way you love her.

You’re drowning in her brown eyes and you have a choice to make. You’ve been playing this game for a long time and you don’t know if it’s a game that you can win. You just want to make her smile. You just want to hold her hand and have her hold yours back. But to do it, you have to make a choice.

The only way to win the game is to end it.

So you do.

 

 

Sophie Sheumaker is a twenty-year-old aspiring writer from Colorado. She’s currently a Writing, Literature, and Publishing major at Emerson College. When she’s not writing, she’s helping edit papers and working for Emerson’s resident publishing club.

(TW: self harm)

 

I never know how to start these things, you know?

[1:53 AM]

And I’m bad at conversations anyway — it’s worse when it’s one sided. But you didn’t pick up, so I guess I should just get it over with. I might leave more than one voicemail, sorry.

[1:56 AM]

Remember when we went grocery shopping and every week I’d mess up the list? I always left out the milk or the eggs or the lettuce and you’d mark it down on my hand so I’d remember it this time, and I’d forget anyway. You laughed it off, though. Every time, and then you drove out near midnight to fix my mess. I’ve never been good with checking everything off.

[1:57 AM]

This was the last thing on my list. I really hope I didn’t forget anything.

[2:01 AM]

Lately I’ve been thinking about supernovas. They burn so bright for so long and then when they go out it leaves a mark — like a black hole or something, or a flash in the sky for a million miles. Something big before they’re gone. I’ve been wondering — [a sigh, long and soft] — I’ve been wondering if it makes any difference because at the end they’re gone anyway.

[2:05 AM]

You used to want to be an astrophysicist. I remember that, still. And I remember you’d say you

would have gone through if it didn’t take so much math, because when you were little you had books and books of stars and moons and planets and black holes, enough to take over a wall in your room. You sent me pictures once. I still have them saved somewhere but I don’t want to look or I’ll miss you more.

[2:07 AM]

People always ask if it hurts to die so slow. I never know what to tell them — I haven’t died any other way. [a crackling laugh] Sorry. Probably not that funny.

[2:12 AM]

Do you still have that list of movies you wanted to watch? I remember whenever we talked to new people you’d mention how you’ve never seen Snow White and everyone would stare at you. You liked that, I think, how they’d look with their eyes wide open, and you blushed, sweet and soft like the princess you didn’t know, like you wouldn’t laugh about it time and time again.

[2:13 AM]

I’d say I’ll miss you but I don’t know if I’ll be anything after this, so — I don’t know, maybe I won’t miss you, I guess. This feels anticlimactic.

[2:13 AM]

It’s a lonely time to die.

[2:14 AM]

I wish I’d picked the afternoon instead.

[2:15 AM]

Or maybe I don’t, because then you’d pick up.

[2:16 AM]

This is the last one, I promise. I’ll miss you even if I’m nothing anymore. I hope you’ll miss me too.

 

 

Mrinal Pattanaik is a senior at Neuqua Valley High School. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, Sandpiper Magazine, and Up North Lit, amongst others.

 

It’s Saturday morning, and I’m trying to ignore the empty chair at the head of our table.

In front of me, china plates carry the weight of yam and scrambled eggs, guarded by one tall glass of grape juice— my usual weekend breakfast. We eat in silence, my mother and I, like this is normal, like things have always been this way.

After two or three forced bites from her meal, she clears her throat and asks,

“Don’t you like the food?”

“It’s fine.” I poke the same piece of yam I’ve been playing with for the past five minutes.

“But you haven’t even touched your juice. Is grape no longer your favorite?”

I suppress a sigh then bring the cup to my lips. It smells funny, so I know the juice is stale, but I take a deep breath and drink it all.

“It tastes good,” I tell her, once I’ve emptied the glass.

She smiles at me. “Thank God. I was worried it had gone bad or something since it’s the same bottle from last week.” She chuckles and pours some for herself. “I don’t know why I forgot to go to the supermarket.”

Because he used to be the one who bought the groceries. But I won’t bring it up.

The doorbell rings, and we both drop our forks.

It rings again, this time its echoing ding dong stretching over the room like overworked rubber ready to snap. My mother looks up at me.

Of course.

I get up and walk to the entrance, drying my sweaty palms on my jeans. As I pull the door open, I look away from his face and focus instead on the buttons of his Polo shirt.

“Welcome sir,” I say then move back to the dining table before he gets the chance to hug me or touch me or say anything that would fill the emptiness of our house, even for only a second.

I try to make eye contact with my mum as I sit back down, but she doesn’t look up from the piece of yam she’s trying to cut up.

“Bola.”

“Kunle.” They acknowledge each other’s presence as a mere courtesy. No more sweethearts, or darlings, or delicious apples of their eyes.

He reaches for the empty chair but hesitates right before he pulls it out. We act like we don’t see it.

“So, how’s school, Sope?” he says, smiling at me after he settles in.

“Fine.”

“And the teacher that was giving you trouble?”

“Fired.”

“Really?” He laughs and takes a bite from his yam. “How come you didn’t tell me?”

“You weren’t here.”

He pauses then shifts in his seat. “Okay. Okay. Understandable,” he says, nodding.

I don’t even need to look at my mum to sense the bad eye she’s giving me.

“Sope?” she calls me.

“Ma.”

“Bola, it’s fine. Don’t worry,” he says.

She ignores him and turns her attention back to me. “We agreed no wahala, so behave.”

I stuff eggs into my mouth. “I am.”

“You better.”

She picks up her fork, and he focuses back on me, but before he launches into another question, I scarf down more food until eggs start to spill from the corners of my mouth. He must take the hint because he looks away from me, turns over to my mum, then realizes his error and faces his meal. Silence finds its seat back at our table.

I pick up the juice carton and pour some into his glass, hoping the sour taste does the work for me and lets him know just how awful life has been without him these last few weeks.

“This would be the best thing for our family,” he’d said.

The juice rushes past the halfway mark on the glass.

A divorce isn’t always bad, Sope.

Three-quarter.

I’m still going to come for our Saturday breakfasts.

What use is it if you won’t be here for dinner?

I pour and pour until the juice bursts past the brim and cascades over the sides of the glass. My hands are shaking, and the liquid is spilling everywhere.

“Sope!” my mum calls out, and I jerk my hand off the now-empty carton.

I glance at the tablecloth— it bleeds purple.

My dad is looking at me, his eyes livid, right eyebrow twitching in that way it does when he’s angry. This is the same man with such a hatred for messiness that he would yell whenever my shoes dragged in any dirt from outside. But this isn’t his house anymore, so I stare right back at him, daring him, almost begging him, to yell, to get mad, to act like he’s still my father and not a random stranger who just pops in, but he clenches his jaw and looks down at his plate—saying nothing.

“What’s wrong with you?” my mum shouts at me.

I turn and pick up my fork, trying to breathe through the growing tightness in my chest. I know she’s restraining herself. If this were a couple of weeks ago, she would scold me, and I would cry, then my dad, my only best friend, would tell her to stop, and she would. But I’m crying now, and no one’s saying stop.

I stab another piece of yam with my fork, piercing fresh four-by-four dot patterns on it, and paying no attention to the eye signals and head movements happening above me. They always used to communicate like this, when they were happy and in love, but now they’re neither, so what’s the point?

After a while, my mum’s shoulders relax, and she picks up her silverware, my dad following suit.

We eat in silence, ignoring the juice dripping on the floor. Mother, daughter, father—three parts of a puzzle that will never fit together again, but it’s Saturday morning, so we have to pretend that when my dad walks back out that door, he won’t take the missing piece of our family with him.

 

 

Olabisi Aishat Bello is an aspiring biomedical engineer from Oyo State, Nigeria, currently studying chemical engineering. Despite her passion for science, she has always loved the fluidity and joy writing grants her, and she hopes to make an impact in society with this gift and overall devotion to making the world a better place. She loves writing both poetry and fiction, and you can find her works in the Kalahari Review, the Neurological Literary Magazine, the Open Culture Collective, the African Writers, among others. You can follow her on Twitter @OlabisiBA.