by Jandy Nelson
He was looking for me?
I don’t turn around; my cheeks are burning up. A few times? Be cool. Keep cool. I take a breath and with my back still to him, I raise my hand and wave bye exactly like he did that day in church. He laughs again. Oh Clark Gable. Then I hear, “Hey, wait a minute.”
I consider ignoring this, but can’t resist the impulse (you see?) and turn around.
“Just realized I have an extra,” he says, pulling an orange out of the pocket of his leather jacket. He tosses it to me.
He’s got to be kidding. Is this really happening? The orange! As in, the anti-lemon:
If a boy gives a girl an orange, her love for him will multiply
I catch it in my open palm.
“Oh no you don’t,” I say, tossing it right back to him.
“Odd response,” he says, catching it. “Definitely an odd response. Think I’ll try again. Would you like an orange? I have an extra.”
“I’d like to give you the orange, actually.”
One of his eyebrows arches. “Well, yes, that’s fine and good, but it’s not yours to bloody give.” He holds it up, smiling. “This is my orange.”
Is it possible I’ve found the only two people in Lost Cove I amuse rather than disturb?
“How about this,” I say. “You give it to me and I’ll give it back to you. Sound acceptable?”
And yes, I’m flirting, but this is necessary. And wow, it’s like riding a bicycle.
“All right then.” He walks up to me, close, so close I could reach up and trace his scars with my finger if I wanted to. They’re like two hastily sewn seams. And I see that his brown eye has a splash of green in it and the green one a splash of brown. Like Cezanne painted them. Impressionist eyes. And his lashes are black as soot, exquisite. He’s so close I could run my fingers through his shiny, tangly brown hair, run them across the faint spidery wrinkles that fan out at his temples, across the dark worrying shadows beneath. Across his red satiny lips. I don’t think other guys’ lips are this red. And I know their faces aren’t this colorful, this vivid, this lived-in, this superbly off-kilter, this brimming with dark, unpredictable music.
NOT THAT I EFFING NOTICE.
Nor that he’s regarding my face with the same intensity I am his. We’re two paintings staring at each other across a room. A painting I’ve seen before, I’m sure of it. But where and when? If I’d met this guy, I’d remember. Maybe he looks like an actor I’ve seen in a movie? Or some musician? He definitely has that sexy musician hair. Bass player hair.
For the record, breathing is overrated. The brain can go six whole minutes without oxygen. I’m at three airless minutes when he says, “Well, then. The matter at hand.” He holds up the orange. “Would you like an orange, whoever you are?”
“Yes, thank you,” I reply, taking it, then say, “And now I’d like to give you an orange, whoever you are.”
“No thank you,” he says, slipping his hands in his pockets. “I have another.” All holy hell breaks loose on his face as it erupts into a smile and then in a flash he’s up the path, the steps, and in the studio.
Not so fast, buddy.
I walk over to his motorcycle, slip the orange into the helmet.
Then I use all my self-control not to burst into song—he went to the church looking for me! A few times! Probably to tell me what he meant that day when he said, “You’re her.” I head home, kicking myself because I got so flustered I didn’t even think to ask what his relationship to The Rock Star is. Or his name. Or how old he is. Or who his favorite photographer is. Or—
Snap.
Out.
Of.
It.
I stop walking. Remembering. The boycott is no lark. It’s a necessity. I can’t forget that. I can’t. Especially not today on the anniversary of the accident.
Not any day.
If bad luck knows who you are, become someone else
What I need to do is make this sculpture and try to make things right with my mother.
What I need to do is wish with my hands.
What I must do is eat every last lemon in Lost Cove by morning.
• • •
It’s the next afternoon and I’m hurrying down the grimy fungal hallway in Guillermo Garcia’s studio because no one came to the door when I knocked. I’m sweating and nervous and reconsidering the last sixteen years. Under my arm is my CSA portfolio of broken blobs and bowls. The only reason I even have a portfolio is because we’re required to take a progression of pictures of every piece we make. My progressions are insane, certainly not an advertisement of ability—more like an accounting of a ceramic shop after an earthquake.
Right before I enter the mailroom, I hear the English-accented voice and a whole percussion section bursts to life in my chest. I back against the wall, try to silence the pounding. I was hoping he wouldn’t be here. And hoping he would be. And hoping I’d stop hoping he would be. However, I’ve come prepared.
Carrying a burnt candle stub will extinguish feelings of love
should they arise
(Front left pocket.)
Soak a mirror in vinegar to deflect unwanted attention
(Back pocket.)
To change the leanings of the heart, wear a wasp nest on the head
(Not this desperate. Yet.)
Alas, perhaps I’m not prepared for this: sex noises. Unmistakable sex noises. Moaning and groaning and obscene murmurings. Is this why nobody answered the door? In an English accent, I hear: “Holy Christ, so good. God, soooooo damn good. Better than any drug, I mean any. Better than anything.” Followed by a long drawl of a moan.
Then a deeper groan, which must be Guillermo’s. Because they’re lovers! Of course. How stupid could I be? The English guy is Guillermo’s boyfriend, not his long-lost son. But he sure seemed straight when he was taking pictures of me in church and when he was talking to me outside the studio yesterday too. So attentive. Did I misread him? Or maybe he’s bi? And what about all Guillermo’s hyper-heterosexual artwork?
And not to judge, but cradle-rob much? There’s probably a quarter century between them.
Should I leave? They seem to have settled down and are now just bantering back and forth. I listen closely. The English guy is trying to convince Guillermo to go to some type of sauna with him later this afternoon. Definitely gay. Good. This is great news, actually. The boycott will be a snap to maintain, oranges or no oranges.
I make a bunch of noise, stamping on the floor, clearing my throat several times, a few more stomps, then step around the corner.
In front of me is a fully clothed Guillermo and a fully clothed English guy on opposite sides of a chessboard. There’s no indication they were just in the throes of passion. Each has a half-eaten donut in his hand.
“Very clever, aren’t we?” the English guy says to me at once. “Never would’ve suspected you of such subterfuge, whoever you are.” With his free hand, he reaches into the messenger bag resting beside him and pulls out the orange. In a flash it’s airborne, then in my hand, and his face has broken into five million pieces of happiness. “Nice catch,” he says.
Victorious, he takes a bite of donut, then moans theatrically.
Okay. Not gay. Not lovers, they both just appear to like donuts more than your average bear. And what am I going to do now? Because my invisibility uniform doesn’t seem to work with this guy. And ditto the vinegar-soaked mirror and extinguished candle stub.
I stuff the orange in with the onion and pull my cap down.
Guillermo gives me a curious look. “So you’ve already met the resident guru? Oscar is trying to enlighten me as usual.” Oscar. He has a name and it’s Oscar, not that I care, though I do like the way Guillermo says it: Oscore! Guillermo continues. “Every day, something else. Today it is Bikram yoga.” Ah, the sauna. “You know this yoga?” he asks me.
“I know that’s a real lot of bacteria in one hot sweaty room,” I tell Guillermo.
He drops his head back and laughs heartily. “She is so crazy with the germs, Oscore! She think Frida Kahlo is going to kill me.” This relaxes me. He relaxes me. Who would’ve thought Guillermo Garcia, The Rock Star of the Sculpture World, would have this soothing effect on me? Maybe he’s the meadow!
A surprised look has crossed Oscar’s face as he studies Guillermo, then me. “So how did the two of you meet?” he asks.
I rest my portfolio and bag against an easy chair that’s smothered in unopened mail. “He caught me on the fire escape spying on him.”
Oscar’s eyes widen but his attention’s back on the chessboard. He moves a piece. “And you’re still sentient? Impressive.” He pops the remaining piece of donut in his mouth and closes his eyes as he slowly chews. I can see the rapture taking him over. Jesus. That must be some donut. I tear my eyes off him, hard to do.
“She win me over,” Guillermo says while studying Oscar’s move. “Like you win me over, Oscore. Long time ago.” His face darkens. “Ay, cabrón.” He starts muttering in Spanish as he nudges a piece forward.
“G. saved my life,” Oscar says with affection. “And checkmate, mate.” He leans back on his chair, balancing on the rear legs, says, “I hear they’re giving lessons down at the senior center.”
Guillermo groans, for the first time not donut-related, and flips the board so pieces go flying in every direction. “I kill you in your sleep,” he says, which makes Oscar laugh, then Guillermo picks up a white bakery bag and holds it out to me.
I decline, way too nervous to eat.
“‘The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom,’” Oscar says to me, still balancing on the back legs of his chair. “William Blake.”
Guillermo says to him, “Yes, very good, one of your twelve steps, Oscore?” I look at Oscore. Is he in AA? I didn’t know you could be an alcoholic if you weren’t old. Or maybe he’s in NA? Didn’t he just say something about no drug being as good as that donut. Is he a drug addict? He did say he has impulse-control issues.
“Indeed,” Oscar says with a smile. “The step known only to the in crowd.”
“How did you save his life?” I ask Guillermo, dying to know.
But it’s Oscar who answers. “He found me half dead from pills and booze in the park and somehow recognized me. According to him: ‘I hoist Oscore over my shoulders like a deer’”—he’s slipped into a perfect Guillermo Garcia impersonation that includes hand gestures—“‘and I carry him across town like Superman and deposit him in the loft.’” He turns back into himself. “All I know is I woke up with G.’s monstrous face in mine”—he laughs his god-awful laugh—“and had no idea how it had gotten there. It was mad. He started barking orders at me right away. Told me I could stay here if I got clean. Ordered me to go to ‘two meetings a day, understand, Oscore? The NA in the morning, the AA in the evening.’ Then, maybe because I’m English, I don’t know, he quoted Winston Churchill: ‘If you’re going through hell, keep going.’ Understand, Oscore? Morning, noon, and night he said this to me: ‘If you’re going through hell, keep going,’ so I did. I kept going and going and now I’m at university and not dead in a ditch somewhere and that is how he saved my life. Highly abridged and sanitized. It was hell.”
And that is why there are several lifetimes in Oscar’s face.
And he is in college.
I glance down at my sneakers, thinking about that Churchill quote. What if there was a time when I was going through hell too, but I didn’t have the courage to keep going? So I just stopped. Pressed pause. What if I’m still on pause?
Guillermo says, “And to thank me for saving his life, he beat me at chess every single day since.”
I look at the two of them mirroring each other across the table and realize: They are father and son, just not by blood. I didn’t know that family members could just find each other, choose each other like they have. I love the idea. And I’d like to trade in Dad and Noah for these two.
Guillermo shakes the bag at me. “Your first lesson: My studio is not a democracy. Have a donut.”
I walk over and peek into the bag. The smell almost makes my knees give out—they weren’t exaggerating. “Wow,” I hear myself say. They both smile. I choose one. It’s not covered in chocolate but drowned in it. And it’s still warm.
“Ten dollars says you can’t eat that donut without moaning,” Oscar says. “Or closing your eyes.” He looks at me in a way that causes a minor cerebral hemorrhage. “Actually, let’s say twenty. I remember how you got in front of the camera.” He knew how I’d felt that day in church?
He holds out his hand to seal the bet.
I shake it—and quite sure I experience close to a lethal dose of electricity. I’m in trouble.
No time to dwell, though. Guillermo and Oscar are giving the show before them—me—their undivided attention. How did I get into this? Tentatively, I lift the donut to my mouth. I take a small bite and despite the fact that all I want to do is close my eyes and moan a porn soundtrack, I resist.
Oh . . . It’s harder than I thought! The second bite is bigger and brings joy to each cell in my body. This is the kind of thing you should only do in private, not with a Guillermo and an Oscore staring you down, both of them with arms crossed and very superior expressions on their faces.
I’m going to have to up the ante. I mean, I have a bevy of horrific diseases to choose from, don’t I? Diseases to imagine in vivid moan-repressing detail. Skin conditions are the worst.
“So there’s this disease,” I tell them, taking a bite, “called tungiasis where fleas burrow and lay eggs beneath your skin and you can see them hatching and moving around under there, all over your body.”
I take in their appalled expressions. Ha! Three bites down.
“Remarkable, even with the fleas,” Guillermo says to Oscar.
“She doesn’t have a prayer,” he replies.
I bring out the heavy artillery.
“There was this Indonesian fisherman,” I tell them. “He’s called The Tree Man because he had such a severe case of human papiloma virus of the skin that thirteen pounds of horn-like warts had to be removed from his body.” I make eye contact with one, then the other, repeat, “Thirteen pounds of warts.”
I relate the way the poor Tree Man’s extremities hung from him like gnarled trunks, and with that disturbing image firmly planted in my head, I’m pumped, confident, and take a bigger bite. But it’s the wrong move. The rich warm chocolate overtakes my mouth, erases my mind, spinning me into a state of transcendence. Tree Man or not, I’m defenseless and the next thing I know, my eyes are closed and out of my mouth explodes, “Oh my fucking God! What’s in this?” I take another bite and then unleash a moan so obscene I can’t believe it came out of me.
Oscar laughs. Guillermo, equally pleased, says, “There it is. The government should use Dwyer’s donuts to control our minds.”
I dredge a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from my jeans pocket, but Oscar holds up a hand. “First loss on the house.”
Guillermo pulls up a chair for me—it feels like being admitted into a club—then holds the bag out. We each take another donut, and then the three of us proceed to visit with Clark Gable.
After, Guillermo slaps his thighs with his hands and says, “Okay, CJ, now we get to it. I leave a message for Sandy this morning on his voicemail. I tell him I agree to do a studio credit for your winter term.” He stands.
“Thank you. This is so amazing.” I stand too, feeling jittery, wishing we could just sit around and eat donuts all afternoon. “But how . . .” I realized last night I hadn’t yet told him my name.
He registers my surprise. “Oh. Sandy leave a message on the machine, a garbled message—I kick that old machine one too many times—said a CJ wanted to work in stone. That is
all I understand. Days ago, he call. I did not check until today.”
“CJ,” Oscar says like it’s a revelation.
I’m about to tell them my real name, then decide not to. Maybe for once I don’t have to be Dianna Sweetwine’s poor motherless daughter.
Frida Kahlo slinks into the room and pads over to Oscar, curling around his leg. He picks her up and she nuzzles her nose into his neck, purring like a turbine. “I have a way with the ladies,” he says to me, stroking Frida under her chin with his index finger.
“I wouldn’t notice,” I say. “I’m on a boycott.”
He lifts his green and brown Cezanne eyes. His eyelashes are so black they look wet. “A boycott?” he asks.
“A boy boycott.”
“Really?” he says with a grin. “I’ll take that as a challenge.”
Help.
“Behave, Oscore,” Guillermo berates. “Okay,” he says to me. “Now we find out what you are made of. Ready?” My legs go weak. I’m made of fraud. And Guillermo’s about to realize.
He puts a hand on Oscar’s shoulder.
“I have to meet Sophia in two hours,” Oscar says. “That work?”
Sophia? Who’s Sophia?
Not that I care. In the slightest.
But who is she?
And work for what?
Oscar starts taking off his clothes.
I repeat: Oscar is taking off his clothes!
My mind’s racing and my hands are swampy and Oscar’s cool violet bowling shirt is now strewn across the back of a chair and his chest is sinewy and beautiful, his muscles long and taut and defined, his skin smooth and tanned, not that I notice! There’s a tattoo of Sagittarius on his left bicep and what looks like a Franz Marc blue horse on his right shoulder that twists all the way up his neck.
Now he’s unfastening the button of his jeans.
“What are you doing?” I ask, panicking. Imagining the meadow. Imagining the relaxing effing meadow!
“Getting ready,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Getting ready for what?” I ask his bare butt as he struts in that slow summer way of his across the room and grabs a blue robe from a hook on the wall next to the smocks. He swings it over his shoulder and heads down the hall to the studio.