forty-five

Bet you’re wondering what I’m gonna do about Logan now, huh? Well, you’re not the only one. Seriously this is not how I thought this was gonna play out. Like AT ALL. How was I supposed to know that out of nowhere this seeming Prince Charming in a Led Zeppelin T-shirt who everybody worships was gonna come at me with all guns blazing?

It doesn’t help that everybody thinks Jared is a super-god and Logan is a super-dork, even though he’s kind of like an artistic genius maybe. I know, I know. I shouldn’t care about the dork part. Why should I? But the truth is . . . I do. Like, I really do. Let’s just call it like it is, no need to pretty it up. I care what other people think of me. I’m not Jesus Christ. I’m just a girl in the world.

Also, I won’t even speak about . . .

You know, that guy at the boathouse was a whiskey-breath scuz-bucket who was probably going to kidnap me and bury me alive in his trailer park.

And Logan has set off not one, but two, count ’em, two, fire alarms to impress me. Although, to be quite honest, I’m not sure if that fake fire alarm thing puts him in the crazy column or the genius column. Jury’s out. I mean, listen, the whole thing just swirls around and around in my head and never lands.

It’s maddening.

All of this is why I went to bed early tonight, locked myself inside my room, so I could just stare at the ceiling and ask God what in the world to do. I know a lot of people think that whole God thing is a joke but I just get a feeling he’s up there somewhere. There’re too many things for him not to be. Like, for instance, everything. Like, where did it all come from? Of course there was a big bang, no shit. But what was before that? Who made the big bang in the first place? Anybody ever wonder about that part? Look. He’s there and I just know it. Anybody who thinks we are the most intelligent life in the universe has obviously never been to Nebraska.

Trust me.

My mom got me this night-light thingy that projects the cow jumping over the moon, spinning around in little circles above me on the ceiling. Happy, smiling stars surround the moon and it plays a little lullaby, which I turned down, but I did realize, at some point, this is a night-light for babies. I guess my mom thinks I need a lot of coddling. Maybe she’s right. If I don’t have the night-light I can’t get to sleep. Like ever. It’s like a curse if I don’t have it and it’s a sign of certain doom. We left it once when we went to visit my aunt and my mom had to drive back and get it because I couldn’t sleep for like two days. Again, this is the part where everybody in the family refers to me as “special.” It’s not a compliment. It means there’s a screw loose.

So right now I’m just staring at the cow jumping over the moon and wondering what I’m gonna say to Logan. I was thinking I could say something like this:

“Logan. I’m an idiot. I don’t know what to do but you should probably stay away from me because I’m confused and have no self-esteem and, also, I think you might be a sociopath. But look, you are amazing and cool and sometimes I think about shrinking myself down and fitting myself into your pocket so I can live there forever, but, then, I worry that maybe you are not exactly playing with a full deck and you might turn on me and take me out of your pocket and squash me like a bug next to the boathouse.”

That’s what I’ve got so far.

I, also, was thinking I could try to say it with flowers.

That thought, which makes no sense, is running through my head when there’s a thud on my window, right above my head. Then another thud. Then another. If the ogre hears that I’m gonna get it, so I look out the window and there he is, through the trees from below. Logan. Standing under my window like some mod Romeo.

Guess I won’t be saying it with flowers.

The window creaks when I open it. Not good. This whole thing could lead to at least a two-week grounding if the ogre wakes up.

“Logan! Shh! What the—”

“Okay, I know you’re mad at me. I get it . . . but I wanna show you something—”

“—I can’t. Are you kidding?!”

We’re both whisper-screaming at each other. All I can think is this is the worst possible way to break up with somebody.

“C’mon. Please? It’s supercool. Seriously.”

“No, I can’t. I can’t risk it. Lemme call you tomorrow—”

“Pretty please?”

“No.”

“No? Anika, c’mon. Seriously.”

Ugh. I’m really gonna have to do this, aren’t I? Like right now, in the middle of the night through a freezing cold window.

“Logan, just lemme call you later, when—”

And now there’s a moment when something in the air changes. All the puppy love turns prickly and Logan straightens up.

“What the fuck, Anika?”

“What?”

But, of course, I know what he means. I’m blowing him off. I’m blowing him off because he did that psycho thing and even though he did all that other cool stuff it doesn’t matter now ’cause Jared Kline has swept me off my feet and even though I feel bad and feel like I’ve led him on and we did have all that romance and fake fire alarms and sneaky moped rides, even though it felt, for a little while, like we were in our own private movie, now all that is changed, all that is changed and he didn’t know it and now he knows it and he’s fucking bummed.

And he’s looking up at me like a sinking ship.

“Logan, it’s just. I just . . . well, I think we should slow down or something.”

Slow down? You mean stop. You mean stop and he knows it and you know it and he’ll really know it any day now ’cause practically everybody knows that you’re Jared Kline’s girlfriend.

“What? What do you . . . what the fuck, Anika?!”

“Logan—”

“What? The boathouse? Is that it? Look, I told you, I lost it! But I was protecting you.”

“I know, it’s just. I don’t know what to say. I—”

“’Kay, I’ll say it. How ’bout I say it for you? You’re a coward, how ’bout that? You’re a fucking coward who can’t stand up to your dumb friends.”

And he’s right. In a way. He is.

“No, it’s just—”

“Anika. I get it. Alright? I fucking get it.”

He starts to walk away.

Now the cold air is sweeping in and I can’t tell if it’s the cold air or me that’s making my eyes water. Must be the air. I can’t care about this. I can’t.

He turns around.

“Just so you know. I fucking loved you. I fucking loved the daylights out of you.”

And now the tears slide down and he’s off, through the trees and down the sidewalk. And now I’m sitting there, closing the window and staring into my reflection and I don’t mind telling you, ladies and gentlemen, I don’t like what I see.