2007: A Love Story

      The computer was in the family room, since James’s parents apparently still didn’t trust him to have one in his room, even though every adult he knew regarded him as a “good kid.” Just the right amount of good, too. Not so good that you felt like it was a performance, or a way of making up for something really sinister in his nature. He was the kind of kid who rebelled by riding his bike down the street without a helmet, who made honor roll most quarters (but never high honors), who left clothes lying around his room but did his own laundry whenever he needed to. And all he ever used the computer for - and all he ever would use it for, even if it was in his bedroom - was talking to his friends..

        And his parents were pretty good, too, as far as privacy went. They didn’t peer over his shoulder or try to read his conversations. (Parent over shoulder. “POS.” That was how the news seemed to think kids talked to each other online. James had laughed when he overheard that, floating in from the TV in the kitchen one evening, and then told Hannah about it as soon as she came online. Now it was one of their inside jokes, one of their “things.”) But he knew they caught glimpses - a screenname, a profile, a picture someone sent him - which was why he always instinctively minimized his chat windows whenever one of them walked by. But it would just be so much easier if the computer was in his room. No one else used it, anyway.

      James spent many nights - the hours that passed between the time he told his parents he was going to bed on school nights, around nine or nine-thirty, and the time his adolescent brain was actually ready to sleep - mentally arguing with his mom about this. He had all the logical arguments on his side: more privacy for him, more space in the family room for them, less arguing for the whole family, he needed it for homework anyway, etc. But James’s mom didn’t listen to reason. She still pictured him as a little kid, even though he was practically fifteen now. Even though he was taller than her.

        But at least he had chunks of time like this one. He got home from school at two-fifty (one of the last stops on the bus, because of course they had to live so far from the center of town) and no one else was ever home until at least five. That left one golden sliver of privacy. For another, he had to wait for weekends. After his parents shut off the TV and went to bed, he could stay up until one, two in the morning, talking to whoever happened to be online. Usually Hannah.

      Today, it was two-fifty-seven when James completed his weekday routine - threw his backpack onto his bed, used the bathroom, grabbed a soda from the fridge - and settled into his spot in front of the computer. He logged on, scanned his friends list. Hannah wasn’t on yet. That was good; that meant he could message her when she came online. If she had been on first, it would have been her place to message him, and sometimes she didn’t right away. (Torturous, agonizing minutes for him.) Who was on, though? Sean had an away message up: hw then bed. Added 21 hours ago. Kelly Castleman had been on for eight minutes. James reflexively clicked her profile. The same Fall Out Boy lyric that was in there before, but she had changed the font and color. And Victoria, Hannah’s best friend, had signed on just a minute before him. Her profile was a snippet of a conversation between the two of them:

                XXxSuicidesxGracexXX: if any guy ever hurts you

                XXxSuicidesxGracexXX: i swear to fuckin god

                XXxSuicidesxGracexXX: i’ll chop his balls off

                victoriASS1992: omg lmao

                XXxSuicidesxGracexXX: and then feed them to benji

                victoriASS1992: HAHAHA

       James was hit with a wave of annoyance, as he was every time he clicked on Victoria’s profile and saw this conversation was still there. It had been in there for almost three weeks. Way longer than you were supposed to leave anything in your profile, but especially a conversation. Song lyrics you could get away with leaving in there a bit longer.

      And Victoria had never even dated anybody. Unless you counted the three days back at the beginning of seventh grade (a lifetime ago) when she “went out” with Sean - had put his initials in his profile alone with the date and a heart (SN 9.12.05 <3) and decided that their wedding song would be “When I Look At You” by Beautiful Misery (her and Hannah’s favorite band) because it was “just so us.” (The lyrics to the chorus: “Sometimes when I look at you / I know that I’m in love with you / And sometimes when I look at you / I want to kill you, my beautiful darling.”) Meanwhile, Sean was busy playing video games and skating around town. Then on the third day, in the hallway outside the Art room, a  chubby girl named Courtney Collins - a former teacher’s pet who had tried to rebrand herself in middle school as “the one who knew all the drama” - told Sean what Victoria had been saying about him and he remembered that he had said “yes” when Victoria’s friend had asked him if he would go out with her. So he told Courtney to tell Victoria that he was breaking up with her, and she beamed. James had been standing next to Sean when this happened, and he had laughed, too, because Victoria annoyed him.

       But the real reason that was in her profile was just so everyone would see that her and Hannah really were best friends. James knew she was afraid that people thought their friendship was one-sided, that she liked Hannah so much more than Hannah liked her. This was her proof to the contrary.

       But James, who was Hannah’s real best friend even though she couldn’t admit that publicly, even though she had to call Victoria her best friend because they had known each other since fifth grade, and you couldn’t have a “best friend” who was the opposite sex, anyway (which is why he had to call Sean his “best friend”) - he knew how much Victoria annoyed her too. He was the one that she vented to, the one she trusted with her secrets. For instance, she had even told him that she wished Victoria would take that stupid conversation out of her profile.

       its not even that funny, she had said on Saturday night. i was just trying to make her feel better cause she was like all depressed. and i dont think benji would even eat balls hahaha.

     Benji was Hannah’s dog, a mostly-collie mutt, who she loved more than anything and took pictures with all the time. James had never met Benji, but talked about him like he had. Hannah had told him so many Benji stories that he felt like he knew him, anyway. That night, he had responded to her: yeah i bet he’d just chew them up and spit them out.

       James wanted to meet Benji. But he couldn’t tell Hannah that, because it would just remind her that he hadn’t, remind her that they weren’t really that close.

       Victoria also wanted everyone to remember that she knew Benji, that she was one of the only people who ever got to go to Hannah’s house. But that was only because they had known each other so long. she just like shows up, Hannah had explained. and my mom doesnt even care. but like my mom would freak out if i invited someone else over. but like she doesn’t get how annoying victoria is.

       James glanced at the clock in the corner of the computer. 3:03 PM. Hannah should be getting online soon, unless her mom had started a fight with her as soon as she got home. That happened sometimes. Usually only if her mom had been drinking (which she had told James but made him swear not to tell anybody, so he hadn’t.) But that meant she would tell James all about it later, when her mom passed out or went to her boyfriend’s house and Hannah could finally get online. So he could put up with a couple hours of not talking to her, if it meant he would get to be there for her when she really needed him later.

       A chat window suddenly popped up on the screen, accompanied by the familiar chime that always meant Hannah - until it didn’t. James was hit with a surge of adrenaline, then a wave of crushing disappointment when he saw the screenname. It was Courtney Collins, who wasn’t even on James’s friends list.

               

                CourtSport32: hey

        He and Hannah never started conversations with “hey” or “hi” or any actual greeting. Whoever messaged first just said whatever they wanted to say, or if there was nothing specific they wanted to say, just said a random word. (Some of Hannah’s favorites: “penis,” “cauliflower,” and “unicorn.”) It was another one of their “things.” But with someone like Courtney Collins, you had to go through the whole ritual:

                CourtSport32: hey

                xx themachine: hey

                CourtSport32: whats up?

                xx themachine: nm, u?

                CourtSport32: same

                xx themachine: cool

       James kind of hoped the conversation would die there. Maybe she’d realize he didn’t want to talk to her. But then again, if Courtney said something stupid, he could always send it to Hannah when she came online and they could make fun of her.

                CourtSport32 is typing . . .

      The line of text appeared, disappeared, reappeared. Courtney was drafting her message carefully, or being indecisive. James placed his cursor over the X in the corner of the chat window.

                CourtSport32: do u like hannah?

     There it was - that same stupid question he had been asked a thousand times before, plenty of them by Courtney Collins, and had always given the same answer:

               

                xx themachine: we’re just friends

                CourtSport32: well ya

                CourtSport32: ur just friends cuz SHE says ur just friends

                CourtSport32: but every1 knows u like her

                xx themachine: lmao

       James copied the last couple lines of the conversation so he could send it to Hannah later (she’d appreciate his sarcastic “lmao”), then clicked the X. But Courtney wasn’t done.

                CourtSport32: why r u still denying it

                CourtSport32: like kid

                CourtSport32: EVERY1 KNOWS

                CourtSport32: just admit it

                CourtSport32: i wont tell anyone

      Yeah, right, she wouldn’t tell anyone. Courtney Collins couldn’t keep her mouth shut about anything, nevermind something as juicy as this. James’s confession of love for Hannah was a coveted prize: whoever managed to get it out of him would be the center of attention all night and maybe even into the next day. Not only would people be messaging them asking for the details, asking to see what James said exactly - but everyone else would be talking about them, too. They’d be an inextricable part of the story. Whenever someone passed along the news that James did like Hannah, after all, their name would be mentioned too: “Yeah, he finally admitted it, he told Courtney Collins . . .”

        But James certainly wasn’t going to let Courtney have that. Besides, he really didn’t like Hannah as anything more than just a best friend, and even if he did, he would tell her himself, directly, because that’s the sort of guy he was. He already knew how he would do it if he ever did end up liking her: he would bring her to a concert by one of their favorite bands - (in the fantasy, he had his license) - and then right in the middle of the best part of their favorite song, he would look her in the eyes and mouth “I love you.”

        Shit. The concert.

      That’s where Hannah was, why she hadn’t come online. She was going to a Beautiful Misery concert that night with Victoria, had been talking about it for months. How the hell could he have forgotten? She even had the date marked in her profile: beautifulmisery 5.22.07 ICANTFUCKINGWAIT. Victoria’s mom had gotten them the tickets for Christmas, so he couldn’t be too upset that he hadn’t been invited. But it did make this whole night seem pointless. A chunk of time he just had to endure.

               

                xx themachine: so first of all

                xx themachine: you don’t know me and hannahs friendship at all so dont act like you do

                xx themachine: and like

                xx themachine: you should mind your own fucking business anyway

                xx themachine: go do your homework or something idk

       That was a good line. In fourth grade, Courtney had raised her hand one day and asked the teacher if they were going to have homework that night, and the teacher - a grandmotherly, floral-dress-wearing kind of fourth grade teacher - had smiled and said, “Thank you for reminding me, Ms. Collins.” Everyone knew that story. James thought about copying this part of the conversation, but remembered it would be tomorrow before he would talk to Hannah again so he didn’t bother.

               

                CourtSport32: how come u rnt going 2 the concert wit her then?

                xx themachine: well its still none of your business but

                xx themachine: victorias mom got them the tickets

                xx themachine: and i dont even like bm that much anyway

                CourtSport32: i thought u did?

                xx themachine: theyre ok

                CourtSport32: oh

                CourtSport32: cool

                CourtSport32: gtg bye

               

       Courtney signed off. Or blocked him so he would think she signed off. James didn’t care either way. She was just mad that he didn’t give her anything new to tell people, didn’t say anything he hadn’t said before.

       3:13 PM. This was going to be a long night. James pulled his iPod out of his pocket, spent a couple minutes untangling the headphones (even though he had just been listening to it on the bus), and then put on the latest CrossMyHeart album. They were his band - everyone knew that - just like Beautiful Misery was Hannah and Victoria’s band. Everyone listened to them, of course, but no one else could ever say they were their favorite.

      Why was Victoria still online, anyway? Shouldn’t she be getting ready for the concert with Hannah? Or was she actually sitting there on her computer, talking to other people, when Hannah was over? Hannah had said she sometimes did that. like why does she even ask me to come over, she had ranted to James one night. if that’s what she’s gonna do? like thats really fucking rude.

         i know, right? James had replied. id never do that.

*

       Victoria spent that whole Tuesday in a state of nervous excitement. Her first concert. Her first fucking concert. A chance to finally be a real person, a real teenager, to walk around with Hannah and meet guys - cool guys, real guys, not these obnoxious little kids who sat next to her in Social Studies and made stupid, homophobic jokes when the teacher said “manifest destiny.”

         Hannah had taught her what “homophobic” meant, because she had a gay cousin who was, like, twenty-three and lived in New York City. Victoria hadn’t met him yet, but she and Hannah had plans to go down there for a weekend as soon as Hannah got her license (she was six months older, would be fifteen in September), and Charlie had already said it was cool for them to crash with him, and he would show them around, bring them to all the cool places. And as soon as they graduated, they were going to move to the city and get an awesome apartment in Manhattan together (Hannah said Manhattan was the coolest part of New York) and Hannah was going to be an artist or a graphic designer or something and Victoria would go to college.

        my parents will kill me if i don’t go to college lol, she had told Hannah.

        who cares? was Hannah’s reply. fuck what they think.

       But later she had softened, said it might be cool to have a roommate who was in college, as long as she went somewhere cool like NYU or Juliard.

       These plans for the future had gotten Victoria through many boring days at school, or at home with her parents and little brother, but this Tuesday she didn’t need them. Beautiful Misery was enough. The greatest band in the world. With the greatest lead singer in the world. Xander Cross. Even his name was awesome. (Hannah had pointed out how the X in his name even looked like a cross.) And his perfectly messy black hair and dark eyeliner and the way he near-whispered words like “my love” and how much he appreciated and loved his fans. Apparently, after every show, he picked a couple of random fans to come backstage and just hang out with the band for the night. Eat Cheese-Itz (Xander’s favorite snack) and watch Spongebob Squarepants (his favorite TV show.) That would be her and Hannah. She knew it. Hannah would make it happen somehow.

       Social Studies ended, then it was Math (spent imagining conversations they could have with Xander Cross, what she would say if he asked what her favorite Beautiful Misery song was), then Phys Ed (the second day of a volleyball unit - practicing the “bump pass” in partners), then her last class of the day and her only class with Hannah - English. Taught by Mr. Brown, a youngish guy with a beard who was pretty lax about rules and assignments, especially towards the end of the day. Today he talked for a couple minutes about something that wasn’t Beautiful Misery, then told them to read independently. Victoria took her beat-up copy of whatever novel they were supposed to be reading, opened it to a random page in the middle, and held it in front of her as a prop while she talked to Hannah.

       “What are we wearing?” was her first question.

        “Well . . .” Hannah said slowly, deliberately. “I’m wearing the same pair of jeans that I wore last time, cause obviously they’re good luck, and then probably either your light gray shirt with three buttons on the top or something plaid - I don’t know yet, I’ll decide when we get to your house - oh, you don’t care, right? And, like, obviously my Converse, the black ones - I don’t know what you’re wearing yet, what are you thinking?”

        “Well . . .” Victoria started, trying to mimick Hannah’s speech but hers sounded nervous rather than deliberate. “I was kinda thinking maybe I should wear my BM shirt.”

         Hannah made no effort to hide her laugh. A kid a few desks away shot a glare at her through his glasses; Mr. Jones barely glanced up from his own book (not the class text.)

        “Ohmygod NO!” she exclaimed. “You don’t wear a Beautiful Misery shirt to a Beautiful Misery concert. You’d look like a total poseur. And you are not a total poseur. What the fuck are you looking at, Columbine?” she said to the kid with glasses, who returned to his book without comment.

          “But then, like . . . what if I wanted to get Xander to sign the shirt?”

         “Victoria. You can’t. I mean, you can get a shirt there - like, that’s obviously what I’m gonna do, and then we can wear them to school tomorrow! But you don’t show up wearing one. Plus, like. Your BM shirt is black. Ohmygod. I can’t believe you were almost gonna wear that. I’m so glad you said something to me now. Like, imagine if we were actually getting dressed - wait, your mom is dropping us off down the street, right? I am not getting out of a fucking minivan right outside of the show.”

        “Yeah, I think so,” Victoria lied. Her mom had actually purchased three tickets to the concert, not just two, and she had not yet worked up the courage to tell Hannah this. Her hope was that Hannah would be so excited by the time they got there that she wouldn’t even care that they had to walk in with Mrs. Brixton. And they would obviously ditch her as soon as they got inside.

           “Good. Because like I said, I cannot fucking be seen getting out of a gray minivan.”

           “I know, right?”

          “And she’ll pick us up in the same place, right? Like, five minutes away at least. And you’ve got to tell her to wait til you call her, ‘cause we might end up staying and hanging out with people after. Like, if we meet anyone cool, I mean. Or like, no, you know what, tell her we can just find rides back.”

         “With who?”

      “There’s always someone,” Hannah said casually. She flipped to the next page in her book; Victoria did the same. “Wait, you’re not actually reading right now, are you?”

         “Yeah, right,” Victoria said. “I’m just doing that to trick Brownie.” Their half-affectionate, half-mocking nickname for Mr. Brown, which Hannah sometimes used to his face.

           “Like he cares,” Hannah scoffed. “This book is, like, actually kinda good, though.”

           “Really?”

           “Yeah. You should read it sometime. But not right now because we’ve got way more important things to worry about - like Xander-Cross-and-how-fucking-sexy-he’s-going-to-look-tonight!” She made a shrieking sound, loud enough to make Mr. Brown place his book face-down on his desk, stand up, and scan the room. “Sorry, Mr. Brown.”

           “Keep it down, please, Hannah.”

           “This book is just really interesting.”

        “Uh-huh.” Mr. Brown played along. He remained standing but didn’t move from behind his desk. No real threat. But Hannah had apparently decided their conversation was over for now, anyway, which meant it was. Even if she tried to start it up again, it wasn’t going to happen.

          Victoria wondered when the hell Hannah had had time to read any of this book. She definitely never read during class, and after school and on the weekends she was always either at Victoria’s house, online, or dealing with her psycho alcoholic mom. Unless maybe she was reading right now, and  her page-flip hadn’t been a calculated move after all. That was the thing about being friends with Hannah. She would always surprise you somehow.

       Victoria tried to read a couple lines of the page in front of her. Some kid named Scout who sounded like he was from the south or something. Boring.

         But Scout made her think of Girl Scouts, and remember with a sharp pang of embarrassment, of mortification, that she had still been a Girl Scout when she had met Hannah. The person she had been back then, only three years ago, seemed like a total stranger. A girl who rode horses and went to summer camp and did crafts; who listened to the radio; who had a backpack with her initials stitched on it, a backpack with wheels. Someone she and Hannah would make fun of now.

         And then Hannah had arrived one day, a transplant from Connecticut (“which is pretty much just New York City”), the representative of all things cool. Dyed hair, eyeliner, blue eyes, the body of a fourteen-year-old, t-shirts with the names of bands on them, jeans with song lyrics and the signatures of all her Connecticut friends. Rumors of a tattoo. And somehow, by some miracle, she saw through Victoria Brixton’s little-kid appearance, saw her true potential, and was willing to take her under her wing, into her gravitational field. She had introduced her to Beautiful Misery and all the other good music, taught her how to do makeup. Had saved her.

         She only hoped that other Victoria Brixton - the one from Before - was dead to Hannah, as well. The fear that kept her up at night was that Hannah still looked at her and saw a twelve-year-old with pigtails, wheeling her backpack down the hall.