Literally Page 16
“Afraid of what?” The edges of my hands are starting to fade and lose their pigment.
“You look … like a comic book character,” Will tells me. “You’re, like, two-dimensional. Like Animal Man.” And when I look up at him I see what he means, because so is he. His hair looks like it’s painted and would be stiff to the touch, and his eyes are large circles in the middle of his face. And when he turns to the side, he all but disappears. It’s like I’m sitting next to a paper doll.
Outside the car, all around us, the world seems to be getting brighter, like someone is editing a photo of us on their phone and pushing exposure to the highest level. I shield my eyes with one hand.
“Why is everything disappearing?” I cry out, but my voice comes out muffled.
“She stopped writing us, Annabelle,” Will says, looking around, and his voice sounds farther away than it should. “Our world is ceasing to exist, and we are going to go with it.”
“It’s not disappearing. We can’t just disap—” I start to tell him, but when I turn to Will, he’s gone, and so is the car we were just sitting in. Only a bleached-out street corner remains. I rotate back around again, and where The House should be, it looks like a life-size rendering of my mom’s exterior house elevations. Just an outline of my childhood home, as though drawn in pen, set against a bright white backdrop. It sends a wave of fear rushing through me. I run to the front door, throwing it open.
“Mom? Dad? Sam?” I call out, but on the other side of the doorframe, there is nothing but whiteness. I think I hear voices from far away, but I can’t see anything. Then the voices fade to nothing. Now, there isn’t even the outline of a house. Everything is gone.
I take a few steps in one direction, then start to run full speed in another for what feels like twenty minutes but could be three. It’s so hard to tell anything when there is nothing to use as a frame of reference. I keep hoping to see something in the distance, for a speck of the familiar to come into view, but nothing changes. It’s just blank.
Unsure of where else to go or what to do, I sit down on the white surface. It’s not hard like the floor of a house would be, but it’s not soft, either. It’s smooth and matte, like I’m sitting on top of a piece of my mom’s vellum paper. I wrap my arms around my knees, and try to think. My heart is beating quickly, and my brain feels fuzzy. I can’t seem to hold on to any of my thoughts.
I take a deep breath, attempting to regain some focus. “Try, Annabelle,” I urge myself. “You can do this.”
I close my eyes, rocking back and forth, struggling to hang on to something, and then I hear Elliot’s voice, even more crackly than usual. It’s like I’m listening to a recording of him from our fight on the beach through a long-distance phone line. He’s telling me that maybe I like being written, so I have an excuse for when things aren’t going according to my plan, for when I lose control.
“It’s not true,” I whisper. “I don’t want that anymore.” An image of him appears in my head, like a worn-out photograph, standing outside Little Boots as he asked me to tell him what was happening between us. I am disappearing, and the last thing I think is that I will never get to tell Elliot how I really feel.
And then another image replaces it, and I see Lucy standing in front of me in the school parking lot, that very first day.
“Some of my characters demand to be heard,” I hear her say, leaning against the side of her car. “Others just sit in a drawer, waiting for the right time.”
I lay my forehead against my knees, realizing that my world isn’t simply ceasing to exist, I am going “into the drawer,” like a piece of discarded manuscript. Who knows how long I could stay in here, waiting for Lucy to decide I’m worth it after all. Now I understand her choice of words back at her house. See how you like it, she’d said. She knew this was where I was going as soon as we walked out the door. She said she’d stop writing, but she was never really going to set us free.
“I am not going in a drawer,” I protest quietly, using the last of my strength. “I am trying to write my story.”
I sit up, unwrapping my arms from my legs, and when I rest a hand on the ground, it hits something hard and cool to the touch.
It’s a pen. A thick, glossy ballpoint pen. I pick it up carefully, holding it in front of my face to examine it. The weight of it feels good in my hand.
And that’s when I think about Ava. How she said that it was the ambiguity that scared me. That I should embrace it, and take it slow. I lay my head down and close my eyes, and I begin to think through everything I’ve been so afraid of. What will happen if I don’t keep my Sunday schedule? What will happen if I choose to give myself to Elliot? What will happen when I come home next year, to a different house, with only one parent in it?
And what I begin to realize, slowly, is that while a lot will happen, while none of it will be easy, none of it will mean the end of anything, or the end of me. Because I am Annabelle, and I will always know who I am, even if I’m not always sure what I really want.
But right now, I do know what I want. What I want is Elliot Apfel.
All I want to do is sleep, but I know I can’t. Not yet. I just keep thinking about Elliot, how good it feels to be with him, about how it felt that night on the bikes, riding through Venice beneath the streetlights, how it felt to be curled up on the lifeguard tower, wrapped in his arms. That, right there, is exactly where I want to be.
I drag myself back up so my legs are tucked under me, and uncap the pen. Then I use one hand for support as I lean over my knees. I press the pen gently down on the white surface that extends before me, enjoying how it feels as the pen glides, leaving ink marks in its wake. And then I begin to write.
I have the power now.
And slowly, the scene that I put on paper begins to take shape. Out of the white, as though appearing from the mist, I hear the waves of Venice Beach crashing and seagulls overhead, and I feel the sand of the beach beneath me. The outline of the water rippling to shore appears ahead, and coming out of the waves, a board under his arm, pushing his hair back from his face, is Elliot.
26
I Am Elliot, and You Are Annabelle
“LET ME see if I have this right,” Elliot says. We’re back at the lifeguard tower, nestled up with some blankets. It’s been almost an hour since he appeared out of the white nothingness, which dissolved into an ocean mist, and so far, nothing has gone wrong. In fact, everything couldn’t be more right. I can feel it, deep down in some basic part of me—I am free from her. I wonder where Will is, and if he knows this yet, too. I wonder if he’s tried to run a red light or leave a problem set unfinished for the morning, and discovered he actually could. I wonder if he knows he gets to decide his own fate now. I’ll have to text him later, but right now I’m busy.
Elliot’s head is leaning back against the wood, and I have my chin resting on his shoulder. He’s frowning as he lets a hand absently stroke the top of my head. “So you really figured out that this chick Lucy Keating was writing your life?”
“Yes,” I say.
“And she was writing you to be with Will.”
“Yes.” I nod.
“Not me,” he says.
“Not you.” I shake my head.
“Well, why the hell not?” he yells. “Thanks a lot, Lisa Keating, or whatever your name is.”
I giggle, not even bothering to correct him. I’m pretty sure he did it on purpose anyway.
“So you drove all the way to Laurel Canyon to defend how you feel for me?” he asks.
I shrug. “I mean, also to fight for my own free will, but yes,” I say. Elliot kisses my forehead.
“I’m really glad you did,” he says.
I feel truly happy. Calm. I’m not worried about what’s next on my schedule or what I have to plan for. Right now just about anything could happen and I won’t mind. I’m with Elliot, and that’s how it should be. To be honest, I’m not even sure what day it is.
“But really, can we go back to me for
a second? What did I do that was so very wrong? So very unworthy of Annabelle Bellybutton Burns?” Elliot whines.
“I think—” I swallow, trying to find the words. “I think she wasn’t sure if you were right for me.”
Elliot tips his head to the side, eyeing me. “She didn’t, or you didn’t?”
I sigh. “Elliot. My whole life you have been everywhere, but you have never been with me. I’ve seen girl after girl sit in that garage drooling during band practice. And then there was Clara. And I’ve never dated anyone. Ever. And we’re not exactly compatible. And when you did pursue me, you didn’t seem that sure about it yourself.”
Elliot shifts and starts to get up, and I feel scared. I said too much. I should’ve played it cooler.
But all he does is kneel on both his knees and stare into my face.
“Annabelle. I have always been with you. Even if it took me a little while to realize it. I’ve been in your garage. I’ve been on your stupid couch every chance I get. I’ve been in your kitchen every time I could convince your brother to let me stay for dinner. Do you think I do that for anyone else?”
I shrug. “Yeah, sort of,” I admit. Then I chuckle.
Elliot laughs. “No,” he says. “Annabelle, you are more real to me than any character I’ve ever read. Than any other person I’ve ever met. I like that you say things that you mean. That you say things out loud sometimes that you probably shouldn’t. That you’re interested in everything and know weird facts that nobody else takes the time to consider. Screw Lucy’s plan and screw her useless, contrived love stories. I am Elliot and you are Annabelle. Maybe I wasn’t fated to be with you, but it doesn’t stop how crazy about you I am.”
I knew being honest with Elliot about how I felt would feel good, but I’m not sure I ever knew he was capable of saying stuff like this to me. I wanted this before I even knew I wanted this. Elliot on my couch, bugging me when I’m trying to do my homework. Elliot skating by me at school, pulling my hair. Elliot banging away on the drums like nothing else on earth matters.
“But what about next year?” I ask.
Elliot sighs. “I don’t know about next year, Annbelle. We’re just getting started. What I know is that I want to be with you every moment of every day right now. I know that I want you in my story.” He leans down and grasps my chin in his hand.
“But what about the day you wake up and you don’t want that anymore? What if I don’t? What then?”
Elliot looks deeply into my eyes. “You can’t go through life always worrying about what is ten steps ahead. You can’t expect anything real or awesome to happen to you, if you don’t take a chance.” Elliot holds my gaze, waiting.
I nod. “I want you in my story, too,” I say, and then Elliot leans in and kisses me.
That night, I lie in my bed thinking about everything that happened over the past twenty-four hours. About how I almost lost it all, even myself. But how I fought for it, and how much I’ve gained because I did.
Most surprisingly, I realize that I might actually understand Lucy Keating better than I ever thought I could. Because now that I know what love is, now that I know I might be able to hold it close, I understand just how painful it would be to lose it. I don’t blame her for wanting to change things for me. If I look deep inside myself, I wonder if I might have done the same thing.
My phone buzzes under Napoleon’s butt, and he growls in his sleep. This is the first time he’s ever slept in my bed, and I’m just going to let it happen.
The text is from Elliot, and it’s a song. The same one he sent me when we were fighting, that I never listened to. This time I press PLAY.
I know I’ve heard this song before, but I guess I’ve never really listened. The most beautiful strumming hits my ears first for the intro, followed by the first verse and chorus, Van Morrison singing the words “sweet thing” over and over. This is a true love song.
AB: I like this.
EA: It reminds me of you.
I put a hand in front of my face, glad he can’t see me blushing. And then come these words:
And I shall drive my chariot down your streets and cry
“Hey it’s me, I’m Dynamite, and I don’t know why”
I know what he means, because right now I feel this way, too. Like I could jump the hedges and run screaming through the streets, yelling that everything is awesome, because it is. Because I have Elliot.
EA: Let’s listen together.
AB: How?
The next thing I know, there is a small crack against my window. I go look out and Elliot is standing on my front lawn, throwing pebbles.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Is this romantic enough for you?” he whisper-shouts, opening his arms wide. I am grateful, for once, that my dad is sleeping in his lair, and my mom sleeps like a rock. Suddenly, it starts to rain.
“Where did you learn how to do this?” I whisper back.
“I was pissed that Lucy didn’t think I was enough. I Googled classic teen romance. A lot of stuff from the eighties comes up,” he says. “Now let me in. I’m soaking wet, and I want to listen to ‘Sweet Thing’ with you.”
I nod my head with a smile, and Elliot uses the first-floor porch and a drain pipe to help him climb up the side of the house.
After he hauls his body through the window of my bedroom, we stare at each other for a moment. This is happening. I realize I’m shaking a little bit, and I’ve never been more nervous. I love it and hate it at the same time.
“You’re wet,” I say, and go to grab a towel from the bathroom. When I get back, Elliot’s shirt is off. I pause in the doorway.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Yup,” I squeak. Keep it cool, AB, I say to myself. I walk toward him with the towel, and like a pony ready to have his mane combed, he leans his soggy, wild head of hair toward me.
Laughing softly, I put the towel over his head, rubbing against his skull. Then I pull it down around his shoulders, and continue to gently dry his limbs. Every cell in my body is whirring around and around, and I haven’t met his eyes. When I do, they are half closed, but they are watching me.
“Hey, Annabelle,” he says.
“Hey, Elliot,” I say and swallow.
And then he takes the towel out of my hands and lets it drop on the floor. And he puts his hands on my face and kisses me.
We kiss and kiss and kiss, and end up tangled on the sofa.
“I’ve been trying to get you on this couch with me for years,” Elliot’s crackly voice says, and I flick his shoulder playfully.
“You had a funny way of showing it,” I say. I’m on top of him, staring down at his face, and let my fingers trace along his hairline. When they reach his ears, he purrs.
“I was working the long game,” he says simply, and I start giggling. We both laugh, and Elliot shifts so I am facing him, tucked into his chest. And his breath starts to come more evenly.
We lie there, curled up into each other. The notes from “Sweet Thing,” which I put on repeat, crash over us in waves as violins join the rhythm of the guitar. I don’t know if this makes sense, but this song sounds like falling in love.
“It’s perfect,” I say, letting my whole body relax. I rest my head against him and I think, This is not a sure thing. There are no promises here. But I’m seventeen years old, and the only place in the world I wanna be is on this couch, with this guy, listening to this song over and over again. And maybe tomorrow it will all be different. But I don’t care.
27
Thanks for Being a Part of My Story
“WAKE UP, Annabelle,” someone says. I open my eyes to find Sam standing above my bed, his wetsuit draped over one arm. I can’t see much, but I can see that it’s barely light out.
“What do you want?” I grumble.
“You’re graduating high school today. So we’re going surfing,” he tells me. “Right now.”
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Six A.M.”
“What if I don’t feel like it?” I ask.
“That’s exactly why we need to go,” he says, stepping back to take a look around my room. Clothes, books, and other kinds of junk cover every surface. “What the hell is going on in here anyway?”
“Like you should talk,” I argue, sitting up in bed. “Your room looks this bad after you clean it.”
“Yeah, that’s me we are talking about,” Sam says, picking up a few empty cans of Diet Coke and tossing them in the trash.
“Maybe I’m trying something new.” I shrug.
“Well, stop,” Sam says. “It’s gross.”
I stay where I am, looking at him stubbornly.
“Don’t make me carry you out,” Sam says. “You know I will.”
The problem is, he absolutely will. So with an eye roll, I heave myself out of bed to put on my swimsuit.
As we head for the beach, the sun coming up, I lean my head back against the seat of my brother’s car and close my eyes.
“If you’re doing this because Mom and Dad asked you to,” I say, “you really needn’t bother.”
“I’m not,” Sam says, his eyes on the road.
“Well, if you’re doing this so you can talk to me about Elliot, or the divorce, just don’t,” I say eventually. It’s hard to get the words out. This is unfamiliar territory for us, and also, I really don’t feel like talking about it.
“Wasn’t planning on talking about Elliot” is all Sam says. “Just wanna take my little sister surfing like the good old days.”
I told my whole family about me and Elliot a few days ago over breakfast. I did it with a lot of dramatic flair. I even got the Good Coffees. To be honest, I was looking forward to shocking them. But to my great disappointment, my parents just smiled, and Sam shrugged as he wolfed down his scrambled eggs. He wasn’t thrilled about it, but he wasn’t exactly surprised, either.
The beach is nearly empty this morning, and only a few other people are out on the waves. The sun is fully over the horizon now and lighting up our part of the world. We spend nearly two gorgeous hours out there. Every muscle in my body feels ready to call it quits, but I’m having way too much fun.