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“He hasn’t seen it and he never will.” Her face hardens. “We broke up.”
“Really?” My voice cracks. “Why?”
“Because I caught him making out with my little sister.”
I gather the pages she’s thrown onto the table and tap them up and down until the corners are neatly aligned. Then I giggle. I try to hold it in, but it’s impossible. I cover my mouth and a snort comes from my nose. I put my head between my knees, but it’s no use. My mouth opens and I emit a whoop of laughter.
“It’s not funny!” She makes a motion to get up but bangs her fist on the table instead. “It is not funny,” she repeats.
“Oh, but it is.” I nod, laughing hysterically. “It’s hilarious.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A Free Man in Paris
June 20th, I write.
I press my knuckles to my lips and look out the window.
Amtrak train. Dad, Missy, and Dorrit take me to the station to wave good-bye. I kept saying Missy and Dorrit didn’t have to come. I kept saying it was no big deal. I kept saying I was only going for the summer. But we were all nervous, stumbling over one another in an attempt to get me out the door. It’s
not like it’s 1893 and I’m going to China or anything, but we sure as hell acted like it.
And then we were standing on the rickety platform, trying to make small talk. “Do you have the address?” my dad asked for the umpteenth time.
“Yes, Dad. I wrote it down in my address book.” Just to make sure, I take the address book out of my Carrie bag, and read the entry out loud: “Two forty-five East Forty-seventh Street.”
“And money. You have money?”
“Two hundred dollars.”
“That’s only for an emergency. You won’t spend it all in one place?”
“No.”
“And you’ll call when you get there?”
“I’ll try.” I’ll try—but my words are drowned out by the long, slow holler of the approaching train as the speaker crackles to life. “Eleven-oh-three train to Penn Station New York, and Washington, D.C., arriving in approximately one minute—”
“Good-bye, good-bye”—hugs all around as the giant locomotive rolls slowly down the tracks, wheels screeching like a hundred crows—“good-bye, good-bye”—as my father heaves my suitcase up the steps and I clap my hat to my head—“good-bye, good-bye”—the train starts with a jerk, the doors close and my heart heaves to the bottom of my stomach—“good-bye, good-bye”—relief.
I make my way down the aisle swaying like a drunken sailor. New York, I think, as I plop down onto a cracked red leather seat and take out my journal.
Yesterday, I said good-bye to all my friends. Maggie, Walt, The Mouse, and I met at the Hamburger Shack for one final hamburger with sautéed onions and peppers. Walt’s not working there anymore. He got a job at a law office, answering phones. His father said that even though he couldn’t forgive Walt for being gay, he was willing to overlook it if he was successful. The Mouse is going to her government camp in Washington, and Maggie is going to Hilton Head for the summer, where her sister and brother-in-law have rented a cottage. Maggie’s going to help out with their kids, and no doubt hook up with a few lifeguards along the way.
I heard Lali is going to the University of Hartford, where she’s planning to study accounting.
But there was one person I still had to see.
I knew I should have let it go.
I couldn’t.
I was curious. Or maybe I had to see for myself that it was truly over. I needed proof that he absolutely did not love me and never had.
On Saturday evening around seven, I drove by his house. I didn’t expect him to be home. I had worked up this idea in my head that I would leave him a note, saying I was going to New York and I hoped he would have a good summer. I convinced myself it was the right thing to do—the polite thing—and would somehow make me the bigger person.
His car was in the driveway.
