Definitions of Indefinable Things Read online

  I wrung my hands, buzzing through past phone calls, through robotic voices that wouldn’t, couldn’t, humanize. “You know how many times I’ve called her since she’s been gone?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “One hundred sixty-two,” I said. She studied me long, not keeping up. “I’ve called her one hundred and sixty-two times. And you know how many times she’s answered?”

  A recognition sparked in her eyes. “Ah.”

  “Never. She’s never answered me, not once. Because she can’t. She can’t come back, even if she wanted to. She’s gone for good, right? That’s what you said the first time I came to you. That I had to accept that she was gone for good so I could learn to grieve.”

  Dr. Rachelle waited for me to keep going, to cry and fit and rage. But I didn’t see the need. And I wasn’t sure I had the strength. “But you didn’t fully grieve, did you? Calling a canceled line one hundred sixty-two times doesn’t sound like someone who’s moved on.”

  I tugged at my sleeves and looked everywhere but her face. I knew what she was doing without having to watch. She was cocking her head, squinting her eyes just a little. Sometimes, it was all too predictable. “How am I supposed to move on when the only person I trusted after that screwed me over? Oh, and left. Left and screwed me over.”

  “Alex,” she said. “Say his name. Say both their names.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “You don’t want to because it’s uncomfortable and hits at all of your triggers, but that’s the only way to confront grief. Grief doesn’t digest. You have to feel it until it passes through.”

  Dr. Rachelle was always good for a metaphor. Unfortunately, she was right about this one. As much as I wanted to disregard her advice, she was right about most things. Plus, she was the only person I could be open with who wasn’t allowed to fight back or tell me that I was wrong. I didn’t want to hear someone talk; I wanted someone to hear me talk. And to listen—​and pretend to care, useless or not.

  “Alex.” I held my breath for ten seconds, then let it out. Another method Dr. Rachelle had taught me. “Bree.”

  “Alex. Bree,” she repeated, inching her chair closer. “What does that trigger in you?”

  “Disappointment. Heartbreak. Sadness.”

  Talking about my emotions was easy as long as I pretended they were filler words. If I replaced them with something else, they had no meaning at all.

  “I think you’re forgetting one that’s very central to who you are,” she added.

  I knew what she was going for. It was another word I pretended was empty. A word that ironically was empty when I considered it.

  Loneliness.

  There was nothing more frightening to talk about. Not because I never felt it, but because I felt it too much. It was sacred to me. Loneliness was like my own imaginary friend; the more I acknowledged her existence, the more real she became. Losing people, having nothing, it was all a matter of the mind until I made it tangible. Until I acknowledged that it was there.

  “The loneliness is my own fault,” I told her, scanning her brown eyes for a reaction. I got only a blank, waiting stare. “I would have never been this miserable if I hadn’t let myself care so much. When I lost them, it gutted me. And I can’t let that happen again. I’ll take the void and the Zoloft and the three stages over having to go back there.”

  “You think caring about them with the profoundness you did is what hurt you?” she asked. “Not the acts themselves?”

  “Someone told me once that caring was just a way to survive. He said that you’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you don’t. So you might as well do. But, I don’t agree. I think you’re just damned if you do. Nothing good can come from caring too much. It’s painful when it’s justified, and it’s painful when it’s not.” I looked at my hands. I had to commend myself, because I’d never talked this much in a single session. And I didn’t want to be genuine, but I wanted to be okay. Just okay. It wasn’t too much to ask. “I don’t want to get hurt like that again.”

  “I understand. And you’re afraid that you’ll get hurt by forming new relationships, by getting close to people.”

  She was steel-gazed, urging me to blow a gasket and erupt with my deep, dark secrets. Like that I wanted to be with Snake. And that seeing him with Carla drove me insane. And I didn’t know what to feel because I was actually starting to like her. And I wanted them to do the right thing and be together, but I wanted them to be apart.

  If only hiding the truth made it hurt less.

  “Bree’s never coming back,” I whispered.

  Never coming back.

  It wasn’t filler. It didn’t fit.

  “I could call her a hundred thousand times, and it wouldn’t bring her back.”

  “You’re right. It wouldn’t. So what do we do with that?”

  “I don’t know. Every time I think about it, it kind of feels like I’m standing on a street corner watching everyone pile into a car and drive off without me.”

  “Loss.”

  “Yeah, loss. I can’t chase it down or outrun it. It just goes and goes and takes everything with it.”

  She slid closer. “It’s awfully lonely, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t answer. I’d said too much already, and if I dug any deeper, I feared I would fall into a pit (see: Stage 3) I couldn’t climb out of.

  Scribbling something down, she said, “I’m assigning you a different project this time on the off chance that you’ll do it.”

  “What?”

  “Same task as last time, except now I want you to journal what loneliness means to you.”

  “Doesn’t it mean the same thing for everyone?”

  “Loneliness isn’t a blanket feeling. There’s all different kinds.” She looked at me, hopeful. “Tell me what you think you should do when you’re alone on a street corner.”

  I slouched on the living room floor in front of my dad’s recliner, scrawling doodles (see: nth-degree boredom) in my journal. My essays for the week had all been written, thanks to Polka’s tutoring in the cafeteria after school. It was nice having Polka around to help, given he was a brain on legs that was willing to spend most of his time with me in spite of my complete indifference toward his life outside of Hawkesbury. Sometimes I felt like a jerk for never investing in his life. But he knew me well enough to know I didn’t invest in anyone, myself included, and he would be wise not to take it personally.

  “You write nice today, Reggie,” he’d said, leaning closer to me, but not so close I needed to give him the elbow.

  I didn’t look up. “Well, superhero stories practically write themselves.”

  “The idea give lot of potential, but only good writer write a good story.”

  He wasn’t speaking in his usual monotone. I brought my gaze up from the page to find his small black eyes watching me back, emotionlessly, his lips quirked upward on one side. Was Polka smiling? I didn’t think his mouth could go up instead of down.

  I felt my own lip slide up in response, using the remaining bit of my concentration to deflate it. “That might be the first compliment you’ve ever given me, Polka.”

  He’d smiled full throttle, his teeth bared. It was a cute look for a perpetually frowning face. “I should give compliment more often. You earn it.”

  “Dude, are you flirting with me?” I’d teased, punching his shoulder.

  His mouth fell flat, his eyes turned down to the table. He adjusted the purple bow tie beneath his chin, back to the Polka I tolerated/mildly liked. “What is it with Americans crushing on teachers? It a weird society.”

  His cheeks reddened a shade when he said it, proving that he had, in fact, been flirting. Which was totally weird, and not something he, or I, was likely to ever talk about later. It did feel kind of nice, though. Having someone at school who liked me as distantly as I liked him, someone who wouldn’t try to push me into matching friendship bracelets, or into a prom-king-and-queen relationship. We could write cool essays
and eat lunch and not have to exist to each other beyond the perimeter of a building.

  “What are you working on there?” Dad asked over my shoulder, snapping me out of my daze. My hand immediately flew to the page, protecting the word LONELINESS scribbled out in blue pen.

  I closed the journal and set it beside me, resting the back of my head against the armrest of his chair. “Nothing. Just stuff for Dr. Rachelle.”

  He sucked in a breath as if he was prepping to ask me more, then closed his mouth with a swallow. We both sat quietly for a minute, listening to my mother humming praise songs from the kitchen. It began to storm outside, a crash of thunder shaking the walls. The clouds were black in spots and white in others, like the sky was a checkerboard, or a series of dominoes.

  Dad knew I hated thunderstorms, so he closed the blinds. “I read a story in the newspaper today,” he said, getting comfortable in his chair. I craned my neck to nab a glimpse of him. “Said some doctor in Chicago is working on a drug that will make people permanently euphoric, like a heightened version of an antidepressant. Claims it’ll help with America’s crime problem. People will be so happy, it’ll be like living in a utopia.”

  “How does he suggest people take it?”

  “Injection, mostly. He’s still testing the chemicals, but hopes it’ll be ready for consumption in the next few years.” He grinned under his shaggy mustache. It was getting long on the sides, growing into the Fu Manchu (see: facial mullet) he was working toward. His eyes shot to the kitchen, making sure Karen was distracted. I checked, too, just to be sure. I didn’t know why she wasn’t allowed to hear what he had to say, but I was excited to find out.

  He bent down a few feet from my face and whispered, “Do we call bullshit?”

  My mouth fell open. “Dad.”

  “Your mother can’t hear, don’t worry.” He popped his eyes up to the roof and pointed a finger to God. “I’ll apologize to you later.”

  Our eyes aligned, both slyly holding in the secrets we couldn’t say to Mom, or to each other. Secrets like my dad was pretty freaking awesome when he gave himself half a shot. Secrets like it was hard to be miserable to the best of my ability when Dad was cursing like a guy who might have been cool if he hadn’t married Karen. Neither of us needed to validate the other. We shared a silent respect on both ends.

  “I think anything that promises eternal happiness is utter bullshit,” I answered.

  He nodded. “I think so too.”

  My phone buzzed on the ground, slicing through our wavelength. I read the screen, a prickle of hope, of relief, sprinkling across my skin. Snake’s name was at the top.

  I hadn’t talked to him since our episode at the tux place on Monday. He’d probably been moping around in Stage 2 for days, waiting for me to bend or for his willpower to break completely. He wanted me to turn a blind eye, to be willing to encourage his fantasies. The ones where we were getting by on a rope rather than a fine strand that was sure to snap with time. As if his persistence could outlast my commitment to misery.

  I didn’t know what to expect when I read his text. I only knew, in typical Snake fashion, it would make me hate him in all the ways that would draw me closer in the end.

  I need help with my film. Thought I’d borrow you for a few shots. You interested? (P.S. I’m sorry for everything.)

  I didn’t hesitate to text him back and tell him that he, like Dr. Optimism, was full of shit.

  Chapter Fifteen

  OF ALL THE GODFORSAKEN PLACES I could experience what was sure to be the most mind-numbing afternoon of my existence, it just had to be in the Hawkesbury High parking lot. It was Thursday afternoon, the sun heavy against my pale skin, my exposed arms turning a reddish pink. The parking lot was vacant, since all the students who had lives to live had gone out to do so. Captain of the Lifeless Squad (see: Snake) was adamant about two things in regard to shooting this particular reel of footage for his indie documentary crap fest (see: movie). And I, like the idiot I was slowly becoming, indulged him to a fault.

  One, it had to be captured at the epicenter of our lives, where we spent most of our adolescent time, in spite of how little we cared for it, and how little it cared for us.

  Two, it had to encapsulate every single aspect of who Snake was as a person, including each individual facet of his life, like the pipes, knobs, and wires that comprise a well-oiled machine.

  Translation: He wanted Carla and his ginger squash to be a part of it.

  “Tell me where to stand so I can get this over with,” I grunted, folding my arms over my T-shirt in protest.

  “You’re good right there.” He squinted behind the camera, half his face scrunched up to reveal only one side of his teeth. “Babe, can you scoot back a step?”

  “You’ve lost the privilege to call me babe,” Carla pouted. She took a dramatic step backward, limply clutching a circular reflector in her hands. “And you said you’d do my shot first so I could go home.”

  “I was planning on it, until I considered which one of you would cause me more bodily harm if I kept you here too long. Sorry, but Reggie beat you in a landslide victory.”

  The red light clicked on, indicating we were rolling. I glared into the camera with more gusto than a celebrity in a DUI mug shot.

  Snake peeked at the camera, drawing away to look at me in real time. “The camera still hates you.”

  “And I still hate it. This game of who can say the most obvious thing is really quite tiring, isn’t it?”

  He laughed. “Okay, so, tell me your name. Age. And worldview.”

  My worldview? There was a certain caliber of stupid I expected this film to be, and he was already exceeding my expectations.

  I smiled ruefully into the glass lens, watching my own contempt for Snake and all his ridiculous hobbies reflected back at me. “My name’s Reggie. I’m seventeen. My worldview is that we’re all spiraling toward a vast and gaping obscurity we can’t escape, and if we’re lucky, we’re doing so alone. Also, I despise you. And by you, I mean the general human population.”

  Carla’s eyes expanded three sizes, gauging Snake’s reaction. And, naturally, he was smirking. It was exactly the response he expected from me. But Carla, who lived on Rainbow Unicorn Island, had no way of knowing we were on a page she just wasn’t on.

  “Ohmigod, for real?” she squealed, dropping the reflector to the asphalt. She stepped beside me and fixed her fiery curls. “Give me a turn. I can do so much better than that. No offense, Reggie.”

  “If I were any less offended, I’d be dead.” I moved out of her shot and picked up the reflector, purposely standing too close to blow out the hue. She was already ghastly pale. If I made her any whiter, she’d just be pink lips and a giant belly.

  She smiled her best Little Miss Flashburn smile. “I’m Carla. I’m seventeen. My worldview is that—”

  “Wait,” Snake interrupted. He readjusted the camera to balance it on his shoulder and leaned his head around the mass of metal to look into Carla’s eyes. “I’m doing something different with you.”

  She glanced at me, as if I knew where Snake was going with this. He hadn’t told me anything about the plot of his movie apart from the footage I’d already seen. It was basically all The Onslaught and Carla and a smidge of me, which I guess was a fairly accurate depiction of that uselessness he loved so much. I couldn’t be too hard on him. If I were making my own movie, the cast would include myself, Dr. Rachelle, and a shit ton of disappointment.

  “Tell me about the most significant thing that’s ever happened to you,” Snake said, moving one foot length closer.

  Carla touched her stomach on instinct. “Snake,” she griped, her voice cracking. She was going to cry again. Her constant sobbing was oh so pleasant (see: infuriating). “That’s not fair.”

  His face remained hidden behind the camera. “Why not?”

  “Because you know I have to say Little Man, or I look like a bad person.”

  “Not necessarily. You could say winning Li
ttle Miss Flashburn, or getting that autographed Taylor Swift album when you were in New York, or—”

  “I can’t say any of that.”

  “Because?”

  “Because the most significant thing that’s ever happened to me might not have even happened yet.” She rubbed her palm across the top of her stomach, a black tear escaping her eye. “Little Man and I. We have a whole lifetime of possible great things.”

  “Don’t forget me,” Snake said.

  She blushed. “We wouldn’t forget you.”

  Snake pulled the camera away from his face, watching Carla with his sappy, doting, boyfriend eyes. And he wasn’t even her boyfriend anymore. It shouldn’t have bothered me as much as it did, seeing him feel something genuine and real for a girl that he owed a lot to. They were tied to something too big for both of them, and it was logical and factual and right that they would connect differently to each other than they would to anyone else. But just because it made sense didn’t mean it didn’t completely suck.

  Carla pressed down on her stomach, her frown twisting to a smile. She jerked her head up to Snake, giggling. “Come here—​you have to feel his foot.”

  Snake shot me a glance, gesturing to his camera. It was like he had forgotten I was there until that very moment. “Reggie, you mind? Keep the camera rolling just in case.”

  I took the heavy camera from him, impressed that Snake could hold something that weighty so easily on his shoulder. I watched through the viewfinder as Snake walked to Carla and offered a hand. She pressed it to her left side so his fingers rumpled her silky pink dress.

  He grimaced. “Ew. Why is it sticking out like that?”

  “Don’t say ew,” Carla protested. “It’s the way he’s sitting.”

  “It feels like a Gungan. Like you got a little Jar Jar Binks in there.”

  “Who’s Jar Jar Binks? And don’t call your kid a racial slur.”

  “Gungan isn’t a racial slur. It’s from Star Wars.”