No Such Thing as the Real World
M. T. Anderson
No Such Thing as the Real World
Stories About Growing Up and Getting a Life
An Na
M. T. Anderson
K. L. Going
Beth Kephart
Chris Lynch
Jacqueline Woodson
with an Introduction by
Jill Santopolo
Contents
Complication
An Na
About An Na
The Projection: A Two-Part Invention
M. T. Anderson
About M. T. Anderson
Survival
K. L. Going
About K. L. Going
The Longest Distance
Beth Kephart
About Beth Kephart
Arrangements
Chris Lynch
About Chris Lynch
The Company
Jacqueline Woodson
About Jacqueline Woodson
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Dear Reader,
When Laura Geringer and I started putting this collection together, we talked a lot about the “real world.” We talked about the line that separates the time when you’re a child, when most things are provided for you, from the time when you’re out on your own, taking care of yourself and forging your own way. That line is often not an age but an event: Sometimes it’s graduation, sometimes it’s a moment of self-discovery or a time of great loss. And sometimes—as with the characters in many of these stories—we’re thrown into this so-called real world before we’re ready.
In the John Mayer song that inspired the title of this collection, there’s a line that says, “I’d like to think the best of me/ Is still hiding/ Up my sleeve.” I think that line probably applies to all the characters in the stories here. From high school graduates to teenage moms to dancers to pawn shop owners, all these characters are thrown into the “real world,” discover it’s not exactly what they imagined it would be, and struggle to find themselves.
If you are between the ages of fourteen and nineteen, and if you have ever struggled with the “no such thing” aspect of the “real world,” we invite you to submit your own short story for possible publication in the paperback edition of this collection. We’re looking for stories with strong characters and strong plots that show us where you think that dotted line between childhood and adulthood truly lies and the ways in which the real world can be different from what you expected. You can find more information about this contest in the contest section of our website: www.harperteen.com.
But before you write, be sure to read the spectacular tales that An Na, M.T. Anderson, K. L. Going, Beth Kephart, Chris Lynch, and Jacqueline Woodson have contributed to this fine collection.
Jill Santopolo
Senior Editor
Complication
An Na
1
The flickering streetlamp outside the window casts a tangerine glow in the small bedroom. The unsteady light pushes past the venetian blinds, throws trembling horizontal stripes on the empty beige walls. The shadows stretch up to the ceiling, where, taped over the bed, there is a slightly skewed poster of paradise: blinding white sand, flat stretch of blue-green crystal water, and the lone couple walking far in the distance. The vision circumscribes each day like bookends.
In the corner, near an open door that leads to a dark hallway, a small makeup mirror sits squarely in the middle of a desk. Pencils and pens pushed aside. A chemistry textbook balances precariously on the corner. The pages of a returned English short story marked with heavy underlinings and bold exclamation points litter the floor. Amid all the clutter, Fay leans forward and bows her head to the mirror as if readying for prayer. Without blinking, without a single tremor in her hand, she draws the black eyeliner along the moist pink edge of her lower lid.
A phone rings in the distance. An older woman holding a baby against her hip walks into the hallway and turns on the light. She sets the baby on the floor and answers the phone. The baby is drawn to the light of the mirror, crawling quickly down the hall. Fay’s eyes flicker toward the movement. She reaches out with her foot. And kicks shut the door.
2
Fay is bumped from behind as two women push past her on their way up the stairs to the bouncer guarding the door of the club. The taller blonde takes each step as though she is on stage. Her hands running through her hair, hips rocking, long black fur coat open with each step to reveal the length of her bare legs.
The bouncer takes one look at the women and barely shakes his head. The taller one steps forward, lightly places her finger at the knot of the bouncer’s tie. She shrugs and lets her coat fall off one shoulder, revealing the tight corset top pushing up the creamy half-moons of her breasts. He gives her a quick, embarrassed smile but refuses to move.
A strangled scream breaks the night. The woman wheels around and glares down at the crowd watching her performance. And in the harsh overhead floodlight, all the years of her life crawl out of the shadows and ravage her face.
Fay draws her jean jacket closer to her body as the two blond women pass her and walk across the street. Fay scans the street once more before shoving her hands deep into her pockets. Andy is late as usual; Fay’s eyes follow the sound of laughter to the market, where the women are flirting with the elderly Asian man putting away the flowers for the night. Some people stamp their feet and warm their hands with their breath. The first bitter night of winter catches an unlucky few without the proper clothing, and they complain loudly to each other about how this place isn’t worth the wait, but still they remain standing. Crashing music punctuates the night every time the door opens and lets in the next chosen group. Time passes and the crowd outside begins to dwindle.
A blade of panic cuts into Fay’s body and she begins to think of running away. From this place. From him. From everything. Inside her pockets, her hands ball into fists and she pushes them against her ribs, focusing on the crush of flesh against bone. Stay, she tells herself. Stay and wait. She can’t lose it now. Not now. Not after all this time. All the planning. Fay scans the street once more, and before she can think, her feet are carrying her across the pavement.
“Fay!”
Andy comes striding across the street, her long hair loose and wild, the dark curls framing her electric-blue eyes, open wide with excitement.
Fay stops and shouts in relief. “What the hell, Andy! I’ve been standing out here for over an hour.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. The F train was a mess.” Andy studies Fay’s face carefully. “Damn, girl. You lookin’ good. You wearing that blouse I lent you?”
Fay turns away for a second and then nods.
Andy pulls on the hem of Fay’s jacket. “Come on, let’s get inside before my toes fucking freeze and fall off.”
Andy quickly makes her way up the steps and greets the bouncer with a glancing kiss to the cheek.
“It’s hot tonight, Andy. Watch yourself.” He grins and opens the door. The music slams into their bodies and swallows them whole as they step into the darkened club. Fay and Andy immediately peel off their outer layer and hand them over to the girl at the coat check. Fay stares out at the crowd and self-consciously adjusts the thin straps of her silky black blouse. The undulating bodies, hard breathing, and alcohol fumes saturate the air, coating her skin with the moisture, the music, the warmth. It soaks into her tense, frozen body and floods her senses. Fay closes her eyes against the dizziness and takes a deep breath, trying to control the uncontrollable trembling rising up from the soles of her feet.
“Come on,” Andy says, and takes her hand. They push past the crowd standing at the bar and make their way to the ba
ck hall.
A few couples linger along the darkened narrow space. Andy stops at a closed door and turns to meet Fay’s eyes. She leans in close. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Fay nods.
Andy pulls back with a reluctant shrug and knocks loudly.
A tall man in a dark suit cracks open the door, his face deep in shadow. A narrow band of red light shines out from the room that he guards, and Fay strains forward to peek inside. The man notices Fay’s interest and the door begins to close, but when Andy steps forward, he pauses. Andy begins to whisper.
Fay gazes into the room. The low red lighting makes it difficult to see, but Fay glimpses the plush sofa where a few older men recline, their legs crossed, their arms splayed out along the length of the backrest. And then her view is blocked. By a woman. Her body is lean and long, and as young as Fay’s.
Andy steps aside and the man opens the door just enough to allow Fay to enter. She steps through. The door shuts behind her.
3
The foyer echoes with the sound of their entrance, the black marble floors amplifying the sigh of coats being removed and the crush of gravel under Fay’s heels as she takes a tentative step forward. He drops his keys on a dark wooden side table next to a minimal arrangement of orchids and long, dark, twisting branches. He turns his head to look back at her, and the soft light from the sconce on the wall catches his eyes. Fay’s throat closes in recognition. His eyes are green. Just like his brother’s. The red lighting in the club had fooled her into thinking that they were blue. But she should have known. The same shade as a newly unfurled leaf.
“Do you want some water?” he calls back as he quickly steps into the darkened space. The city lights beckon from all around the room, the floor-to-ceiling windows clear as air. Fay stares out at the view, and for a moment she is filled with the desire to walk straight ahead, off the edge, into the waiting night. A light in the kitchen flicks on, and Fay’s gaze is broken.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, and she can hear the refrigerator opening.
Fay walks forward and enters the kitchen. Every surface gleams with the shine of meticulous cleaning. Fay walks to the large center island and leans her hip against the edge of the black marble countertop.
“I can make you toast,” he offers with an embarrassed smile, and holds up the bag of sliced white bread.
Fay shakes her head.
He puts the bread back in the refrigerator and then walks over to the island to stand across from her. The silence between them opens up wide and dark as the stone that separates their bodies. He stares across at her, and she can see his thoughts surfacing and breaking the still pool of his face. His chagrin. His desire. His fear. Slowly, she lifts her hand to her neck. Her fingers trail along the line of her collarbone until she feels the silk strap of her blouse barely hanging on to the rounded cliff of her shoulder. A push. The strap falls. Cool air on warm skin. Her nipple contracting in response. Her body stiffens when he slowly closes his eyes.
With an abrupt turn he stammers, “You know what, I’m starved. I could use some toast right now. What do you say? Toast with a little butter? I think I have some strawberry preserves, too. Yeah, let me check.” He flings open the refrigerator. “Sorry, I lied. It’s not strawberry. It’s raspberry. Do you like raspberries?” He says all this without turning back to her. The skin at the base of Fay’s throat flushes red, naked with emotion. She quickly pulls up the strap.
“Just some butter,” she says. “Please.”
He nods and pulls the bread out of the refrigerator.
They stand next to each other silently chewing their toast. He has smeared his slice with raspberry jam. They chew thoughtfully, glancing at each other once in a while. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Wish I had more food in the house, but I’ve been traveling a lot lately.”
Fay nods and longs for a napkin but for some reason feels uncomfortable asking.
When he finishes with his toast, he turns and begins to study her face. Fay holds her breath and lets his eyes wander over her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, her eyes. Fay believes, now, he will come to her. Now, she has him.
His eyes move away, and he begins to study the piece of toast in her hands. “I know how to cook,” he says.
It takes a second for the statement to sink in and then she explodes, bits of bread flying from her mouth. She clamps her hand over the laughter. Her stomach aches from the effort of trying to restrain herself.
He is pained at her disbelief. “No, really. I do know how to cook.”
“Yeah, right,” she says. “Like what? Toast?”
He grins down at her. “I’m serious. I can make you whatever you want.”
“You have no food.”
“I haven’t gone shopping.”
“Check out this kitchen. It looks like it’s never been touched, but you want me to believe that you know how to cook.”
He glances around. “Melinda does a good job cleaning, especially when I haven’t been around for a while.”
Fay chews thoughtfully and wonders if she should ask where he has been.
“How old are you?” he asks, just as she pops the last bit of toast into her mouth. She exaggerates chewing and flashes her fingers in response.
He nods as though he already knew. “Are you still in school?”
“Just graduated,” she says.
“What are you going to do next?”
She glares at him. “What’s with all the questions? Are you like some wannabe guidance counselor or something?” She shakes her head and stares at her fingers shiny with butter and crumbs.
“Sorry,” he says, and pulls open a drawer. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
He hands her a white cloth napkin.
“Then don’t.”
“I just want to get to know you.”
“So you won’t feel guilty when you fuck me?”
He moves away from her and paces, his hands locking together behind his neck. Finally, he turns and says, “I don’t normally go to those places. I run a nonprofit. I go to jazz concerts. I like watching movies at home,” he says.
Fay looks up from wiping her hands. “And you think those men you were sitting with in the club aren’t just like you? Look. The less I know about you and the less you know about me, the better it is.”
“Fay, I’ve been looking for you.”
Fay stares at him evenly. “Do you know how many times men like you have used that line?”
“What do you mean, men like me?”
“Men who are looking for someone like me. Someone young enough to be let into that room I found you in.”
He shakes his head. “No, no. It wasn’t like that.”
Fay steps closer and stands in front of him. “Then what was it like? What is it like now?” Fay places her finger on the top button of his dress shirt.
He holds absolutely still. Fay begins to unbutton the shirt. He catches her hand and slowly lowers it to her side. “I just want to talk. I really do. Talk to me.”
She meets his eyes. “What the hell are we supposed to talk about?”
He releases her hand. “My brother.”
Fay exhales. The length of her spine suddenly prickles with heat. She turns her back to him and stares out the windows, letting the darkness of the night seep into her body. “What do you want to know?”
“Why was he so unhappy?”
“He wasn’t always like that,” Fay says, and she begins with the first time that she met him.
He caught her outside the club that first night, having a smoke with Andy. He had passed them only to double back to ask them for a cigarette. There had been something about his eyes when Andy showed him the crumpled pack. Those crazy beautiful green eyes dropping in disappointment as a simple smile of regret lifted one corner of his lips. Fay couldn’t help but offer him a drag off hers, and as he stood there talking to them, she felt him drinking her up until she felt empty with need.
It i
s only when the room begins to lighten with the red orange colors of dawn, making Fay yawn suddenly, that he realizes the time. He looks out the windows taking in the sunrise.
“Your mom isn’t waiting up for you?” he asks quietly.
Fay shakes her head.
“I should take you home,” he says, his eyes unable to meet hers.
“I can sleep here.”
He nods. “I should take you home.”
Fay opens the door to her apartment and notices the silence. They have gone out. The weariness comes on immediately, as soon as she steps inside and closes the door, as though the curtains are closing after a long performance. She hangs her jacket on the hook and shuffles to her bedroom. Her eyes droop with the anticipation of bed, with the knowledge that sleep will finally return to her as fast as it has been running away from her for the last few days. Sleep. She lies down and stares up at her poster of paradise. The dream comes and carries her away.
Even with her eyes closed, she knows her mother is in the room. Fay pretends she is still sleeping, but her mother can hear the difference in her breathing.
“What happened?” her mother asks.
“Nothing,” Fay replies without opening her eyes.
“Nothing?”
“Yes.”
“You met him?”
“Yes,” Fay says, and pauses, unsure of whether to reveal that he had known about her. Had, in fact, been looking for her. But this piece of information doesn’t change anything. Her plan remains the same.
“Luke’s taking a nap,” her mother says.
Fay can hear her walking to the door.
“Are you going to see him again?”
“Yes.” Fay opens her eyes and gazes up at the ceiling. The color of the water fills her senses, her mind, deepens the longing in her chest. “Yes. Tomorrow.”
