The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Thirty-Nine

      “If I look like I’m about to mash his face into a brick wall, please intervene,” I said, pacing about, still clad in a pair of baggy sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt that concealed any and all female characteristics of mine. I wasn’t in the mood to change, for I actually felt like my old self in the clothes, and was relaxed. Comfort over fashion always won.

      “You’re crazy, you know that, Turner?” Justin commented, as he shoved an entire muffin into his mouth with one bite. Despite Justin’s misleadingly fit exterior, the boy ate like an SUV guzzled gas. Nonstop. When we were younger, he never seemed to stop consuming food, but wouldn’t put on an ounce of weight. As metabolisms went, Justin’s might have been even better than mine.

      “So I’ve been told,” I smirked, watching as he tossed yet another cupcake with blueberries in it and a reputation for being “ugly” down to his stomach.

      “What’d he do again?” my best friend from another lifetime asked groggily.

      “He took me to a Celtics game, pretty much waving a big, neon flag that said ‘I know your secret’ in my face. It was awful,” I shook my head, continuing to mindlessly walk in the circular path I had set for myself. We were in Justin’s kitchen, alone, because both his parents had already left for work earlier. His older brother was still asleep upstairs, probably passed out from a night of drinking—based on what Justin had told me about the lifestyle that he now led.

      Last night was bad. Really bad. All I wanted to do was kill a foam stress ball, strangling it with all the built-up rage, conveyed through my hands. Within minutes of calling Justin, asking if I could come over, he met me at a construction site near where I was, an old landmark of ours that had previously been a pizza place. Not surprisingly, Justin had come all the way over to the outskirts of Boston, where the arena was located, no vehicle with him. Even when we were younger, he liked to walk. He felt restricted by a car’s walls, and much preferred the aspect of freedom that walking gave him.

      After meeting up with me, I told him a short rendition of the rather long story: I was mad. He understood immediately, and we then proceeded to head over to his house, on foot. I was tired, but it didn’t matter—I was with Justin. Though years had passed and we were barely in touch, Justin was the type of person that I could always rely on, no matter what. We were best friends at one point, and shared a connection that was never going to be broken.

      When we got to his house, his parents were both already asleep, but he jotted down a quick note that he taped to the fridge, informing them of my presence. After we got to his room, he gave me some clothes to sleep in, and then talked some more, before I fell in into a deep slumber. Even though the main thing that I had done during the day involved an act of blissful unconsciousness, I was still tired because of, well, that continent that started with “Eur” and ended with “ope.”

      The first thing I did when I got up this morning was text my mom. She had sent me over thirty-nine messages, basically asking where I was, if I had died, when I’d be back, if had gone out to murder someone, how long I’d be away, if I found the condoms she had conveniently stashed away in my purse (Monica’s judgment was a topic that most veered away from), and who was with me. Not a single voicemail was left by the woman who gave birth to me, because verbal communication was clearly not something anyone used anymore… except of course for Eric Wilson.

      I had twelve missed calls from Eric, but only five recorded messages left. Each was a little over four minutes in length, and I neither had the energy nor desire to listen to them. I neglected to respond to Eric, though sent a concise passage to my mom: “In Boston with Dylan. @ Justin’s house. Be back whenever. See you soon. Love you. Bye.”