To Hell With Your New Shit

“Hello?” I asked wearily into my phone. I had just pulled into my parents’ driveway and was climbing out of my truck.

“Hey John!” Her bubbly voice crackled through the receiver. I groaned inwardly and switched the phone to my other ear as I slammed the door shut.

“Hey, Molly,” I responded blandly. “Is everything OK? I just dropped you off like, seven minutes ago.”

“Oh, everything’s fine!” She said in a chipper voice. “It’s just that I miss you so much already,” she added in a sickening baby voice.

“Oh. Well, all right then,” I told her. “Listen, I have to go though, my uh, mom needs my help in the kitchen.”

“Oh, OK,” she replied, her voice saddening. I hung up without saying goodbye and walked into the kitchen to see my mother standing there, hands on her hips, lips pursed.

“John,” she started, “did you just lie to a girl?”

“Uhm…” I stalled. “No?” She sighed and shook her head at me.

“Why are you seeing this girl if you don’t like her?” She asked. Good question, Mom.

“Who said I don’t like her?” I asked, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and filling it halfway with water.

“Well, I may just be old fashioned, but I don’t think it’s customary to make up excuses to stop talking to someone you do like,” she reasoned.

“It’s not that I don’t like her,” I explained. “She can just get a little… clingy, and annoying, and overbearing, and – “

“Say no more,” my mother said, holding up her hand as if to halt the words coming from my mouth. “You’re a sweet boy, John, but you don’t need to lead her on.” I shook my head.

“I know, I know,” I agreed. “I can’t… It’s just… It’s hard for me to break things off with people after – “ I stopped myself short before I could finish giving too much away.

“After what?” My mom asked curiously.

“Nothing,” I stammered. “Never mind. I don’t know what I was saying. I’m gonna go upstairs now.”

I retreated up the stairs to my childhood bedroom, where I was staying for a few nights while helping my parents around the house. As I flipped the lights on, I looked around at the white walls, the carelessly made bed, and the clothes that were scattered on the floor. I set my glass of water down on my desk and picked up my guitar before sitting on my bed. After a while of fiddling around with a new song, I began to lull into a fit of sleep.

I awoke a short time later and sat up abruptly. I felt strange, but not wrong – it was almost familiar. My stomach was flopping with what felt like anxious butterflies, and a slight ring sounded in my ears. I shook my head, trying to get rid of the irritating noise, as I sat in the middle of my messy bed. I stood up eventually as the sound subsided and I picked up my guitar. As I nestled the instrument back on its stand, I noticed movement through the window from the corner of my eye.

I moved closer to the window and stared across to Lindsay’s dimly lit room. I could tell, from this distance, that there was just a desk lamp on in her room, but I could see no trace of Lindsay herself. I sighed and drummed my fingers against the windowsill until I turned around and slid onto the floor beneath my window.

That was the feeling, I thought to myself, running my hands over my hair. I leaned my head back and stretched one of my legs out in front of me. That was the feeling that I had once known so well, that had woken me up so many nights when Lindsay needed me. That was the same feeling Lindsay got in the middle of the night whenever I had needed her. I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, remembering.

---

I stood at my window, leaning forward so that I was practically pressing my nose against the screen. I could see, from across our lawns, the subtle glow of a small lamp in Lindsay’s bedroom. I sighed and closed my eyes for a moment, and I when I opened them, the light in her window was brighter, illuminating her image. I smiled to myself and leaned towards my desk, grabbing a slightly crumpled piece of paper and a black Sharpie. On the paper, I scrawled, “CAN WE TALK?” and held it up to my window so she could read it. She nodded her head and held her own piece of paper up so I could read it: “OF COURSE. COME ON OVER.”

I smiled once more, shut my window, and hurried downstairs. My parents were already asleep, so I hastily scribbled a note detailing my whereabouts and telling them not to worry, before I slipped out the front door and made my way to the Thompsons’ porch. Before I could raise my fist to knock on the door, it swept slowly open and Lindsay stood on the other side of the threshold, in her pajamas, waving me inside.

The house was silent, and I assumed that her parents, like mine, were already asleep.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” She asked quietly as soon as we made it into her room. I shut the door behind me and scratched the back of my head, knowing she wouldn’t be all too pleased with what I was going to tell her.

“I uh, had a date tonight,” I started. Lindsay smiled softly and made room for me to sit next to her on her bed.

“Oh? With whom?” she asked, her eyes beginning to sparkle. Lindsay always loved listening to me tell her about my dates, or anything, really. When I didn’t answer right away, her eyes narrowed at me.

“Uhm, Molly Warner?” I sputtered awkwardly. Lindsay’s nose wrinkled like I had known it would.

“Oh,” she mouthed, the tone of her voice dropping. “And how was that?”

“Godawful,” I told her truthfully. She seemed to perk up after hearing that. “I probably should have listened to you. She was a total bitch.”

“John!” she scolded, hitting me in the shoulder. “You don’t need to call her a bitch.”

“Well she was,” I whined. “I don’t even know why she agreed to go out with me; she definitely doesn’t like me in the least.”

“Maybe she has a thing for big-time rock stars,” Lindsay said with a smirk. I rolled my eyes at her.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s it,” I laughed. “I really don’t know why I liked her so much.” Lindsay shrugged and laid back, perpendicular to the way one would normally lay on a bed. I stayed seated and stared at my feet, which were planted on the carpet below me.

“You don’t deserve someone like her, anyway,” Lindsay spoke up. I didn’t turn around, but I could picture her, lying there with her hair fanned out behind her on the bedspread, her eyes closed, and her chest rising and falling slowly as she breathed.

“What kind of someone do I deserve, then?” I asked curiously.

“Hmmm,” she hummed, as if pretending to dwell on her answer. I chuckled and let myself fall back next to her and closed my eyes. “You deserve a girl – a really, really pretty girl – who, first of all, isn’t a bitch to you like some girls are. Definitely someone who likes the same lame stuff that you do, because I don’t think anyone else will put up with it – “

“Hey, I do not like lame stuff!” I interrupted in protest.

“Sure you don’t,” Lindsay laughed, before continuing. “Anyway, as I was saying, you need someone who appreciates what you do. Someone you can talk to, who understands you. No high-maintenance girls, or anything; I don’t think you’d have the patience to put up with them and – “

“Hey Lindsay?” I interrupted once more, slowly opening my eyes and rolling my head to the left to look at her.

“Yeah?” she asked, looking right back at me.

“You just described yourself.”