It seemed like Alanis was about to protest, but then an expression crossed her face that Audrey suspected was her trying to remember the early eliminated candidates from previous seasons and coming up blank. So instead of reassuring Audrey of her definite unforgettability, she changed the subject. “I still feel like I don’t belong here, though.”
“Did you ever?” asked Audrey.
When she’d said it, Audrey hadn’t known what reaction she’d expected. Maybe a slow nod and agood point. Instead, Alanis just looked perplexed. “Well, yeah. Obviously.”
Which was awkward. “Right”—Audrey reached out and patted Alanis on the shoulder—“then congratulations. You’ve just discovered imposter syndrome. If you’re lucky or much better adjusted than most people, this’ll be the only time you get it.”
Alanis winced. “It sucks.”
“I know. And this probably won’t help, but I’m pretty sure if you’d gone home, whoever stayed in your place would have been feeling the exact same way. Also, some of us had been feeling that way the whole time.” Audrey thought about this for a moment. “Actually some of us have been feeling that way for most of our lives.”
Alanis flopped back on the bed. “You make being a grown-up sound really shit.”
“Honestly”—Audrey shuffled around to keep facing her companion—“I don’t think that’s a being-a-grown-up problem. I think that’s a being-me problem. Although I also reckon most grown-ups are pretty bad at telling those two things apart.”
Alanis nodded, only slightly ruefully. “Yeah, I reckon you are.”
Deciding that joining them was in this case decidedly better than beating them, Audrey flopped back next to Alanis and let herself just stare at the ceiling. It felt like a strangely teenagery position to be in, and if present-day-Audrey had let her, fifteen-years-ago-Audrey would have taken the wheel completely and suggested they go buy cider from a store with a lax ID policy and then hang out talking about girls.
“It honestly really scares me,” Alanis said into space. She didn’t elaborate or explain what scared her.
“Being a grown-up?”
“That being a grown-up will suck. Because being mekind ofsucks sometimes, and if being an actual proper adult will suck worse, that’sreallyupsetting.”
“I think”—present-day-Audrey and fifteen-years-ago-Audrey compared notes behind her eyelids and came to a rapid conclusion—“I think it sort of sucksdifferently?”
“Thanks. I’m going to put that on my wall.” Alanis stretched her hands upwards as if framing an imaginary banner. “Everything sucks, but sometimes it sucks differently. Real inspirational stuff.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s cool. I’m beginning to accept it,” replied Alanis with apparent sincerity. “Everything sucks, but sometimes it sucks differently. I think I can work with that.”
“I really didn’t mean—”
“No, no, that’s my philosophy now. I’m like a…a kind of a happy nihilist.”
Still not entirely sure if she was being humoured, mocked, or genuinely witnessing the birth of a philosophical movement, Audrey lay still for a while.
And when it became clear that happy nihilism wasn’t a great conversation starter, Alanis asked, “So you really feel like you don’t belongall the time?”
“Sort of?”
“All the time, all the time?”
It was hard to squirm lying down, and a bit embarrassing to be squirming in any position when you were talking to a sixteen-year-old whose emotional health you were supposed to be supporting. “Not so much anymore. In my old job, yes. Constantly.”
“What was your old job?”
“Journalist.”
For a moment Alanis was silent, then she asked the obvious question. “I thought that was your regular job.”
“Different sort of journalist.”
“How?”
And wasn’t that going to take some unpacking? “Well, what I do now is very… I mean I love local news but it’s very…it’s small. Whereas what I did before was very…very not small. I got into it with a friend of mine. More than friend. Girlfriend. We had this whole…we were going to set the world on fire and she sort of did and I sort of didn’t and so most of our relationship was just me following her around trying to keep my fingers warm.”
