Notes on a Near-Life Experience (3 page)

K
EATIE WANTS TO PEE LIKE BOYS DO
. S
HE'S BEEN TRYING TO
do it for years, ever since she was being potty trained and she found out that Dad and Allen got to pee standing up and aim at things. I'm willing to bet that Keatie has tried harder than any female in the history of the world to figure out a way for girls to pee standing up. She used to practice in our front yard until my mom realized what she was doing, and then she was relegated to the backyard, so as not to disturb the neighbors. Allen thinks it's great.

Her best friend, Chewy, who lives down the street, thought it was weird that she always asked him questions about how he peed. At that point, he might not have realized that she wasn't a boy, either.

Sometimes I wonder if Keatie should have been born a
boy, like those people on talk shows who say they're women trapped in men's bodies. She wears boys' underwear—maybe that goes along with the peeing thing, though. She's really into boxer shorts right now; before that, she liked briefs with superhero graphics on them. She doesn't have any friends who are girls because she thinks they're boring, and she's always trying to be like Allen—she plays soccer and video games like he does, likes the same foods he does. She even hangs around and hands him tools while he works on his car. They look a little bit alike, too: Keatie has this messy flaming red hair; Allen's is less red, more brown, but they look more related to each other than I do to either of them. I have straight brown hair.

Anyway, Keatie may just have an overactive imagination or an obsession with the identities of other people. Chewy has a Japanese exchange student named Toshi living with him. Since he came to stay, Keatie has been taping the sides of her eyes back to try to get them to look like Toshi's and using my mom's mascara to blacken her red hair. Which looks pretty hilarious, like she's in a neopunk band or something. Chewy's mom says that Keatie spends more time with Toshi than with Chewy these days, asking him questions he can't answer about Japan and Mount Fuji and samurai.

I don't blame her, really, for wanting to be somebody else.

I
HAVE BEEN IN LOVE WITH
J
ULIAN
P
AYNTER SINCE
I
WAS NINE
. Every crush I have ever had has borne some resemblance, at least in my mind, to Julian. It's beyond pathetic. He moved in three houses down from us when I was in third grade and became Allen's best friend instantly—they're the same age, they both liked soccer, and they quickly decided that the only entertainment that came close to the exhilaration of the game was making fun of me. Sometimes I let them do it because I was willing to put up with just about anything to be in Julian's presence.

When I had braces and I had to wear headgear at night, I'd hide in my room whenever Julian came to sleep over so he wouldn't see me. When Allen figured out what I was doing, he and Julian busted into my room with aluminum foil on
their teeth and coat-hanger contraptions wound around their heads, talking in lispy, spitty-mouthed voices and doing dance and cheerleading routines.

Julian's father left when Julian was seven—one of those guys who went to work one day and never came back, which doesn't usually happen around here. People in Yorba Linda get messy divorces or live in separate parts of the house and make each other miserable for years.

Now Julian's mom works a lot, so he spends a lot of time with our family. He even comes on family vacations with us. Sometimes my romantic fantasies were challenged by things like my mother's talking in front of Julian about how I needed to wear a training bra, or Julian and Allen's telling me to leave them alone so they could pick up girls at the hotel pool. Still, I hold on to the dream.

The three of us, Julian, Allen, and I, are almost friends now. The teasing has stopped, at least, and occasionally, they'll let me catch a ride with them to a school activity or a concert or something, but Allen never fails to tell me that the only reason I am allowed to tag along is because of his goodwill toward me. He loves to remind me how Julian's mom, Hope, used to make them invite me to go to the movies with them when we were younger so I wouldn't feel left out. Back then, I'd try to pretend Julian was my date, but that became difficult when he and Allen would make me sit at least three rows away from them, a practice that continues, though unspoken, to this day.

I gave up the dream of Julian being my first kiss in sixth
grade when I had to kiss Billy Chin during a game of Spin the Bottle at Julie Scudelari's thirteenth birthday party, but I still harbor the insane hope that one day Julian Paynter will fall madly in love with me. Sometimes when Allen's at work or busy, Julian and I will end up hanging out together because he doesn't like being home alone, and I find myself pretending he's my boyfriend.

I don't think he notices.

T
ODAY
J
ULIAN IS AT OUR HOUSE PLAYING VIDEO GAMES WHILE
Allen is at work. I am pretending to do homework while secretly watching him.

He shouts at me from the game he is playing, “I still haven't died. Can you believe I've gotten this far on one man?”

“I can
not
believe that,” I say, trying to sound genuine. I hate video games; they seem so pointless.

My goal is to do two math problems every five minutes. If I do them fast enough, I can stare at Julian for two or three of those five minutes and still get my homework done before Al gets home.

“Aaaaaahhhhh, nooooo!” Julian yells. “So close, so close.” He turns off the game and turns to look at me. “I let
you down, Meezer. I was going to win that game for you, and I died. Will you ever look at me the same again?”

“Never,” I tell him. He's never tried to win for me before. Does that mean something? I'll have to ask someone who knows about the symbolism of video games in the male psyche.

“Cool. How will you look at me, then?”

“I will see a three-toed sloth every time I look at you.” Why do I say these things?

Julian looks confused, or maybe embarrassed. “Do you want to go and take all the carts out of the cart corral at Staters and see what Al does?” he asks.

“Nah, I've got homework,” I say without thinking.

“Oh.” He almost looks disappointed.

And before I can take it back, before I can straighten out my brain and say “
Yes!
I will go anywhere you want me to go!” Julian is putting his backpack on and heading for the stairs.

Sometimes I get confused about where the dividing line is between the world I actually live in and the dream dimension where Julian could see me as something other than his best friend's annoying little sister.

T
HE FIRST TIME
I
EVER SAW MY MOTHER CRY, OUTSIDE OF A
movie or an art exhibit—you know, cry about something of her own—was when I was eleven. She had planned a surprise weekend trip for the two of them, her and my dad. They were just going to San Diego, which is only like an hour away, but she'd gotten my aunt Laura to come over and babysit, and she'd promised to bring us back presents if we behaved ourselves. She had this little suitcase all packed. Dad had said he'd be home by seven. Seven came and went; then eight, then nine. Mom sat on the couch, waiting. She called Dad several times, but he didn't answer his phone.

“He must be caught in traffic,” she kept saying, more to herself than to us. “He may have had a last-minute meeting …”

At nine-thirty she put us to bed. While she was saying
good night to me, she stopped suddenly, was quiet for a moment. In the dim light of my room I watched as she tried to catch her breath and covered her mouth to stop any sounds from escaping. I saw her wet, crumpled face and I felt helpless. I couldn't say anything. I pretended that I hadn't noticed anything, which made me feel worse, but I didn't know what else to do.

My dad came home later that night, and when we woke up in the morning, they were gone. On Sunday night they came home with presents for each of us, as promised, and my mom's face glowed, no trace of hurt or sadness in it.

There's something about that moment in my bedroom, though—her face, seeing things I wasn't meant to see—that haunts me. I can't think about it without feeling scared and old.

M
Y PARENTS HAVE BEEN ARGUING A LOT, BUT THEYO'VE TRIED TO
hide it from us. Most nights after Dad comes home, Mom follows him back to their bedroom. I guess they think that shutting the door provides some kind of soundproof barrier, that it isolates them and their fight. It's true, we don't hear much of what they say—not many words, at least—but it's difficult to miss the general feeling of anger and hostility that emanates from the room along with the muffled sounds.

When they begin to yell, when
Mom
begins to yell, we catch little snippets of what they are saying.

“Why can't you just…”

“Did you ever stop to think that…”

“I'm doing the best I can here!”

“You never…”

“We never…”

“I don't …”

Mom's yelling usually starts Dad yelling, too, but they always catch themselves and lower their voices before they finish a sentence. Mom usually leaves the house to “run some errands” after these “discussions.” We act like everything is fine, but we know something is going on. Dad has started leaving for work early in the morning and rarely comes home before we are asleep. He shows up for dinner once in a while, but he camps out in his study with the door shut as soon as dinner is over. Mom seems to be working more, too; at least, she's been home less and less.

Like I said, they keep us out of whatever's going on, so when Mom brings up an unfinished argument during dinner tonight, I am surprised.

“So what's your excuse this time? Some big deal that you had to finish up? Cocktails with a client that you couldn't miss?”

Dad isn't too excited about having his meal interrupted. “Maggie, I don't want to discuss this here…now…. Can we please just eat in peace?” He shoves a forkful of salad into his mouth for emphasis. Some of the lettuce doesn't make it all the way in.

“You don't want to discuss it anywhere; that's the problem. You don't want to discuss it with a counselor—at least, you don't show up for most of our appointments. You don't want to discuss it with me here in the house, so you stay away
from home. Tell me where you would like to discuss it. I don't think the place exists.” Mom puts her fork down and pushes her chair away from the table.