Page 115 of Whatever It Takes
“Sounds like she was channeling a character from Cinderella.”
I smile weakly. “She’s six-years-old. She doesn’t know any better.”
“What about your mom? Does she know better?”
A sharp pang punctures my heart. I must wear a pained expression because he says, “Sorry”—and I shake my head likeit’s alright.
I haven’t talked to my mom as much as I would like. Our conversations are so stilted anyway. She won’t open up to me. She just says,it’s not your place. You’re the child.It’s aboutus—doesn’t she realize this?
I’d like to know why she goes quiet every time I utter Lo’s name. Not just facts—I have some of those—but her feelings. He’s her child. Why wouldn’t she want to know him? Just a little more. And is she sad that I’m gone? Is she happy?
But I’m just the child.
“My mom,” I say casually, “sided with the birthday girl. Which is only fair, it was her birthday.”
Garrison does this thing where he groans without even opening his mouth, and I can hear the deep rumble in his throat.
“You don’t agree?”
He shakes his head and retrieves a cigarette again. “It seems kind of fucked up.”
I try to view the situation from his stance, and I think I can. I just don’t want to.
“Can I ask you something now?” I wonder.
Garrison nods.
I open my mouth but struggle to broachhisquestionnaire. I actually pale again, and my neck heats. “Um…it’s about one of your answers.”
“Which one?” He doesn’t sound surprised.
“Hiatus?” I quickly add, “Not that I care. I mean, I care out of…curiosity, but your relationship status can be whatever you want it to be.” When I look up, the corners of his lips are lifting.
“I know what you meant.” Still sitting, he rolls on the desk chair. Until he’s positioned right across from me. “I’ve been on-and-off with this girl at Dalton who wants absolutely nothing to do with me now, so…” He shrugs like it is what it is. “There’s my hiatus.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Not like I probably should. And for the record, at the time, I thought—maybe if Frankie and my friends forgave me, I’d think about…”
“Going back to them?”Leaving me.
Would it be that easy for him? My heart sinks more, a pit in my stomach. This is why I never asked.
I can feel him watching me, and I turn towards my mirror, about to take off my glasses. His voice stops me. “It’s different now. I’m different.”
I can’t imagine the person who he’s described to me. The one who’d drink alcohol at playgrounds and destroy public property, just because he could. Who’d graffiti houses and knock over mailboxes with baseball bats.
He’s said that he’s always liked Sega, Pokémon, the Sims—and part of me believes that he was alwaysthis personon this desk chair, right in front of me. He just felt too much pressure to be a different guy in front of other people. He was too scared to be himself. With his friends gone, he has nothing to lose by being the real Garrison Abbey.
So he’s let him free.
All I ask is, “What kind of name is Frankie?”
He almost smiles, glad that I’m not mad at him. “Nickname for Francesca.”
“Of course, she has a cool nickname,” I mumble. I don’t know if he hears or not because I ask speedily, “What about your tattoo?”
He pulls off his hoodie, splaying it on the chair. Now just in a black tee. He stretches out his arm, about to show me the tattoo on his forearm, but I’ve seen that one before. It’s a skull with lyrics to an Interpol song. I had to Google it.
