A Short History of the Girl Next Door Read online

  Let me attempt to illustrate:

  When we were in fifth grade, Mr. Holowitz had this handmade laminated sign hanging next to his whiteboard. All it had was OTM ≠ OTM. He waited for a kid to ask about it before he explained—that kid was Tabby.

  “On the mind does not equal out the mouth.”

  After smiling at our blank expressions for a moment, he then explained to us how fifth graders—as we started to mature and learn things that younger students could not—sometimes suffered from what’s called diarrhea of the mouth.

  “As you get older, you learn that not every little thing that flits through your brain throughout the day needs to be shared with the rest of us.”

  It was kind of an advanced way of saying to shut your mouth during class, but I liked it.

  And whenever he caught Tabby whispering to me during class—which was usually at least twice a day—he’d tap his pointer on the sign and raise his eyebrows at her. Tabby would smile, and Mr. Holowitz would smile, not insincerely, back.

  Mr. Holowitz never once pointed to the sign while looking at me.

  For Tabby, OTM ≠ OTM was a gentle reminder—a swig of Pepto to quell her constant diarrhea of the mouth.

  For me, OTM ≠ OTM was my default setting: nothing in my brain ever came out—and if it did, it was never how it sounded when it was floating through my head.

  If Tabby had diarrhea of the mouth, then I suffered from verbal constipation.

  Perfectly clear now, right?

  I’m an idiot.

  “Too cool to ride the cheese now, huh?”

  “Too cool to still call it the cheese,” Tabby replies, smiling, suddenly interested in her book bag hanging over the back of her chair.

  I slide into my seat at the lab table right behind her a few minutes before the bell for third period. Science is the only class we have together this year. Not coincidentally, it’s the class I’m earliest to.

  “So who was that who picked you up this morning?” I ask, knowing full well who it was.

  “Lily Branson’s older brother. Liam. He’s a senior. Do you know Lily?” she asks quickly.

  “I think I know who she is. She’s a sophomore, right?” I reply, again knowing full well who Lily Branson is. During eighth-period study hall in the library the first week of school, I paged through last year’s yearbook, and I started making a mental list of the top-five hottest girls by grade level. Lily Branson landed the #1 ranking on my list.

  “I guess everyone knows who the Bransons are. Aren’t you on the basketball team with Liam?” Tabby continues before I can note how much older Liam is, that we’ve never played together before this year. “Lily’s my math partner. People say she’s all stuck-up, but she’s actually really nice. I think people just say stuff because she’s pretty, you know?”

  “Oh yeah, I know. She seems really nice,” I say, feeling like a complete ass. I’d made that comment—and worse—more than once, about Lily Branson and any number of other attractive girls. Probably every girl on my top-five lists. Because, you know, if a hot girl doesn’t want to mate with you, she’s obviously stuck-up.

  “She asked if I’d want a ride to school, and I said sure. Thought I’d mix it up after a decade of riding the bus next to you.” She gives me a wicked smile as she pulls her notebook from her book bag.

  In the old days, I would have given her the boogie gun after a zing like that and laughed it off. But now? Well, okay, I still give her the boogie gun—thumb in nostril, forefinger extended, other hand cranking like an old-school-gangster tommy gun—but I can barely breathe, hiding the sting behind my barrage of imaginary boogies.

  At the bell, Mrs. Shepler collects her notes from behind her lab table to start class. (Joy!) Tabby turns around one last time and whispers, “Don’t worry, Matt. Her brother’s got football, so you’ll still get to see this lovely face on the bus after school.” She looks forward again.

  I swear, there are times when I’m convinced Tabby has some kind of secret connection to my brain, like she’s bugged the lines of my inner monologue. Very disconcerting.

  “Okay, welcome back, folks,” Mrs. Shepler says, papers in hand. “We’ve got a busy week ahead of us, so let’s get started.”

  It’s Note-Taking Monday, which, despite her claims of busyness, means we copy directly from her PowerPoint slides as she reads through them, lecturing for an extra ten minutes on each slide, so that we never actually finish the notes on Note-Taking Monday. Painful. While Mrs. Shepler digs through piles of papers on her lab desk to find her new PowerPoint clicker, I pull out my notebook and flip it open, glancing at week one’s notes on…note taking. Awesome.

  Okay, so to be totally honest, Note-Taking Monday isn’t so bad. Since note taking in the Sheplervian sense really consists of copying word for word directly from a PowerPoint slide, I don’t have to do any actual thinking. I don’t have to pay attention to her lecture to know what’s important to write down. I don’t have to do any of that forced-interaction bullshit teachers use to try to keep us engaged—now turn to your partner and try to summarize the concept we’ve just discussed. I hate that. I have enough awkward conversations on my own, thank you.

  So while Mrs. Shepler spends all of Monday—and usually Tuesday—talking through her slides, my mind is free to wander for forty-five minutes. Much of that time I end up staring at Tabby while she writes in her notebook or whispers to the girl next to her at her lab table (Rebecca Gaskins, of all people), noting everything from how Tabby holds her pencil—the same way she used to hold her crayons, hunched over our coloring books as kids, oddly similar to a kung fu grip—to how she taps the eraser on her notebook when she’s not writing, to how she brushes the same strand of red hair behind her ear every few seconds, just to have it fall in front of her face again.

  And once, almost every class, usually when my brain has taken a much-needed Tabby break and has moved on to the lunch menu or chauvinistic rankings or working through game scenarios for basketball, Tabby does this thing where she stretches both arms above her head, then leans back over her chair. And every single time, when she gets to the point where her hands are right over my lab table, she pretends like she’s trying to grab my notebook or my pencil. We both know it’s coming, and when she finds I’ve already got my things secured, she tilts her head back and gives me this goofy, upside-down smile.

  And my brain is fucked.

  Seriously, how can you see a person nearly every day of your life and never think a thing of it, then all of a sudden, one day, it’s different? You see that goofy grin a thousand times and just laugh, but goofy grin number 1,001 nearly stops your heart?

  I know. Rein it in, M-Dub.

  When the bell rings, we’re only on the third slide of notes (out of eleven). Mrs. Shepler sighs and shakes her head at the clock. “We’ll have to finish these notes tomorrow,” she says, not really to anyone in particular, as we shove our notebooks into our bags and head out the door.

  “So you’re still riding the bus home in the afternoons?” I ask Tabby once we’re in the hallway, trying my best to sound casual.

  “Aww, Matty, did you miss me this morning?” she replies, bumping into me with her hip—which, at barely five foot, catches me mid-thigh.

  “Actually,” I say, “a lot of girls were asking about the empty seat next to me. Prime real estate, it seems.”

  Tabby laughs. “And did you tell them that Miss Edna doesn’t let sixth graders sit in the back?”

  “Touché.”

  “Don’t worry, Matt, I’ll be there this afternoon to help fend off the ravening hordes.”

  “Very kind of you, Tabby. Thank you.”

  I know Tabby has geometry next—because, I just know these things—and when we turn down the math hallway, I see a group of students clustered outside her room. Lily Branson with some other über-popular sophomores talking to her brother, leaning against a locker. Lily smiles and waves as we approach, the whole group of them turning to smile, including Liam Branson. I can feel Tabby beaming next to me, and I know our ridiculous conversation is over.

  Obviously not a single one of them is smiling at me. In fact, while I’m probably the tallest person in the hallway, a head floating above a sea of bodies, it’s like they don’t even notice that I’m there, practically arm in arm with Tabby.

  Now, a competent social being would smile right back at all of them—maybe give a little nod to Liam. Stand there and pretend to be part of their conversation for a minute before touching Tabby on the arm and saying, “I gotta get to class, I’ll see you later,” which really says, “Sorry to interrupt, kids. I’d love to stay and chat, but this guy’s got shit to do.” Give Branson another little nod—maybe even give his sister a wink—and head off down the hall.

  But I am not a competent social being.

  Instead, while they’re having their cool-kid smile-fest with Tabby, I stare straight ahead, down the hallway, and check the watch that I’m not wearing. I’m pretending that I don’t notice them, you see. Even as they start talking to the girl I’m clearly walking with.

  Nope, I am fully focused on what awaits me at the end of this hallway (absolutely nothing, maybe a pee stop before English) even as Lily Branson says, “Are you gonna make it to our Halloween party this weekend? Liam promised to wear a costume!”

  I can’t focus on Tabby’s response, I’m trying so hard—and apparently succeeding—to remain invisible, but I notice Liam smile sheepishly at Tabby. “I gotta get to class; I’ll see you later,” he says, before heading off in the other direction.

  Awesome.

  “Matty, I finished your tail feathers! Come take a look!”

  I find Mom in the dining room after washing the grime off my hands from shooting around in the driveway. The table and flo
or are covered with craft supplies. After years of staying home with me and now again with Murray, Mom is an arts-and-crafts Jedi. She can do things with a hot-glue gun that would make Martha Stewart envious. But as I stand next to her to take a look at her creation, I immediately start to panic.

  “Mom. No, Mom. Mom, I cannot wear that.”

  She has the full costume laid out across the table. She ignores me and pulls a tight white beanie down over my head.

  “You agreed to go trick-or-treating with Murray tonight. He begged me to let you take him. Instead of me. Do you have any idea how hard that is for me?”

  “Can’t I wear the old troll mask or something? An old bedsheet for each of us?”

  “Yes, Matthew, even though Murray’s had this exact idea picked out for the past six months—never once wavering, no matter how many great ideas I’ve tried to put out there—I think you should go ahead and wear a ratty old mask that your brother hates. That would be awesome of you.”

  I start to respond, but Mom’s just getting warmed up. The line between playful sarcasm and pissed can get blurry.

  “And, you know, it’s not like I’ve been working on this costume for the past week or anything. I know you’ve been really busy playing in the driveway and not doing your math homework on this beautiful Saturday, so you probably haven’t had time to notice.”

  “Hey, hey, I don’t think the sarcasm is necessary. I’m the one who’s going to be humiliated here, Mom.”

  The complete costume: bald eagle mama and chick.

  Me: white beanie cap, which Mom crocheted herself; rubber beak; one of Dad’s old, gigantic brown wool sweaters, with feathers sewn into the sleeves for wings; and the final piece—bright yellow skinny jeans that Mom probably found on the clearance rack at Sears, possibly in the juniors’ department, with horizontal stripes drawn in black Sharpie down the legs and long brown tail feathers hot-glued to the butt.

  Like I said: arts-and-crafts Jedi.

  “Seriously? Those pants? Can’t I wear my own jeans? Nobody’s going to care what I’m wearing anyway.”

  “Murray cares. He’ll notice right away that you don’t have the right bird legs.”

  “Do you see these things?” I say, holding the yellow skinny jeans up to me. I’m getting desperate. “Do you know how tight they’re going to be? Where am I supposed to keep my nuts in these things?”

  Mom turns and grips the edge of the table. That line between playful and pissed is less blurry now that I’m clearly on the other side of it.

  “They’re bird legs, Matthew,” she says through gritted teeth. “It’s a costume.”

  “But—”

  “And if you like,” she continues, clutching the hot-glue gun, “I’m sure we can find somewhere to put your nuts.”

  “Mom—”

  “Since they’re clearly big enough for you to talk that way to your mother.”

  She looks me in the eye as she says that last part, her nostrils flared.

  “You’re right,” she says finally, but I have a feeling she’s not suddenly understanding my side of things. “Nobody out there is going to care how you look. But your little brother does. So try to get over yourself, Matthew. This night isn’t about you anymore.”

  “Ugh,” I say, my final statement of resistance, throwing the skinny jeans back on the table in front of her. I mutter an f-bomb to myself as I turn to leave the room. I know she hears it, but she doesn’t say anything else, just lets me storm into the living room to flop onto the couch and turn on the TV. She’s probably saying the same things under her breath—I can hear her throwing stuff back into craft bins and slamming drawers.

  Mom and I don’t do this often. We both tend to try to defuse tension with humor—sometimes inappropriate—but that doesn’t always work when you’re the cause of each other’s tension.

  Twenty minutes later, Mom comes back in the living room and sits down next to me on the couch. We stare at SportsCenter in silence, neither of us really watching. The strain from our little episode is gone, but my stomach still churns at the thought of knocking on every door in the neighborhood in full mama-bald-eagle regalia. I know no one really cares what some fifteen-year-old kid is wearing to take his little brother trick-or-treating, but that doesn’t mean I can just roll with looking like an idiot when inevitably some hot high school girl answers the door to hand out candy between make-out sessions with her leering boyfriend.

  “Dude, nice pants.”

  “Ha, yeah, thanks. They’re supposed to be bird legs.”

  “No, yeah, I see. Love the yellow. They girls’?”

  “No, no, pretty sure they’re just old skater jeans…Not mine…My mom bought them…uh…”

  “Yeah. Here’s a Twizzler. Have fun trick-or-treating, douche.”

  Mom takes the remote from my hand and clicks off the TV. She gives my leg a gentle squeeze as she stands.

  “Come here a minute,” she says, walking up the stairs. I don’t know where this is headed. She sees me hesitate, unsure about her change in tactics. “Come on, Matt. I want you to see something.”

  I stand and follow Mom to the top of the steps, where she silently pushes open the door to Murray’s room.

  “He’s been wearing it all day,” she whispers, and stands aside so I can see into his room. Murray sits on the floor in front of his bed in his bald-eagle-chick costume. Stuffed animals are arranged all around him: he’s immersed in his favorite imaginary game, Animals! Animals! Animals!

  Murray’s costume: matching homemade beanie with little tufts of white feathers sewn in, matching beak, tan fleece sweatshirt, and the bottom half of a papier-mâché egg attached by suspenders, made to look like he’s in the process of hatching. I notice his costume does not include yellow skinny jeans.

  Murray’s light brown curls jut out from beneath his cap, his beak hanging loose from his neck so he can give voices to his animals.

  “Murray,” Mom says softly, “you wanna show Matty how you look in your costume?”

  Murray is immediately on his feet, beaming, as though he’s been sitting there waiting for this moment all day. Which I suspect he has.

  “Matty! Look at my baby-bald-eagle costume!” Murray puts the beak back over his nose and starts flapping his arms and screeching, running around in circles on his town rug before crashing into my legs and laughing.

  “You look awesome, buddy. Very nice.” I smile and noogie his white-capped head.

  “Where’s your costume, Matty? Aren’t you gonna get dressed as the mommy bald eagle for trick-or-treating?” Without waiting for my response, Murray bounces over to Mom’s legs and latches on. “Is it time to go trick-or-treating now, Mommy? Is it? Is it?”

  “Soon, Murray, soon. I told you, after dinner, once it starts to get dark out.”

  Murray gives a high-pitched woo-hoo! and flaps back to the scene on his rug. Just like that, he’s in his own world again, which I now notice involves two stuffed animals trick-or-treating through the town on his rug. What I thought was a random explosion of stuffed animals, action figures, and play food is really an intricately organized system.

  Mom and I watch in silence for a minute before she looks up at me, eyebrows raised, with a hint of a smirk on her face.

  “Dirty move, Mom. Dirty move.”

  Mom’s smirk blooms into a wicked smile. She kisses me on the cheek and smacks me on the butt on her way out the door. When I reach to wipe my cheek, she calls from halfway down the steps, “You’re just rubbing it in!”

  Freaking Mom.

  The doorbell rings while I’m still lingering in Murray’s doorway, and I think it must be some way-early trick-or-treaters.

  “Matt, Tabby’s here!”

  Oh sweet mother of shit.

  “Tabby!” Murray bolts past me and flies down the steps to find her, little tufts of white trailing in his wake.

  Holy fucking fuck.

  When I reach the bottom of the steps, Tabby is already gushing over my mom’s costumes in the dining room, the two of them shoulder to shoulder.

  “Oh my gosh, those skinny jeans look perfect!”

  “I know, right? Can you believe Matt’s not going to wear them? He’s just going to pull out that old troll mask again, probably scare poor Murray to death.”