"Sounds good," I said, hanging up the phone.
"They should make you part owner by now," James teased as we headed back to the living room with our drinks.
"It's only three or four times a week," I said, shrugging like it was no big deal.
"Seriously? I didn't realize it was that much," he said, propping his feet up on the oval glass topped table in front of him.
"It's either that or frozen," I said, sitting on the other side of the couch.
"You could learn to cook," he suggested as I flipped on the TV.
"No way, I like ordering out."
"At least you'd be eating better."
"I'm fine. I like pizza," I said, not liking the direction our conversation was going. I knew my existence was dysfunctional, but it didn't mean I wanted to talk about it.
James dropped the subject. "How was tutoring?"
"Bearable," I said, taking a long drink of my Coke.
"Did you get stuck with a freshman?" he asked, focusing on the mindless sitcom I had turned on. Reruns of "Saved by the Bell" never seem to get old for some reason. Maybe it was the early nineties hairdos the cast was sporting, or A.C. Slater's balloon pants, who knows.
"Nah, a senior," I said, not wanting to fess up to who it was.
"That's cool at least," he said, already sucked into the TV show. He chuckled at something one of the characters said. At moments like this, I almost envied James. He could momentarily forget about his shit life and find enjoyment in small things, like some TV show. I couldn't do that anymore, and maybe I never would again. I watched sitcoms so I could get a dose of what life could have been like. I didn't enjoy them as much as I idolized what they stood for.
One large pizza and three sitcoms later, James reluctantly stood up.
"Time to go?" I asked.
He nodded solemnly. He'd stopped laughing at the sitcoms by the time the third one rolled around and started fidgeting around as he continually checked the time on his watch.
"Maybe you'll fall asleep before he gets home," I said, following him to the front door.
"Yeah, maybe," he said in a dead voice, making it clear the likelihood of that happening was zilch.
"See you tomorrow," I said, watching his retreat down the sidewalk. I was at a loss on what to do. This was the relationship we had. When we had made our dual-suicide pact, this arrangement seemed fitting. Knowing we were now facing actually living, I felt inadequate as a friend. I stayed on the porch, studying his demeanor. His slumped shoulders and drooped head made him look like a death row prisoner heading to his execution. He never glanced back at me as he pulled the car out of the driveway and headed toward his house. God, life sucks sometimes—most of the time! I didn't sign up for this. I was ill-equipped to give him what he needed. I was too broken to help him.
I was still feeling pissy as I headed into the house. I straightened up the living room and then headed to the kitchen to throw away our trash. Once the kitchen looked like it did when June, our cleaning lady, tackled it, I opened up the freezer and pulled out an ice cream bar. I didn't even acknowledge the endless stacks of frozen meals. The contents of our freezer never changed much. Frozen meals and ice cream bars that were replenished once a week when June did our shopping and cleaning. I knew without even opening the fridge what was inside. Milk, soda, ketchup and the Greek yogurts Donna couldn't live without. The content of our pantry was even bleaker with spices and baking supplies left over from when my dad still lived with us. This was my life. It was a sham of a life, but I only had myself to blame for it.
I snagged my ice cream bar and another soda from the fridge before heading down the hall to my room.
All the tension from the day seeped away as I stepped into my sanctuary. I'd worked hard to create a space that reflected me. It was simple. No posters littered my walls. No knickknacks cluttered my bookshelves. My dresser, bookshelves and two end tables were painted a plain flat black. They used to be white, but three summers ago, I painstakingly stripped off the old paint and sanded everything down for hours until they were once again a blank canvas. I hung shelves on either side of my large bedroom window, and underneath the window, placed a cedar chest that I covered with a plum colored throw blanket, creating a mock window seat. My walls matched the deep plum color of my throw blanket. At first glance, they appeared almost black until you compared them with the large wrought iron bed frame, black furnishings and black satin sheets that adorned my bed. The TV perched on top of my dresser represents the only real pleasure I have. I love my TV more than I should, and I couldn't help feeling guilty when I had splurged on it two years ago with my Christmas cash.
Cash was how Donna and I did Christmas after my dad left. For the last four years, an envelope with cash sat on the kitchen counter waiting for me on Christmas morning. The arrangement worked fine with me since it ended all pretenses we had put up the previous years.
Christmas had always been a weird holiday for me. I really could never figure out what all the hype was about. When I was little, it had more of a meaning as I sat sandwiched between Donna and my dad for Christmas Eve services listening to the sermon on the birth of Christ. The words were meaningless to me, but I was content to actually be allowed in the big people's church instead of being shuttled to daycare. Happy to be sitting between both my parents on this rare occasion, I always fell asleep halfway through the service. The following morning I would receive presents from my parents. Santa Claus was a taboo subject. My parents were serious churchgoers, and never allowed anything that would spoil the sanctity of Christmas. After the gifts were unwrapped, we would head back to church for the Christmas Day sermon.
I was six when I realized just how different our Christmases were from the other kids my age. I watched them from afar as they excitedly talked about Santa visiting their houses and the treats they'd leave out the night before. I remember being upset that I was somehow getting the shaft, and I confronted my parents, demanding to know why this jolly fat man never visited our house. Donna informed me that Santa was nothing but a made-up character that parents had been using as a crutch for years to get their kids to behave. "The idea of Santa is evil and takes away from the true meaning of Christmas," she'd informed me, making it clear that he was as bad as Satan himself. >Instead, I did what I always did—look down, and let my hair fall across my cheek, blocking my face from view. Even with my head down, I could feel his eyes on me. Finally, after a moment, he started talking about notes again.
"Ms. Jones gave me a new study guide," he said, pulling out a crisp sheet of paper from one of his folders. With anyone else I would have rolled my eyes at how ridiculously organized he was, but it seemed right with him.
"Um, okay," I said, reaching out to grab the study guide, and feeling like a complete imbecile.
"I figured we'd do it together," he said standing up.
No, no, no, no, no, I thought, Panicking when he came around to my side of the table and sat in the chair next to me. Our shoulders bumped as he slid his chair back in, and I jerked away in response. Bumped shoulders definitely fell under the "do not touch" category.