27
INTO THE DARKNESS
There’s a moment of anticipation, right before Jamison kisses me, where the air between us gets hot and electric, and I wonder, just for a second, whether I’ll survive. I think that my heart might not be able to take the intensity. That it will stop instantly, overwhelmed. And yet I know I’d do anything, risk death, to have a taste of that feeling, again and again.
I never felt that way with Zach. Kissing him was nice. Not bad. Not extraordinary. Just nice. He was a good kisser, not overly aggressive or sensitive. Not too much tongue, but not too little. Sometimes Zach would hold my face between his hands, like guys do in the movies when they kiss a girl, and my stomach would flip, and I’d think this is how it feels to really like someone. It was pretty and gentle and fine.
But Jamison makes my whole body flip. He turns me inside out. I didn’t think I could want anything as much as I want him.
After I kissed Jamison for the first time, and felt that intense anticipation, I thought this was what love is. Hot. Electric. Passion. But I was naïve. I’d forgotten.
Love is a verb, an action, even when that action hurts.
“I don’t understand,” Jamison says. We’re standing in the kitchen at the café, hidden from view of the customers, and if I look at him, cute and sexy in his apron, I might not go through with this. So I keep my eyes down.
“I just need space.”
“Space,” he repeats. “What the hell does that mean?”
It means I need to trust myself with you. It means I need to stop trying to prove I can be trusted and actually show that I can be.
“For how long?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, still looking down. “I just know I need to get my head on straight.”
Jamison brings his hand to my cheek, brushing his fingers lightly on my skin. “I like the way your head is right now.”
Every urge in my body wants to crumble and tell him what Kaydene said to me. Tell him that she planted the seed of doubt. She made me do this. But that’s just another lie. And it’s exactly what’s wrong with this whole situation. What I perceive as right and what is true aren’t matching up. Kaydene didn’t do anything. She is simply protecting her son, and why shouldn’t she? What have I done to show her I can be trusted? To show her I won’t cause pain? I’ve been blind, unable to see the world Jamison lives in. And until I can see it for what it truly is, my good intentions are a threat to him.
Jamison lifts my chin, so I’m forced to look at him. My knees might give out.
“I just think we should take it down a notch,” I say, stepping back from his touch. “It’s all happening so quickly. I don’t want to mess this up. I just think it’s better if we go back to being . . . friends. For a little while.”
“Friends.” The word comes out of Jamison with a disgusted edge. I hate it as much as he does. “This doesn’t make any sense, Amoris.”
I know, I think. This makes no sense at all, except . . . it makes complete sense. I dove in without thinking because it’s what I wanted. Just like everything else. But I need to stop doing what I want and start doing what needs to be done. And I know this hurts Jamison, but in the long run, he’ll thank me.
I give him the only excuse I can muster. “You’re going to college next year, and I have no idea what I’m going to do. Long distance never works. I just think it’s best if we think about this logically so we both don’t end up hurt.”
“That’s bullshit.” He’s right. It is. Complete and utter bullshit. “Just tell me the truth,” Jamison says flatly. “What do you really want?”
You. All of you. Every moment with you. For infinity.
“I need time,” I say.
“So, eighteen years wasn’t enough?”
Jamison is so close I can smell him, warm and inviting and swirling with memories that pull me closer to him. I need Rayne to break me of this habit. To massage the memories clean from my system. Maybe then this would be easier.
The knot in my throat tightens. Tears well in my eyes. I’m about to break. All I want is to pull Jamison to me, feel the press of his chest on mine, hold on tight and never let go.
But Kaydene echoes in my mind. I don’t trust you. And until I feel confident that Jamison can trust me, that I can trust myself with him, I need to do this.
I’m choking on my silence. If I say anything else, I’ll crumble and take it all back. But in the end, Jamison lets me go.
“Fine,” he says. “We’ll be friends.”
He walks out of the kitchen. The moment he’s gone, my knees give out and I crumble to the floor in a weeping mess.
When I get home, it’s late. I’m so tired I’m not even sure sleep will help.
The smell of food makes my stomach roll. River sits at the kitchen table, his face over a heaping plate, his hair dirty and his clothes smelling like a gymnasium. Chris is still traveling. He’s supposed to come home next week.
“I saved you a plate,” Rayne says from the sink, her hands in soapy water.
But my limbs feel too tired to move. My heart too heavy.
I stare at River. He shovels food in his mouth, smacks his lips, and chews with his mouth open, without a care for anyone else in the room. It’s all about him and what he needs. His arrogance boils my blood.
“What are you looking at?” he scoffs at me.
I get right in River’s face, my finger practically touching his nose. “Don’t you ever call my friend Sam a faggot again.”
River sputters, completely shocked, and for once I’m glad it isn’t me who can’t find the right words.
I disappear into my room, into the quiet where I can’t hear Rayne bring the wrath down on River. I don’t turn on the record player. Music won’t help. I simply turn off the light and lie still in the darkness.
28
KEROUAC AND CARHENGE
I delete all the college applications from my computer. Throw out the brochures. College isn’t for me. I know this now. I google Alaska and Boston and Detroit and Rocky Mountain National Park. I make a list of all the places that interest me. Historical music sites. Graceland. The Grand Ole Opry. Carnegie Hall. Anything that might inspire me.
Then I can’t stand my house anymore, so I go to the only place that might help me feel better. When Terry finds me in the book section of Black and Read, he practically has a heart attack.
“Whoa. Am I having a psychedelic flashback?” he asks. “Did someone slip peyote in my matcha?”
I sift through the “H” section. “Did you know a person in Nebraska made a replica of Stonehenge, out of cars? Guess what it’s called?”
“Shit. You’re talking,” Terry says. “My hallucinations rarely talk. Who are you and what have you done with Amoris?”
“You’re not imagining this. It’s me. And it’s called Carhenge.”
“Prove it,” Terry says. “Prove you’re who you say you are.”
“Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon lines up perfectly with The Wizard of Oz.”
“But only if . . .”
“You start the album after the third MGM lion’s roar,” I say.
Terry gasps. “It is you. But you don’t do books. You do music.” Terry points toward the front of the store.
“I need a change,” I tell him. “It’s not right to spend your whole life in one section of a store when there’s a whole other world so close by.”
“What kind of change are we talking? Ziggy Stardust to Aladdin Sane?”
“More like Cat Stevens to Yusuf Islam.”
Terry nods understandingly. “A spiritual shift.”
“Something like that.”
“So, what do you need?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know. I just know . . . I can’t stay there.” I point to the front of the store. “I’m just listening to the same damn albums, you know. Playing the same damn songs by the same damn artists with the same damn lyrics. And they’re the same songs my mom listened to, and my grand
ma. I’ve always considered it a legacy, a good thing, but maybe it’s not. Because it just goes on and on, everyone in my family listening to the same music, generation after generation hearing the same message. It’s like I’ve memorized my life by listening to the same damn thing over and over. I’m just on repeat.”
“Damn. That’s profound.”
“It’s sad, really. I want to know the world as it truly is, not just play along to someone else’s song, someone else’s vision.”
“It sounds like you need some Kerouac.” Terry disappears into the back of the store that doubles as his living quarters. When he comes back a few minutes later, he’s carrying a beat-up copy of On the Road, its spine held together with duct tape. The cover is faded and crinkled, and the pages have obvious water damage. Terry hands me the book. “It’s my personal copy. Take it.”
“I can’t,” I say. A used book is precious. Jamison’s copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone is in similar condition.
But Terry presses the book into my hands, the wrinkles on his face almost disappearing, and I can see the young man he once was, the one who believed peace was possible if you protested hard enough, and love could end wars.
“Books are like hearts,” he says. “They should be shared with the people we trust.”
“Wow, Terry. That’s poetic.”
“I have my coherent flashes.”
I take the book. “It’s in good hands.”
But I can’t leave without saying what’s been eating at me for months now. Something I should have noticed. A moment I should have rectified, instead of ignored. I saw it happen, and I let it stand. Because I let my love for Terry blind me. I let hope blanket truth. We put people in pretty boxes with pretty labels, so they can’t disappoint us. But that’s how we get pretty lies. We even do it to ourselves.
“Terry, I need to talk to you about something,” I say.
“Uh-oh, this sounds serious.”
“You know the guy you saw me with a few months back,” I say. Terry looks confused. “The Black guy.”
“Yeah . . . what about him?”
“He’s my friend. Has been for my whole life.” And then I ramble a bit, because the thought of Jamison turns me inside out. “A best friend really, but more than that. He actually might be everything to me. My . . . everything. I should have told you that when you met him. But that’s not the point.” I take a breath. “The point is . . . he was in here that day looking for a book. Jamison loves books. He could give you a diatribe on how he loves the smell and feel of the pages, how the anticipation of reading a new story is the best feeling in the world, how words are the most powerful weapon humans have, and how we should use them wisely.” And then I repeat what Jamison told me. “How books make us feel seen.”
“And you said I’m poetic?” Terry jokes.
But the hard part of this conversation is upon me, and I promise myself I won’t back down. Like Kaydene said, honesty is the greatest respect we can give another person.
“That day,” I continue, “you assumed Jamison was here for rap music, and then you thought he was stealing a book. Because he’s Black.” Terry starts to protest, but I stop him. “I was there, Terry. I saw it happen. You shouldn’t have done that, and I should have said something. We both need to do better.”
“But—”
“Don’t say anything, Terry. Just think about it. Really think about it.”
I thank him for the book and promise I’ll return it. Then I leave, no lighter than when I walked in, but more aware of the person I want to be, and the world I believe in.
29
WHEN THINGS GET INTERESTING
Ellis, Sam, and I sit at the table in Nicky’s Diner, sharing a plate of cheese fries. It’s crowded, like every Saturday night after a varsity basketball game. Not that Alder Creek is celebrating a victory, although River did play a good game.
Chris was there tonight. He came home a day early just to go to the game. I was shocked to see the old Airstream roll up the driveway. Chris is never home early. And the Airstream was practically unrecognizable, with new tires and the crack in the windshield repaired. It was even washed and waxed. I’ve never seen it so sparkly.
I couldn’t tell if River was happy or embarrassed to see Chris at the game. It’s the great conundrum of being a teenager—you crave your parents’ attention, but you’re not so sure you want them around.
River left the game with his friends and never acknowledged Chris. If my dad was hurt by the slight, he didn’t show it. I have a feeling it will take more than one game to satisfy River.
Most of the students from the game are now waiting at Nicky’s to hear where the postgame party will be. We’re in a teenage purgatory of greasy food and soda before everyone levels up to alcohol and weed.
Ellis is finishing up a rant about her dad’s wedding. His fiancée, Darcy, is in full planning mode—flowers, dresses, rings, location—and Ellis does not like her choices. I have a feeling no matter what Darcy did, Ellis would hate it out of spite. I’m listening just enough that if Ellis quizzed me, I could deliver a SparkNotes answer. That’s been the status of our friendship lately—abbreviated with little depth.
“I swear this wedding might make me an alcoholic,” she says. “It’s the only way I’m going to survive the next five months.” She checks her phone for the millionth time.
“Another thing you can blame on your dad,” I say into my soda so Ellis can’t hear.
She groans. “Beckett needs to text me, like, now. I can’t eat any more fries or I won’t fit into my prom dress. Paisley’s being such a bitch about this party. Everyone knows it’s at her house. If she didn’t want tons of people to come, she shouldn’t have a party.”
Apparently Paisley is being selective on who gets an invite and who doesn’t. Sam sits next to me, sketching in his notebook, his brow pulled tight. He’s been edgy for a few weeks now.
“Speaking of prom,” Ellis says, “when are we shopping?”
“It’s not even February yet,” I say.
“It practically is, and May will be here before we know it,” she counters. I don’t want the reminder.
“I might not go,” Sam says.
That gets Ellis’s attention. “What? Why not?”
“I can’t take my boyfriend, Elle. What’s the point? I’ll just be miserable all night.”
“Like that’s any different from right now,” Ellis says. “You’re always miserable lately.”
Sam sets his sketchbook and pencil down. He looks exhausted. Tucker’s at an Eaton Falls party tonight, “playing hetero,” as Sam calls it.
“He’s probably got his hands on some boobs right now. I can’t think about it.”
“You can put your hands on my boobs if you want, Sammy,” Ellis offers. “I’ll do anything to make you feel better.”
“Tempting, but I haven’t been in the mood for boobs since freshman year. I’ll let you know if that changes, Elle.”
She sticks her chest out. “They’re here for you when you need them.”
“Tucker wouldn’t do that,” I say, touching Sam’s hand lightly.
“I don’t know if I’m so sure about that. Fear does strange things to people.” Sam waves off his own concern. “It’s . . . whatever. I get it. It’s just . . . sometimes I find myself wishing Tucker was stronger. Like, fuck all those homophobes in his shitty little town. But that’s messed up, too, because it’s not Tucker’s fault that he isn’t safe in Eaton Falls.”
“I’m so sick of Tucker playing the victim,” Ellis counters. “He can’t blame the whole damn town when he refuses to speak up for himself. He isn’t giving them the chance to change. Some victims just like to be victims, Sammy. If you want my opinion, you should dump Tucker. I’m sick of him dicking you around. There are lots of gay fish in the sea. It’s time to put your hook in another guy’s mouth.”
“Nice innuendo, Elle,” Sam says. “And spoken like a true White cis hetero. He is the victim, and you’
re shaming him for it. The sacrifice always seems worth the cost when you’re not the one sacrificing.”
“Like women haven’t sacrificed,” Ellis says. “We’ve been burned, raped, sold, and murdered for millennia. By men.”
“Some women more than others,” Sam contests. “So based on your theory, women chose to be burned, raped, sold, and murdered?”
“I didn’t say that,” Ellis says. “I just think Tucker needs to work harder if he wants Eaton Falls to change.”
“Interesting,” Sam says. “So women weren’t working hard enough for thousands of years? They deserved what they got.”
“Of course not.”
“But you said some victims just like to be victims.”
“Whatever.” Ellis stands. “This conversation is depressing. Keep dating Tucker. I don’t care. I need a drink. I’m calling Beckett. We’re getting out of this grease pit. I want to have fun tonight.”
Ellis walks out of the diner, phone pressed to her ear.
“God, that’s just like Ellis,” Sam says. “Victim blaming. Remind me why we’re friends with her?”
Lately I’ve been wondering the same thing. “She throws a good party?”
“Even that’s getting old.”
Fighting with Ellis feels pointless when we’re all scattering next year. “Don’t worry. You won’t have to deal with her soon enough.”
“I wish. The world is full of Ellises.” Sam picks at a fry. “And I hate to admit it, but she might be right about one thing. Me and Tucker . . . maybe it’s better if it ended. I mean, who am I kidding? College isn’t going to make our lives any easier.”
“Could you walk away from him? Just like that?”
“No,” Sam says quickly. “Even if Tucker is touching some girl’s lady bits tonight, there isn’t love there. That’s just playing a part, for survival. Gay men have been doing it since the beginning of time. I see the truth in his eyes when he kisses me.”
But is that enough? I think to myself.
“Speaking of denying feelings . . .” Sam picks up a fry. “Look who just walked in the door.”
Jamison stands at the counter, almost instantly surrounded by people from school.
Only the Pretty Lies Page 17