Chapter 35 Bree Finally Says It

Chapter 35 Bree Finally Says It

Juni

We have been looking at the same page of the history textbook for two hours. It is about the Great Depression. I think Bree is having her own private depression, but hers involves a boy named Ethan. We are supposed to be summarizing the New Deal. Instead, we are summarizing why Bree is a coward.

"I could just say it," Bree says. She is chewing on the end of a pencil.

"Yes," I say. I am lying on her rug. The rug is fuzzy and smells like lavender laundry soap.

"Or I could wait until the situation clarifies itself," Bree says.

"What does that mean?"

"Until it becomes obvious. Without me having to make it obvious. Like, if the universe just hands us a sign. A very clear, neon sign that says: Hey, Ethan likes you, go ahead and tell him you like him back."

"That’s not how feelings work, Bree."

"That’s exactly how I want feelings to work," she says. She drops the pencil. It rolls under her bed. "I want them to be like a math Brooke. You solve the equation, and the answer is just there at the end. No guessing."

"I know," I say. I think about my own life. I think about how I spend most of my time trying to be invisible so my mother doesn’t find something to fix. I think about Tyler, who took pieces of me and didn’t even say thank you. "They don’t work like that, though. You have to say the words out loud or they just sit in your throat and turn into something unbearable."

"You’re supposed to be supportive," Bree says. She looks pouty.

"I am. I am supportively telling you it doesn’t work the way you want it to. You are waiting for a train that isn’t on the tracks."

Bree opens her mouth to argue, but her mother’s voice sails up from the kitchen. It is a bright, cheerful voice that sounds like a trap.

"Bree! Juni! Ethan’s here for dinner!"

Bree’s face goes through five stages of grief in two seconds. She looks at the door. She looks at the window. I think she might actually jump.

"I didn’t know he was coming," she whispers. Her eyes are huge.

"Your mother did," I say. I sit up. My back pops.

"My mother is..."

"Perceptive," I say.

"Interfering," Bree says.

"Also that. Go downstairs."

"Come with me," she begs. She is reaching for my hand like I am a life raft.

"I’ll come in ten minutes," I say. I need ten minutes to breathe. I need ten minutes to not be "Juni, the girl who is fine" and just be Juni. "Go. If you stay up here, she’ll just come up and get you."

Bree stands up. She looks like she is going to a funeral. Her own. She leaves the room, and the silence she leaves behind is very heavy. I sit on the floor and think about how my dad would have just asked me if I was okay. He was easy like that. My mom would have asked why I wasn't wearing lipstick yet. I think about the way I erase myself. I make myself small so nobody can hit me.

Fifteen minutes later, I walk down the stairs. The house smells like roasted chicken and something sweet. I find them in the dining room. Ethan is already sitting at the table. He is wearing a plain grey hoodie. He looks easy. That is the only word for him. He doesn't look like he’s trying to impress anyone. He doesn’t perform comfort... he just has it.

Bree is sitting next to him. She is talking very fast.

"And then Mr. Harrison said the test was moving to Tuesday, which is crazy because everyone has the pep rally on Monday, and who can study during a pep rally? It’s basically psychological warfare," Bree says. She laughs. It is a sharp, nervous sound.

Ethan is listening. He isn't eating yet. He is just watching her. He doesn't look annoyed. He doesn't look like he’s trying to think of a joke to top her. He just listens to the extra words she is throwing out to hide her shaking hands.

"You don't like pep rallies," Ethan says. It isn't a question.

"I hate them," Bree says. "They are loud and they involve school spirit, which I am low on."

"I know," Ethan says.

I sit down across from them. "Hi, Ethan."

"Hey, Juni," he says. He gives me a small nod. He sees through things. He has been in Bree’s orbit for a year, and he has been waiting this whole time. He’s like a person waiting for a bus that he knows is coming, even if the schedule is messed up. I wonder what it's like to be that sure of someone else.

Dinner is a lot of Bree talking. She talks about the history project. She talks about the weather. She talks about a dog she saw three days ago. She is deflecting. She is building a wall of words so Ethan can't get a sentence in. It’s a defense mechanism. I recognize it because I do it too, only I do it with silence. If I don't say anything, you can't find the soft spots.

Ethan doesn't try to break the wall. He just sits there. He eats his chicken. He answers her mother’s questions. He is the calmest person I have ever met. It makes me feel itchy.

After dinner, I go upstairs to get my jacket. I need to go home. Home, where my mother will ask me if I studied and then tell me my hair looks flat. I am at the top of the stairs when I hear them in the hallway below. I shouldn’t listen. I should hum a song or cough. But I don't. I hold my breath.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Bree says. Her voice is small. It isn't the funny, fast voice from the dinner table. It’s the real one.

"Yes you do," Ethan says. "You're just afraid to do it."

"That’s not helpful, Ethan."

"It wasn’t meant to be helpful," he says. His voice is very steady. "It was meant to be true."

The hallway goes quiet. It is a long silence. I wait for the sound of the front door. I wait for someone to walk away. But the door doesn't open. Nobody leaves. They are just standing there, in the truth.

I turn around and walk back into Bree’s room. I don't want to see them. I don't want to ruin the moment where someone is finally being brave.

I sit on Bree's bed. My phone is in my pocket. It feels heavy. I think about Declan. I think about the way we have been circling each other. We are two people who are terrified of being seen, trying to look at each other.

Declan told me he wanted it to be real. And then we both just stopped. We reached the end of the script we knew, and neither of us knew what the next page said.

I pick up the phone. My thumbs are shaking. I think about Ethan saying the true thing.

I type: When you know the next sentence, say it.

I don't let myself think. If I think, I will delete it. I will make a joke. I will erase the feeling before it can be used against me. I hit send.

I stare at the screen. The little "delivered" bubble appears. My heart is hitting my ribs like it wants out. I count the seconds.

Ten. Twenty. Thirty.

The three dots appear. They dance for a second. They disappear. My stomach drops. Then they come back.

Forty-five seconds.

The text comes through.

I know the next sentence.

I read it. Then I read it again. Then a third time. I put the phone face down on Bree’s comforter. Then I pick it up again immediately.

He knows. He isn't waiting for the situation to clarify itself. He isn't waiting for a neon sign. He’s just waiting for the space to say it.

The room feels different now. The air feels thinner. There is a whole world of things that haven't been said yet, but they are coming. I can feel them. They are right outside the door, waiting for the quiet.

I look at the history textbook on the floor. The Great Depression. I think I’m done with the depression. I think I’m ready for whatever comes after the crash.

I sit there in the silence of Bree’s room, holding my phone like a secret, waiting for the next sentence to start.