The Bad Boys of Summer Anthology(301)

“I date.”

“You hook up. Big difference. But you haven’t even done so much as that since Terrence the Third came to town.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, please. Coop has been so hard up the guys are calling him Blue Balls Benedict, for chrissake. The poor guy’s standing booty call isn’t even picking up the phone anymore and everyone knows it. I’ll tell you something else; everyone knows it’s because you’re too busy panting after Trip, following him around like a stray puppy. Face it, you’re hopeless.”

“Thanks a lot!”

“Oh, what? Tell me I’m wrong. Go ahead and name the last guy you went out with.”

Lisa knew as well as I did that the last guy I could even consider classifying as an ex-boyfriend would be Cooper Benedict. And we had pretty much “broken up” over the summer.

“So, what? You’re suddenly some big authority on relationships just because you’ve got a boyfriend?”

She bounded off the bed just then. “No, not at all. But I am an authority on you. And I’m trying to tell you, as your friend, that your little crush on Trip Wilmington is nothing more than a way for you to self-destruct. I’m trying to stop that from happening. Do I need to bring up The Live-Aid Incident?”

Looked like Lisa was going for the big guns.

“The Live-Aid Incident” was the name we had given to my little breakdown during the summer of 1985. It was a few weeks after my mother had left, and even though my father repeatedly tried his best to explain that she wasn’t coming back, I secretly held the belief that at any moment, she’d come walking through the door.

I’d spent endless hours sitting up in the tree in front of our house, waiting with the best view down our street so I’d know the second she was on her way back home to us. I’d started collecting a leaf off that tree for every day that she was gone, storing them in a shoebox under my bed. I thought that if I wished hard enough, if I believed hard enough, she’d eventually come back. That’s why, even to this very day, I can’t walk by that tree without grabbing a leaf off it. I’d long since given up on thinking it was doing any good, but by then, my OCD had turned the pointless superstition into an obsessive ritual.

It wasn’t until Mtv aired the Live-Aid concert that Lisa was able to coax me down from my perch in order to come watch it with her. It was practically a twenty-four-hour event, so I spent the night at her house so we could catch every minute of it.

The following day, the weirdest feeling overtook me like a tidal wave. I suddenly became paralyzed at the thought of going back to my own house. I’d finally begun to comprehend that my mother was really and truly gone, and couldn’t bear to think of going back home, knowing she would never be there again.

My father had called over to the DeSantos, but Lisa’s mother assured him that she didn’t mind having me around and why doesn’t he let me stay an extra night?

By the third day, sure that I had worn out my welcome, my father came over to walk me back home. I packed up my sleeping bag and got two steps out the DeSantos’ front door when out of nowhere, a scream surged its way out of my throat; an inhuman sound that rocked my lungs and scared the ever-loving hell out of me. Before I knew what was happening, I launched into an uncontrollable temper-tantrum, just screeching bloody murder right there on the DeSantos’ porch.

I must have thrown myself down on the ground because the next thing I remember is thrashing about on Lisa’s front lawn, just screaming and screaming and screaming at the top of my lungs, my throat running raw from the effort. My poor father didn’t know what to do and just wrapped his arms around me, trying to calm me down, saying, “It’s all right, Layla! You’re all right!” over and over and over again.

A few of the neighbors came out on their front steps, drawn out by the unyielding sound, but I was in such a state that I barely even noticed. Mr. and Mrs. DeSanto came running out to us, but I think I spooked Lisa so bad that she wasn’t able to make it past her front door. Mr. DeSanto threw his arms around both my father and me, trying to help Dad get my thrashing under control as he yelled to Mrs. DeSanto, “Steph, call an ambulance!”

It must have only been a few minutes later when the emergency crew arrived. The whole scene from that point on is such a blur to me now, but I know the last conscious thought I had of the episode was seeing two female EMTs running over and yelling, “Hold her still!” before a white warmth spread throughout my entire body.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a hospital bed to the sight of my haggard and worried father leaning over me.

“Layla? It’s Daddy, sweetheart. You’re in the hospital, baby. Just relax, okay?”

I remember feeling so bad that I had put that look on his face. I was able to whisper out, “I’m sorry, Daddy,” but even that small effort was like passing broken glass through my throat.

Then he called out the door for a nurse before I blacked out for the second time.

It felt like forever that I was finally let out of the hospital, the doctors offering Dr. Chickensoup’s business card to my father upon my release. I spent the immediate days watching TV in my bedroom, trying to eat the meals Dad brought me on the tray that we’d always used for sick days or special-occasion breakfasts in bed. I had absolutely zero appetite, but did my best to clear my plate in the hopes that my father would lose that worried look on his face.

My third day home, I’d actually started feeling a little better. I’d never feel completely whole- I knew even at the age of twelve that those days were long gone- but at least I was feeling a strange sort of acceptance about the situation.

My mother was gone.

She wasn’t coming back.

I could either let that destroy me or I could learn to live my life without her.

That same day, Lisa paid me a visit. She walked in with a handful of hydrangea for me, and I actually laughed when she told me that she’d stolen them from Mrs. Kopinsky’s front yard.

I knew she had to be a little freaked out by the completely mental fit I’d thrown on her front lawn, and I started to try and explain.

She put her hand up in a halt. “You don’t need to explain anything to me, Layla. If you want to talk- about anything- I’m here for you. But please don’t feel like you need to explain. Ever. Okay?”

I was touched that Lisa had let me off the hook so easily. She was really the best friend in the world to me at the lowest point in my young life. She came over every day, nudging me back toward my old self a little more each time. She was the one who eventually got me swimming again. That first day back in the pool was like a baptism, cleansing and renewing. It became the one place I could count on to always make me feel somewhat normal.

For all the time Lisa spent that summer nursing me back to life, she never made me feel as though I should be committed to a rubber room. That was a blessing, because I’d spent enough time thinking that for the both of us.

The way I figured it was that my mother must obviously have had something wrong in her head to have left her husband and two young children behind. Over the years, I’d done some research on manic-depression, because that became the most reasonable diagnosis I could give to the mother who abandoned us.

After that, there wasn’t a day that went by when I didn’t worry over the state of my mental health, thinking that maybe my mother’s crazy gene had been passed down to me.

Even though I still tended to be a little obsessive about some things- my compulsion toward reading, my neatness streak and my superstitious tree-mauling, for examples- The Live-Aid Incident was the only time I’d ever actually gone balls-out, cuckoo-for-cocoa-puffs crazy. As more time went by, I was able to write the whole scene off as a one-time episode. Even Dr. Chickensoup felt that my tantrum that day was most likely an isolated occurrence, due to the immediate stress of my mother leaving me at such an impressionable age. She actually told my father that it was practically a good thing, the catharsis of experiencing a loss so soon and so completely.

I’d relayed the highlights from that therapy session to Lisa, who took the information in stride. In the years since, Lisa never once brought up the subject of my breakdown as though it were a major personality flaw. She’s never told another soul about it and had never treated it as though it were some recurring condition, waiting to jump out unexpectedly one day from under the bed.

Until now.

I sat there on Lisa’s bed, gaping at her. I couldn’t believe she was comparing The Live-Aid Incident to my relationship with Trip. “Are you serious? This is nothing like that!”

Lisa sat back down. “Layla, yes, it is. I know you. I know you’re not just hanging around with Trip because you enjoy his friendship so damn much. You’re hoping that if you just hang in there long enough, eventually he’ll come around. I’m telling you, when it finally hits you that you’re caught in The Friend Zone... you’re going to lose it. You’re going to implode.”

Talk about going for the jugular.

“Who the HELL do you think you are?” I seethed at her, before jolting off the bed, cutting her off before she could say another word. “What kind of a thing is that to say to me? WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU GET OFF?”