Chapter Forty-Nine

      “So, I’m sure that you’re all wondering why I gathered you here today,” I said awkwardly. The clichéd line sounded as though it would fit into a movie or be used as the perfect starter for someone of the gay community to come out. Even telling people about a marriage proposal would fit the phrase.

      “Yeah, we are,” Mackenzie said, blinking dully.

      “Well, it’s for an intervention of sorts,” I mused aloud.

      “What did we do wrong?” Kit was next to ask.

      “Oh, absolutely nothing!” I assured her. “No, this is more of a…self-inflicted intervention.”

      “Oh. My. Gosh!” my dear mother practically screeched. “Elizabeth Abigail Turner are you about to tell us that you’re really a lesbian! It would explain so much! The sports! The lack of boys! The clothes! Prom! Everything makes sense now! I swore I wouldn’t cry when this day finally came, so I won’t! I promise! Ah! This is so special, Liz! I’m so glad that you’re finally accepting your true self! Isn’t it wonderful, Kit?”

      “Uh, of course!” Kit offered up an agreeable smile.

      “Mom,” I groaned, “how many times have we been over this? I’m. Not. Lesbian. I like boys, okay? I have nothing against people who are attracted to the same gender, but, personally, I like boys. Okay?”

      “Oh,” my mom said simply, shutting up. The amount of times that she had jumped to the conclusion that I was a lesbian was quite alarming, in fact. But, at the end of the day, it was really just Monica being Monica…

      “So, if you’re not coming out, then why are we here?” Trevor questioned.

      “Well,” I began, “as some of you may know, I have grown close over the past few months to two individuals of the male gender. Basically, I like both of them, and they gave me an ultimatum: to choose between them. I need you’re help.”

      “Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter?” my mother gaped, her eyes crazy as though she was about to explode with enthusiasm. Oh. Fuck.

      “I just want your input, that’s all,” I said, temporarily regretting the decision because of Monica’s current reaction.

      “Go for Dylan,” Mackenzie was the first to speak. “He loves you—incase you weren’t aware—like, a lot, I’m biased, and I think that you two would make hot babies.”

      I stared at the dark-haired girl, shaking my head at her exaggeration of Dylan’s feelings for me. “Oh, uh, thanks,” I mumbled, as I mentally gave Dylan a point on the imaginary scoreboard within my head.

      “I’m team Eric,” Kit said with a yawn, running a hand through her dazzlingly bright red hair. “He’s cute, sweet, cute, smart, cute, athletic, cute, charming, and did I mention cute?”

      The tally was tied up as Trevor spoke. “Firstly, let me say that I think that you’re the only girl I know who asks for an intervention,” Trevor laughed, staring at me as if I was some exotic animal who would pounce at any moment. “And, secondly, I’m going to have to say Dylan because I feel like my girlfriend would kill me if I said anything otherwise and because I think that he makes you happy.”

      I nodded, acknowledging his words. “What about you, mom?”

      “Personally, I’d go for Eric,” she started, “because he’s good-looking, charming, and is going to go places in his life. But that’s me, Liz. I can’t tell you what to do and neither can these losers here. I know it sounds cheesy, but you have to follow your heart. Do what’s right.” She sent me a reassuring smile, meaning that I was to take her words to heart. “Now, I am aware that you brought the intervention upon yourself in regards to Dylan and Eric, but there’s another very important matter to discuss,” she paused. “Or I can just send you to therapy again so that I can pay over one hundred dollars an hour for you to talk in a ‘confortable environment’ and drink tea. Your choice.”

      “What do we need to debate?” I hesitated.

      “Jed Turner,” she said grimly.

      “Well, it appears as though my conversational skills have run out! Bye!” I said, hopping up from the couch on which I had previously been seated.

      “Liz, sit. Now!” my mother commanded, not an ounce of leniency in her tone. With a sigh, I begrudgingly did as requested. “Now, I understand that you might not feel completely safe talking about this with everyone here, but I don’t really care. Can you please tell everyone what happened so that we’re all on the same page?”

      “Jed decided to pop up and come over here for a surprise visit,” I muttered quickly.

      Apprehensively, Trevor began to raise his hand, as one would in an academic environment. “Yes, Trevor?” my mom took on the educator role.

      “Who’s Jed?” he questioned, unsure if his inquiry was a relevant one or not.

      “Yeah, I was going to ask that, but thought it would be frowned upon as a ‘dumb’ thing to ask,” Mackenzie agreed. “Is he, like, your long lost twin or something like that?”

      “Jed’s DNA makes up half of mine,” I answered.Trevor and Mackenzie both looked at each other, completely perplexed.

      With a roll of her eyes, Monica elaborated. “He is Liz’s dad.”

      “No, he’s not!” I exclaimed harshly. He was not my dad. Biologically, maybe—but when it came down to the real deal, I didn’t have a dad.

      “See, this is why we need to process it,” my mother pointed out in regards to my reaction. “Liz, do you have any questions or anything that you want to say about meeting Jed?”

      “No,” I immediately said. “Look, mom, I’m fine. I wasn’t totally traumatized by his visit, I just don’t want him in my life—”

      “Ahhhh! Rejection,” Monica nodded, “I completely understand!”

      “Seriously, mom? Please stop trying to act like a therapist. You do shoes and have a business degree. Stick to that,” I advised. “When you get a doctorate in psychology even then we probably won’t talk because I’m family and there’s a boundary thing, but yeah. Let’s not discuss this, shall we?”

      “Just give us a single sentence to sum up your current emotions towards him,” she pleaded.

      “He’s a dick, I don’t want him in my life, Monica Turner and the Lawsons are the only family I need, and I’m done talking about this,” I concluded the branch of the discussion with.

      “I love you too, Liz!” Kit said with a grin.

      “Thanks—oh! I just remembered something really important!” I voiced as the thoughts of Tara’s last threat surfaced. “You better not wait until the last minute!” Technically, I still had about seven or so days, so it wasn’t the last minute, per se, but the clock was definitely ticking.

      “And what would that be?” Mackenzie inquired.

      “I need a dress for prom,” I said as it occurred to me how absurd the words sounded coming from my mouth. I had verbally said the words “dress” and “prom” without a hint of aggression in the same sentence. It was a fucking miracle.

      “When’s your prom?” Kit asked.

      “April first,” Mackenzie answered for me, as she was a graduate of the less than prestigious Madison High School.

      From what Dylan had told me, Mackenzie left quite the impression on Madison High. Apparently, the reason she was stuck at Westchester University along with Trevor was because of a few too many drunken nights and bad decisions. She had a list of boyfriends rivaling the length of basketball games I had ever played in my lifetime. Her parents weren’t really favorable of the majority of boys with whom she interacted, thus her punishment was Westchester U.

      “So, in, like, a week,” I clarified.

      “Your prom is in a week and you still need a dress?” my mother demanded.

      “Yeah,” I nodded numbly.

      “What do you want to look like on your prom night?” Kit sighed, extracting her mobile phone and beginning to tap away to make what I assumed to be arrangements for either my prom experience or something having to do with the shoe company that she kinda ran the majority of the time.

      With a deep breath, I willed myself to answer, unsure of why I was allowing the words to exit my mouth. “A Barbie.”

      “A Barbie?” Trevor snorted.

      “Yep,” I affirmed tightly.

      “Why in the fucking—” Trevor began.

      “Watch your language,” Kit interjected in a chastising way that only a mother could.

      “Sorry,” he rolled his eyes, “why in the freaking world would you want to look like a fu-freaking Barbie?”

      “Mom, are you okay?” I inquired, glancing over to my mom as I ignored Trevor. She had been relatively quiet in response to my bold proclamation.

      “No,” she shook her head. “Liz, I am deeply disturbed by what you just vocally expressed. Am I dreaming? My daughter certainly did not just say that she wanted to look like a Barbie for prom. I won’t believe it. No way.”

      “So, I take it that that means you want one of those obnoxiously pink dresses that looks like it was pooped out of a tulle factory?” Kit assessed, being the only one to actually handle the conversation calmly, aside from Mackenzie.

      “What’s tulle?” I questioned.

      “Like, the thin stuff that wedding veils are made of and shit,” Mackenzie answered for me.

      Having a vague idea of what she was talking about, I merely nodded, agreeing. “Yeah, just like that.”

      “And the prom’s in a week?” Kit exhaled, rubbing the temples on her forehead with her forefingers.

      “Yep,” I confirmed.

      “Okay, I’ll probably kill myself in the process, but can I make your dress?” Kit pitched as a viable option for obtaining my fucking dress.

      “But don’t you do shoes, not clothes?” I pointed out in a slight coating of confusion.

      “Believe it or not, but I’m actually pretty versatile when it comes to the fashion world,” Kit said with a shake of her head in amusement.

      “It’s true,” my mom backed her up. “Before she got into shoes she was going for a major in overall fashion, and then met the Christian Louboutin, and it changed her view on everything forever. I’ve seen Kit design clothes. Make—not so much, but I’m sure she’s capable!”

      “Gee, thanks, Monica,” Kit said dryly in regards to my mother’s half-ass appraisal.

      “Anything for you, Kitty!” my mom sang.

      “Seriously, though, Liz,” Kit said, using the tone she usually only reserved for conducting business matters, “I’ll totally make you a dress. If it doesn’t work out—which I have little faith will be the case—then I’ll just call up a friend or something to make you a successful one. What do you say? Can I make your prom dress or what?”

      All eyes were turned to me, as I had to make the final verdict on the matter. “Uh, yeah, or course,” I finally answered the simple issue.

      “Yay!” Kit clapped her hands together in excitement. “This is going to be so fun, Liz! I can already imagine it! Oh! And you’re going to have to have a special pair of shoes, of course!”

      “Of course!” Trevor mocked.

      “Mackenzie, tell your boyfriend to shut up,” Kit snapped.

      “Trevor, shut up,” Mackenzie said with little emotion in her tone.

      “Now, as lovely as this exchange has been, and believe me, parts of it were genuinely lovely, I must be off,” I bid as I successfully managed to stand up, not having my maternal figure forbid me.

      “What are you doing?” Trevor asked.

      “Oh, ya know, just contemplating life and some shit like that,” I shrugged easily. “Thank you, and goodbye.”

      “Bye, Liz!” Trevor waved with a smile.

      “See ya!” Mackenzie called.

      And then Monica chose to be the odd one out and change things up, as usual. “Liz, I swear to g-d, if you leave this room I’ll…I’ll… Shit! I really suck at setting limits, did you guys know that?”

      “Yes,” I nodded, once and for all making my exit from the sitting area.

      With a clouded mind, I walked away from the people I had called for help on an issue surrounding two guys. My feet heavily padded on the floorboards as I made my way down the never-ending hallway that I had grown rather fond of over the past few months. It was the only route to my room and the blankness of it was always a nice way to purge any thoughts I had before entering my room.

      When I reached the door that led into the unnatural disaster zone, a plan began to brew in the depths of my cognizance of how I wanted to tackle the predicament in which I had landed myself: make a mental Venn diagram of sorts (minus the similarity section), comparing the two boys. It seemed easy enough. All I needed to do was mull over everything I knew about each of them, and hopefully stumble upon a final conclusion that would end everything.

      I extended up my hand, and clasped it around the shiny knob, pulling the door back to a comforting sight, despite it looking worse than a the aftermath of giving a three year old crayons, scissors, glitter, and powdered doughnuts with no limitations. Stepping into the space, I avoided the contents on the “floor,” and ambled straight over to my bed via the pathway of semi-cleanliness as wide as a toothpick. I flopped down onto the comfy piece of furniture, decked in a plush covering of navy with red “B”s all about, a homage to my Red Sox-loving roots, so that my head was resting on a pillow and my body lay prone. And then I began to think.

      Dylan and Eric. Eric and Dylan. The two were so alike, and yet at the same time so vastly different. One was the quarterback with a brain, the looks, and the popularity, while the other preferred basketball, avoiding homework at all costs, and to not be in the spotlight. Each had their own issues—Eric’s being that he enjoyed killing brain cells by smoking illegal vegetation, and Dylan’s that he was a bit of a loner and didn’t try as hard as he probably could. There were pros and cons to each of them.

      From an exterior perspective, the two weren’t even close to being on the same playing field. Eric was your all-American good ol’ boy with wheat-colored hair and a build that could make a body builder envious. He also had the prettiest (though the adjective was gross, it was the only one that truly fit) green eyes that I had ever seen. Then there was Dylan. He was Italian, displayed by his complexion and dark hair. With three abnormal tattoos that barely ever saw the light and giant sparking studs in his ears, he almost fit the basic criteria for a “bad boy,” if it wasn’t for the fact that he was a good kid, wasn’t looking for trouble, and a whole slew of other reasons that disqualified him. His eyes were an indescribable shade of alluring blue to which words alone wouldn’t do justice. They looked drastically different.

      Appearances aside, their internal behaviors were truly what really set them apart, in my opinion. Eric was always surrounded by others, for he had a quality about him that drew people in. Dylan was alone the majority of the time. From what I had gathered, it wasn’t entirely by choice that Dylan didn’t socialize much, but rather a side effect of losing his two best friends. Eric and Alex were popular, and the second they dropped Dylan, apparently people got the hint that he wasn’t to be interacted with, which was why at the beginning of the year, and even still now, I was told not to mix with Dylan Collins. The whole situation was stupid, though.

      In addition to the way they communicated with the world around, Dylan and Eric were also distinctive in the way that they acted in an individual environment. Dylan was calm, adventurous, real, and passionate, and Eric was pleasant, nice, polite, and easy. When I was with Dylan, there was something inside of me that I couldn’t quite place but knew that I needed more of. And when I was with Eric, everything just felt good. They each had sides of them that I didn’t entirely like, for Eric could get angry and in an unyielding way, while Dylan was persistent and didn’t like hearing the word “no” to things he strongly believed in.

      I had spent large quantities of time with each of them, starting out as merely friends, and then somehow transforming into more. Eric had asked me to be his girlfriend after taking me on countless dates, whereas with Dylan there was a connection that couldn’t seem to be broken, even with being in a relationship with someone else. They had a past with one another that I wasn’t apart of, and didn’t need to be. Now, they were making me choose between then. Eric Wilson or Dylan Collins.

      Something that the two of them shared besides their pasts was the ability to make an impression on my life. It was rare that someone was able to stick with me or stamp themselves onto an aspect of my existence. Justin had been able to do it, for he was best friend growing up and so much more. Only a handful of others had also slipped their ways into my life for good, for both negative and positive reasons. Somehow, Eric Wilson and Dylan Collins had been able to become part of the “Elizabeth Turner Will Never Forget You” Club.

      They both had a sweet side, and had said so many things to me that I could never forget. I had so many phrases stockpiled in my mind of fragments of conversations that were definitely not going to dissolve any time soon:

      “You can tell me anything.”

      “Try not to think too much about me.”

      “It’s okay Liz, I’m right here.”

      “Talking to me makes your day, and you know it.”

      “I’m not going to run; I’d never run from you, Liz.”

      “I care about you; I don’t want anyone to hurt you.”

      “Don’t let anyone ever tell you that you’re anything less than gorgeous.”

      “I didn’t date…until I met you.”

      “You’re the girl who wore Jordans.”

      “There’s something about you that draws in people. I don’t know what it is. The first time I met you, though, I knew that I wanted to know you. You were different.”

      “You’re perfect to me, Lizzie.”

      “I fucking like you, Lizzie!”

      “I could never hate you, Liz.”

      “Lizzie, I know this may sound severe and fucked up, because, believe me, it is, but kissing you just feels so fucking right! Even though I’m not currently failing English, I can’t find words to describe it!”

      There were so many memories that had been made with both boys. In the grand scheme of things, I was more than sure that there was an obvious solution to the whole predicament that I was simply overlooking, but from where I was standing now, everything was a puddle of puzzlement. Eric Wilson and Dylan Collins. Dylan Collins and Eric Wilson. The two names continued to float freely about in my brain, as if taunting me to make an ultimate choice.

      Then, I heard and felt it. My phone began to buzz, the core of the vibrating sensation right on the center of my stomach, as my cellular device was stored in the pocket located by my belly button and that general region. Thankful for the distraction, I quickly extracted the brick of technology, answering it without glancing at whom was calling, for I had a tendency to be rather reckless and impulsive at times.

      Without even a simple salutation I was greeted by a frantic and cryptic, “Liz, I need you to come over.”