I’M IN MY ROOM on Saturday, working on homework while Dylan edits a photo on her computer. Or I should be working. Instead, I’m mentally preparing for the ten minutes I’ll have to spend with Ethan in driver’s ed. It’s my second lesson of three, and my nerves have lessened in comparison to my first lesson a week ago. My resistance to the idea of spending even one short drive with Ethan, however, has not. I’m fortifying the walls of my internal castle, constructing ramparts and a moat, raising the drawbridge, barricading the doors. Come what may, I vow I’ll remain completely cool and collected.
“How about this one?” Dylan swivels the screen to face me. I’m treated to a bare-chested Jake Freedman throwing a water polo ball in the indoor pool. We haven’t discussed her college worries since Monday, despite her having dinner here on Wednesday and us hanging out every lunch this week when I didn’t have Chronicle work.
“It looks great,” I tell her enthusiastically. “It looks a lot like the last three versions you’ve shown me.”
“It has to be perfect,” Dylan declares. She returns to editing, leaning in to examine her work. “This is the best photo in the entire yearbook.”
I can’t help smiling. I’d forgotten Dylan’s open enthusiasm for yearbook, which fell into Olivia’s “uncool” column. Dylan’s love of yearbook was one of those things she dimmed to make herself into the girl Olivia wanted. Watching her return to herself hasn’t been gradual or all at once, but rather in bright bursts like this one.
“I love yearbook.” Dylan sighs contentedly. “Where else would I find the excuse to unabashedly study Jake’s abs all day?”
“You need an excuse?” I raise an eyebrow. Dylan laughs.
I know what she said about yearbook was an oversimplification, though. While she’s definitely enjoying her pièce de résistance portrait of Jake, I know she edits photos of the ecology club’s spring cleanup with equal diligence, despite a distinct lack of abs.
I return to my physics homework, trying to refocus on rotational motion while Dylan clicks and studies her screen. It’s quiet for a moment, each of us concentrating. While Dylan and I work in each other’s company often, genuine silence is rare. Dylan usually wants to discuss the details of our days, or play me a YouTube video of whatever sweaty rock show she went to over the weekend, or—
“Okay, it’s perfect. Coffee break?” she asks, sitting up straight and unconsciously looping the longer side of her short hair over her ear. Checking the clock on my phone, I do the math and realize I don’t really have time to finish the problems I’m working on before driver’s ed. What’s more, I could use coffee. The mug I made this morning is wearing off, leaving me an unpleasant combination of weary and wired.
I close my book. “Why not?” We head into the hall, Dylan following me down the stairs. On our way to the door, we pass Jamie, who’s on the couch watching something in the living room.
She hits pause. “Where are you guys going?” she calls out.
“Just Starbucks,” Dylan replies cheerfully. I hover near the kitchen, saying nothing. Ever since we were in sixth grade, Dylan’s loved Jamie. My sister had just come home from college for winter break and her first night here, she hosted a huge party for her high school friends while our parents were out. It was surprising—Jamie was never a “partier” in high school. Looking back on it now, I guess it was the first indication of how Jamie would change. Of how growing up could look like growing sideways. Dylan was sleeping over that night, and I remember waiting to fall asleep while the pulsing music and the noise of the party kept us awake. I was furious. Dylan was enamored.
Jamie gets up, not bothering to turn the TV off. “Do you guys need a ride?”
“We’re walking.” I speak up, lightly annoyed Jamie just wants to insert herself in whatever I’m doing because she’s bored.
“Oh, great. I’m craving a latte,” Jamie says enthusiastically. She steps into her sandals and heads past Dylan and me to the door. I inhale and exhale. While Jamie inviting herself irritates me, it would be unforgivably standoffish to tell my sister she’s not welcome, especially without good reason.
We walk outside. It’s a perfect day, everything in pure colors Dylan wouldn’t even bother to Photoshop. The fresh pavement of the road, the cloudless brilliance of the sky, the pattern of green and gray lawns and driveways. We follow the sidewalk in the direction of the mini-mall near our house.
“You guys been working on homework?” Jamie asks. Her languid pace sets ours.
“Yeah,” I say, squinting and wishing I’d grabbed my sunglasses from my desk.
“On a Saturday? It’s the weekend.” Her voice is playful.
I glance sideways at my sister. Every day’s the weekend for her, which I restrain myself from pointing out. I don’t want to rub her face in her situation, and I certainly don’t want to upset her. “Yeah,” I repeat. “On the weekend.” Jamie did homework on the weekend when she was in high school too. I don’t know how she forgot, or maybe she just doesn’t think it’s important anymore.
If Jamie hears the edge in my voice, she ignores it. She turns to Dylan. “Who do you have this year?”
Dylan names several of her teachers. While they share horror stories of Mr. Murphy’s excruciatingly slow lecturing style, I scrutinize the familiar scuffs and seams of the sidewalk.
We cross the street in front of the mall, and Dylan changes the subject. “Alison mentioned you’re learning the guitar,” she says to Jamie. By mentioned, Dylan means I texted her the other night complaining I couldn’t concentrate over the metallic whine from Jamie’s room. I choose not to clarify this detail.
Jamie brightens instantly when Dylan brings up the guitar. “I am,” she says with her unwavering excitement. “I even met up with this girl from my graduating class who plays drums. We’re thinking of starting a band.”
This startles me from my silence. “Who?”
“Mara Naser,” Jamie answers. “It’s wild—I didn’t even know her in high school, but we’re in a Facebook group for Fairview people still in town.” She pulls open the door to the Starbucks. The familiar smell envelops me, the sweetness of the flavored syrups and the bitter bite of the coffee.
“Now you’re just going to start a band with this random girl?” I ask.
“Is it a crime to make new friends in the neighborhood, Alison?” There’s a rare hint of irritation in Jamie’s voice. Then her eyes soften, turning somewhat sad. “Everyone I was friends with in high school lives in other cities.”
I don’t reply, feeling kind of bad for my sister. Even so, her seeking out her old high school classmates seems like one more sign of regression. There are certain people in your life you’re supposed to graduate from. Returning to them is like forcing yourself to play with the toys you enjoyed when you were in kindergarten.
We order our drinks from the register. Black iced coffee for me—the perfect combination of productivity and refreshment—a Frappuccino for Dylan, and a nonfat, sugar-free vanilla latte with an extra pump of syrup for Jamie. I follow Dylan to our regular table, where we wait for our orders. “So what does Mara, like, do?” I ask Jamie, keeping my voice light. I’m hoping Mara has more happening in her life and will be a positive influence on my sister.
Jamie shrugs like the question’s uninteresting. “I think she’s applying for her master’s?”
“In what?” I’m coming off like a parent eager for her kid to make friends with the honor students.
“I don’t really know,” Jamie says quickly. “You can ask her tonight. She’s bringing a friend over and we’re going to practice.”
I frown. I’d hoped the band idea was an unformed possibility, not one materializing in our garage in a few hours.
Jamie’s eyes fix on Dylan, her face lighting up. “Maybe you could take some photos of us sometime. I’m thinking of making a website.”
I want to tell Dylan not to waste time on this whim of Jamie’s. But when I look over, Dylan’s evidently elsewhere, gazing out the window with a distant and unreadable combination of emotions in her eyes. Following her gaze, I immediately know why she’s distracted.
In the parking lot stands Olivia, having a conversation with a girl I don’t recognize. Olivia’s hair is different, cut short and dyed platinum from its natural blonde, and she’s dressed with an effortless style I don’t remember her having. She and her friend each hold their keys, lingering like they’re meaning to leave and not wanting to. Clearly telling a story, Olivia gestures with her hands, a habit of hers I remember from hanging out with her and Dylan while they dated.
I knew Olivia well, having third-wheeled her and Dylan often. Olivia was likable in obvious, indisputable ways. Pretty, popular, and expressive, she’s the sort of person who won friends easily, not to mention girlfriends. But I found her friendliness kind of perfunctory and universal, even performative. She’s an actress, and sometimes, it was hard to know whether she was playing a role even when it was only Dylan and me in the room. It’s the put-on quality I see right now in her enthusiastic laughter, her intense engagement in whatever conversation they’re having.
“I didn’t know she was in town this weekend,” Dylan says to no one in particular. She adjusts her hair again and straightens her shirt, looking unusually self-conscious.
Watching her watch Olivia, I feel a punch of dread hit my stomach. I know this will only make it harder for Dylan to get over her ex. The place we’re in isn’t helping, either. This Starbucks is where Dylan and Olivia and I spent plenty of weekend afternoons. This very table, even. It’s crisscrossed with memories, conversations, inside jokes, and old plans built into the architecture as fundamentally as the windows and ceiling beams.
Olivia and the girl hug, then head to their cars. I think Dylan and I notice Olivia’s silver Volkswagen simultaneously, and I catch Dylan’s eyes flicker. Then, pretending she’s fine, Dylan faces Jamie. Her voice is uneven when she speaks. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“It’s fine,” Jamie replies, understanding replacing her excitement from moments ago. “Don’t worry about it.”
The barista puts out our drinks, and we pick them up on our way out the door. We’re quiet for a while, using the pretense of straws and much-needed midday coffee for not saying anything. When we’ve crossed the street and walked halfway home, it’s Jamie who speaks up. “I used to run into Craig all the time after we broke up. Splitting up didn’t change that we both loved the same coffee shops, the same movie theater and restaurants. I had to give those up just to avoid seeing him. Then I realized I didn’t need to run into him to be hit with missing him. Just reading a book I knew he’d like or talking to a mutual friend was enough.” She pauses, like she’s choosing her words carefully, speaking past a hurt in her chest I didn’t realize was so deep. “I guess what I’m saying is it’s hard living in the same place as your ex,” she finally adds, her voice gentle.
Dylan nods, but she doesn’t reply.
The remark gives me a moment of sympathy for my sister. While we walk, I imagine how Jamie’s engagement ending undoubtedly felt. I didn’t know Craig very well. They met in college, and I only saw him for every other Thanksgiving, and our occasional visits to Chicago and theirs to California. But my sister seemed happy with him. Their relationship collapsing must’ve upended Jamie’s world, turning every place or routine into an unwanted reminder of what’s over. I envision Jamie buying groceries for one, finding new neighborhood restaurants where she wouldn’t risk running into her ex. Sitting in a Starbucks and seeing him out the window. While my sister moved home for a lot of reasons, I’m sure her heartbreak was one of them.
I don’t want those painful reminders for Dylan. Which, I realize, is exactly what Dylan would set herself up for if she followed Olivia to college. Campus quads and dining spaces where she would see Olivia over and over. It would be today, every day, for the next three years. Instead of just wanting to recapture the last year of her life, I wish Dylan would let herself leave the past behind.
It’s like the reunion. High school relationships, high school drama, high school rivalries—they’re not meant to be revisited every ten years. They’re meant to be outgrown.
“Did moving home help?” I ask Jamie.
I see the sadness in her smile. The uncertainty and lingering loss. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, it did.”