I cry it out in a sea of white bubbles as Mom squeezes a sponge over my shoulders, letting warm water run down my back, and then I’m left alone to weep in private.
I weep for Alex.
I weep for me.
I weep for the end of my childhood.
I weep because I no longer believe in heroes like Booker.
But mostly I weep because I am so fucking tired.
When I finish, my parents and I have a long talk, during which I say that I will not be playing soccer anymore and that I seriously have no idea what I want to do when I graduate from high school. “I need time to think,” I tell them over and over again until I’m sure they understand that I’m serious.
When my diatribe is over, my parents look at each other.
Silence hangs thick in the air.
Finally, Mom says, “You’re actually speaking in first person again?”
I hadn’t realized it until now. “I,” I say, tasting the word I once more. “I guess I am.”
“Why today?” Dad asks.
I think about it for a second and then say, “Because it’s time to be me.”
36
Squinting Out Her Rage
When Shannon returns from a weekend of postprom partying in various vacation homes down the shore, she’s sunburned and a bit bloated from binge drinking. She looks like shit, to be honest. I know because she pays me a visit in my bedroom.
She closes the door behind her, crosses her arms, and says, “Why?”
“Why what?” I say from my bed. I’m seated with my back against the wall. I had been reading an inspiring Bukowski poem called “Roll the Dice.”
“Why did you freak out like that in the limo?”
“I really don’t think you’d understand, Shannon.”
“Try me.”
“I’m just not like you, okay? I’m just—not.”
“What? Is it so horrible to be me?”
“No. Not at all. No judgment here. I’m not trying to . . . It’s just that I don’t go to proms, and I . . . Maybe it’s like you’re a bird and I’m a fish, and I’ve been out of water for a dangerous amount of time and—”
“You’re a teenage girl just like me. We both grew up here. We’re both from privileged white families. What the fuck are you talking about?”
I can tell that she doesn’t even want to understand me, so I just say, “I’m sorry,” meaning, I’m sorry that we aren’t going to connect here with this little chat, but she takes my apology to mean something else.
“You should be sorry,” Shannon says, pointing at my face. “You completely ruined Ned’s prom. What did he do to deserve that humiliation? Why did you agree to go and then leave him like that? If a boy had done that to a girl, it would have been bad. But for a girl to do it to a boy—you completely cut his balls off right in front of his best friends on what was supposed to be the best night of his high school experience. He was devastated, Nanette. I mean—he really loved you. And now every time someone asks about his prom—until the day he dies—he will have to lie or tell the super-embarrassing story about how Nanette O’Hare ditched him before they even got there. Do you think maybe you could have broken up with him in a slightly less dramatic way? Or faked it until high school was over, like I’m doing with my boyfriend? Ned drank himself into oblivion all weekend.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again because I don’t know what other words I can offer.
“You were completely selfish and a total bitch. Next year when we go to—”
“I’m not going with you next year.”
Shannon glares at me, and her face turns an even brighter shade of pink. “What?”
“I’m not going to college in the fall. I need time.”
“Time? Time for what?”
“To figure out who I am. What I want. Don’t you think it’s weird that we’re told to do something pretty much every second of our teenage lives, and then at the end of it we’re just supposed to pick a college and a major and a career without ever really getting a chance to think about it? You’re just supposed to go regardless of whether you know why you’re going or what you hope to accomplish. Doesn’t that seem strange to you? Not to mention all the money our parents are supposed to pay for something we’re not entirely sure we even want.”
“You really don’t believe that anyone else thinks about those things? You don’t think the rest of us worry about what college will be like or what major we should choose? My god, Nanette, it’s all anyone ever talked about this entire fucking year!”
“But do we really think about it deeply or do we just ultimately do what we’re supposed to do? What our parents want us to do? What society wants us to do? I mean, do you really want to play soccer next year? Do you really want to be an elementary school teacher? Do you even like kids?”
“Yes! I absolutely do! I love soccer! It’s my entire life! I’m really looking forward to working with kids! I am! Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Well, I’m happy for you, then.”
“Why don’t you want to play soccer? Soccer is fun. It’s a game. And it’s better than sitting alone in your room feeling sad for yourself.”
“I just don’t like playing. Simple as that.”
“What do you like then, Nanette?”
“I like listening to music and reading poetry and novels. I like seeing art house films. I like having philosophical discussions as I look up at a hunter’s moon. I like being alone with one other person, rather than being at big parties full of so many people who you never manage to have a real conversation with at all. I like swimming in the ocean. And I like—”