We walked to the edge of the park with that big ditch, and I said, “Let me show you something first.” And I pointed to that little green house on the other side with the dormers and told you it was once my great-great-grandma’s house.
“I know,” you said. “The Irish lady. And her husband was full-blooded Cherokee. She’d call him ‘that old Indian’ whenever she got mad.”
“Yeah. How’d you know that?”
“Your mom told me. She said it’s why she calls Mamochka ‘that old Russian’ sometimes.” You were running your palms over the tops of the high grass that grew along the ditch. “The casual racism in your family is so cute.”
“Hey, my family’s history of ethnically intermixed romance made the Missouri mutt standing before you today. I’m Russian and Irish and Cherokee and Dutch and all kinds of other shit.”
“I know. That’s why it’s so great,” you said, glancing back toward the little green house across the way. “I think about them a lot. I bet it wasn’t easy for them, you know? Her dad probably wanted her to marry the banker’s son or something, and she was, like, No way, I want that brown guy with the killer cheekbones. I mean, I bet people threw shit at them out their buggy windows on Saturday night, and they still just did their thang.”
I cringed a little, remembering that time some asshole in a Jeep decided we needed the rest of his milkshake.
Then I grabbed you and put my head on your shoulder, and we stood like that for a little while until I remembered you’d said you wanted to show me something.
“You’re blind,” you said. “I can’t believe you haven’t noticed it yet.”
So I looked around and that’s when I saw MILES + VIVIAN etched on the side of the overpass beneath the bridge.
“Oh my God. We’ve got to get out of here,” I said, turning tail. “Wha—why would you do that? We’re gonna get arrested. I’m pretty damn sure that you and I are the only ‘Miles plus Vivian’ in town.”
“Oh, relax!” you said, tugging on my arm. “Nobody’s getting arrested.”
“How do you know? Once somebody sees that, the cops’ll be knocking on our door.”
And you said, “Miles, it’s been there for, like, two years.”
“Two years?” We’d only had our first kiss, like, six months before that.
“Oh yeah,” you said, hands on your hips. “Been crushin’ on you for a while now. When I was little, I used to go to the corner store and sneak a peek at Seventeen magazine the same way the other boys might try to see some tits in Playboy. Anyway, there was this article about positive affirmations. I didn’t get to read the whole thing, because someone came around the corner and I threw it back on the shelf before they saw me. But I remember it said if you want something, you gotta write it down. I used to steal Nikki’s diaries—not to read them, but to have a place where I could write I want to be a girl, I want to be me, over and over again under lock and key. Anyway, I still do that shit. If I want something, I write it down.”
So I looked back up at your giant affirmation and grinned. I held you, and I told you I loved you. And you said it back. We’d said it to each other before, but now that I’m really thinking about it, this might have been the first time it meant something else.
I’ve pored over your art journals this past year and a half. I know it wouldn’t bother you that I’ve read them. I think you were happy to be able to keep them out in the open, unlocked. Some of them are cheerful, and some of them are silly. And there are a few where you were obviously feeling sad, but nothing that seemed to raise any alarms.
I’ve looked everywhere, but you didn’t leave a note when you tried to kill yourself. I don’t know why.
I wish I did.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 4 5:30 PM
Iceland. Day Three. Still jet-lagged as hell. I didn’t get to sleep until around six a.m., but the phone woke me up at noon.
Peppy male voice on the other end says, “Good afternoon! This is your personal concierge. I was wondering if I could do anything for you today?”
Half asleep, I go, “I don’t know. Can I have a different teapot? Mine’s kind of fu—not working right.” I tried using it last night to make some ramen I bought at the gas station, but it wouldn’t work, so I had a bag of Skittles for dinner.
“Your electric kettle?” There is something magical about the way Icelandic people speak. It’s soft and sharp all at the same time. Smooth vowels, long rolling r’s and prickly k’s: “electrrrreK Kayh-tul.”
“Yeah. It’s, like, rusted or something.”
“Sorry to hear that. A new kettle it is! Anything else? Some tea?”
“Nah. I was just going to make some noodles.”
“Noodles? Yes, yes. I’ll bring you a bowl.”
“Cool. Thanks . . . uh, takk.” Literally the only Icelandic word I know.
And then, like, two minutes later, Man-Bun was at my door with an electric kettle under his arm and a full set of kitchenware on a tray. So nice. I feel bad about secretly mocking his hair all the time. I let him in because he wanted to take the old kettle and make sure the other one, which he’d borrowed from an empty room down the hall, was working. While we were literally waiting for water to boil, I showed him the ramen I bought at the gas station yesterday.
“It’s funny. I heard you all speak English, and you do,” I said.
“Yes.” He said it almost like a question, or maybe as though he was expecting the punch line to a bad joke. I can’t say I like this guy, but it is sort of amusing the way he and I have no clue what to make of each other.
“But some of the food packaging is in Icelandic. I can’t tell if this is vegetarian or not. Do you mind?” It had an illustration of vegetables on the package, as opposed to the other varieties the store carried that displayed a chicken drumstick and a smiling pig.
“You don’t eat any meat?” He looked the packaging over. “There’s a bit of egg in it.”
“Egg is fine,” I said.
“No meat.” He handed the package back just as the kettle whistled.
“It’s working!” I said, excited about my ramen. Ah, a home-cooked meal . . .
“You can’t just eat noodles all month,” he said. “You’ll get scurvy.”
“Scurvy?” I dumped the ramen into the water, pulled up the timer on my phone, and set it for three minutes. “The pirate disease?”
“Yes. A vitamin C deficiency.” He headed for the door and gave me a little wave. “Be sure to eat some citrus fruits.”
“All right. I will.” I laughed. “Thanks, man. I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name yet. I’ve been so jet-lagged.”
He pointed to his little bronze name tag. óSKAR.
“Thanks, Óskar.” I said it like Oscar. American-style.
He shook his head. “No. Oh-skargh.” I swear—just like that. No wonder these Scandinavian languages sound so absurd to American ears. How the hell does Óskar have a g and an h in it?
So, I tried. “Thanks, Oskjdlmfjaiejtjoghar.”
And he, like, cuffed me on the shoulder with the broken teapot. “You will get the hang of it.”
I ate my noodles and went back to sleep. When I woke up later, there was a mesh bag of oranges hanging on my doorknob.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 4 11:33 PM
It’s hard to really gauge how much I think about you. On the one hand, constantly. It’s sort of like that feeling when you know you’ve forgotten something important. That foreboding feeling that just hangs with you. Of course I haven’t forgotten anything about you. I still remember your voice and your laugh and the way you smell. But it’s a feeling that, in remembering, I’ll lose everything.
So, on the other hand, it’s best not to think about you. Not to let that black cloud sink any lower. Because if I do let those thoughts in, I drown.
You can imagine what kind of day it’s been.
It’s hard being here without you. But I think I understand part of the
reason my moms sent me away. It’s easier to reboot in a strange place.
And that makes me think of you, which makes the idea starting over as Miles 2.0 a bit harder. Of meeting you for the first time. In person, I mean. We’d been friends online for a while, always staying up way too late messaging each other and swapping project ideas for Mixtape. You were constantly getting me in trouble, Vivian, by making me laugh so hard Mamochka would wake up and make me turn my phone off.
And then there was that one night you called. We texted sometimes, but you never called me, so I was a little freaked out.
Plus, it was, like, three a.m.
“I did something so stupid,” you said as soon as I picked up. Your voice was soft and trembling, and you had a slight Southern accent, which never made sense because I don’t have an accent and I live farther south. “I ran away from home.”
I buried my nose in my pillow for a second, then turned my face back toward the phone. “Where are you?”
“How far away is Poplar Bluff?”
“From where?”
“From you.”
“Are you in Poplar Bluff?”
“Everything looked a lot closer on the map, and I thought I’d just figure it out when I got here, but it’s really creepy and dark, and I don’t think I can walk that far.”
“Are you seriously in Poplar Bluff?”
“Yes. I took an Amtrak. I’m an idiot. I just really want to meet you and go to your camp and hug your stupid awesome parents. Do you know how lucky you are? Your life is like a dream to me.”
So, then I had to go wake my parents up and explain to them that an online stranger was waiting for me at the train station half an hour away. But I am lucky. And I do have stupid awesome parents, the kind of parents who understand that life is sometimes so shitty that you have to take a train to nowhere in the middle of the night and hope a friend you’ve never met will rescue you.
Mom went to get you. In the meantime, she called the police to sit with you until she arrived. And she called your parents to let them know where you were, that you were okay. I wanted to go with her when she picked you up, but Mom told me to go back to bed since it was a school night. Of course I couldn’t sleep. Mamochka and I waited up in the living room, staring at late-night infomercials with bleary eyes.
When I heard Mom’s car pull up, I ran out into the yard and met you as you were coming up the driveway.
I will admit now that I was momentarily confused. I thought there’d been a mix-up, some misunderstanding.
Your voice came out high-pitched and rapid. “Don’t look much like my avatar, do I? I wanted to tell you sooner. Please don’t be mad. I’m sorry.”
It’s true, you didn’t look how I expected at all. Even though, growing up with my parents, I’d met trans people before, it still took me a couple seconds to untangle my thoughts. I’m sorry about that moment, by the way. That pause, like I’m sure everyone else in the world had always done, when my brain insisted on categorizing you on appearance alone: a fellow fat guy, sweating in a black hoodie and jeans. Then everything clicked: the reason for the cartoon profile picture, your fascination with my parents and Camp, and the fact that you’d chosen my gender identities comic for your mag.
Okay, my brain said. Trans. Got it.
I threw my arms around you and said I didn’t care. “It’s so cool to finally meet you, Vivian.”
Then you were crying. Mom’s headlights were shining on your face, and I could see then that you were definitely not just another guy like me. You had the prettiest face. No makeup at all, and your hair was in those little braids so that your parents wouldn’t give you shit about growing it out.
You wiped your eyes and said, “No one’s ever called me that name before. I mean, not in person. Not out loud.”
I don’t think you slept at all that night. You must have spent the whole time untangling your cornrows. And when you showed up at breakfast the next morning in your 1950s secretary dress with your messy, fluffy hair, you kind of blew my mind. I couldn’t imagine someone could change so much overnight.
Things went downhill after that. My parents took you back home and tried to talk to your family. We were hoping your parents would let you come back with us for Camp, but they just grounded you. They took away your internet privileges, and I didn’t hear from you again for months and months.
I’ll never forget that first morning, though. You were glowing, and you were really happy to be somewhere new. In our kitchen, in that dress, you finally were yourself, but in my eyes you became someone new.
I wish I knew how to do that.
Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up fully recharged and ready to explore.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 5 9:18 AM
Okay. So, I could really use your help right now. The real reason I haven’t ventured any farther than the corner store in the three days since I’ve been here is that . . . I don’t really understand city buses. I mean, we don’t have public transportation at home, you know? I caught Brian online a few minutes ago and asked him how buses work. He was like, “With an engine, Miles. Duh.” And then he also went on to say that Icelandic buses are probably powered by mystical elfin technology. And, of course, I was like, “That’s not what I mean, you ass-wipe.” I guess I don’t understand bus routes. Like, how do I know where the bus will take me? God, I’m stupid, right?
You’re from St. Louis. I remember you talking about riding buses around the city. I bet you could easily figure out how to get from point A to point B around here, but I’ve got no clue. It’s entirely possible I’ll never see more of Reykjavik than the inside of this hotel if I don’t figure this shit out.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 5 4:14 PM
I had a great morning, Vivian. Really cool. I’m grinning about this morning, happy for the first time in such a long while.
After I messaged you earlier, I got dressed, crammed my bus pass and map into my pocket, and decided that I was going to put my ass on a bus that looked like it was going toward town and see what the hell would happen.
I glanced at the front desk as I was leaving, but Óskar wasn’t there. I’m not sure if it was a good or bad thing that my Mamochka-appointed babysitter wasn’t around to see me finally getting the heck out of Dodge.
So, I sat in the little glass bus stop thingy and waited, my heart going nine thousand BPM. A bus showed up. I flashed my pass at the driver, then climbed aboard. My knees felt all wobbly, so I was super glad there were free seats and I didn’t have to stand there clinging to a pole like a stripper with stage fright.
There was this woman who boarded the bus right after me. I looked at her once or twice out of the corner of my eye and thought . . . Do I know her? She looked a hell of a lot like this girl who used to babysit me . . . no way. But I kept looking at her and she kept looking at me, and finally she goes, “Well, say something! One of us has to!”
I got even more flustered then. “Uh, you are Shannon . . . right?”
“Yes! Come over here, Miles.” She patted the empty seat next to her.
How totally weird, right? I have vague memories of her teaching me how to make grilled cheese and us dancing around the house to Mamochka’s Cyndi Lauper records. Man, that seems like such a long time ago.
I sat next to Shannon, and she gave me this huge hug, but I made it sort of awkward because I couldn’t figure out which way to turn my face and almost smashed my forehead into her nose.
“This is so bizarre. Same hotel and everything? How long have you been here? It’s a wonder we haven’t run into each other before.”
“I know. Strange,” I said, brushing off her question because I didn’t want to tell her how freaked out I’d been about leaving my room.
“What are you doing here, Miles?” She laughed and slapped my arm, but then her face fell. “Oh, never mind. I’ve been following the story on the news. I just had this horrible breakup—not that it’s anything like what you’r
e going through . . . I am so sorry. How are you holding up?”
I remember my hands were in my lap and my fists were clenched so tight. I forced myself to relax a little, stretching out my fingers. The last thing I needed was another damn panic attack. “I’ve been better.”
“Me, too,” she said.
She looked the same as she used to. She’s got long curly hair down to her ass and a killer smile. Dresses all bohemian with long skirts and flowery patterns. I definitely had a crush on her back in the day. And it was definitely coming back to me. Such a strange feeling, like my insides had gotten a little lighter, but outwardly I was gawky and blushing. I guess I haven’t grown up much at all.
She didn’t seem to notice that I’d reverted to my eleven-year-old self, a hot mess of hormones and bad hair. She patted my shoulder, and the rest of me went up in flames. She said, “I’m getting better every day, though. And you will, too.”
We talked a little bit more. Shannon said she was leaving to go back home tomorrow, then asked if I was doing anything today. When I shrugged, she invited me along to go souvenir shopping downtown. I said I would, happy I didn’t have to blindly find my way into the city. Though, once we got off the bus, I admitted to her that I had no clue how to get around. She told me that buses run on a loop. You just have to get on the right one headed the right direction, then get off at the stop closest to your destination. Makes sense.
“I’m so dumb. Oh God! Am I a redneck?” I tugged at the collar of my T-shirt.
She laughed that stupid sexy laugh. “I like your shirt, by the way. It’s deflecting.”
Miles Away from You Page 5