by S. C. Megale
In that hall before he left me, I had only stared at him. I didn’t say anything that was rising in my chest. But he didn’t either. He was gone.
In the space of an hour, I’d finished my homework and gotten three texts that I’d worked hard to resist. Now, filing the map away in my folder and tugging out my earbuds, I could open them.
None were from Cole Stone.
I was sure Mags would just drop the Cole topic after I’d not replied. If I was done trying to discuss him before, I definitely was now. Yes, Mags. I won’t see him again.
The next was from KC. I blinked in surprise. He was a rare texter.
I shot something back fast.
Before I could even open the third text, KC replied.
For some reason, I was hooked to this conversation, eyes lingering on the screen.
All right, interest faded. But another came in before I could tap the back arrow.
Glued again.
I huffed in amusement.
I left the typo because I was excited to get the text out.
My brow was lowered. Was he going to ask what my #OwnVoices opinion on it was, like if I thought it looked offensive? Had the film critic/blogger the class followed published a review? Maybe he wanted to know if he should read the book first.
My heart softened.
I’m not sure what was I getting at.
I considered that for a minute.
There was a pause before he replied.
Oh. Okay, yeah. That makes sense. I didn’t push it further because KC seemed to feel interrogated. Those unnecessary question marks always sounded a little passive-aggressive to me.
I told him I was in and he said he’d pick a showtime for Friday, four days from now.
Finally, I saw who the third text was from.
I hammered out a reply.
His wait time was an excruciating eight minutes.
I was smiling now. Conversations with Elliot were always stress-free and amazing.
Hmm.
There was a long-ish pause. He must have been writing an explanation.
Yup, the phone buzzed twice as it broke up his long message.
(the creepy Nate from Video I, not Mags’ asshole boyfriend, Nate 2.0)
I know it’s bad, but I laughed. I leaned back in my chair and forgot my headrest had been removed. I jerked straight before my head could fall back. If it did, I wouldn’t have had the strength the drag it back up.
If I’d had any idea what Elliot would say next, my heart would have been pounding. Instead, when I read his reply, it just stopped.
7
The tickets spurted out of the machine behind the counter. A red-vested theater cashier ripped them out. He reached over for my cash before he’d give up the tickets.
I struggled to lift my shaking arm.
Out of nowhere, a male wrist shunted my hand aside and held out a credit card to the cashier. I jumped and looked over.
KC stepped closer and forced his credit card at the cashier. My wad of cash didn’t stand a chance.
“Hey,” I said, with playful anger. “Abuse of the disabled.”
KC shook his head and smiled. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his plaid shirt and waited for the card to be swiped. Reluctantly, I folded my cash back into my wallet.
“Thank you. I was trying to surprise-buy yours, you know.”
“I know.” His skin was a little redder than I remembered, and his wispy brown hair neatly combed. The Thor amulet still rested at his chest. I ran my knuckles affectionately along his shirt sleeve. The flannel was fuzzy.
We wheeled towards Theater Five and looked around at the cinema. Popcorn makers rumbled like a rainstorm. The smell of oily “butter” made the air salty and thick. I left tire tracks on the freshly mopped tile—the yellow WET FLOOR signs were still out.
Down the hall, we passed my favorite part of the theater—the movie posters. All framed and illuminated with bulbs around the rim, I loved how they bared action and romance and thrill in one big augmented collage and the director’s name was a little line of text at the bottom. It was like the directors were saying: This. I am all of this. Every little part of life, real and unreal. I wanted to be all of that and more.
KC was unusually quiet.
“Are you, like, nervous for this movie?” I joked and beamed at him.
“Nah,” he said. A pause. “How did the editing turn out for Elliot?”
“Not good.” I groaned. But it was fake. Not a single part of me was upset that we had to reshoot Cole. I’d been bouncing on giddiness as if a blow-up castle were in my stomach. “We gotta retake the scenes with Cole because I’m explicitly reflected in the glass.”
“Hmm.” KC blinked. “How’d we miss that?”
“Right?” I said.
We approached Theater Five, the banner You Before Anyone over the door. KC jogged forward on his light gait and pulled open the door for me. I dove inside the darkness.
The temperature dropped, AC blowing in nice and cool. I could hear KC’s gentle pat on the carpet behind me as we ascended the ramp to the main theater level.
Previews splashed light on us. The theater was packed with silhouettes tossing back popcorn, rustling their hands in the bag, and slurping barrels of Coke.
I tensed up as I scanned the two handicapped accessible seats.
My heart twisted. I frowned. As usual, two able-bodied people were already sitting there. A normal couple on a date, I assumed, maybe nineteen or twenty. They were lounged back, dressed casually. He had his hand on her wrist. She was wearing long lashes.
God, I hated having to be the dick.
I acted quick before KC had time to get uncomfortable or ask if I should get a manager or even say, Wanna go to another movie?
I neared the couple and dropped my voice to a whisper. “Hey, I’m so sorry,” I said to them.
“Oh!” the guy said. “Sorry.” He rose quickly and the girl followed a beat after. I felt a little womanly hostility from her, like I’d interrupted a super-special moment. KC lingered in the background.
This happened a lot. I mean, can you blame them? These are nice seats. Private. How often do disabled people come and take the fun out of disabled spots?
I remember texting Mags about this once after Elliot and I went to see the new Star Wars.
She tried to be as thorough as possible.
If I were able-bodied, I can’t say I wouldn’t try the same thing. Get away with whatever you can. I still don’t know where I … stand … on the issue.
KC nestled into the seat next to my open space. He didn’t look over or say anything more.
It struck me how sweet this was. No one else saw the trailer for this movie and thought of me. He’d invited me out of nowhere.
Then the theater trembled as a preview for Exploding Car Chase 3 came on, and I couldn’t help but study KC’s eyes reflecting the blue light of the screen. He was more youthful than I gave him credit for. His face kinder. His sideburns came down just a little farther than average, reminding me of a John Lennon vibe. I had a weird urge to reach out and lay a hand on him.
Something on the screen amused him because he huffed and crossed his arms before I could do it. I guessed I should have paid more sociable attention to what we were watching.
When I turned my head, I saw him.
I could never mistake that lope. That beard. The way he seemed to fill even a large auditorium. Green THE FOLLOWING PREVIEW … light backlit him and threw shadows on all the rough grooves of his face and hair. His rugged hand held an energy drink can.
Cole Stone was walking to his theater seat.
Alone?
“Cole!” someone whisper-hissed behind him. He spun and smiled as two kids joined him. One dude and another girl Cole’s age. I squeezed my armrest.
Please don’t walk over here.
Wait, why? What was I ashamed of?
Cole ambled to their row of seats ahead of me and sat. His tallness, even seated, made him the m
ost protruding silhouette of the row. That girl with him didn’t make contact, and he didn’t do anything chivalrous like stand until she was seated. Were they together or not? What the hell was the situation? Siblings? Friends with Amazing Benefits?
I tuned back into the regular trailer-judgment-chatter in the theater. The Idiotic or We should go to that and the relaxed laughter. When the screen sank to black and stayed there, the crowd hushed. Nothing but the sound of hands digging into popcorn.
Suddenly, with Cole now in the room, I coiled. I noticed that viewers in the rising seats on either side were glancing sideways at me. No doubt taking in the endearing irony of someone like me seeing a movie like this, representing my people. I shuddered.
I felt like a lobster in the tank. Rubber bands trapped my muscles. So I swallowed and tried to jiggle my foot on the footrest. Tried to shift. Tried to tell my body to move and make it listen. I wanted to feel like less of a lobster.
“You okay?” said KC. I turned to him; he was staring at me.
I flashed a smile. “Yes.”
He lingered his gaze on me for a moment. I didn’t think he believed me, but he turned back to the screen and the movie played.
I tried to get lost in the story, or at least the heathery colors of Scotland that reminded me of an enormous plaid quilt lain out over rolling hills. It seemed the film would be just as I anticipated from the trailer: the paralyzed rich man in a motorized wheelchair donned his dashing Scottish accent, and he and his American caretaker fell in love. They spun themselves into one awkward situation after the next, most of which I could relate to: getting wheels stuck in mud, having to address the uncomfortable “Who’s gonna come into the loo with me?”
I should have been paying attention. Instead, I studied the back of Cole’s head the whole time. How did he feel about this? When they portrayed the man limply being dressed, Cole didn’t move. When the heavy wheelchair needed to be pushed up a steep hill, he scratched his forearm. When the man confessed his self-hate because of the disability, Cole didn’t raise a hand to dry his eyes. He just watched.
Just. Watched.
Maybe he was dragged here by the other two, and the only thing on his mind was getting some eight-fifty nachos at the counter. Or worse, maybe he was thinking of me, with pity and that helpless feeling like you just can’t wrap your mind around something.
My God, you deserve to be loved like everyone else. But it can’t be from me.
I was used to men thinking, saying, or showing that on their faces.
A buzz in my lap made me jump, and I drew my phone out quickly. Heart hammering, for some reason thinking it could be Cole. The caller ID said QUINTEN. I silenced the phone and shoved it back beneath my seat belt. KC wasn’t fazed.
For the remainder of the film, I leaned back and tried to rest.
Spoiler Alert: The disabled Scottish man decided life in a wheelchair was not worth living, so he performed medically assisted suicide to the heartbreak of his attendant-slash-lover.
When the brightening theater lights lifted everyone from their seats, tear-streamed faces shined. People gathered their things and sniffled, speaking in soft, awed voices. No one looked at me; almost as if they couldn’t.
My arms were crossed. I stared hard at the rolling credits and even forgot Cole was there. My brow was low.
“Huh.”
I looked over at the voice. KC was still too. His mouth was twisted in a contemplative pucker. “Well, that’s not what I expected,” he said. But he didn’t sound too traumatized for my sake. I appreciated this.
“It was all right,” I said. “The guy was kinda hot.”
“Oh, yeah,” said KC. “If I were gay, I’d be into him.” His confidence assured me he wasn’t.
KC rose and stretched. He scratched the back of his neck.
A line of people in the row ahead of me stood. Cole was with them, and my panic returned like tennis balls shelling me in a junior batting range.
“Hey,” I said to KC, “I’m gonna go get some water.”
I wanted to leave fast, before Cole could see me. Why was I so embarrassed? Maybe because of the hundreds of films I see a year, Cole had to catch me in this one. As if this is what I was all about.
“Yeah,” said KC, “I’m kinda thirsty too. This place reeks of salt.” He tossed his head for me to follow and headed for the exit on the opposite side Cole was walking up.
I made to move with KC, cursing the loud click of my wheelchair motor coming to life.
Too loud.
To my right, in the hallway leading to the exit, Cole stopped. My throat jammed. Heat flushed to my face and maybe some other places too.
For one moment, across the theater, Cole turned and his gaze locked with mine. He blinked, eyes a little confused, as if not sure it was me.
An instant later his buddies came up to him and patted his broad shoulder. They herded him on.
I took in breath and swiveled towards KC, who was tying his shoe. He popped back up.
“Let’s roll,” he said.
Outside the theater, I threw away the ticket stub and receipt.
I noticed KC slide his into his pocket.
* * *
Streetlights and headlights blurred out my window as Dad cruised me home. I held onto the cold metal ramp to my right as we merged onto a new highway. Staring at my phone and the missed call from Quinten. Maybe he had Wheelchair Charity Woman news. More likely he was lonely.
“So … did you like the movie?” Dad glanced into the rearview mirror.
“It was okay.”
The highway hummed beneath the car wheels.
“Just okay?”
I sighed and clicked my phone to darkness. “Dad, if you were a burden on your family, would you want to die?”
Dad was silent as he held the wheel.
“Like, for your family,” I emphasized. “Like, to free them.”
“Maybe, if I felt I was really hurting quality of life for you and Mom.”
My stomach knotted. “Yeah,” I said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I didn’t feel like admitting to myself that the movie might have bothered me.
“What made you think of that?”
I hesitated. “Maybe I could make the same argument. About myself.”
Dad’s brows pulled together. Concern clouded his face. I think he gripped the wheel harder because his knuckles whitened.
“Don’t.”
“What?” I said.
“You’re not a burden.”
I gazed out the window and tried to breathe against the weight in my chest.
“What would you do?” I said. A pause. “What would you do if I decided to commit assisted suicide, in a hospital bed and everything?”
Dad’s answer was immediate. It even shook. “Then I’d be lying down with you.”
“To comfort me?”
“No,” said Dad. “Taking the same injection.”
8
A bell jingled as Elliot pushed open the glass door and walked down the front steps of the parlor. He held two ice cream cones in his hands, and they dripped onto the red brick stairs. He lowered to take a seat.
Half a week had passed since the theater with KC. Right now I was supposed to be in physical therapy, but I might have lied to get out of it and hang outside in the sun in downtown Fredericksburg. Soon it’d be too cold. We’d invited KC to join us, but he said he “didn’t feel like it,” which was a little too honest. On Facebook, he didn’t seem to be doing anything but posting a bunch of photos of ink-and-pen skulls he must have drawn. Like, three in a row, followed by a “Three Things You’ll Abandon When You Realize Life is Shit” Reddit article. Trying not to be too judgy about how others use social media, I clicked on it out of curiosity. The three things were music, grades, and friends. I’d be more worried, but he also tagged me in one positive post about the movie last night. There was even a smiley face. Friends, apparently, were not abandoned.
I turned and sighed as Elliot sank his mouth into the cone and held out mine.
Bunch of kids our age laughed and hopped up the steps of the country-style, white-painted ice cream parlor. The boys had Lacoste shirts and khaki shorts. Probably the University of Mary Washington crowd. We didn’t see many folks from the community college here, but that’s probably where I’d end up going. Elliot, Mags, and almost everyone from our class were already getting together applications to the film program at UCLA and had been stapling together their reels. The deadline was November thirtieth. Elliot had been saving money since freshman year. It made my heart sink whenever they talked about it. Mom and Dad wanted me close to home, for my care and everything. Which meant no frat parties. No big games. No freedom. They would glance at each other sadly when I mentioned that during our talks at dinner.
They want everything for me, including college. I just wasn’t sure what I wanted myself. Living and staying alive are sometimes an either-or for me.
Elliot shook the cone—I still hadn’t taken it.
“Thanks,” I said, grabbing it off him with my strong arm. “How much?”
“Nuh-uh,” said Elliot, eyes closed, as if I were interrupting a special moment with his ice cream.
“Seriously,” I said.
“Shh.”
“Will you stop giving that cone a blowjob and tell me how much I owe you?”
“Mags bought yours.”
Mags shoved the glass door open just then and flumped down the steps with her hands in her hoodie pockets. She flipped some of her long, artificially red hair away and sat on the step next to Elliot, drawing up her knees.