Things Change Read online

  The phone is a scary thing. It just sits there, but it controls you. It brings you good news; it brings you bad news. Most people use the phone to bring bad news, but some folks-like you, Dad-couldn't go to the trouble of even a phone call.

  I let it ring again.

  If it was Johanna, I knew exactly what I was going to say. I was going to say that I was sorry. I was going to say that it wouldn't happen again. I would tell her things would change.

  And then it rang again.

  I would tell her that everything was going to be okay. I would tell her that everything was actually going to be better. I would tell her that she was beautiful and that I wanted her and that I needed her. I would tell her these things, and things would be like they were before.

  And then it rang again.

  "Hello." I said it fast, wanting to find out who was on the other end.

  "Bro, how are you feeling? We're missing you here at school." It was Brad.

  "Everything's cool," I said.

  "Really?" He sounded confused.

  "It's over with Johanna." I couldn't hide it from him; soon everybody would know.

  "Bro, what happened?"

  "Nothing to say." While Brad entertained me with tales of the highs and lows of life with Kara, I knew there was nothing entertaining about my story, and nothing about it that I wanted to share with anyone. If I told Brad, I knew he would keep it secret, but why bother?

  "Well, bro, you know that I'm here if you want to talk it out," he said. His voice was comforting, big and warm.

  "It hurts like hell." I wondered if he could tell that I was lying. It didn't hurt like hell. Hell would be a vacation compared to this. "I mean, you know it's going to happen, right?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's like Springsteen says: . . soon as you got something, they send someone to try and take it away.' When you love someone, you know that it comes to this. There comes a time when they won't be there anymore. If you give them everything, when you lose them, there is nothing left."

  "It hurts, I know."

  "I gave her so much, and now I have nothing. Nothing!" I slapped my hands off the kitchen table.

  "Sometimes things just don't work out." He seemed to have more sadness in his voice than me by this time.

  "Like us going to Stanford together. Whatever happened to those plans?" I asked.

  "Got sidetracked on the wrong road, I guess," he answered.

  "More like I hit a dead end," I said, then said my good-byes and hung up the phone.

  Dad, I started toward my room but noticed several large envelopes with my name on them that must have come in the mail while I was at work. I ripped open one of the envelopes and reached inside. It was filled with this mass of paper. Who would send me a bunch of junk? Then I saw the Baskin-Robbins bags. Then I saw the earrings. Then I knew. I dumped everything on the table-the mess I had made of my life lay in front of me. Before I could cry, I quickly stuffed it back in the envelope and brought it here for you. So now I am sitting with you and with Johanna all around me.

  She is just a memory now, just like you. Just like you, Johanna is leaving me. Just like you, Johanna couldn't stand to be around me. I grabbed the packages and my keys, got some beer, and Firebirded over here to room 127 to drink away my pain. Just like you.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Paul should be here in about an hour. It has been three weeks, six days, and twelve hours since I let Paul leave my life. Every morning so far this week during spring break, he has come by the house right after my parents have left for work.

  On Monday morning he simply sat in his car in the driveway with the windows open and the sounds of "Thunder Road" pouring out of the Bird. I looked down from my bedroom window, but I didn't go downstairs. I lay back in bed, the pillow pressed over my head, smothering out the music. On Tuesday morning he knocked on the door a few times, but I refused to answer. Again he sat in the driveway playing music for me for almost an hour, and again I resisted. When the music stopped, Ifinally peeked out of my window and saw a dozen roses lying on the driveway. I went downstairs, looked outside to make sure he wasn't still around. I retrieved the roses from the driveway, depositing them directly in the trash. On Wednesday morning it was more of the same: a knock on the door, more music, and more flowers left behind. With the flowers were the words to my favorite Springsteen song—"If I Should Fall Behind"—handwritten on a single sheet of white paper.

  We said we'd walk together baby come what may

  That come the twilight should we lose our way

  If as we're walkin a hand should slip free

  Til wait for you

  And should I fall behind

  Wait for me

  We swore we'd travel darlin side by side

  We'd help each other stay in stride

  But each lover's steps fall so differently

  But I'll wait for you

  And if I should fall behind

  Wait for me

  Now everyone dreams of a love lasting and true

  But you and I know what this world can do

  So let's make our steps clear that the other may see

  And I'll wait for you

  If I should fall behind

  Wait for me

  On Thursday the knocking was softer, the music louder, and wrapped with the flowers was another copy of the Valentine's Day CD Paul had made for me and a handwritten note:

  Dear Joha-

  I'm not good with words, like you, but I am going to do my best here.

  I am sorry.

  I have told you that I am sorry, but you won't forgive me.

  I can't say that I blame you, but I want another chance. A last chance.

  I am so sorry.

  I want you to forgive me.

  I want you to kiss me.

  I know I said these words before, but this time I promise not to go back on these words. I promise things will change. I promise that I will change. You don't need to change; you are as close to perfection as a person could be. But I want one more chance, one last chance. I promise that I will treat you better.

  You are everything to me.

  I wish I could tell you why I do the things I do, but I don't really understand myself. I know that sometimes I drink too much, but that is going to change.

  I know sometimes I get angry with you, but that is going to change, too.

  Everything is going to change.

  Sometimes I remember how we used to be, and I can't believe how happy I was, being with you. I remember seeing you in the hallway and just smiling, thinking that you were mine and no one else's.

  Me, this trash bag, this person who has nothing-no father, no future, no money, nothing except you. You are so smart and so beautiful. I was so lucky to be with you. Trash bags like me don't deserve people like you. You are too good for me, I know that; but I want you so much.

  My anger shouldn't be directed at you, because you are the only thing that makes me happy (okay, you, the Bird, the Boss, and Brad, but you are the only one that I can't live without).

  I never talked with you about my father, but he is the reason for everything that I am and that I am not. He is the reason I listen to Springsteen. He is the reason that I drive the Bird. He is the reason for my anger.

  My father left me when I was twelve years old. I came home from school one day, and there was a note on the table.

  I can't talk about this; I've never talked about this with anyone, not even Brad.

  It is not like life was great when he was there. But then I came home from school one day and there was a note on the table, and he was gone.

  He was gone.

  The next time we heard about him was just as I was about ready to start high school. We got the word that he was dead. He killed me the day I came home from school and there was a note on the table, and then he killed me again when he crashed his car and died on an interstate outside of Houston, Texas.

  He left me with nothing.

  He le
ft me.

  Do you understand now?

  Three people have said they loved me, and all have left me. My father left me for a bottle, my mother left me for Jesus, and you left me because of me.

  I want you so much.

  I need to talk to you. I need to make things right between us. I need to stop my guts from hurting. I need to stop us from hurting.

  Like I said, I'm not good with words, like you. I'm not an A student, like you. I don't have a father, like you. I don't have much of a future, like you. I don't have any of the things that you have, but I will do my best for you.

  I promise you that things will change. That I will change.

  I promise that I will do better, that things will be better between us.

  I am so sorry.

  I want you to forgive me.

  I want you to kiss me.

  Please, please don't leave me ever again Wait for me-

  P

  After I read the note, I crawled back into bed. I put the CD in my Discman and my headphones on, spending most of Thursday in bed, in tears.

  Downstairs on Friday morning, I heard my parents getting ready for work. I don't go down to breakfast anymore. It is no use: I swear there is smugness on my mother's face. I told her only one truth: that I broke up with Paul. Everything else was a lie, and she believed it all. She acts concerned, but I don't trust her. I don't know what to believe or who to trust. At school, Mr. Taylor wanted me to see one of the school counselors, but I kept putting him off. All these people want to help me, but all I want is to be left alone, to stop hurting, and to stop falling apart. I've made a mess of my life, but to admit that to my parents or Mr.

  Taylor would hurt even worse. I'll get through this, somehow.

  The idea of food holds no appeal for me, not even ice cream. In the three weeks, six days, and twelve hours since I broke up with Paul, I have barely slept or eaten. My clothes are starting to drop off me. At school, I saw Paul in the hallway, even though we did our best to avoid each other. We are a hundred miles apart inside those four walls. A week ago, the day before spring break, I walked by the cafeteria at lunch and saw him sitting there, holding court with Brad, Kara, and her crew. He was cracking jokes to the people around him, and I was not part of it; so I only heard the laughter. That used to be my laughter, and now it is gone.

  I don't laugh at anything. All the pain I had in my face and my body has formed a solid mass of hurt in my heart, and I can't let it go. Thinking about Paul is like having a loose tooth: I can't help but jiggle it, no matter how painful it is. It is too tempting. It is like my mom's smoking: She knows better, but she can't resist. I guess I never understood that until now about how something—or someone—can take over your life.

  I picked up the phone and dialed. I knew the number by heart.

  "Hello." A sleepy voice said on the other end of the line.

  "Hi, Pam, it's Books." I sat down on the floor next to my bed. "I need to talk with you."

  There was a pause, just as there had been a pause in our friendship.

  "Please, Pam, don't hang up . . . just listen." Somehow defying the laws of anatomy, more tears welled up from behind my eyes. Each morning I thought I had none left; each morning I was wrong.

  "Johanna, I don't think—"

  "Call me Books," I said.

  "No, Johanna. Look, this isn't right." Pam said, sounding as if she was speaking through clenched teeth.

  Pam, like everyone else in school, knew that Paul and I had broken up. Also, like everyone else in school, Pam was clueless as to the real reason. She had never said she was sorry; but then again, I had never really apologized for how I had treated her. It was time to start making things right.

  "Pam, look, I'm sorry about what happened between us. Paul, he said these things about you, and I didn't know what to do," I confessed.

  Silence on the other end of the phone. Pure, dark silence.

  "And he made me choose. It was wrong for him to do that. I know that now and—"

  "Listen, maybe he did make you choose; but think about it," Pam replied, no longer hiding her anger at me. "You still chose him. You chose to be with someone who told you lies about your best friend. Don't blame him, Johanna. It was your choice."

  "Pam, you don't understand," I replied weakly, since I didn't really understand myself why Paul had been so insistent about me cutting Pam out of my life. I didn't understand why he would make me do such a thing, but mostly I didn't understand why I went along.

  "I don't think you understand how much you hurt me. I was happy about you getting together with Paul." Pam spoke slowly. "Sure, I was a little jealous because I didn't have a boyfriend then and because I enjoyed spending time with you. I knew things would change between us, and I was okay with that. But the way you cut me out completely, that was just wrong."

  "I know it was wrong, and I'm sorry." I was lying on the floor now: All of my energy was directed toward the phone; there wasn't enough left even to sit.

  "It's okay, I'm almost over it," Pam said.

  "I'm so glad to hear that. I need to talk with you about Paul. I don't know—"

  "Wait a second, Johanna," Pam said sharply. "What I said is that I can forgive what happened between us, but I can't forget it. I can't go back to how things were. Those were your words to me. Don't you remember saying, you can't have a friendship based on what was.'"

  "Please, Pam, I need someone to talk—"

  "I don't want to be mean, but I just can't do this. I'm sorry you broke up with Paul, and I know you must be hurting; but I can't do this. Good-bye." As I listened to the dial tone I realized that Paul had cut me off from everyone but him, and now even he was gone.

  I hung up the phone, walked over to the window, and started waiting. Looking down into the driveway, I knew Paul's car would be there soon enough, followed by a knock on the door. The first morning it was easy, but each day it grew harder to resist turning the knob.

  The ringing of the phone interrupted my window vigil. Before my parents could pick up, I bounded across the room and hoped to hear only one voice.

  "Johanna, what's up?" Kara asked, her voice tired and hoarse.

  "Kara?" I hoped my surprise and disappointment were not obvious to her.

  "Hey, kid, are you okay?" she continued.

  "Fine," I said. I lied.

  "Really? That's not what I hear." She knew better.

  "Did Paul ask you to talk to me?" I asked her, not really wanting to know the answer.

  There was silence for a few seconds before Kara spoke. "Your friend Pam just called me out of the blue. She said you were really upset and that you needed to talk to someone."

  "That was nice of her, but you didn't need to call. I'm okay." I hadn't talked with Kara in almost a month. I would see her at school, but she was either with her friends or with Brad. I knew that in the breakup, Paul got custody of them as a couple. It was understood.

  "I don't know how you ever got away with that thing we did last Christmas," Kara said, then laughed.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You are such a lousy liar. Maybe your parents buy your bull, but don't try to sell it here," Kara said. "Now, how about telling me the truth, and nothing but the truth."

  "It hurts like hell. I can't imagine anything hurting worse than this." Just saying it out loud to someone else made me feel better.

  "I've been there," Kara said, although I didn't know how much she knew. I also didn't know how much I could, would, or should tell her.

  "I was fine the first few days, but that must have just been shock. That wore off fast." I was speaking quickly, my words falling over each other. "Every morning I tell myself that today is the day that it won't hurt anymore. Then it hits me. Sometimes the pain starts the second my feet hit the floor. For so long I wanted to be with Paul. I hurt so bad wanting him. Then we were together, and now..."

  "I'm so sorry," Kara said. She meant it, but I think she was letting me catch my breath.

  "I guess I u
nderstand now why you and Brad always get back together again. It just hurts too much to stay apart."

  "Well, the making up part is nice," Kara said, then laughed.

  I wanted to laugh, only because I hadn't in so long; but my mind was racing and my tongue was loose. "If I can keep it together on the way to school, it is really not much of an accomplishment. It is only delaying the inevitable. Sometimes I make it onto the school bus. I sit near the front, bury myself in a book, and try not to look out the windows; but I never can resist. Every car that drives by I hope is a black Firebird."

  "What happened between the two of you?" Kara asked.

  It was my turn to pause and to lie again. Lying and crying were my two best talents now.

  "I don't know." The fact that Kara asked I hoped meant she didn't know the truth, which was too shameful and too embarrassing to ever speak.

  "Are you sure you don't want to tell me?" Kara said.

  I ignored questions of history, focusing instead on biology. "It feels like the muscle that is my heart is actually torn. I'm limping along as best as I can."

  "Well, you had better get that heart mended soon."

  "I can't stand this, but I can't go back to him. Which hurt is the worst?"

  "I don't know, Johanna, only you can decide that," Kara said. "But I know that you two had better get together."

  "And why is that?" I asked.

  "The prom is coming up, and I want you and Paul to go with us. That just seems right."

  "The prom? That sounds so formal and normal," I said, amazed at how easy I still launched into Paulspeak.

  "Well, I got to thinking about it. This would be my last chance to really hang out with all of my high school friends," Kara explained.

  "That makes sense," I said, knowing that sadly, this was not something I could relate to, although I hoped to do better in this regard next year. Maybe I couldn't repair my friendship with Pam, but that experience taught me a hard lesson about making, and breaking, friendships.