Filed to story: If He Had Been With Me Book PDF Free
“Oh, I see,” she says. “And what’s he like?”
“He’s fifth in our class,” I say. Finny is third. “And he’s really good to me.”
“Well, I knew that,” she says. “Otherwise Finny wouldn’t let him near you.” She smiles and I fake a laugh. Finny doesn’t say anything. “Actually, Phineas,” she continues, “I think your mother did say something about you and a girlfriend last time I asked.”
“Oh yeah,” Finny says. He stands up. “Speaking of Mom, we should probably go. We’re supposed to help load the car.”
We are hugged again. We promise to come back again sometime. Mrs. Morgansen tells me to send her some poems and, embarrassed, I try to laugh it off. Finny closes the door behind us and we head toward the staircase again. I think about Mrs. Morgansen’s memories of us. Of course she would have no reason to think we’d be anything less than the closest of friends. When I let myself remember how we used to be, it is hard to believe things could change so quickly.
I think about Mrs. Morgansen saying we hadn’t changed, and I think of the girl I used to be here, in this school. I want it to be true. I don’t want to be so different from her.
“I’m going to do it,” I say to Finny when we reach the stairs. We both stop.
“Do what?”
“I’m going to slide down the banister,” I say. I grab the railing with both hands and throw my leg over.
“Hold on,” Finny says. “Let me get to the bottom so I can catch you if you fall.” I roll my eyes as he rushes down the stairs.
“You’re ridiculous,” I shout down to him. My voice bounces through the corridor.
“You’re wearing a tiara and straddling a banister,” he calls back up to me. I let him win and wait until he is poised ready at the bottom.
They must have just polished the wood; I fly down and have to catch myself at the bottom so that I don’t fall to the floor. Finny grabs my elbow but I right myself quickly and his hand drops.
“That actually looked like fun,” he says.
“It was,” I say. Aunt Angelina stumbles into the hallway carrying a potted tree that is clearly too heavy for her. Finny rushes to take it from her and the three of us load up the car quickly.
“Can you come to lunch with us or are you going back to Sylvie’s?” Aunt Angelina says when we are done, standing by her car. Finny’s face returns to the blank look from this morning.
“I need to go back,” he says evenly.
“All right,” she says. She reaches up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for coming to help.”
“Of course,” he says. “Bye.” He glances at me and walks to his red car across the street.
At the diner nearby, Aunt Angelina chats with me about my plans for the summer and our visit with Mrs. Morgansen. I tell her about sliding down the banister and Finny standing at the bottom. She laughs.
“Sometimes you two are just so predictable,” she says, making me think of Mrs. Morgansen’s comment again. We talk of other things for the rest of lunch, and it isn’t until we are walking to the car that she brings him up again.
“I don’t suppose he told you what’s going on with Sylvie?” Aunt Angelina says. I shake my head. “I suppose I didn’t really think so,” she says. She changes the subject again.
We are lying out on the grass looking up at the stars like characters in a children’s book. It came about naturally though, without any intentions of being cute, so I do not mind.
It’s Brooke’s backyard, and the ground is level and soft with the expensive grass her father slaves over. With the hand that isn’t holding Jamie’s, I stroke the cool, lush tendrils with my fingers. The others are scattered around close by. We had been laughing at something the boys had said, but a silence has fallen over the last few minutes, the kind of silence that makes you feel closer to the people you are with. I can hear everyone’s breathing, though I can’t pick out any individual rhythms besides Jamie’s. Someone—Brooke?—sighs happily.
“So what’s the meaning of life?” Angie says.
“To be happy,” Jamie says immediately.
“Really?” Noah says. “I was thinking it was to do good or something.”
“And I was thinking it was to have orgasms,” Alex says. There is a sound that I assume is Sasha hitting him.
“Isn’t that the same as being happy?” Brooke says.
“Well, that’s just one kind of happiness,” Jamie says. “I’m talking about having lots of different kinds of happiness.”
“But you don’t think we’re supposed to make the world better?” Noah says.
“Of course we are,” Jamie says. “That’s another kind of happiness.”
“Huh,” Angie says.
“I can see that,” Sasha says.
“I think it’s just to truly love somebody before we die,” Brooke says.
I add up everything I deeply want out of life: writing as much as I can, reading everything, the vague impressions of motherhood I cradle in me, seeing the northern lights and the Southern Cross. And other desires that I don’t let myself think on too long because I’ve already settled that part of my life.
I try to find the sum of these things.
“I think,” I say, “I think we’re supposed to experience as much beauty as we can.”
“Isn’t that the same as happiness too?” Jaime says. I shake my head. The grass pulls at my hair.
“No, because sometimes sad things are beautiful,” I say. “Like when someone dies.”
“That isn’t beautiful. That just sucks,” Jamie says.
“You don’t understand what I mean,” I say.
“Orgasms can be beautiful,” Alex says.
“Yeah, they can be,” I say. Even though I’ve never had an orgasm that can be described as beautiful, I agree with the idea. “And making the world better would be beautiful too.”
“But we aren’t here to suffer,” Jamie says.
“I don’t think that,” I say.
“But you think we’re here for beautiful things and you think sadness is beautiful?”
“It can be,” I say.
“I didn’t think this discussion would be so serious,” Angie says. “I thought everybody would make jokes.”
“I tried,” Alex says.
***
“Do you really not think sad things can be beautiful?” I say as Jamie drives me home. He isn’t shallow; surely he has felt what I’m talking about. His favorite song was on the radio when we got in and I wasn’t allowed to speak until now. I’ve been thinking of examples to make him understand. Jamie doesn’t take his eyes off the road, doesn’t look at me.
“Nope,” he says. “You’re just weird.”
“Why does that make me weird?” I say. I momentarily forget my arguments and examples. “Just because I think something different from you doesn’t make me weird.”
“I bet if we took a survey, everybody would agree with me.”