We are the only ones here.
I stare out at the sun, watching it drop, trying to wrap my brain around this now decoded piece of information. WWSSD? What would Suave Sid do? What should Suave Sid do? Suave Sid who?
Ava presses against me from behind, slipping her arms through my elbows until her hands are in front of me, where she points a finger back at me—“you.” Her fingers now switch to a sort of thumbs up. I rock? Maybe. I try mentally reversing the position to me, but since I can feel Ava pressing up against me, that’s pretty much useless.
Right hand moves two fingers left, H, followed by left hand moving to a circle, O, and then right hand puts a thumb below index finger while hand is in a fist, T. I rock hot?
Ava’s arms pull back until her hands are lightly touching right above my breasts, then they pull down rapidly.
Forget thinking, I am gasping, as she spins me around and pulls me to her until my lips find hers. And just as I lean in, she steps back, looks me in the eye and grabs my hand.
Body! That’s what that means! I rock a hot body! Or something like that.
Her bedroom is an array of oranges. Bright. Emotional. A tapestry of sunrises and sunsets. I turn and Ava’s gaze is directly focused on my lips; like the colors surrounding me, it’s fiery. And it’s hungry. And yet, as she closes the gap between us, she gives one oddly gentle pause, and suddenly I’m reaching, closing, needing.
We fall into the bed, my hand buries itself in her hair, tilting her head back up to me. Ava arches her back, thrusting herself ever closer toward me. My denim clad leg shifts between her thighs, until finally we become one breath, one body.
SIX
It’s dark, not particularly late, but the sun is long gone when I exit the building. It’s a wickedly beautiful night. I’m smiling at the city view ahead, walking without feeling the pavement. Floating on air, I am so high.
Me and my exciting new rhythm accompanist, Bruno Mars, are apparently both reviewing the possibility of marriage, as we rock our way down the block, off to grab the subway. And while he’s singing, amazingly right on beat I’m thinking maybe, Ava, I will marry you. Drum pound around. I execute a more or less Milly Rock’ish move. Look up and freeze. Heading down the same block I am now dancing up, I spy an apparition in the guise of Ari and Imani.
Although I must say, for an apparition, they are looking a bit chilled. Why it’s almost as though they’re really flesh and blood, and have been out here waiting for a while, fake chillaxing. Which of course, they have. Because this is what one might call an ambush.
Not that this deduction requires anywhere near a Sherlock Holmesian intellect. From my personal Ava infatuation experience, I know exactly what they’ve been up to. They’ve been sitting outside on the West Elm rooftop, indulging in way too much caffeine, waiting to catch sight of me exiting the building, fully planning to cut me off on my way to the train.
I give them credit; it’s a solid plan.
“Well?” Ari demands, before her feet actually stop walking forward. She might even be described as half a block away.
Music stops. Feet land hard. Crash landing back on planet Earth is now complete.
Which I know because even in my not-so-in-it, actually-slightly-still-out-of-it state of mind, I instinctively find I am looking around suspiciously.
“They’re not here,” Imani says moving fast, still raising her voice as she closes the distance. An annoyed man grunts as he zigzags his way around me, only to then run into her. That elicits a minor rambling curse. We both ignore him.
“Jimmy and Vik can get the nicely sanitized it-was-great version.” She pauses for a minute, switching from loud and matter-of-fact to something stage-whispery-playful-coy. “Well, was it?”
Sometimes her theatrical talents are annoying.
I don’t answer immediately. I do blush, which I try to cover by pulling my jacket tighter and wrapping my arms around my body. Protective? Maybe. As we clog the sidewalk, another annoyed body pushes by. As though on cue, we fling our fake-smile, quasi grimace, all sarcasm at him.
“Oh please,” Imani’s now all business, laughing, perhaps even scoffing, at my feeble attempt at ignoring her. “We are being so incredibly polite.”
“And gentle.” Ari catches up, just in time to hear Imani’s reply, and immediately chimes in. Beat not missed.
“Now Sid, there’s no reason to make this an inquisition. We all know, a) friends tell friends, and b),” Imani pauses for a pitying look. “You honestly do have the worst poker face ever put on the planet.”
This provokes a snort of laughter from Ari, who holds up her hand for the requisite high-five moment.
And while I would love to protest, claim I am being unfairly targeted, I cannot. Alas, it is true. I do have the worst poker face ever. But I still hesitate. I’m not sure I’m ready to share anything. On the other hand, now that they’re here and they’ve asked, you know, it is intoxicating to think about sharing something. But which parts?
My mind begins replaying my last few hours, and just as I feel myself begin to smile I hear it.
“Sidonie’s got a girlfriend, Sidonie’s got a girlfriend.” It’s a low singsong emanating from my right. I freeze. But that doesn’t stop the heat flushing up my face.
Holy mortification, Batman! From the shadows about three doors away, the taunter saunters, slowly taking shape, revealing an enthusiastically, broadly grinning, up to his elbows in roguish self-satisfaction, Jimmy. He’s accompanied by a decidedly less-grinning Vik.
While they slither up, I unfreeze long enough to wheel accusingly at Imani and Ari, only to see them standing there, equally appalled. And yes, there is some irony there.
Ari attacks first, “Vik. What the fuck?!”
For the briefest of seconds it looks as though Vik is going to answer her, when instead he sinks slightly lower, shoving his hands into his pockets, and head bobs over at Jimmy.
I appreciate Ari’s thrust, I do. But I know Vik will not parry. Why? Because I already know Vik has nothing to do with this. Zero. Zilch. This genius junior high move has James I-have-known-you-since-pre-K Flynn written all over it.
And just like that it’s game on.
“Now, Sid,” Mr. Five Fingers Flynn, quarterback extraordinaire, begins, looking up from his pocket, keeping on his toes, working on where he will throw this particular ball. Is it a handoff, a short pass, going deep? Given Vik’s cower, I’m ruling out the handoff.
I watch him through what I like to think are my “hooded eyes” as he checks down.
“I am hurt. Crushed.” Jimmy closes the space between us. One. “I have known you the longest of all of us.” Step closer. Two. “I have supported you through good times and bad.” Step. Three. “From kindergarten to our senior year of high school.” Step again. Hut. “And that should mean something.” Hut.
Jimmy pauses, his focus intense as he takes one last step so we are now only inches apart, “And, even more sad, I would not expect such a show of blatant discrimination from you of all people.” Hut.
My head jerks up, screaming “incoming.”
“Let’s be honest, if you had a gay guy best friend, he would have been waiting outside the apartment, and that would have been not just perfectly acceptable, it might even have been expected.” Release. Going deep.
It’s a perfect spiral, thrown straight to the end zone. Not a defender in sight. Jimmy and I stand there, toe to toe, his smile gaining cockiness by the second.
Touchdown.
Just like he drew it up.
The crowd goes wild. Five Fingers Flynn scores again.
I look at Jimmy. My lips are pursed. My head shakes. “Oh my God, you are such an asshole.” I hit his shoulder, but he doesn’t even flinch. Instead he wraps me up in a big hug, ignoring my squirms to get away.
Through smushed face and glasses, I look around at the gang, trying futilely to ignite annoyance. But we’re all laughing, and then we’re off.
Platitudes awaits.
And I’m sure you can all imagine how that goes. It is at least a double basket of fries. Might even be a triple.
And while dodging the playful, annoying interrogation, I suddenly realize I actually can’t tell them much because I don’t have words. I know, shocking. Yes, I know a lot of words, but not of the romantic descriptor category. I can do sappy, and I can do drippy, and I can do eye-rolling, but I can’t find vocabulary to share the joy and exhilaration and wonder of my day.
I can’t even fathom that it was today. That it was only three hours ago.
But I know there are words. There are lots of words. I just need to find them.
And I do, sometime around Wednesday, at approximately, oh, three o’clock in the morning, find the ones I seek. The ones fit for my immediate needs. It’s a quote. It says it’s from Dr. Seuss. Before you snort and say, “of course,” it doesn’t actually have attribution, so that part’s kind of iffy. But whoever really did write it down, I thank them.
“You know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.”
Yeah, I know. Words. Perfect words.
And no, I won’t use them for Mr. Clifton’s final exam, the one where we submit our favorite quote. Some things aren’t meant for sharing. They are just for the knowing. And, then again, some things, sometimes, are meant for the sharing. At least a tidbit’s worth. Or two. Or forty-seven.
I am surviving our first four days of what I believe are official dating, although I’m not quite sure how. It’s hard to fathom how I’m supposed to function when my brain is driven by only one thought—fist with thumb on the outside, victory sign, fist with thumb on the outside a.k.a.—AVA.
By the time Thursday comes, I am running late and on fumes. I haven’t been able to see her all week. I won’t see her after school today. Or tomorrow. She has some presentation she has to do. I may die.
Alternatively my friends may kill me. It would be a mercy killing. A jury of their actual peers would not convict.
Okay, so maybe I am suddenly a little bit chatty about everything. Isn’t that what they all wanted? Demanded even. Details, Sid!
So I provided them—over and over and over again. It’s not like they haven’t shared their emotive harangues from time to time.
But still, Radio WSID in New York City?
Yes, the latest bout of purportedly good-natured hijinks begins with none other than Vikram Patel on the front steps to school, his hand cupped around half his mouth, using a radio voice I totally didn’t even know he had.
“Welcome to WSID in New York City, Cooper’s very own oldies station. Today, our number one with a bullet is a song first recorded in1962 by Gene Chandler, Schmoop of Earl, presented here, live, featuring our very own Coopertonix.”
Okay. I can admit this would have been genius if it had been my idea.
But it wasn’t. And the aforementioned “today’s number one” was actually yesterday’s. Today, even though I’m not here yet, because I’m running late, they are not deterred. Apparently, the show will go on.
Imani, of course, has lead vocals, so as I turn the corner, I find them gleefully harmonizing away. Hang on Schmoopie, Schmoopie hang on. And oh, great, looks like Marcus is now a member, bringing his mad beatboxer skills, to this seemingly inspired rendition from the Coopertonix. I am judging this to be a smash hit from the crowd outside, which, as I make my way through the gates, is growing.
Along with the hilarity factor, also growing . . . old. Fast.
And of course, I am spotted. Janelle, our very own mouth of the south, queen of the mean, is saying something and pointing toward me. Which is my cue to fake a grin, pretend to be completely amused, do the head bob thing and force-laugh my way forward.
I also spot Scott Olney, standing near the edge of the crowd, watching me with a look akin to sympathy. Or maybe just pity. Let me be clear, anyone whose nickname up until very recently has been jack-off is not allowed to be sympathetic. Even if I like him better than I did, we’re still not that close.
Note to self: get that fake grin cooking. Maybe even a high five or a shoulder punch as I head up the steps. Might even have to sprint up.
Because if I’m being frank, or even jane—pause for the cheap chortle—I know, my choices suck. I can run home and curl up in a ball, or launch another frantic round of cleaning, emailing, Google-ating, snapchatting, etc.
My life is becoming a debacle waiting to happen. Worse. It’s becoming a public debacle.
And cue the PING.
Saturday. 9. Penn Station. Wear your wingtips. Surprise.
SEVEN
Which I nearly totally blow. I mean, how was I supposed to know 9 on Saturday was 9:00 A.M., as in nine o’clock in the morning? I don’t use the twenty-four-hour clock. I just assumed she meant Saturday night!
And yes, I do know what they say about assume; that it makes an ass of u and me. Thanks for that.
Anyway, it was the morning teasing chat of the snap with pic of the tix that clued me in, hard and fast.
Washington, DC?
Wowzerhole. Panic rising.
Grab wallet, grab coat, scream, “Later,” while flying out the door. Feet don’t fail me now. Gasp. Run. Gasp. Run.
Down Seventh. Over toward Thirty-First. Cross over. Head down. Thirteen minutes to get there. Pull up. Hate idiots who don’t know to stay to the right if they’re not walking the escalator. Merde, people! Jump up. Slide the banister down. Welcome to the busiest station in North America. Swim the sea of humanity, maneuver through the peeps without tripping them or me. And there it is. The Amtrak area.
Breathless. I’ve made it. And she’s waiting in line. “Yeah,” I am nearly doubled over, panting while signing “I’m fine, Ava, I’m fine.”
And I am. I’m here and I’ve made it and I don’t know how, but I have. And Ava is as fabulous as I have imagined all week. And as I look up and see her smile, but before I decide if I should kiss her, or at least give her a hug, or do something other than stare, they’re calling the train, our train, and we’re on the move.
Two coach seats, side by side, hands entwined, watching the world go by. Ava looks out the window, but occasionally turns back to me. And after a week spent in a near constant state of arousal, I find I am oddly calm, happy just having her next to me, just being able to sit watching her. Until it’s “Baltimore. Next stop, Washington, DC.”
I let Ava know we’re next, somewhat regretfully. I mean it’s great that our adventure has begun, but I’ve found a sweet spot breathing in the scent of Ava’s shampoo or conditioner, almost an aphrodisiac by itself, and the motion gently rocking.
All that’s missing is a door I can pull shut.
Fortunately, Ava was not watching my face on that thought, saved by the old pulling into Union Station screech. She was busy reaching overhead for her backpack when the train did its hit-the-brakes-jar-the-people, so I now gallantly reach overhead and grab her backpack, using the train jolt to hide behind while I gather my emotions back together.
The pack is stuffed full, and to effortlessly hoist and toss it on behind me takes slightly more effort, with lots less grace, than I had imagined. But Ava leans over to adjust the strap and gives me a quick kiss, so I know not only did my gallantry not go unnoticed, but I also know the slight twinge in my shoulder was worth every twist.
I ignore the pleasure/pain even a simple kiss is generating in favor of both not embarrassing us and getting us off. The train!
We grab smoothies inside the station as Ava shares more of our plans, telling me we are heading over to her friend Emma’s dorm room at Gallaudet University. But we’re early, so we’ve got time to go to the National Mall and walk the Sculpture Garden.
Which is what we do, holding hands, looking at art, and walking. And I’m torn. Part of me wants to ask questions, but a bigger part of me never wants to let go of her hand, so mostly I’m quiet.
And quiet is hard. I’m used to talking a mile a minute, sharing ama
zing tidbits of trivia or trying to think up scathingly witty remarks, or even just scathing ones, and sometimes, on occasion, succeeding. Here I’m not sure what to do. I just don’t want to do it wrong.
The pop art Roy Lichtenstein house nearly distracts, but not quite. And I do love Roxy Paine’s Graft, which has a long explanation, but mostly makes me think of the Wizard of Oz and flying monkeys.
And slowly we are coming full circle, making our way toward the exit, and I glance back and see Hector Guimard’s An Entrance to the Paris Metropolitain. And something about Paris and art nouveau, and finally I can’t.
I let Ava get a half step in front of me, pull her hand back, lock eyes, and then step toward her. Still locked on her eyes, I lean in and give her the kiss I’ve needed to. It’s only then, when her lips meet mine, that I close my eyes, and only for the briefest of moments. Somehow, I manage to remember we are in a public place. And somehow I step back.
As I release her, I bring my hand up to her cheek and gently spell A V A.
Hands now entwined from the arms, we head to Emma’s room, and find a note on the door, “key in room 23.” I take off the backpack, set it down next to me and wait, leaning against a wall, while Ava goes to find the room and retrieve the key.
Two women come down the hallway, hands flying through the air, their faces reflecting, steering their signing choices, obviously deep in conversation. They give me a casual once-over, but keep moving.
Ava returns, unlocks the door, and with a sweeping motion ushers us both inside. I grab the backpack and enter. In one surprisingly efficient move, Ava takes it and tosses it aside, closing the door.
And no one’s home, and her lips are on mine, and mine are on hers, and we are leaning against the now-closed door, engaged in an epic tongue-of-war, and I don’t care who wins or loses.
We’re gonna go with it was a draw.
Then, as we’re snuggled on the bed, Ava unveils our plans. Which include a party off-campus tonight. Late. Very. Ava motions at her bag, at the room, until her hands splay at me, nice and wide. She might as well be screaming, “Slumber Party!” or maybe just, “Duh! What did you think was going on!”
Say Her Name Page 4