The Waves

by Matayo, Amy

  Call.

  Me.

  The heck.

  Back.

  I can’t lose her over something as silly as this.

  My leg won’t stop bouncing. I press my heel to the floor to settle it.

  The lighter almost screams at me to grab it. It wouldn’t matter anyway.

  We’re five seconds to show time and no amount of internal begging is going to make my phone ring. With a low growl, I shove it under my thigh and wait for the red light to signal me. It lights up like a laser beam to the eye. I look directly into the camera without blinking and force a practiced, relaxed smile.

  “Welcome back, Atlanta. A house fire on Poplar Street had firefighters battling for nearly two hours this morning. Three people were killed, including a four-year-old child. The boy was found hiding in a bedroom closet under a pile of blankets…”

  My voice catches on the last words, and I clear my throat. This time it’s no one’s fault but my own. Sometime I hate the news. Both reporting it and the simple fact that crap like this exists. Who started the fire? Why didn’t someone tell the kid that hiding is the worst thing to do? Where were his parents? Maybe his parents were the problem. Not every kid has good ones. It takes only a heartbeat for my mind to spiral, but then I remember. I’m on air. I can’t afford to lose it now.

  Boy. Hiding. Fire.

  I need to talk to Presley. She’s my best friend. She’s known me since she was eleven and I was twelve. She’ll know how to calm me down. Why hasn’t she called?

  I take a second, just a second to compose myself, and then keep going.

  “A six-car pile-up on highway twenty-three caused multiple injuries but just one death—the forty-seven-year-old driver of the semi that caused the accident. Bill Jacobson from Duluth…”

  Only one death. Maybe we should throw a party.

  I look at the camera and try not to roll my eyes.

  The news keeps getting better and better.

  The lighter ignites a hole in my pocket.

  My phone hasn’t made a sound.

  “Get outside, you little piece of crap! And don’t come back inside until you tell me where you hid it! Do you understand?”

  I ran down the steps as fast as my skinny legs would take me, then tripped on the last one and tore a hole in my jeans. It took the blood only a few seconds to fan out into a two-inch sunburst, soaking my skin and pants in the process. This was the second time I’d ruined a pair this week, but I didn’t know how to sew and I couldn’t go back inside for a bandage. I understood him. To go back inside meant I would get hit—fist or flat palm didn’t matter, not when I was on the receiving end of my father’s hand and either method would sting for hours afterward.

  I crawled under the porch and cried. Twelve years old and crying. My dad was right, I was never gonna amount to anything. Weak people never do.

  I dried my eyes on my shirt sleeve and stared at the tree in front of me, a large oak that had probably stood here for fifty years at least. Longer than our house for sure, and it was built in the sixties. My grandma used to say she could tell the house’s age because it was long and tan and covered in big Brady-Bunch windows across the front, but I never knew what she meant. I watched that show once and still didn’t understand, but I did think the people dressed funny. Bell-bottom pants were ugly, especially plaid ones, and you’d never convince me otherwise. As far as my house, all I knew was that it was an okay place to live when no one was fighting or stuck crying himself to sleep in the closet.

  I kept looking at the tree.

  Bark layered the bottom half in thick sheets except in the spots where I’d peeled it off. Underneath the bald spots, I’d carved my name along with the date—each one for every time my father banished me outside for the day. Memories were important to me because I had so few good ones. I figured if I couldn’t remember much about my grandparents and the other people who once loved me, my best bet was to make sure the people lived in this house next wouldn’t forget me. To be on the safe side, I kept my initials hidden to the right side of the tree and higher up, right under a thick branch. This was the least likely spot for my dad to notice. That and the fact that I burned the leftover wood chips in a secluded spot behind the neighbor’s chain link fence. I pulled out my old lighter and flicked it on, debating on where to carve my name today.

  That’s when I heard singing coming from the other side of the tree.

  “I love you, you love me, we’re a happy family.” The worst song ever written, made nearly unbearable because it was originally sung by an obnoxious purple dinosaur with a predatory male voice. Made even worse by the irony of the moment. I leaned a little to the left to get a clearer view.

  The girl. Sitting in front of the scary old house across the street, the house that was haunted in my imagination because it had been sitting vacant for nearly two years. The last guy who lived there died in his easy chair while watching television, and no one found him for three whole days. He was old—fifty-two according to the newspaper, and died of a heart attack. My dad said he deserved to die, that anyone foolish enough to live in that house alone was asking for trouble. It seemed unfair, but I knew better than to argue.

  The man’s ghost still sat there in that old chair, at least that was the rumor on our street. Although the girl sounded happy. Maybe she chased it away or threw the chair out. We could stand to have a couple fewer ghosts around here.

  Her tangled brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she was skinner than she looked when I watched her from my window. She wore grey gym shorts and a white t-shirt marred with a couple pink streaks from the sidewalk chalk she gripped in her palm. I studied her behind the safety of the tree. She looked about my age; which made her too old to be playing with sidewalk chalk. I smiled a little in spite of myself.

  “Whatcha doing?” I asked, hoping she could hear me. I had to keep my voice low so my father wouldn’t come storming out. When he got in these moods, anything could make him angry. I once dropped a plastic spoon on the kitchen floor during one of my dad’s rages, as I’d gotten used to calling them. I wound up with a black eye that took three days to turn purple and two weeks to disappear completely. School pictures were scheduled for Monday. Another ugly photo wasn’t my goal.

  The girl looked my direction and shaded her eyes. The day was warm but not overbearing, a nice change for a July evening in Gainesville, Georgia.

  “I’m drawing pictures. Wanna draw with me?”

  I didn’t want to draw with her, especially not with sidewalk chalk because the whole thing seemed rather girly. But I did want to sit by her because she was new and her company sure beat being alone under a porch, and this was the opportunity that presented itself. I looked over my shoulder as I walked; if my dad saw me sitting here, he wouldn’t like it. Or her. Not if she lived with evil spirits.

  “Sure.” I walked across the street and sat down in front of her, taking care to position myself so the tree blocked my dad’s view should he look out the window, and careful not to smear the picture she was working on. “What are you drawing?”

  She grinned, almost amused at my question. She was missing a tooth on the upper left side, but other than that her smile was darn near perfect. She pointed to a blob in front of her. “This is a butterfly. I’m going to draw a hundred of them. Here.” She handed me a dark blue chalk, the fat kind that came in a lidded Crayola bucket and sold for a dollar at Wal-Mart, but there wasn’t a bucket or a lid. Just her pink one and my blue one and a green one lying off to the side.

  She nudged me to take it. “You should draw something to go with it.”

  I pulled it from her hand, suddenly a little bit interested. But I really needed brown to make my idea work. “Is this the only color you got?”

  She frowned. “You don’t like blue?”

  I shrugged. “I like blue fine. Just wondered if you had anything else.”

  She sighed, a big deep regretful sigh. “I used to have a whole bucket, but my mom threw them in
the fire. I managed to save these.”

  “Fire?”

  She shrugged. “She burned all my toys because I was late.” That’s all she said. Matter of fact. Like burning kid’s toys was the most natural thing for a parent to do. I hated that it made me like her a little more. I guess that’s what pain looked for…a kindred soul to attach itself to. Suddenly I wasn’t so afraid of ghosts anymore.

  “Seems like a stupid reason to burn toys,” I said.

  She didn’t acknowledge my statement. “Does your dad always call you names? I heard him call you a piece of crap, and I didn’t like it.”

  “He’s drunk, and you shouldn’t cuss.” My standard answer to explain everything. I rolled the chalk between my fingers, blue smearing my hands in the same way it colored my mood.

  “That doesn’t make it okay, and I can say what I want. Besides, that’s not a real cuss word.” She said it with such conviction, like there was no room in her mind for defense or debate. So I didn’t argue with her.

  “Don’t say ‘shut up,’ Micah. That’s a bad thing to say.”

  “Don’t say ‘stupid,’ Micah. It’s practically a cuss word.”

  My mother’s instructions came rushing back. I used to hang on all her words as the Gospel truth, but maybe moms who leave their kids shouldn’t be trusted so much.

  I stopped talking then. I didn’t want to hear about a fire or burned chalk or crazy moms anymore. I didn’t want to hear about bad parents in general. I had enough crazy in my own life, plus I’d long learned to recognize the way goosebumps formed on the back of my neck when anyone said something ominous. I had a sixth sense, as my fourth-grade teacher used to say. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew I didn’t like this conversation. So I picked up that blue chalk and began to draw water.

  The girl sighed again. “Predictable.”

  “What is?”

  She shook her head at me. “Nothing.”

  I dropped the conversation completely and lost myself in the art. Creating something from nothing is nice; it lets you forget the rest of the world for a while, even if only for a few hours.

  It wasn’t until I sneaked home and tiptoed into the kitchen for something to eat that I remembered.

  I never did ask the girl her name.

  She finally called me. Right now I wish she hadn’t. We’re not even talking about the newspaper anymore.

  “What do you mean, you had a date?” The pause on the other end gives my jealous meter a chance to ratchet up a couple inches. “Like, a date date? Or just a date.”

  She sighs. “It depends on what your double use of the word date means. I had a date. No big deal.”

  What does she mean, no big deal? Of course it’s a big deal. I don’t know why it’s such a big deal, but it is. Why is she being so evasive?

  “Like, a blind date or a guy-asks-girl-out-and-she-says-yes kind of date?” I pull off a cuff link and toss it on the table in my dressing room, then reach for my lighter. Black. Silver rimmed. Sleek. The kind of lighter a wealthier man might own and pull out at dinner parties to light up a Cuban cigar while talking politics with the bigwigs. The vision I had when I purchased it. I’m still waiting for the opportunity to make the vision reality. I lay it on my desk and undo my top button.

  I’m still at work, and I’ll be here for hours. No need to wear a suit for it, though. As I slide off my jacket and tie, I can imagine Presley wanting to choke me with them. Her offense is palpable, even from her own office an hour away.

  She sighs. “Guy asks girl out and she says yes and oh by the way why is it so unbelievable that someone would be interested in me?”

  Her words come out in one long run-on question, and I force myself to dial my indignation down a notch. I can’t have her hanging up on me and making me wait again. I also can’t have her dating some guy who might take her away from me. Presley’s mine. Or she will be someday when the timing is right…even if the timing is wrong. She’s my forty-year plan; as in, if I’m not married by age forty, I’m going to marry her. I’m not proud of that last thought, but it’s there. It’s been my plan for nearly fifteen years now. The bad thing is, I’m not the only one who knows it. Even worse? I’m the only one who has us on an extended timeline.

  “How did it go? Did you like him?”

  “Yes, I liked him.”

  I pick up a notice announcing the new hire and skim through the pertinent information, ignoring the way my pulse trips once and then twice, then toss the paper back on my desk with a sigh. It slides across the desk, stopping before it makes the edge. I reach for the lighter and flick it on, staring at the center flame, at the blue that tempers my nerves.

  Presley with a husband.

  Presley with a baby.

  Presley with a perfect baby. One that probably has teeth.

  Presley with a happy life that no longer involves me.

  My mind settles on my mother, but I force it back into alignment and ignite the lighter again.

  “How much?”

  “Probably as much as Ginger what’s-her-name that you went out with last week. I had to hear all about her giraffe-length legs and fun things she did with her tongue, remember?”

  “That doesn’t mean I liked her.” It’s a crass response, but it’s true. The silence on the other end stretches until it nearly evaporates. I wipe a hand over my mouth and wait for her to respond. When she doesn’t right away, I start to get agitated.

  “Pres—”

  “Put down your lighter, Micah.”

  I flick it closed and toss it on the desk. “I don’t have my lighter.”

  She laughs, but there’s no humor in the sound. “Why do you always do this?”

  I hate it when she questions me. I hate it even more that she’s mad. Anger always precedes disappointment, and from my experience both are followed by apathy. I can handle all three from almost anyone, but I can’t take them from her. The lighter comes on again, officially making me a liar.

  “Do what?” It’s lame. Lie number two. The most common sign of a guilty conscience. Every therapist knows this. Feign innocence. Act clueless. Answer a question with a question. I do it again so the guilt really magnifies itself. “What are you talking about?” It’s psychology 101. The emergence of that question is on par with a guilty verdict and a judge’s gavel. Presley’s sees right through me like she always does.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Every time I go on a date—heck, every time I mention that a guy is even remotely cute, you start in on me like you own my thoughts. Like you own me. You don’t. You’ve made it clear many times.”

  “I know I don’t own you.”

  “Then please stop acting like it. Are we dating, Micah?”

  This isn’t the first time she’s asked. Or the twentieth. We can’t date. Broken people break people and I’m as broken as they come. I would never trust myself with Presley, not if I want to keep her in my life.

  “No.”

  “Then don’t get mad when I go out with other people.”

  Really, it all comes down to that. An easy request, but not one I’ve ever been able to manage. Deep down, I know I never will.

  I snap the lighter closed and lean back in my chair. I’m not mad, not really. I don’t own her. I just don’t want her to leave. In my mind, Presley is as much a part of my future as I am. There is no me without her. There are no lines to cross or boundaries to keep in check because they don’t exist with us. Presley is my soulmate, has been from day one. But finding a soulmate doesn’t mean you can just ditch reality. I don’t do commitment, and she knows it. Commitment leads to vulnerability and vulnerability leads to intimacy and that level of soul-bearing will ultimately get you crushed. I’ve been crushed enough by parents who were supposed to love me. I have the scars—both physical and mental—to prove it. I can’t handle any new ones from her.

  Even worse, I can’t be the one to inflict them on her.

  You can’t hurt what you don’t allow. I love Presley with my
whole heart and soul, but I will never ever hurt her.

  There’s also the fact that we don’t want the same things.

  I’m big-city. Presley is small town. I’m determined to be up and coming. She’s determined to stay back and keep a dying art alive. I’m ambitious. She is too, but not like me. Her ambition has a shelf-life. Mine has no expiration date. And as for shadows, she’ll never be willing to stand in mine. Where everyone else is impressed with my job and my status and my car and even my apartment, she’s impressed with my character. And she’s not shy about telling me when my character sucks.

  Like now.

  “I’m sorry. I won’t do that again.”

  “Yes you will. And I’ll let you, because that’s how our relationship works.”

  I swallow, my throat dry and thick. How do you respond to an accusation when you know it’s true? You grovel and hope to heck the argument is over. I rub my temples and lean my head back against the leather desk chair, then blink up at the ceiling, a familiar possessive feeling coming over me.

  “I need to see you. Come and have dinner with me tonight.”

  “No. I’m busy. I can’t just leave because you want me to.”

  “Yes you can. The paper has already been sent to the printer. You’re done with work today.”

  I smile just picturing the eye roll she’s giving her office. She never puts up with my whining, and now won’t be the day she starts. I swear I can feel her sigh blow through the phone and fan across my cheek.

  “Stop reciting my schedule back to me. I should have never told you the details of my job.”

  This time I laugh. It’s only a second before I hear her lips crackle in to the phone. She’s smiling. Just knowing I’ve made her smile has me mentally high-fiving all the cameramen who’ve already left for the day.