You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone

Since I decided this was my path, people have always told me I’d make such a good doctor, a skilled surgeon. Everyone said they knew, they knew I’d get in. How can I tell my parents? My teachers? Zack, who once said he liked how ambitious I am? Am I still ambitious if I’ve failed?

Paper fuzz covers my clothes and floor like a thin dusting of snow. My room’s a disaster zone, nothing left to take apart. Still, adrenaline surges through me, so back downstairs I go, taking the steps three at a time.

“I’m going for a run!” I shout to Ima before bolting outside.

I zip my hoodie all the way up and tie it under my chin. I forgot my special bra, but there’s no going back now. The air bites at my ears, turning them numb. The reason is because—

Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter.

My legs carry me eleven miles north. Nearly a half marathon. Track started a few weeks ago, and I push myself harder than I ever do at practice. I run on sidewalks and through parks and parking lots. The sky darkens and the temperature drops, my clothes damp with perspiration. I have to keep going. Running used to be my time to think about the future without distraction, but today I understand why everyone uses it to clear their heads. The only thing in mine is the thump of my feet on cement, the pulse of my heart in my ears.

I don’t know what will happen if stop.

But I do stop at a gas station in Shoreline, when my feet are screaming and my throat is dry. My family doesn’t use disposable bottles because they’re bad for the environment, but right now nothing sounds better than crunching plastic in my fist as cold water streams down my throat.

After I pay, I head outside and chug it all in nearly one gulp. I suck the last drops of it, the sides of the bottle caving in.

And then it all comes back up.

I fall to the pavement, my knees smacking the cement. I heave again, my stomach twisted and my throat raw.

“Are you all right?” asks a woman filling up her hatchback. “Should I call an ambulance?”

I wipe my mouth with the sleeve of my hoodie. Slowly get to my feet. “I’m fine. Thanks.” Then I’m on my aching feet again, limping to the nearest bus stop a couple blocks away. It takes me three buses and almost two hours to get home.

Ima’s standing outside my inside-out room, gaping at the paper snowstorm I left behind.

“Tovah’le,” she says, voice full of confusion. Like she doesn’t know who I am anymore, and maybe I don’t either. “What did you do?”

Spring

Twenty-seven

Adina

A BROKEN INSTRUMENT FOR A broken girl. My viola and I have this in common, and I like the poetry of it so much that I haven’t brought it in to be repaired yet. We are both imperfect, but we still make beautiful music.

Arjun may feel differently about it, though it’s been three days since I returned from my trip and he hasn’t seen me or my viola. Two days ago I performed with the youth symphony and waited around to see him afterward, but he wasn’t there, despite promising me earlier this month he would be. Yesterday I called him four times. Each time it went to voice mail and I hung up. Maybe he got bored of me. Maybe he went back to his old girlfriend, the one with the wild rose moisturizer who wasn’t his student. I imagine him and this faceless girl in his bed. I imagine him touching her the way he touches me.

I have to make sure there is still an us. Adi and Arjun. Even our names sound right together. Like music.

Friday after sundown, Shabbat, Tovah is locked in her room weeping over Johns Hopkins. I am still waiting on my acceptances; they ought to arrive any day. I am not nervous, though, only eager to know which places want me.

My parents are on a walk, unlikely to notice the car and I are gone until much later. I have no patience for the unreliability of the bus, not today. Besides, if my parents are upset when I get home, I have a feeling I will get away with it.

When I get to his building, before I can get out of my car or even find a parking spot, I spy him getting into his silver Honda Civic. He’s wearing a deep brown jacket I’ve never seen before, probably because we’ve never really been outside together. I’m not sure if I’ve ever noticed the way he walks, but he does it with purpose. Head high, back straight. Perfect posture.

I could wait around until he returns to his apartment, I suppose. Or I could head back home. He fiddles with something in his car, probably trying to find the right music. Liszt? Schubert? Mozart?

I tap my fingernails on the steering wheel. And then I follow him out of the parking lot.

First he goes to Bartell Drugs. I park far enough away that he won’t notice I’m there. He doesn’t know this car, anyway, considering I always take the bus. He carries a canvas tote with the words I ? NPR on it, the kind everyone in Seattle uses since the city outlawed plastic bags. He must be either eco-conscious or stingy. I wonder if he keeps the bags in the backseat of his car, the way my family does.

After fifteen minutes, he emerges with his canvas bag half full, judging by how he’s holding it. I wonder what’s inside. Toothpaste and hand soap. Shaving cream. Shampoo. Condoms.

Then he heads to a music shop, my store’s primary competitor, which makes me silently seethe. Is he avoiding my store, or does he simply prefer this one? Mine is better—I made sure of that when I applied. Arjun wanders around the store for a while, chats with a couple salespeople.

I send another text, trying to sound casual.