Getting Over Garrett Delaney(23)
Author: Abby McDonald

But then one message will turn into five, and then he’ll call, and I’ll be powerless to resist.

No!

I lunge across to my keyboard and click the X at the top of the chat box, keeping my eyes fixed on a spot on my wall above the screen so I’m not tempted to read the message. Then I quickly pull on the rest of my clothes, grab my book, and thunder down the stairs.

It’s eight a.m., and already I feel the pull. Something tells me this is going to be a long day.

You know that thing where somebody says “Don’t think of an elephant,” and suddenly, the only thing on your mind is just that: a whole parade of elephants stomping through your thoughts? All it takes is for me to try and not think of Garrett, and suddenly, he’s consuming my every idle musing. Picking a radio station? Garrett only listened to NPR. Browsing the refrigerator for orange juice? Garrett likes the pulp style best. I stare for ten minutes at breakfast options, remembering the many times Garrett has dropped by in the morning to mooch my scrambled eggs and drink coffee before giving me a ride to school, until finally I have to pass on eating anything at all.

How am I going to deal with this? What single thing can I think about that doesn’t have some Garrett-related story attached? In the end, I fold myself into lotus position on the back porch and try to just think about nothing at all. Meditation. Clearing my mind. Focusing on calm breathing and the delicate slant of light through the railings rather than other, less important things. Like, say, the message I left unread upstairs, and whether my Internet service has it saved in an emergency file somewhere. . . .

“Do you want some pancakes, honey?” Mom calls from inside.

“No, I’m fine!” I yell back. Think calming thoughts, Sadie. Calming, non-Garrett thoughts . . .

“Are you sure?” She comes outside, lingering in the doorway. “Have you eaten anything yet? Because coffee has zero nutritional value, and you know that breakfast is —”

“The most important meal of the day,” I finish, sighing. So much for an uninterrupted calm. “Yes, I know.”

“Maybe something else then,” she tries again, giving me that head-to-toe look that I just know means she’s assessing my height-to-weight ratio and comparing it with whatever charts she has pinned up in the Sadie’s Developmental Progress corner. “I could do some French toast. You always like —”

“I told you, I’m not hungry!” I snap.

She blinks.

I catch my breath. “Sorry,” I add, “I’m just . . . cranky this morning.”

“Clearly.”

“It’s nothing.” I wave away her concern. “And yes, I’ll have some pancakes. Thank you.”

“OK, batter’s in the fridge. I’ll be at the conference until five, but you can use the car. Oh, and your father called.” She tries to keep her voice even, but I can hear the usual disapproving tone slip through the moment she mentions Dad.

“What about?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I don’t know, nothing urgent. He said you weren’t picking up your cell.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m keeping it on silent at the moment. Too much distraction,” I quickly explain. “I read an article about teens and ADD.”

“Is that what you were talking about last night?” She looks impressed. “Technology detox. What an excellent thought. I might add that to my course.” She kisses me on the forehead, then goes back inside, already whipping out her cell phone to record a note to herself, completely unaware of the irony.

I wait until she’s inside before retrieving my own phone. I’ve kept it on silent as a defense against Garrett, but I guess I need a tactic that doesn’t cut off everyone else from my life, too.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Pumpkin!”

Yes, I’m seventeen years old. No, he won’t stop calling me that.

“What’s up?” I ask. “Everything OK?”

“Hold on a sec, will you?”

I wait. There’s music in the background, the familiar jagged edges of a jam session, but it recedes as Dad leaves the room. There’s a click, and then he comes on again, clearer this time.

“So how are you doing? How’s summer shaping up? You written that magnum opus yet?”

“Not yet.” I laugh. “Summer’s . . . OK, I guess. I got a job at the café, which is fun.”

“I used to make a mean cup of joe myself, back in the day.”

Dad lives in D.C. — when he’s in one place for long, that is. He plays the saxophone — not just for kicks or like those guys playing for money on the subway but as an actual career. He does session music for singers, his band gets booked all over, and they even have a CD that was nominated for a Grammy way back when. Sure, it was for Best Zydeco/Cajun Album, and they didn’t get invited to the big main ceremony with Beyoncé and everybody, but it still counts.

“Did you get my e-mail?” he asks. “I sent you this great link to a dog playing piano.”

“No, I’m just . . . trying to stay off-line.” I sigh. “Not so much e-mail and Internet, that kind of thing. But it’s hard. I keep wanting to check my phone, it’s like a compulsion or something.”

“Too right. It’s the habit that gets you. Remember when I was trying to quit smoking? I nearly went crazy at first, but it turns out the key was just to keep busy, give my hands something to do instead of holding a cigarette.”

“Busy,” I repeat. “I can do busy.”

“Sure, you can. Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t get back for your birthday, but I’m going to be in Boston soon for a show. Do you want to come up? We can hang out, make a weekend of it.”

“That sounds great!” I brighten. “Can we go see this singer, Jonny Pardue? He’s playing in the city for the next few weeks, I think.”

“Absolutely. Look, I’ve got to get back to practice, but I’ll figure out the details with your mom, OK?”

“OK, see you soon.”

I hang up, thoughtful. Dad’s battle against cigarettes was epic — won and lost on many occasions. While Garrett’s messages aren’t rotting my lungs, they’re definitely corroding my soul. Doing less clearly isn’t working out, but maybe I should be doing more instead. Sure, there’s the usual list of errands and odd jobs tacked to the fridge, but how am I supposed to focus on anything with my computer so tantalizingly close?