Usually, that someone was me. While my mom went to bed early, Whitney claimed boredom, and Kirsten always talked too much no matter what you were watching, my dad and I were a good match in the evenings, sitting together as history unfolded before us. Even if it was a show I knew he’d seen before, he still acted interested, nodding and saying, “Hmm,” and “You don’t say,” as if the narrator could not only hear him, but required this feedback to continue.
In the last few months, though, I’d stopped watching with him. I wasn’t sure why, but each time he asked, I suddenly felt tired, too tired to keep up with world events, even if they had already happened. There was something so heavy about the burden of history, of the past. I wasn’t sure I had it in me to keep looking back.
“No thanks,” I said now. “It’s been a long day. I’m pretty tired.”
“All right,” he said, sitting back and picking up the remote. “Next time.”
“Yeah. Definitely.”
I picked up my water and walked over to his chair, and he leaned sideways, offering his cheek for me to kiss good night. After I did, he smiled, then hit the volume button, the sound of the narrator rising as I walked out of the room.
“In the fifteenth century, explorers yearned for…”
Halfway to the stairs I stopped, taking a sip of my water, then turned back and looked at him. The remote was now on his stomach, the light of the TV flickering across his face. I tried to picture myself retracing my steps, moving back to take my place on the couch, but I just couldn’t. So I left him there alone to watch history repeat, the same events retold again and again, on his own.
Chapter SEVEN
The entire weekend, I’d wondered what to expect when I next saw Owen at school. If anything would be different after what had happened on Friday, or we’d go back to our shared silence and distance, as if nothing had happened. A few minutes after he sat down, he made the choice for us.
“So. Did you listen?”
I put my sandwich down, turning to face him. He was in his normal spot, wearing jeans and a black crewneck. His iPod was out as well, earphones hanging around his neck.
“To your show?” I said.
“Yeah.”
I nodded. “I did, actually.”
“And?”
Despite the fact that I’d spent most of the weekend realizing how often I fibbed or outright lied to keep the peace, my first instinct at this moment was to do just that. Honesty in principle was one thing. In someone’s face, another.
“Well,” I began. “It was…interesting.”
“Interesting,” he repeated.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’d, um, never heard those songs before.”
He just looked at me, studying my face for what felt like a very long time. Then he startled me by standing up and taking three strides, quickly closing the distance between us before sitting down beside me. “Okay,” he said. “Did you really listen?”
“Yeah,” I said, trying not to stammer. “I did.”
“I don’t know if you remember,” he said, “but you did tell me that you lie.”
“I didn’t say that.” He raised an eyebrow. “I said I often hold back the truth. I’m not doing that this time, though. I listened to the whole show.”
He still didn’t believe me, it was obvious. And not exactly surprising.
I took a breath. “‘Jennifer’ by Lipo. ‘Descartes Dream’ by Misanthrope. Some song with a lot of beeping—”
“You did listen.” He sat back, nodding his head. “Okay, then. Now tell me what you really thought.”
“I told you. It was interesting.”
“Interesting,” he said, “is not a word.”
“Since when?”
“It’s a placeholder. Something you use when you don’t want to say something else.” He leaned a little closer to me. “Look, if you’re worried about my feelings, don’t be. You can say whatever you want. I won’t be offended.”
“I did. I liked it.”
“Tell the truth. Say something. Anything. Just spit it out.”
“I—” I began, then stopped myself. Maybe it was the fact that he was so clearly on to me. Or my sudden awareness of how rarely I was honest. Either way, I broke. “I…I didn’t like it,” I said.
He slapped his leg. “I knew it! You know, for someone who lies a lot, you’re not very good at it.”
This was a good thing. Or not? I wasn’t sure. “I’m not a liar,” I said.
“Right. You’re nice,” he said.
“What’s wrong with nice?”
“Nothing. Except it usually involves not telling the truth,” he replied. “Now. Tell me what you really thought.”
What I really thought was that I felt very unsettled, as if somehow, Owen Armstrong had figured me out, and I hadn’t even realized it. “I liked the show format,” I said, “but the songs were kind of…”
“Kind of what?” He waggled his fingers at me. “Give me some adjectives. Other than interesting.”
“Noisy,” I said. “Bizarre.”
“Okay.” He nodded. “What else?”
I looked at his face carefully, gauging it for signs that he was offended, or bothered. There were none, so I continued. “Well, the first song was…painful to listen to. And the second, the Misanthrope one…”
“‘Descartes Dream.’”
“It put me to sleep. Literally.”
“That happens,” he said. “Go on.”
He said this so easily, like he wasn’t bothered in the least. So I did. “The harp music sounded like something you’d hear at a funeral.”
“Ah,” he said. “Okay. Good.”
“And I hated the techno.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Well. Okay, then. That’s good feedback. Thank you.”
And that was that. He pulled out his iPod and started pushing buttons. No tantrums, no hurt feelings, no offense. “So…you’re okay with that?” I asked.
“That you didn’t like the show?” he replied, not looking up.
“Yeah.”
He shrugged. “Sure. I mean, it would have been cool if you had. But most people don’t, so it’s not exactly surprising.”
“And that doesn’t bother you,” I said.
“Not really. I mean, at first, it was kind of disappointing. But people recover from disappointment. Otherwise we’d all be hanging from nooses. Right?”
“What?”
“Hey, what about the sea shanty?” he asked. I just looked at him. “The men chanting about sailing the open sea. What was your take on that one?”
“Weird,” I said. “Very weird.”
“Weird,” he repeated slowly. “Huh. Okay.”
Just then I heard voices, and footsteps, and turned my head just in time to see Sophie crossing the courtyard with Emily. I’d been so distracted by what had happened with Owen on Friday that initially, I’d forgotten about the confrontation that preceded it. That morning, though, on the way to school, the dread set in as I began wondering what would happen. But so far, I’d only crossed paths with Sophie once, at which point she’d glared at me, mumbling a “slut” as she went by. Same old, same old.
Now, though, she glanced over at me, her eyes widening slightly before she nudged Emily with her elbow. Then they were both staring at me, and I felt my face flush as I looked down at my backpack at my feet.
Owen, for his part, did not notice this as he put his player down, running a hand through his hair. “So you didn’t like any of the techno?” he asked. “Like, not even one aspect?”
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, it’s your opinion. There’s no right and wrong in music, you know? Just everything in between.”
Just then, the bell rang, surprising me. I was so used to lunch being interminable, but this one had flown by. I reached down, balling up what was left of my sandwich as Owen hopped off the wall, slipping his player in his pocket and
grabbing his earphones.
“Well,” I said, “I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah.” He started to put on his earphones as I grabbed my bag, sliding off the wall. “See you later.”
As he walked away, I took another look at the bench. Sure enough, Sophie and Emily were still staring. I watched as Sophie said something, and Emily smiled, shaking her head. I could only imagine what they would say about us, what stories they would come up with. None of them could be weirder than the truth: that Owen Armstrong and I just might be friends.
Thinking this, I glanced over, finding him in the crowd. He’d put on his earphones and was headed up to the arts building, his bag over his shoulder. They’d been watching him, too, but he hadn’t even noticed. If he did, I was pretty sure he wouldn’t care anyway. And for that, more than the honesty, the directness, and everything else, I envied him most of all.
I didn’t get the Mooshka job. This was neither upsetting nor surprising, at least to me, although my mother did seem disappointed. Personally, I was just relieved the whole thing was over, and ready to move on. But the next day, as I took out my lunch, a note fell out with it.
Annabel,
I just wanted to tell you that I’m so proud of you for all you’ve accomplished, and not to be discouraged about the Mooshka campaign. It was very competitive, Lindy said, and they did think highly of you. She and I have arranged to talk today about some other things she’s lining up, which sound very exciting. I’ll fill you in tonight. Have a great day.
“Bad news?”
I jumped, startled, then glanced up to see Owen was standing in front of me. “What?”
“You looked stressed,” he said, nodding at the note in my hand. “Something wrong?”
“No,” I said, folding the note and putting it down beside me. “Everything’s fine.”
He walked over to the wall, sitting down not right next to me, as he had the day before, but not as far away as he once had, either. I watched him as he slid his iPod out of his pocket, then leaned his palms back on the grass beside us, surveying the courtyard.
I was aware, during all of this, that with my last response, I hadn’t exactly been honest with him. Of course, he never would have known this. Or cared, probably. Still, for some reason, I felt the need to Rephrase and Redirect. As it were.
“It’s just this thing with my mom,” I said.
He turned his head, and I wondered if maybe he thought I was crazy, or had no idea what I was talking about. “Thing,” he repeated. “Just so you know; that’s a serious placeholder.”
Of course it is, I thought. Still, I clarified. “It has to do with my modeling.”
“Modeling?” He looked confused. “Oh, right. Like Mallory was talking about. You were in a commercial or something?”
“I’ve been doing it since I was a kid. Both my sisters did it, too. But lately, I’ve been wanting to quit.”
And there it was. The one thing I’d only said in my head, now finally out there, and to Owen Armstrong, of all people. This was so big a step for me that I probably could have stopped right there. But for whatever reason, I continued.
“And anyway,” I said, “it’s complicated, because my mom’s really into it, and if I quit, then she’ll be upset.”
“But you don’t want to do it anymore,” he said. “Right?”
“Yeah.”
“So you should tell her that.”
“You say that like it’s easy,” I said.
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
There was a burst of laughter from the doors to our left as a group of freshmen came out, talking too loudly. Owen looked over at them, then back at me. “Why not?” he asked.
“Because I don’t do confrontations.”
He glanced over at Sophie, who was sitting on her bench with Emily, then slowly slid his eyes back to me.
“Well,” I added, “I don’t do confrontations well.”
“What happened between you two, anyway?”
“Me and Sophie?” I asked, although I knew what he meant. He nodded. “It was just…we had a falling-out over the summer.”
He didn’t say anything; I knew he was waiting for more details. “She thinks I slept with her boyfriend,” I added.
“Did you?”
Of course he would ask, point-blank. But still, I felt my face flush. “No,” I said. “I didn’t.”
“Maybe you should tell her that,” he said.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Huh,” he said. “Call me crazy, but I’m sensing a theme here.”
I looked down at my hands, thinking again that I had to be awfully simple for him to deduce so much about me in less than a week. “So if you were me,” I said, “you would—”
“—just be honest,” he finished. “On both counts.”
“You say that like it’s easy, too,” I told him.
“It’s not. But you can do it. It just takes practice.”
“Practice?”
“In Anger Management,” he said, “we had to do all this role-playing stuff. You know, to get used to handling things in a less volatile way.”
“You role-played,” I said, trying to picture this.
“I had to. It was court-ordered.” He sighed. “But I have to say, it was kind of helpful. You know, so that when and if something similar did happen, you had some kind of road map for dealing with it.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, I guess that makes sense.”
“All right, then.” He slid a little closer to me. “So say I’m your mom.”
“What?” I said.
“I’m your mom,” he repeated. “Now tell me you want to quit modeling.”
I could feel myself blushing. “I can’t do that,” I said.
“Why not?” he asked. “Is it so hard to believe? You think I’m not a good role-player?”
“No,” I said. “It’s just—”
“Because I am. Everyone wanted me to be their mother in group.”
I just looked at him. “I just…It’s weird.”
“No, it’s hard. But not impossible. Just try it.”
A week earlier, I hadn’t even known what color his eyes were. Now, we were family. At least temporarily. I took in a breath.
“Okay,” I said. “So—”
“Mom,” he said.
“What?”
“The more accurate the exercise, the more effective it is,” he explained. “Go all out, or don’t go at all.”
“Okay,” I said again. “Mom.”
“Yes?”
This is so weird, I thought. Out loud, I said, “The thing is, I know that the modeling thing is really important to—”
He held up a hand in the STOP position. “R and R. Rephrase and Redirect that.”
“Why?”
“Thing. Like I said, major placeholder, super vague. In confrontations, you have to be as specific as possible, to avoid misunderstandings.” He leaned a little closer to me. “Look, I know it’s weird,” he said. “But it works. I promise.”
This was little comfort, though, as I proceeded to cross over from simply uncomfortable to borderline humiliated. “I know my modeling is very important to you,” I said, “and that you really enjoy it.”
Owen nodded, gesturing for me to go on.
“But to be honest…” I reached up, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “It’s just that lately, I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I feel like…”
The thing was, I knew this was just a game. Practice, not real. But even so, I felt something seizing up in me, like an engine sputtering to a stop. I had too much at stake here—failing would not only reveal my weakness about confrontation, but embarrass me in front of him, as well.
He was still waiting.
“I can’t do it,” I said, and looked away.
“You so had it, though!” he said, slapping the wall with the palm of his hand. “You were right there.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, pi
cking up my sandwich again. My voice sounded tight as I said, “I just…I can’t.”
He looked at me for a moment. Then he shrugged. “All right,” he said. “No big deal.”
We sat there, both of us silent for a second. I had no idea what had just happened, but it did feel like a big deal, suddenly. Then I heard Owen take in a breath.
“Look,” he said, “I’m just going to say this: It’s got to suck, you know? Keeping something like that in. Walking around every day having so much you want to say, but not doing it. It’s gotta make you really mad. Right?”
I knew he was talking about modeling. But hearing this, I thought of something else, the thing I could never admit, the biggest secret of all. The one I could never tell, because if the tiniest bit of light was shed upon it, I’d never be able to shut it away again.
“I should go,” I said, stuffing my sandwich back into the bag. “I…I have to talk to my English teacher about this project I’m supposed to be doing.”
“Oh,” he said. I could feel him watching me, and made a conscious effort not to look back. “Sure.”
I stood up, grabbing my bag. “I’ll, um, see you later.”
“Right.” He picked up his iPod. “See you around.”
I nodded, and then, somehow, I was walking away, leaving him behind. I waited until I was at the main doors to look back.
He was just sitting there, head ducked down, listening to his music like nothing had happened at all. I had a flash of my first impression of him—that he was dangerous, a threat. I knew now he wasn’t, at least not in the ways I’d thought then. But there was something frightening about Owen Armstrong: he was honest and expected the same from everyone else. And that scared me to death.
When I first walked away from Owen, I felt relieved. But it didn’t last.