Eventown

by Corey Ann Haydu

“If roots are so important,” Naomi says at last, “why are we moving ours around?”

I feel nice again. Nice is a small feeling. A contained one.

I can’t seem to remember if I ever felt embarrassed about one before. Or the last time I was embarrassed at all. I can’t remember, either, the story I told at the Welcoming Center. My most humiliating moment.

Besides, I don’t need to watch her do the same gymnastics routine as every other girl on her team. There’s nothing exciting about that.

There’s nothing stressful or joyful or heart-thumping about it. She’ll be perfect, they’ll be perfect, and no one will win or lose. I won’t be missing much at all.

“Maybe this will help you remember,” she whispers into my ear. “You never know.” “I thought I’m not supposed to—” “Some of us don’t agree,” she says.

It tastes terrible, mostly. But good, too, for the way it reminds me of before. Good, for how wrong it is. How imperfect. How uneven.

I don’t want to know about things like that. It hurts. And I don’t want to hurt anymore. Not even for a second.”

Naomi takes a big, brave breath. “Love is messy,” she says.

An ache is just an ache: something that settles into your heart and reminds you that love is there even if the person you love isn’t.

I have to wait, again, before putting the frosting on. The waiting is hard. I want everything to be delicious all at once.

I want to skip over the hard parts, the boring parts, the lonely and sad and angry parts. But if I do that, the cake won’t be good. It won’t be right.