The Way I Used to Be

BY MONDAY I START to notice something about the way people are looking at me. Like the world has suddenly divided into two distinct camps. The first is the one I’m used to, the one where no one knows I’m alive. But then there’s this other faction emerging, one that throws looks of every type my way: disgust, pity, intrigue. I’m not sure if it’s because of the graffiti or if it’s due to the public departure with Josh on Friday. Or both.

But not here in the library.

Here, I’m safe. With all the subjects and letters and numbers to keep things in order: philosophy, social sciences, languages, technology, literature, A-B-C-D, point one, point two, point one-two, point three. It all makes so much sense, there’s no room for mistakes or misunderstandings.

“Hey,” he says, suddenly standing with me in the narrow aisle.

I jump, nearly dropping the book I’m holding. “You scared me!” I whisper.

“Again,” he says with a grin. “Sorry.” He stands really still, like he’s afraid to come any closer. “Still mad at me?” he asks.

“You’re the one who was mad, not me.” Though, that’s not completely the truth either.

“I was never mad. Just confused.”

I want to tell him I was confused too. I want to tell him how happy I am to see him, how thankful I am he’s not looking at me the way everyone else has been looking at me today. But I can’t admit that. I have to be sure and strong and solid because there’s something about him—I don’t know what, exactly—that makes me want, so badly, to be vulnerable.

“Look, can we just start over?” he asks.

If anyone is going to be allowed to start over, it would be me, and I would start over at that night in my bedroom. But since that’s not possible, I tell him, “No, not really.”

He looks down at his hands like he actually feels bad, or upset, or disappointed, or something. “Right,” he whispers, turning to leave.

“But we can just—” I touch his arm. He turns back. “Continue. Can’t we?” I finish.

He takes a step toward me, this new light in his eyes. “Yeah, I think we can.”

I nod. And I smile to myself. Because I just fixed this—me.

“Does this mean we’re on a phone number basis?” he asks.

“I guess so,” I say with a laugh.

He laughs too, as he takes his phone out. I recite my number to him, never wanting this moment—him standing close to me like this, smiling—to end.

Since we are now on a phone number basis, I decide it’s time to lay down some ground rules when he calls me to invite me over later that night.

“Before I come over again, I just want to make sure you really understand that this isn’t going to be like a boyfriend-girlfriend thing.”

“Yeah, you made that pretty clear before.”

“I mean, we’re not going to go out on dates or anything like that. I don’t want to be introduced to your friends. I don’t want to go parading down the halls holding hands or having you wait for me by my locker. I’m definitely not going to be the girl cheering you on from the sidelines at your basketball games.”

“Wow, you sure know how to make a guy feel real special, don’t you?” he says, a trace of a laugh behind his voice.

“It’s not about you,” I tell him, and I can’t believe how utterly selfish I sound—how utterly selfish I am.

“Ooh-kaay. Anything else?”

“And I never, ever, ever want to meet your parents.”

“Well, that’s one thing we can agree on.”

“Oh.” Wow, that stings. I guess that’s a taste of how I must be making him feel.

“It’s not about you,” he mimics, pointedly.

“Okay.”

There’s a pause.

“Eden, how are old are you?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, just wondering. It’s hard to tell. You seem—” He stops himself from finishing.

“I seem what?”

“You seem . . . I don’t know. This all feels either really mature or completely the opposite.”

“Do you really think calling me immature is going to help you in any way?” I laugh. “I’m almost amused. Or completely offended—it’s hard to tell.”

“No, no, no, that’s not what I’m saying!” He backpedals. “I’m actually saying you seem mature.”

“Or the complete opposite,” I remind him.

“I didn’t mean that,” he laughs. “Really, what are you, though? Like sixteen?”

“Sure,” I lie. Fourteen. But my birthday is coming soon, and then I’ll be fifteen. Which is like sixteen. “Okay, you answer me now. Yes or no, what do you think?” I ask him.

After considering my list of commandments for several seconds, he breathes in and exhales, “I think you’re really weird.” He pauses. “But I still want you to come over again.”

I feel my mouth curve into a smile.