Half a World Away

Ruben goes off to work at Martin’s after we finish everything we needed to do; I assume that we’re on somewhat good terms since he even bothered to say goodbye — repeatedly, I may add — and made several promises to stop by my job during night shift. I give him an okay before making my way down the neighborhood’s sidewalk and towards my house.

I catch sight of Cara sitting on the front steps of Ruben’s place on the way there, her with her head tipped back to talk to Ruben’s mom, Esther. Cara’s dressed in a simple tank top with some shorts, her mocha skin wet with sweat, while Esther, as usual, is wearing some track pants with a short-sleeved workout tee; working as a part time yoga instructor at the local gym allows her to wear these sort of outfits twenty four seven — and since Cara stops by during yoga hour every weekend, they’ve become good friends quickly. Funny how connected we all are, here in Auburn.

As I’m watching them, I realize I haven’t spoken to Cara about her going to the city’s Lakeview since a couple of days ago, at Peter’s Pals. She insisted she didn’t want Harrison and Ruben to know about it, but I still feel it’s my duty to have a chat with her, at least to make her feel a little better about her future being decided for her. It’s, really, all I can do at this point. We’re all growing up, spreading further and further by thousands of other influences pressuring us to do this and go there and keep Auburn and all of its inhabitants on the back burner; it sucks suddenly coming to that epiphany that some things you can’t control, like you can playing tag during birthday parties or weekly game nights at Ruben’s, though it’s going to happen, whether you’re ready for it or not.

Cara and Esther notice me before I make myself known. Again, something I can’t control no matter how much I want to. “Scout,” Cara beckons me before Esther can. “Where’s Harris and Ruben? I thought we decided on one p.m.?”

“Hey, Cara,” I greet, approaching the front steps of the house. I look at Esther. “Hi, Mrs. Price.” I look back at Cara as I slide next to her on the top step. “They had to go to the bakery today. Emergency, or something.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Esther says, snapping her fingers. “Ruben mentioned that earlier on today, didn’t he?” She absently messes with her high ponytail as she thinks it over. Cara and I politely watch until she levels her green eyes on us and smiles apologetically. “And I made you wait here for him, didn’t I? That’s my fault.”

“No,” Cara assures her. “it’s really okay. It was nice chatting with you, anyhow.”

“And you, too,” replies Esther. “You kids wanna come in for some lunch? Logan made some vegetable stir fry with alfredo chicken. You’ll love it, I promise.”

“Well,” I say, looking at Cara to gauge her reaction. “Mr. Price is a good cook.”

Cara nods, standing up for me to follow lead. “I’d love some lunch. Thank you, Esther.”

“Anytime.” Esther lights up at the use of her first name, then we’re all stepping into her house and climbing over the array of beaten sneakers to get into the kitchen. Like usual, their stationary bike and yoga mat(s) are parked right in front of the television, hundreds and hundreds of Pilates and yoga DVDs stacked right underneath and labeled for easy access. The canoe they haven’t used since last year is pressed up against the corner of the room, collecting dust, and holding it there are weights of such a wide range of sizes that it’s obvious they’re for the whole family.

Fanatics isn’t even the correct description for the Prices. Insane obsessors is closer to it.

We find Logan, Mr. Price, in the kitchen, making the finishing touches on several dishes of food. Like he was already expecting us, or something. And despite the fact that Ruben and him are similar in many ways — down to their frizzy, blonde mess of wavy hair, the glint they get in their eyes when they believe they’re doing something productive, and the disappointed look that scrunches up on their face when they disapprove of something I’ve done — what they differ in is a good bit of their personality.

Mr. Price can come off as rude and uninviting if you’re looking at him at a certain angle. He’s more judgmental of others and their physique, and he’ll berate you to no end if your and his morals clash. So, for that reason alone, I’ve never gotten deep into conversations with him like I have with Esther; when we speak, he does more of the talking while I do more of the nodding. It’s probably why he likes me so much.

“Hey,” Mr. Price says to us then, his face still concentrated and broad back bent over a plate of food. “just a couple of more seconds and … Done.” He turns around to face us, looking caught off guard when he realizes he has company aside from Esther and, most likely, his sons. “Hello?”

“Hi,” says Cara from behind me.

“Harrison and Ruben had to go to work, so I thought we’d invite them over for lunch instead?” Esther asks. “‘That alright?”

Mr. Price looks from each face then back to Esther. “I mean,” he starts with a curt shrug. “I don’t mind. I’m assuming it’ll just be us?”

Esther, looking slightly embarrassed, tells him, “Patrick couldn't make it down from the university this weekend. And Ruben actually told me earlier today that he had to go to work until later this evening; I just forgot,” while Cara and I take it upon ourselves to help Mr. Price place the beautifully-arranged dishes on the proper placemat. He absently hands them off to us while giving Esther a critical look.

“Your memory is getting awful lately,” I hear him say from the dining room. There’s not much animosity to his tone; it’s more like a thought said aloud. Esther doesn’t seem to take too kindly to it, though, and some really soft spoken words are exchanged before Esther appears in the dining room looking way too chipper to not have been in an argument just moments ago.

“Gosh, I’m hungry,” Esther says to us while getting seated near the head of the table. “Let’s just hurry and eat now.”

“I am, too,” agrees Cara. She settles down across from Esther, and I sit down next to Cara, glancing down at the food on my plate as Mr. Price finally ambles in and finds the head of the table to himself. “And this food looks amazing, Mr. Price.”

Mr. Price gives her what he probably thinks is a smile. “Thank you.”

We dive right into eating after that, silence amongst the occasional scraping of forks against the dishes and the sliding of chair legs against the dining room flooring. Despite the fact that Esther can talk at any given moment on any given day, she always falls pretty quiet when we’re eating. There’s those brief, “Can you hand me x, y, z?” that slide through, but, otherwise, we’re all just eating and not talking. This is something that has always unnerved me, considering that my parents will talk at the dining table the entire time without any worries.

So, as usual, I end up being the one to talk. “So,” I say, “what’re everyone’s plans for today?” Stupid conversation starter, yeah, but I need someone to engage with me, and fast, before I start sweating — or something. So many years and I still can't quite get used to this.

Luckily, Cara picks up on it and answers before anyone else, “I don’t know anymore since you’re going to work, and Ruben and Harrison are … at work. So, I'll be going home and crying myself to sleep.” We all give short laughs like it’s a joke, but I can’t shake the feeling that there may have some truth squeezed in there, somewhere. Until I can talk to her about everything happening lately, though, I decide it's better to keep her distracted from the worries. I quickly switch focus.

"Esther?" I ask. "You're always up to something. Anything planned for later today?"

"Oh," Esther says, sighing and absently reaching back to touch her ponytail. "I have an evening yoga class – I hope you're attending, Cara; it'll be a lot of fun today! – and then I'm instructing a meditation class tonight for a few hours." She nods at everyone ecstatically while shifting food around with her fork. "You should really consider coming one day when you don't have work, Scout. It's supposed to relieve stress and increase overall happiness."

Before Cara or I can say anything, Mr. Price finally speaks up, telling us, "She forced me to go once. It, amazingly, did relieve some tension I had, but I don't know about that happiness part." He laughs, to which Esther responds with a slap on the arm. "College is coming up – "

"And we all know that causes a lot of stress," Esther interjects cheerfully.

" – so Scout, Cara, stop by the meditation class one day if things become too much."

"Sounds good," Cara says with a strained smile. "I think I'll be needing that soon." She rolls her shoulders. "And maybe a massage, too."

"And, Scout," says Mr. Price after stuffing a mouthful of stir fry into his mouth and chewing a couple of times. "We're having a camping trip next week. By Tuesday morning we'll be all packed up and heading up to the mountains for about four days; you should really consider coming."

It's the Price's tradition to pack up and head to the local Jackson Mountains every holiday that they can manage to go; and, during the summer, they go camping at least three times – once for every summer month. In the past, my whole family used to go with them and learn about wilderness survival by Mr and Mrs. Price themselves, but as the years passed it reduced to only me finding time to go with them at least once a year. This year, I haven't been, and I've been avoiding going for as long as possible for the simple reason that I'm expected to wake up at the crack of dawn, complete every vigorous task with zero complaints, and am judged and reprimanded if any rules aren't followed quickly and enthusiastically.

But now that I've been put on the spot at the Price's dining table, in the Price's home, I feel like it's very rude to decline such a purposely elaborated suggestion; Mr. Price may be awful at displaying his genuine emotions, but when questions such as these pop up, it reminds me how if he asks you to spend time with his family, he really considers you as one. I should feel honored.

"Alright," I say finally. "I'll tell my boss about it."

Mr. Price's face considerably brightens while Esther completely explodes with joy. "Great," she cheers. "And if your mother or father is also able to come, please let them know!"

I already know what their answer will be, but to sedate Esther's excitement, I tell her, "I'll be sure to let them know."

After dinner, we all pack up the leftover food and clean off the table, placing our dishes in the dishwasher. Esther makes some coffee and asks us if we want any; Mr. Price and Cara accept her offer. "It's going to be a long night," Cara tells me. "since she wants me to go to yoga – and probably meditation, too – with her." Me, not much for coffee any time after eleven a.m., politely decline and go to sit on the porch outside.

The day is barely cooling off, since summer has long daylight hours and short nightly ones, so as soon as I hit the humid atmosphere I feel sticky and gross again. I can hear the television still playing from inside the living room and running water as Mr. Price washes the dirty pots and pans; a distinct waft of coffee beans pours into the outdoors and hangs thick in the air. On these days, despite the tranquility, I am weary to feel at peace.

Between Cara and Lakeview, Ruben and Stanford, and me and Primrose, I don't know how any of us will manage. Everyone who's anyone in Auburn understands fully that Ruben is a very dependent person; even when it comes to athletics he's hesitant to perform if there isn't any familiar face to return a smile and a thumbs up. Cara'll be tossed into a city where no one cares for anything but their own gain, rendering her forced to find somebody, anybody who will treat her like we do here, at home. And I'll be surrounded by the prestigious and driven, and, just like Cara, ripped from the world I could once, many years ago, call confidently my own.

I don't know who's more fucked: Cara, Ruben, or maybe even me. No amount of meditation and stress relief can protect us from what's to come.

I'm so lost in my head that I don't notice Cara settling down beside me with a mug of coffee in her small, slender hands. If I were anymore stable I would've asked why any of them could think to drink hot coffee on a sweltering summer day; but all I can do is look at her gravely, and it only takes her a split second to replicate the look, as if just seeing my expression reminded her of her inevitable fate. Of our inevitable fate.

"I'm so scared, Scout," she tells me, setting the mug by her bare, mocha-colored thigh. Tucking a spring of hair out from in front of her face, I hear her say, "Even you're giving me that hopeless face. Even Scout." Her mood is dropping quick, quicker than ever, I notice, and I know it's my turn to give her some reassuring words that'll make her instantly feel on top of the world, but I can't. I don't. She's expecting Scout to be her shining knight in armor, as I always have been, and he can't.

I knew this brick wall would come and slam us in the faces, tell us that I can no longer protect Cara from every wave of destruction that comes with every passing year. At fifteen years old, it was her period being late, and how fucking afraid she was at admitting to anyone else but me, herself, or her doctor that the days of horror and waiting were too excruciating to bare. She knew what her mother would say or do if she told her she'd been having sex since fourteen; she knew what would happen if she told her 'friends' that her period was late and she may or may not be pregnant; she knew, she knew, and when she finally confessed to me one night after a party, tucked underneath my arm and crying like somebody had died, she knew that she could confide in me.

At sixteen years old, it was her boyfriend of two months taking a swing at her, hitting her right in the jaw and leaving a bad bruise. She had told everyone the same excuses, all the same god damn excuses, but when it came time to do what she did best and lie to save her boyfriend's ass, I saw all the signs in her erratic eye movements, stammering, and the clenching of her fingers into the palm of her hand. That night, just like the night of her pregnancy scare, she found her way underneath my arm, as if that could protect her from all the abuse and the fear that she had, up until then, to carry alone.

Cara's seventeenth year passed with several obstacles to conquer, some of them being her mother's negligence and the stress of school work, and each and every time I'd been the one she went to for the answers. I could tell her to do this, or not to do that, or to go about things a different way, and even if I didn't have my own life sorted and written in plain words, I knew what I could do to improve hers. It's amazing how I could feel powerful in the very same breath that I felt helpless.

Now, a month into her eighteenth year, I know I can't tuck her under my arm and give her all the answers anymore. The realization was late to come, but, nonetheless, we both felt it in the silence that should've been full of my words, giving her a solution to mend all the pain. Cara, if she won't stand up to her mother and pull out student loans to go to the college of her own choice, is going to the city's Lakeview. We both know she isn't capable of surviving all of the manipulation that'll come with that decision. We both know there's some things we have to accept, favorable or not.

"You're so lucky," Cara finally speaks up, her voice quivering dangerously. "You and Scout are so close and I have literally no one." She pulls her knees up to her chest, wraps her arms around her shins. "But I guess that's my fault. I never really tried to get a best friend in high school."

"Scout and I are going to different colleges, too, y'know."

"I know that," she says. "but at least when you're feeling really shitty you have somebody you immediately think to call. I don't have that luxury."

Things have never worked so 1-2-3 in my head like that, but when it comes from her lips I have to think that that's true. When Ruben gets into arguments and escapes the confinements of his home, I'll always find him somewhere near me, whether it be up in the tree in my backyard, or trying to crawl up the side of the house to my bedroom window, to no avail. Ruben has always thought of me first. And, actually, I've done the same. Mad? I go to Ruben. Sad? I vent to Ruben. Playful? I go shit around with Ruben. Every emotion has created a trail straight to him.

My stomach twists up painfully, and I don't even know why. Because, isn't that what I've always wanted? To not feel oceans and oceans away? To feel closer to Ruben than I've been feeling lately? Then there's the issue of feeling too close, like gravity's pulling the moon alarmingly close to the earth, threatening to split through all the layers of the atmosphere and destroy the very world we live in. All the answers can't point right at Ruben, just like I can't protect Cara for all my life; there has to be a balance, like the universe, that Ruben and I can be close without being close.

That balance, it seems, doesn't exist amongst humans, but only amongst the planets.

"We're not best friends," Cara suddenly tells me. "Unfortunately, I don't think I'll ever be your best friend, since that spot's already taken – and don't tell me that you can have more than one best friend, because you can't – but thanks. Really. You've been a bitchin' friend to me for so long."
I feel myself laugh, although I don't really feel in a laughing mood. "Bitchin' friend," I repeat. "You, too."

“But,” Cara declares loudly, slapping her knees while jumping to her feet. “let’s not act like this is goodbye, or anything. We’ll always keep in check, right?”

“Of course, Cara,” I insist with a raised eyebrow, an incredulous expression on my face. “I’ll never ditch my number one girl.”

Cara laughs, nudging me with her toes before she picks up her untouched mug of coffee and pours it into the grass. When I give her a look, she says, “What? I didn’t realize how hot it was out here; no fuckin’ way I’m drinking scorching coffee on a hot day.” We both laugh, and she gives me one more toe-nudge before she slides into the house with such ease that you would’ve thought she lived there, if you didn’t know her.

Cara and my relationship has been decided, clean-cut, concise. If only Ruben and I can be as simple.

◖ ◗

Ruben. As promised, Ruben slides into Peter’s Pals at about ten p.m., his hair out and wild and frizzy with Harrison by his side, looking tired and weary all at once. While Ruben smiles fondly at all the children, waving at anyone under nine years old that happens to look up at him, Harrison avoids eye contact with everyone and anyone in the restaurant. He's never been much of a kid person.

I finish up with a family of three and make my way over to where they’re standing, by the hostess stand, and I can’t help but feel the excitement making my heart pulse hard. It feels like I should've been with him all day, especially since I had lunch at his parents' house without him ever showing up, but looking at him from across the floor, he's glowing with this new sense of familiarity, like I haven't quite broken the ice that grew from our time apart.

"The party has arrived," Ruben says once I approach them, his eyebrows wiggling and mouth thinning, curling upwards into a playful smile. "and we're ready to burn this joint down!" He turns to give Harrison an ecstatic high five, but he seems to realize that Harrison won't return one just as he does it, so he lowers his hand and turns back to me.

I laugh, shaking my head. "Are you guys gonna get something to eat, or what? It's getting really busy." I snatch some menus off the empty hostess podium (Erica's shift ended two hours ago, so we're supposed to watch for customers in her absence), smiling at some of the nearby children while doing so.

"I jus' wanted to stop by and say hey," Harrison tells me tiredly, rubbing a muscle in the back of his neck and wincing. "I need to head to bed if I wanna get up tomorrow morning to do some fixing up in m'dad's garage."

“Alright,” I tell him, giving him a weak pat on the shoulder. “Thanks for stopping by, man." Harrison gives me a weak smile, shoves Ruben on the shoulder, and is out before any of us bother to stop him and beg him to stick around for a few minutes longer. As always, in a flash, he's gone.

Ruben looks back at me once Harrison manages to squeeze through an incoming party of kids and tired parents. "So," he starts mischievously. "are you gonna give me a discount on those relish and mustard hot dogs, or what?"

I roll my eyes at him, but start towards a table off to the corner anyway with the menus still in hand. It's too loud to tell, but I can feel Ruben following close behind, half an arm's length, like something might happen to separate us for good. It's been well over ten years and Ruben still had to be lead at a close distance. It's been ten years and I don't know what to call us.

I hope Ruben has an answer that's more clean cut than mine.

I get him seated and hand him the menu only for him to wave me off and push it back. "I'm offended," he says, and looks at me expectantly, awaiting the pre-determined answer to that.
I humor him, picking up the menu he shoved away. "And why is that? Because I sat you in the corner?"

"No," sniffs Ruben. Crossing his arms childishly, he tells me, "because you're treating me like a regular customer, handing me those dumb menus like you don't know what I'm about to get."

I pause. Then, "Two relish and mustard hot dogs with a large Coke?" When he nods, I shake my head at him. "I just thought you'd want something different for once; we now serve root beer floats and chocolate and vanilla milkshakes. Want any of those?"

Ruben stubbornly shakes his head, frizz flying. "The Usual. A-S-A-P."

"The Usual," I mock, faux-scribbling it down on my notepad. "And anything else for you, sir? Maybe a side of Maturity sprinkled with a dash of Smart?"

Ruben pulls a face at me. "That's it. I want another server. Maybe Rose, that hot one by the front." He tries to lean back to see past me, but I quickly stand directly in his way again, resisting the urge to knock him out of his chair by kicking it out from underneath him. He scrunches his nose up at me. "Um, excuse me."

"Fuck you." I fix the menus underneath my arm and turn to go, but somewhere between waiting for a just-seated family to get situated and a line of children to move from the middle of the walkway, I decide to go back and approach Ruben's table again. He looks up from his phone at me, face once stern suddenly softening once he realizes it's me.

"By the way," I say, raising my voice over the sudden burst of music from the speakers. "I'm going on the camping trip with you and your parents next Tuesday. They invited me over lunch earlier today."

Ruben brightens up almost as fast as Esther’s when his mind processes my words. Sitting up and sliding his phone away, he says, "Really? You're gonna go?" When I nod, he grins even bigger, if that's possible. "Dude, fuck yes! Now it won't be boring anymore."

I have no clue why I decided to tell him right then and there, but seeing how positively he reacted to the news made me feel a little bit better about packing up and being shipped off to hell on earth for nearly a week. It always felt like longer. Though, there, it's Ruben and I pretending like we're tweens again, the future a road so far down the path that you can't even see it in the horizon. In the mountains, you can only find dirt and the forest and, at nights, millions of stars; it's no place for colleges or standardized tests, or even murky, blurred relationships. For four days in hell, there's also going to be a little peace.

I look down suddenly, trying to find something familiar to sedate the sadness coming back up, and I find it on Ruben's exposed elbow. The Mickey Mouse band-aid, with Mickey and Minnie pointing up at the Disney castle, has been a tell-tale sign in the neighborhood that Ruben has hurt himself again. Sometimes there's one, like the elbow wound Ruben received earlier this week, and other times it's three or four.

With that band-aid, though, it's also a sign that Ruben will always be safe.

I briefly run a quick finger over Mickey and Minnie before I turn to go, weaving through a thickening crowd of guests. Whether Ruben felt it or not, I don't care.

Safe, right here, with me.