Getting Over Garrett Delaney(35)
Author: Abby McDonald

Neither of us replies.

“Gelato?” she tries. “Fro-yo?”

“No, thanks,” I answer shortly. I hoist my bag onto my shoulder. “Look, I’m just going to take a walk, get some air. I’ll meet back with you guys later.”

“Sadie —”

I hear Aiko call after me, but I’m already striding away. I push past the giggling tweens and out onto the street, not once looking back.

Admit it: you’ve been shopping for him all this time — hunting the sales racks in the secret hope that yes, this low-cut shirt is the one to make him see you in a whole new nonplatonic light, those skinny jeans will spur a blinding epiphany, and this raspberry lip gloss will finally make him fall hopelessly in love with you.

Forget raspberry gloss. You like plain lip-balm better. And forget low-cut shirts and skinny jeans, too. Forget everything you wouldn’t choose without his opinion in the back of your mind. When you look in the mirror, what do you want to see: yet another reminder of your hopeless attempt to be the girl of his dreams, or you?

The answer should always be you.

16

How dare they?

My sneakers hit the ground with angry purpose as I cut through lazy shoppers and the crowds of tourists with their backpacks on and cameras looped around their necks. How could LuAnn say that stuff — look at me like I was just a pathetic girl, repeating everything a boy told me? She’s the one who sacrificed everything to trail some guy across the country; my friendship with Garrett is nothing like that! He cares about me, we’re on the same wavelength. That’s why we even became friends in the first place!

I walk and walk, the city blocks disappearing behind me as that burn of indignation in my chest drives me on. I’ve always looked down on those girls in school. You know the ones: they start dating a skater guy, and suddenly they’re scribbling skate-punk lyrics all over their notebooks. And then they break up, and they become someone else entirely — waiting on the sidelines during football practice or trailing the emo rock guys to every crappy show in someone’s basement. I could never understand it, don’t they have any self-esteem at all? Their entire identity revolves around some guy who probably never even considers changing anything about himself for her.

And now LuAnn is saying I’m just the same, as if I have no independent thoughts or opinions. Of course I do! So, yes, my tastes overlap with Garrett’s, and I like most of the same things as him, but that’s not the same at all. I like our music, and movies, and books because, well, I like them — not just because he’s the one who introduced me to them.

I leave the busy stores and sidewalks behind, running out of steam as I reach a wide-open square, skyscrapers looming above neat areas of grass and trees. I stop by the edge of a fountain and sink onto the wide marble edge. Kids with their cuffs rolled up are playing in the shallow water. They look so carefree and happy that I kick my shoes off, swing my feet over the edge, and sink my toes into the clear, cold water.

There.

Now that my initial rage is dissolving, I remember the hurt look on LuAnn’s face and feel a flush of shame, hot on my cheeks. She opened up, telling me about her past, and what do I do? Throw it right back in her face, when all she was even trying to do was make sure I didn’t make the same mistakes. I splash my feet, watching the way the sun glints and glitters on the water. I was such a brat, to her and Aiko, too. And they’ve been so nice to me! Taking me under their wing, treating me like an actual friend with support and guidance, instead of just leaving me to battle my Garrett problem alone.

Garrett . . .

I let out a long, weary sigh. The truth is, he is the one who brought a lot of this stuff into my life. OK, most of it. The books I read, the movies I watch — even most of my music first found its way onto my iPod via Garrett’s mix CDs and playlists. And I love it — that he opens this whole new world up to me, showing me all these new writers and artists and songs that I’d never stumble across on my own. It always makes me feel so special when he collapses into the seat next to me and starts telling me about this amazing new novel he’s reading, and how he’ll lend it to me when he’s done. I read those dog-eared copies cover to cover, savoring the notes he’s penciled in the margins, knowing he made them just for me.

But what about the stuff I like, without him?

The question niggles at me, but I try to block it out, pulling my sandals on over damp feet and heading back into the busy pedestrian throngs. I’m not those girls, I tell myself firmly, striding onwards. I’m not that weak.

I pause at a crosswalk, watching the street vendors set up on the corner, selling jewelry and handcrafted mobiles from tiny kiosks. And then I catch sight of my reflection in one of their mirrors, hanging lopsided from the side of a cart of Red Sox memorabilia.

Dyed black hair forced into a short, angled bob and ironed straight. Blunt-cut bangs. Regular jeans, a faded T-shirt. I’m carrying a beat-up leather satchel and wearing an arm of bangle bracelets.

I stare carefully, as if looking at a stranger.

And maybe I am one. I started wearing my hair this way because of Garrett, because I wanted to look like the exotic French movie stars he always seemed to rave about. I bought this satchel because Garrett has one just like it. The simple, nondescript clothes . . . Well, Garrett always seems to mock the girls who dress retro or outlandishly. He laughs about how they’re trying to make up for their lack of personality: dressing up to pretend to be themselves. Real creative types don’t care about their clothes, he would tell me. They have their minds on other, more important things. And so, I never looked beyond my standby jeans, shirts, and sweaters, not wanting him to think I was one of those desperate types.

I blink, the truth finally dawning. I am one of those girls. God, I’m practically the queen of those girls. Just look at me!

The light finally turns red, and the people around me hustle forward. I stumble on, still in a daze. What about the music you loaned him, but he said wasn’t his thing? a voice whispers in the back of my mind. I stopped playing those bands when he came over, took them off my playlists in the end. And why don’t you read your mom’s bodice-ripper romance novels like you used to? Is it because Garrett saw a stack of them in the living room once and laughed about the trash that passes as literature these days?

I wanted so badly for him to think we were the same: cultured minds, people who know great art and appreciate the classics. I could drink espresso, read Franzen and Flaubert, and debate long into the night with him about the themes of obsession and sexuality in Lolita. But now when I think back to all that time we spent together, I only hear Aiko asking if I even liked any of it or if I just wanted to be the kind of person who did.