The Way I Used to Be

IT TURNS OUT THE public library is the perfect hideout, even better that the school library. You can feel like a completely desperate, pathetic loser in solitude, without judgment.

I have my phone out. Right there in front of me, waiting for her call. I can even hear the ring in my head, anticipating the moment when she realizes how silly she’s been to forget her best friend’s birthday.

I idly flip through the pages of one of my school notebooks. Every page starts the same way, with the date and nothing else. I guess I attempted to take notes at the beginning of the year, but now it’s just the occasional “Does this pen work??” scribbled in the margin. With each turn of the page I notice my hands trembling more and more. I shake them out. I stretch my fingers in front of me, as far as they can go. Then I close them tightly in a fist. I do it over and over. I rub my palms against my thighs, trying to get the circulation going, or whatever the problem is. But it only gets worse. It starts to make me nervous, which only makes them shake harder. I slam the notebook shut and lay my hands flat against the cover. They will not stop.

I’m breathing heavy as I pick up my phone and the rest of my things and head up to the reference desk to sign out a computer. Even if it’s a completely lame excuse, it would make me feel so much better right now. I check my inbox: No Mara, but there is a message from Caelin. The subject line reads, “happy birthday.” I double-click:

Dear Edy,

Happy Birthday

—Cae

Well, concise. But at least he remembered.

RE: happy birthday

Dear Cae,

Thanks. Are you coming home for Thanksgiving next week?

—Edy

He responds right away:

Yep—I’ll be there! Maybe we can spend some time just you and me next weekend, what do you think?

I don’t respond. I gather my things. I need to leave. Need to go somewhere. Anywhere. Go home, if necessary.

I walk. And walk. The cold November air licks my skin with its icy tongue. I walk and walk, without knowing where I’m going. Until I realize I’m there, standing on the sidewalk, in front of a house I used to know so well. I stand on the curb. I reach out and touch the red flag on the mailbox with my index finger, gently letting my hand flow over the raised sticker letters along the side of the black metal box: M-I-L-L-E-R.

I quickly pull my hand back. How strange must I look if anyone’s watching? The TV in the living room is casting a dim bluish glow against the walls. A light in his parents’ room is burning as well. His bedroom is, of course, dark. Because he’s not there. He’s away at college.

Suddenly, in the shadows, I see his cat—her fast, smooth body darts out from behind the front steps. She walks toward me stealthily, down the driveway in a straight line, light on her feet like a ghost. I freeze. Because I have the strongest urge to pick her up in my arms and take her home with me.

I actually consider it.

“Get a grip, Edy!” I whisper out loud.

I put my hands in my coat pockets and force my feet to keep moving down the sidewalk. I turn around. She’s following me.

“Get away!” I yell. “Go home!” I shoo at her, but she just keeps walking toward me.

I practically run, my heart pounding fast.