I reacted totally on crazed instinct. Daniel was seated next to me, and I leaned over and grabbed his face and planted a big kiss on him as Keira and Jacob approached the table. Daniel was stunned but recovered quickly when he realized who was standing before us.
“Hey, Danielle,” Keira said. “Is this your boyfriend?”
In quite deliberate language I said, “Yes, Keira, this is my boyfriend, Daniel. And Daniel this is Jacob.”
“Hey, man,” Jacob condescended.
Daniel brilliantly continued, “Hey, are you guys joining our Save the Children dinner meeting? We can pull up chairs.”
Lisa was stunned. She had no idea what was going on, and all the other doofuses just stared in disbelief that I had kissed Daniel so boldly. Iggie threw some paper bird in the air and slammed his head down on the table. So weird.
Jacob said, “Naw, we’re here to eat before we see a movie. But you guys have fun saving the planet. Later, Danielle.”
After they left, Lisa lectured everyone on the poor social graces of lying about yourself out in public. “You all have nothing to be ashamed of, so covering up who you are to impress others is not necessary. Now I expect all of us to think about what we can actually do to begin to save the children in order to live up to the lie that Daniel has set forth tonight.”
“Well, then I’d say my lie was a good thing. Getting this group to do something other than whine about our circumstances can only be good. I, for one, think we should shift the entire social skills class into a Save the Children group. All in favor?” Every hand shot up.
Mission accomplished.
Daniel did talk to me about not using him to make myself look better to Jacob, even though he did agree to go to my prom with me because he could masquerade as a full-fledged straight guy and stare at all the boys without fear of fists. He couldn’t see what I saw in Jacob, actually. I thought for sure Daniel would take one look at him and fall in love.
“No. If I know up front he’s straight but an asshole, the asshole trumps straight, and I’m immediately turned off. Generally, I have to discover them on my own, like them first, think they are dreamy and perfect and smell good, and then I find out they are jerks, get my face smashed into a locker or some metaphorical equivalent, and then get over them. You took the locker to the face for me on this one. He’s got a little prick—you can tell.”
“OMG, really?”
“Totally.”
*JUSTINE LETTER*
Dear Danielle,
How nice your friend is gay. That’s just fine by me. As far as how you stand out, just know everyone stands out. Each life is a unique blend of energy that colors the planet. Think about the energy that is you, that you give off. Where did that energy come from? What has happened in your life that gave you your unique you quality. Pick one little or big thing, it doesn’t matter. If you are honest, how you stand out will read loud and clear like the crisp air in the morning of a new day. In your essay, just be who you are. I, for one, like her very much.
Do you know what I do each week, Danielle? I mean besides my tours. Each week, I meet with five other women I’ve known now for over thirty years, my goodness. When we first started meeting, we were all grieving widows. We did a lot of boohooing together for a while. But, you know what, we needed to be that for a little bit. That was who we were.
And then one day, one of the women started talking about a lusty romance novel she was reading. Oh my. We couldn’t help ourselves, Danielle. We all went home and bought that book. Since then, our grieving widows group has become a romance book club. Are you picturing that, dear? Five old ladies sitting in a pub snickering over silly books, talking all about the impossible lives of fictional people? Well, that’s what we do, my dear, because our youthful shame and guilt left us long ago. We do that and we make meals with each other and we go to church and we live.
Good-bye for now, dear,
Justine
*AUNT JOYCE AND DANIEL E-MAIL* 5/27
E-mail from me to Daniel (late so I couldn’t call) with a cc to Aunt Joyce
So, my aunt sent drawings of the costumes she’s having made for us! I’ve cc’d her on this e-mail so you can write her back with your shirt size, shoe size, and pant size. Daniel, you’re gonna love the getup! Thank you, Aunt Joyce, you save us.
*ME-MOIR JOURNAL* 5/30
Daniel drags me to confession
Daniel has been trying for weeks to get me to go to confession with him. I have not been inclined. However, Daniel reminded me that he agreed to be my “straight” date for the prom, that I had used him to make Jacob think that I had a boyfriend, and that I was his friend, and he just wanted me to go with him. Heaven help me, literally. Catholic churches weird me out.
At this particular church, a huge Jesus hangs on a cross front and center. You can’t miss it. There are statues everywhere of people weeping and falling to their knees, and all this creepy decor that is outside my comfort zone. The place needs my mom to come in and happy it up a little.
Daniel told me what to do. I had to get in that sin-box and start by saying, “Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It’s been (fill in time period) since my last confession, and these are my sins.” I didn’t know what I’d list as my sins, but I planned to improvise. We had to kneel down for a while first. I was supposed to pray. I didn’t really know what to do, so I just closed my eyes and let my mind go blank. When an elderly woman carrying what Daniel told me was a rosary exited the sin-box, he told me to go in. I did. It was claustrophobic. I guess the appropriate environment for a sinner, one of God’s wayward children. Sinners need containing. The priest on the other side of the box slid a little door to reveal a screen like a fast-food worker at a drive-through. I said my line and the performance began. After an interminable silence, the priest said, “Begin, my child.”
I don’t know where this came from, but I said, “I’m a fraud.” The priest wanted me to explain. I said, “There is no explanation. I am just a fraud. I hide out. I hide from the truth.”
“And what is the truth?” he asked.
I report these facts:
“I lost my friend. I turned off the faucet in my brain that controls all her liquid memories. I pretend that a flood of truth doesn’t exist. I loved a boy who didn’t love me. I pretend like that’s fine. I violated my parents’ trust. I don’t tell them all the ways I’ve done that. I’m pretending a gay boy is my boyfriend so people think I’m loved. I take comfort in pretending to be like everyone else even though I know I never will be. I’m a disappointment as a human being.”
The priest was not a big talker; he got straight to his point: “You are not a disappointment as a human being,” he said. “That would be impossible. You, young lady, are part of the one body of Christ. The Lord does not see with the same eyes we do. Your life is a gift as it is. Say four Hail Marys and an Our Father. Good night, young lady.”
Wow. Well, I guess I could see the appeal of this religion. You can be a giant fraud and make it all better with a few chants.
When Daniel finished his thing in the sin-box, he ran over to me, that’s right, ran over to me, in a place I was sure no running was allowed, as I pretended to pray the chants the priest told me to. He grabbed my hand and said, “We gotta get the hell outta here.” I know Daniel won’t admit this, but I could tell he had been crying.
On the street, he explained that he couldn’t act appropriately in the confessional. I’m not exactly sure what he meant by that, but he kept saying it . . . that he couldn’t act appropriately in there. He said he needed to do more reading about how our psychology influences our actions, so he could understand himself better.
Anyway, this time when he got in the enclosed dark box, he started looking around and breathing in the sawdust smell and just settling into the darkness. He said something “primal” possessed him. Suddenly, he just really wanted to connect with the guy on the other side of the drive-through window. He wanted to know who he was, he wanted to “psychologically
reach across that veil” is how Daniel put it.
Instead of confessing made-up sins, he started asking the priest genuine questions about his life. Like how old he was, how long was he a priest, did he like it? What was the best part of priesthood? He and the priest started having a conversation. Daniel said, “I felt like I was starting to get to know the guy or something.”
I said, “Well, that’s cool, right?”
“I don’t know. That hadn’t been my goal. I mean, it wasn’t sexy or rebellious or sacrilegious or any of the things that I come here for. It was just human. I was just talking to the guy.”
“Wow. Maybe Lisa and the social skills class is helping you connect with people in a more real way or something.”
Big pause.
“Holy crap. Take that back right now, Danielle. That is just the devil talking right through you.”
“What? I’m just saying it’s possible.”
“No. That woman has done no good for me whatsoever. Her purpose in my life is for her to be the receiver of my witty mockery. She is mere entertainment. I gotta go. I’m going home to rub one out, so I can forget about what you said about Lisa. Danielle, seriously, that is so disturbing.”
Daniel went home and who knows what he did or if it was a success. LOL. He called me later and asked if I’d come over and have dinner with him. I did.
We wrote a song together about angels, even though we are a couple of devils. It won’t translate properly if I add it to my writing collection because I can’t make a page sing or strum a guitar. But if I could, Daniel’s talent would be evident. He plucks a guitar with the kind of tenderness that a man should give a woman or a man should give a man (in Daniel’s case).
*CLASS ASSIGNMENT* 6/1
Why I Stand Out
(Everyone in my class was forced to write this essay because Ms. Harrison wanted us to see ourselves in a powerful light before college or something.)
Danielle Levine
English 12
Ms. Harrison
Period 4
What makes me stand out is all that I have had to abide. I know my peers are aware of a certain ugliness that defines me, and because of that, I am nervous to read this essay aloud. They know my ugliness, but they don’t know how I came to be this way. I have created a separation from my classmates to save them and me from the truth. However, there is no barrier strong enough to protect you from life. It finds you. Friends come even if you are not looking for them. Loss finds you even if you aren’t ready.
I met my best friend, Emily, in the second grade when her family moved in next door to us in Orange County. We dug a hole under the fence that separated our yards, and we slid back and forth daily into each other’s domains even when we were supposed to be doing homework or folding our laundry. We were yelled at many times for how dirty our school clothes got when we forgot to change before we rolled around in the dirt. We played lifeguards, store owners, cheerleaders, waitresses, rock stars—I sang into a vacuum sweeper and flung the cord around with verve while Emily played her oboe.
I’ve never met anyone else in my life who played the oboe. And she played it so well at such a young age. She was a child prodigy, truly. It used to make me mad that she had this talent. I said bad things I regret now because I was jealous of that oboe, which got more of her time than me, I used to think. Her talent brought out the worst in me and, for that, I have deep regret.
But on the weekends, she still found all the time we needed to jump on the trampoline she had and swim in the pool that I had. We had sleepovers all the time. We had this friendship together, we had all this, until we were in eighth grade.
One night during an eighth-grade sleepover at her house, we pretended to sleep under Emily’s juvenile Dora the Explorer sheets until her parents fell asleep. We were excited to sneak out and go “crap shopping,” as we called it, at the convenience store not far from our houses. We wanted Sour Patch Kids and Red Vines with a large Coke (to dip the Red Vines in), and all the fixings for s’mores. We planned to devour it all under the sheets with flashlights, like we were on a camping adventure.
It took forever for her parents to settle so they were asleep enough to not know we were gone; we didn’t leave until midnight. Equipped with flashlights, stuffed animals, and a camera to capture our adventure on film, we walked into the store. Minutes later, with our treats overflowing in our hands, we were in line to pay. I looked over at the entrance when the door opened and a bell rang. A man in military fatigues walked in brandishing a weapon (an assault rifle, I later heard someone say). He was shouting orders to who knows who. He ducked around the magazine rack and kept shouting. He was yelling coordinates that meant something to him, and he seemed really afraid, but I, to this day, have no idea of what.
Emily dropped all the candy she was holding, and I don’t know why, it was an instinct, I guess, but I dropped down and tried to gather up the candy. As soon as I dropped down, the gunman peeked around the corner and aimed his rifle right at Emily and opened fire. Pow. Pow. Pow. Emily’s camera clicked, clicked, clicked because her finger was on it when she was shot. Her final view of life was captured in those pictures, freeze-framed horrors, emblazoned forever on film.
Her last photograph, the one she snapped as she turned and looked in my direction before she fell to the bloody ground, was of me. I saw the picture because her mother couldn’t destroy any of them, couldn’t let them go, even though they are horrible and disturbing. She can’t let go of the symbols of her daughter’s last moments on Earth. I wish she could have destroyed that picture of me because it is a shameful snapshot, an indictment of my helplessness. It is the ugliest picture I have ever seen. I was caught on film living.
I forgive Emily’s mom for keeping all the pictures, though, because they are something tangible to cling to, some way to hold on to a life she loved. I understood because for weeks after that night, I couldn’t stop wandering into the convenience store and lying down on the exact spot where Emily died, near the spot where I had done nothing but stare. I didn’t care who was in the store at these times. I pushed people out of line and lay down and tried to hug the tile floor. I rubbed my face all over the dirty floor. I tried to swallow the smell and the taste of that floor. I did it every day even when adults tried to keep an eye on me; I eluded their care. I kept doing it even when the owner would call the police and have me carried out. Her life was poured all over that floor.
Being shot isn’t like it is in the movies. There isn’t a little hole in the body and a few slow trickles of blood that allow for surprise in the victim’s eyes and time to say final, profound words. No. Bullets rip and tear through flesh in an instant; blood gushes through a wound and floods an area. I had no idea a human held so much blood. I would lay on the floor and see that blood as it was in that moment and try to gather it up in my hands wishing I had thought quicker and tried to funnel that life back into her when I had the chance. Why didn’t I?
Every day I cut school the second I could and headed back to the floor of that store. I grabbed a broom one day and tried to sweep the mirage of blood I was sure was there. I tried to sweep it into a puddle and then scoop it back into her imagined body.
My parents did the absolute best they could for me during this time, but I was beyond help. They did the only thing they could. We moved from Orange County to the Valley in Los Angeles, and I started Meadow Oaks in ninth grade, and now you all know why. I was supposed to start a new life, too, but the same old tortured me had come along.
I’ve had a very hard time understanding my tortured self, but some things have occurred this year that have helped me. One of those helping moments came when we were reading the scene in Hamlet when Laertes sees his crazy sister, Ophelia, for the first time and says, “Nature is fine in love and where ’tis fine, it sends some precious instance of itself after the thing it loves.” That is exactly what happened to me. As Emily’s blood drained out of her, a piece of me was draining out, too.
Nature IS fi
ne in love, fine, as in thin and delicate, as in not firm. We move to attach, more than we understand, to things and people we love that we feel might be an anchoring point for this fine, precious love. When those anchors disappear, a part of us disappears, too. Well, that’s how it was for me at least.
There must be a better way to love and to live, a way to be a lover of things without attaching. I don’t know exactly what that new way is yet, but when I go to college, I hope I will read more things written by smarter people than me who give me some insight into this condition. Somewhere within some kind of art must be a message worth clinging to about all these things we have to endure because of all these attachments.
While my circumstances make me stand out, paradoxically, they are what make me just like everyone else. Everyone has things that they must abide.
Comments from Ms. Harrison: There is not a thing I can say. A
*POEM*
Emily Bronte wrote, “Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.” After I read that last essay aloud in class, I went home and started going through all the papers in the back of my closet. I found this poem crumpled in a box with a friendship bracelet that is a match to one Emily had and a picture of me and Emily with her oboe. I wrote the following poem after Emily died.
I haven’t laughed in so damn long,
I don’t know what’s wrong.
Memories of tragedies belong
In a made-up song,
And I’m trying not to weep
Like a child who’s fallen down and skinned her knee
I haven’t moved from this cold chair,
Comfortable despair.
Dreams that dance around perchance to care
OCD, The Dude, and Me Page 14