Start slowly with the door opening. The crack in the door
gets wider and wider as we peer in, seeing it all for the first time. The
stairs leading to our apartment, the door opening to our living room, which is
a mess at the time and the kitchen that is in desperate need of renovation.
Yeah, we could live here I nod. Screen falling off the door, door hanging off
the hinges, “but we are planning on renovating the apartment before the next
people move in.” Mo says with a smile, and we check out our future rooms, we
lifted this house. The drums start the beat, and make my heart beat to the
rhythm of my head bobbing up and down. This is it, the one A.M. smoothies. This
is us, the two A.M. zumba, which is being video taped for future embarrassment,
and entertainment. This is what I have missed all summer, as the team cuddles
together to watch a movie, about a massive maze in a dystopian world, one that
I would not survive in. This is when someone cracks a joke right in the middle
of it. Michaela, what are you doing in the movie? Deshawn says, pointing at the
disfigured animal called a griever on the screen.
Yep.
And there
she is, Becca, in The Club House, lying on the floor in full out tears, as she
struggles for breath. This is a common thing now, some part of her old self is
back, the part that disappeared many years ago through those many times when
she would walk through the foggy, dog-boggy covered sliding door at home, just
to see the mess, and give up in one breath. The part of her that broke, like
someone smashing their beer bottle on the porch, shattering into tiny glass
crystals, shards sparkling on the wood, and in the grass as the yellow porch
light hits it. Never able to be put back the same way again, but maybe through
some weird processes, could be recycled into something new. The part of her
that would laugh herself into tears, the part of her that would dance around
the living room to old Hannah Montana songs such as Nobody’s Perfect, with the
people she finds herself closest to in life. She stands up and grabs Rosco, and
chucks the stuffed husky at Dave; find a new place to put him! Take him on an
adventure! She yells, as he dodges the dog, and takes her down once more,
slowly letting her body collide with the floor. He lands on top of her, and here
starts another fit of laughter. The stomach clenching laughter, the good stuff,
the stuff that makes your stomach hurt for weeks, the stuff that you wipe your
eyes after and say, “that was good, I needed that,” the stuff that you remember
years later. You don’t remember what you were laughing about, you just remember
the laugh, the sensation of it as your voice of laughter vibrates in your
throat, your brain begging for air, your arms gripping at your stomach,
thinking that you need to stop laughing, you need to breathe but you just can’t,
because as soon as you stop laughing, you think of what was funny and there you
are all over again.
Rolling on
the floor.
When Sophia
calls, she asks how Becca is doing, and with a tilt of the head, and a smile
she looks at Evan and says, “I’m doing very well actually.” I see Becca smile
for no reason, and stir the meat that she is cooking. I recall those many days
when she would get a call from a friend back home, one such as Sophia, or her
sister Chloe. They would often ask how Becca is doing, and she would say she is
stressed, or talk about a problem she was facing. I also recall the seventh
grade Becca, a very different person. The her that would come over to the
Schmitz’s house after gymnastics practice on Fridays, and steal a slice of
pizza because she was early for small groups. They would ask her how she was
doing, and despite the secrets that she kept of home, she would smile, give a
shoulder shrug, and say, “I am doing so well. By the way, look at this rip I got
today,” as she shoved her hand in her best friends face it was bloody and she
was proud of it. She’s back, I whisper, but nobody can hear me. The only evidence
that I am witnessing this moment of her finally realizing that she is finally
good, is the cracked smile that just gets bigger with each sneaking glance at
Evan.
“Really?
You’re doing well?” Sophia asks, and I say, “yes, I’m fantastic actually, I am
very fantastic.” At this point I realize that Rob was right, my language will
always fail me since I cannot express how content I am with my life with the
only person who knows that I am not okay when I say that I am. I can hear her
smiling through the phone, and I know that she is thinking, “My friend is
back.”
We skip, as
life always does, we are up against the wall, talking. Discussing what it is we
are. Fumbling through boxes, not one seatbelt on. Sitting on pieces of beds,
riding in the trunk, gasping for air between classes, between laughs, between
sleeps, between movies, between homeworks, between dates, between parties,
between practices, between meets. We have to breathe, but sometimes we don’t
want to, we don’t want to come up for air. We don’t want to come up for air
between the kisses at five in the morning, with your hand on my cheek, your
shoulder in my mouth, my hand in your hair, Mason on our couch, Sam in
Deshawn’s bed, the fights about the dishes, the guitar lessons, hot gluing
Halloween costumes at four in the afternoon, and the dance sessions that take
place while cooking in the kitchen.
And once
again there the club is, taking a dangerous town by storm, filling the halls of
an empty creaking apartment with knocks on the door, “friend!” Filling it with
jokes, “friend!” Evil glances that become jokes and laughter, “friend!” The
embarrassing moments, “friend?” The club fills the halls with dry ice, as it
creeps around corners during the Halloween party, “you good fam?” we fill the
halls with Christmas carols, and Christmas tree is found in the bathtub, “you
still good fam?” And Dubsmashed videos that took one too many tries to make,
“friend?” We tear up the halls, and rattle the floor between breaths and
catching air.
Now repeat this semester chorus, and slowly fade into the
background until it starts all over again.
