Page 35 of My Unfinished Heart

When I found out I was going to the Salisbury School in Connecticut for ninth grade, he and his mom made the necessary arrangements for him to go with me.

When West got expelled halfway through junior year for a fight I started, I thought his mom might actually have a heart attack. I heard her on the phone with him. She was devastated—acted like his life was over. I was pretty fucking devastated too—for lots of reasons. But mainly because of the fight we had.

I don’t even remember why we were arguing in the first place because we fought a lot that year, but I remember why I hit him. West had shined a light on everything I was afraid I’d become. He accused me of being so arrogant, so narcissistic, that I only used people to feed my own ego, including him. He accused me of needing to break everyone down in order to make myself feel whole. I hit him because I needed him to shut the fuck up.

In his defense, at prep school, they called me an art prodigy, and I fed into all of it—needing so badly to believe I was special. That up until then I’d only been misunderstood, not completely fucked up by the things my mother did. West had everything I didn’t—a team of friends, a family who loved and cared about him, the ability to self-regulate when I needed weed and sex to calm me down most days. I got jealous because I knew we were growing apart and scared that I’d never find a friend like him again. So, of course I pushed him away. That was easier to do than confronting my worst fear—that he’d tell me our friendship had been a mistake. That he wished he never met me.

It never came to that.

Once he was expelled, I realized he was right about me. I’d turned into such an asshole. The inflated sense of self, the drugs, the random hook-ups, all the things I’d been relying on to get me through each passing day no longer worked. They kept me apart. They shut me down. They turned me against my best friend.

When I thought I’d never see West again—that I’d ruined his life—mine felt ruined in the process. The guilt was brutal.

But that was before I realized we shared a fishbowl.

I went home the summer after junior year, and one day in late July, my mother taped a note to my door. It was her primary method of communication with me when I was home. Post-It notes. This one said I wouldn’t be finishing school in Connecticut.

At first, I thought my parents were going to send me to military school to really stick it to me, but of course, no one explained anything. Why would they? They never bothered before.

I left my mom a note of my own on the refrigerator in early August. Mine was in all caps using a black sharpie, and it said THEN WHERE THE FUCK AM I GOING TO SCHOOL?

That night, she came to my room, hurled the wadded up note at my face, and said, “You’re going to public school, Archer. We’re not spending one more dime on you.”

In hindsight, I’m pretty sure she didn’t want me to be able to put Salisbury on my college applications. She thought she was punishing me, and at first I did too because it meant I had to stay in that house, but on the first day of senior year at Austin High—in my first class of the day—Calculus—West sat down next to me without a grudge to be held and said, “I thought it was hard to get my mom to send me to Salisbury. How the hell’d you manage to get yours to send you here?”

I didn’t know. Only thing I could ever come up with was what I said before.

The fishbowl. Just like his bar, the grocery store. Just like now. I was grateful for it back then, but tonight, sitting here, I’m not sure how I feel about it anymore.

“You listening or what?” West bumps his shoulder against mine, bringing me back to the present and our swank accommodations at the police station downtown.

“You're mumbling,” I say to cover for my lack of attention.

“I said it’s okay if you need to go.”

“I’m good.”

He’s scowling at me, so I scowl back.

“I don't get you,” he says.

“I don't expect you to.”

He rubs at his face, as tired as I am. He lets go another monstrous sigh that probably holds half the air in the stuffy room. “Sorry about this.”

“I can always count on you for a new experience,” I say.

“You’ve never been in jail?”

“No.”

He frowns and turns toward me, a look of disbelief on his face. “Really?”

“No, West. I've never been in jail.”

“No shit. I thought for sure you would've gone at least once.”

“For what?” I ask, offended.