“It’s all right,” she said.
So I lay there on her bed in pitch-darkness for a bit, waiting for my heart rate to slow down. I thought about the other day when she walked me around the park and soothed my nerves somehow. I said, “Will you show me your bedroom?”
“You’ll think I’m strange.”
“I like strange.”
Björk flicked on the lights. She pulled on an oversized T-shirt and gave me a little tour of her bedroom. “I’m studying to be a hair stylist and special effects artist. It’s for practice, you know?”
Her walls were pale purple, and there were shelves and shelves of dolls all over the place. Turns out she likes rescuing old ugly dolls from thrift shops and modifying them. Some of them were chipped and gruesome, straight-up horrifying. Others she’d turned into fairies and mermaids and snake-haired gorgons. She had a little worktable in the corner, too. Tools and paintbrushes and stuff.
Óskar’d said she was an artist, hadn’t he? He said something about how he was a musician and she was an artist, but I hadn’t asked about either because I’d been too focused on the promise of sex.
“They’re brilliant,” I said.
Then she laughed. “Most boys that see them worry I’m a serial killer.”
“Nope. I get it. I’m way fluent in artsy weirdness, too.”
So we just hung out and talked art. She told me about the dolls and the art school she attended. I told her about Mixtape and this new Instagram thing.
I should have known. God, I should have known from the start that I wasn’t really looking for a hookup after all. I just needed someone else to listen to me get all angsty about you and art.
Eventually, I guess we both fell asleep. I woke up on her bed next to her, both of us curled up on top of her covers. A couple hours had passed, and I had to piss again. Still a little out of it, I managed to fumble my way to the bathroom. I was actually able to pee standing up that time. But then when I went to wash my hands, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and nearly shit myself.
The left half of my face was gone. There was just a skull. I recoiled from my reflection, then immediately brought my face toward the glass again.
Paint. It was fucking paint. While I slept, Björk had made me up like a skeleton. Just on the one side of my face, leaving the right half of my face, and its fading bruises, untouched. It was an expert job—the way she made my eye sink deep into its socket and turned my lips into a row of exposed teeth. Scary and beautiful. I loved it.
I stepped out of the bathroom and quietly shut the door. What next?
Óskar and Jack were in the living room. They were huddled around the piano, Óskar on the bench, facing away from me, and Jack leaning against the side.
Also, they were very clearly wearing each other’s underwear. And only each other’s underwear. Óskar was in a baggy pair of plaid boxers, and Jack had somehow managed to stuff himself into a tiny pair of neon green briefs. There was something so weird and indecent about it, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to look away.
Jack scowled at me. “Bloody hell, you look positively ghoulish.”
“Too bad she didn’t give me a haircut,” I said. “I could have used that.”
Óskar finally turned around and studied my face for a brief moment. Jack’s hand slid across his back to the opposite shoulder.
Didn’t he tell me they were going to break up?
Óskar didn’t say anything. He just blinked at me, then turned back to the piano. I thought he might play something, but his fingertips barely grazed the keys.
“So, uh, what’s the Icelandic etiquette here? Am I supposed to sleep over, or just drift back to my hotel?”
“Leave,” Jack said.
But the Icelander said, “Stay.”
So, I stayed.
Björk was awake when I returned, and she’d burrowed beneath her covers. I lay next to her and propped myself up on my elbow, hand resting on the unpainted side of my face. “Thanks.”
She nodded and shut her eyes, tracing a finger down my chest.
“Do you ever get stuck?” I asked. “You know, like, artistically blocked? Where you want to make something, but you don’t know where to go or what to do next?”
“Mm-hmm,” she said. “Everyone does.”
“Well, what do you do?”
“I find out what my muse is hungry for. And then we feast.”
She was gone when I woke up again around nine. I lay there on her bed for a while, a little achy, but mostly in my heart. I whispered your name, feeling this strange and terrifying sensation of guilt and pride. And I guess Mom’s right: I’m not processing. Because I didn’t know what to do with those feelings. So, I got up, straightened my clothes and messy hair, then headed for the door.
It seemed like the whole house might have been empty, but Óskar popped up over the back of the couch as I was making my exit. He was wearing his galaxy T-shirt, and he had a big pair of headphones on.
“Want breakfast?”
“Nah. Food doesn’t sound too appealing right now.”
He pulled the headphones down around his neck and leaned forward, draping his arms over the back of the couch. “Did you have a good time last night?”
“Yeah. It was pretty cool.”
He nodded.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
“Björk’s gone to work, and I sent Jack away.”
“Away for good?”
“For milk. We ran out.”
“Did you change your mind about breaking up with him?”
“No. I’m procrastinating. It’s not simple.”
“It’s never simple.”
“The man has his claws in nearly every aspect of my life. To walk away from him will be . . .” He scrunched up his nose. “Cataclysmic.”
“Really? This from the guy who’s not afraid of the volcano down the street?”
He just nodded again, and I could see the wall starting to come up.
“I guess I’ll head out. Um, tell Björk she’s welcome to come see me at the hotel sometime. I can’t really do the whole phone number thing—”
“She won’t want to see you again.”
“Oh.”
“It’s nothing you did. That’s just the way things are here. We don’t really date or anything like that. Next weekend, you will find someone else to spend the night with. Sex is somewhat impersonal here.”
“Oh, okay.”
“She said you were good, though.”
“Is that really what she said about me?” That girl is an angel.
“Yes.” He lay back down on the couch. “In case I don’t see you again, enjoy the rest of your trip.”
“What? Why wouldn’t you—”
“Because Jack owns the hotel. Just like he owns this flat and everything in it. But I can’t let him continue to own me.”
I left with my heart in my throat. Just the possibility of not seeing Óskar anymore . . . No. This is so stupid. I barely know him.
On the bus ride home, everyone stared at me, the half-drunk, half-skeleton boy. I didn’t care. All I could think about was getting to my camera and photographing whatever was left of the paint on my face.
And I couldn’t stop mulling over unspoken conversations in my head.
All these questions. I don’t know how to tell an almost stranger that I need him. How can I expect him to keep taking care of me when he clearly has so much of his own shit to deal with? How do I tell someone I want him after I’ve spent the night with his roommate? Am I just projecting my need for a connection onto the first person who came along?
Or am I feeling something real?
Chapter Fifteen
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 13 9:43 PM
I did kind of a weird thing for a guy who spent the night before drinking and almost literally screwing around. I didn’t shower or even change my clothes until a couple hours after I got back to the hotel. I was thinking about that time I bought a co
py of Wreck This Journal, and you and I spent all autumn doing shit to that book. A few months ago, Mamochka got me another of Keri Smith’s books, How to be an Explorer of the World. I really like that one a lot. It’s full of all these prompts that are meant to change the way you interact with your environment. The key is to go deeper, to experience life with all your senses.
And last night was kind of like an experiment from Explorer. Or a page ripped from Wreck This Body. I’m not sure. But I got way the hell out of my comfort zone. I came back to this pristine hotel room, and I did not feel like myself. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that I was wearing layers and layers of last night all over my skin. The new clothes and the smudgy skull paint. I didn’t smell like myself. I smelled like Björk’s citrusy perfume. And beer. And sweat and sex.
I did take some photos of the skull paint. I went in the bathroom and sat in the dark, using just the illumination from my iPad to light up my face. The pictures are so eerie and lovely in a dark way. Some of the best stuff I’ve done in a long time.
And I like that they were a collaboration of sorts with this interesting Icelandic girl.
Anyway, so after the pictures, I kept myself wrapped up in all those layers, and I messaged you. Not sure if I was punishing myself or testing my pride. To determine that, I’d have to figure out if I’m okay with the fact I got wasted and fooled around with someone strange and new.
I guess that probably is something I need to figure out.
Okay. So, you’d be mad. There’s no way around that. If you woke up right now and found out I’d been in some other girl’s bed, you’d scream at me. And don’t think, even for a second, that I haven’t heard every word of it inside my own damn head today. I have. Believe me, I have.
But—and this is the important part—I am learning to separate my voice from yours.
It’s over now, though. I’ve showered since then. I watched the gray water from the face paint circle the drain.
It’s over, it’s over, it’s over. I changed my clothes. And now I find myself thinking about Óskar. A whole lot.
I’ll get back to you on how I feel about that one.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 13 11:25 PM
It’s Saturday. I spent a good chunk of time today wishing it weren’t Saturday, that I could fast-forward through the weekend and find out if Óskar’s going to be at work on Monday. Now that I’m aware of my crush on Óskar, I’m REALLY FREAKING AWARE of my crush on Óskar.
I’m counting the hours until I might see him again, and I’m counting the days until I never see him again.
That’s the thing, isn’t it? I keep thinking about the oranges on my doorknob and the clothes and all that stuff he did. And the way he blushed when I gave him the shirt. And even though he set me up with his roommate, I do think he’s interested in me. But, like . . . how? Does he just want to hook up? I mean, that’s pretty much all he’d get at this point. I’m headed home in sixteen days. Even if he wanted something a little deeper than casual sex (and he probably doesn’t, right?) that really isn’t possible for us.
Us. Goddamn. I just said “us,” and it didn’t mean “me and Vivian.”
This feels dangerous. I’m setting myself up for more heartbreak, and I should just run the other way and cross all my fingers that I don’t see him again.
But did I do that this afternoon? Nope. I went to his apartment.
I somehow managed to convince myself that this trip was to see Björk. I had a plan, actually. I told myself that I wanted to see her and let her know she was awesome for not tossing me out after I made a fool of myself on the edge of her bathtub last night. And I did have a couple other, non-Óskar-related ulterior motives.
That asshole Jack was sitting on their front stoop when I got there, smoking a cigarette and yakking on his cell phone.
I’ve taken to calling him That Asshole Jack, because that’s what Björk calls him most of the time. And, knowing what I know now, it seems to fit.
Anyway, when I came up to the house, he sort of looked at me over his sunglasses like, What the hell do you want? then just waved his hand at the door like I should go in. So I did.
Björk was curled in an armchair, deeply engrossed in a book. She had glasses on and little purple shorts that really showed off the length of her legs. I stared at her for a moment just thinking, Whoa, I coulda slept with that? because she is really beautiful in a lead actress sort of way. She wouldn’t be my first pick from a crowd, but most guys I know would be chomping at the bit.
“Uh, hi,” I said.
She looked up from her book, and her expression was that of someone who definitely was not expecting to see her awkward-almost-one-night-stand in her living room less than twenty-four hours after the blessed event.
“Sorry. I meant to knock, but Jack let me in. Uh, but you look busy. I should go.”
“No, I’m not busy. Sit down.” She smiled at me then, and maybe that weird expression had just been because she’d been expecting the person who walked into the room to be Jack. So, I sat down on the couch diagonal from her chair.
“Hi,” I said again.
“Hi.” She slid a bookmark into her book and tossed it on the coffee table.
“So . . . Óskar, like, told me you probably wouldn’t want to hang out again. And that’s fine. We can be friends or not friends or whatever. But I did”—I leaned closer and dropped my voice to a whisper, in case Óskar was lurking around the corner somewhere—“just want to say thanks for being so nice to me last night. Most people I know wouldn’t have been so cool about it. I really appreciate that.”
She smiled again, and it still seemed genuine. “You came all the way here to tell me that?”
“Yeah. Also, I want to use your kitchen.”
“The kitchen?”
“Yeah. Can I make you dinner? It’s not a romantic gesture. It’s totally selfish. I just want, like, food that isn’t from a restaurant or a plastic bag. And I can’t cook at the hotel with just a microwave and teapot. Please, God, I just need twenty minutes with your stove.”
She tilted her head back and laughed. “Yes, you can make dinner. What do you want to eat?”
After a lengthy debate about the pros and cons of my vegetarian diet, Björk and I searched the kitchen for something meatless. Eventually we unearthed a package of penne pasta and the stuff I needed to make “wodka” sauce. While waiting for the water to boil, I finally got up the nerve to ask where that beautiful blond bastard was hiding.
“Working.”
“I thought he didn’t work on the weekends.”
“Not at the hotel. He is at his other job.”
“What? I can’t picture him at any other job. Except maybe, like, an air traffic controller or something. Ha!”
“He’s interning at a studio. I’m surprised he hasn’t mentioned it to you. He’s very passionate about music.”
Jack walked across the living room in front of us, still on the phone. He disappeared into Óskar’s bedroom and came back wearing a jacket. Björk watched him walk out the front door and down the sidewalk.
“Thank God he is gone!” she said.
“I take it you’re not a fan?” I asked, stirring the crushed tomatoes as they heated on the stove.
She gave me that don’t-even-get-me-started look. “No one likes him. He’s SHIT!” She raised a middle finger and waved it back and forth in the direction Jack had been heading. “He likes fucking little boys.”
I asked if she meant that literally, and she said yes, that Jack had been with Óskar since he was twenty-seven and Óskar was fourteen.
“Holy hell!”
“See, that is the appropriate response,” she said, gesturing to my disgusted face as she poured us both a glass of wine. “Fourteen is legal here, but that doesn’t mean Jack didn’t take advantage of a child whose mother had just died and whose father was losing his mind. But you can’t convince Óskar of that—”
“Óskar told me he wanted to brea
k up with him.”
“Did he? He says that every time Jack comes to visit, but he never will.” She boosted herself up on the counter next to the stove and watched me stir the cream into the tomato sauce.
“Oh.”
I guess I must have sounded pretty wounded, because Björk stared at me for a long while, then asked if I was gay. And I told her I wasn’t much for labels—“queer, if you must”—and I thought I might be sort of into Óskar as of late. Then I apologized for last night. “You’re beautiful and really amazing. But I’m a little confused.”
“Only ‘a little,’ are you?” She reached over and raked her fingers through the side of my hair. “He talks about you all the time. If anyone can convince Óskar he doesn’t need That Asshole Jack, it’s you.”
All I said was, “Huh,” because my mind was too muddled to conjure something witty up. I didn’t know how she could be so cool about everything, which made me feel relieved and anxious at the same time. I wanted her to keep telling me about Óskar. I had a million questions, but they burst like our glow-in-the-dark bubbles before I could even form the words. Then the timer went off and I had to drain the pasta.
He talks about me. All the time.
I have to say I made a pretty bitchin’ pot of pasta, but I could barely eat. Björk asked me if I wanted to take the leftovers with me, but I said, “Nah. Óskar’ll probably be hungry when he gets home, right?”
And she laughed, probably because I was being so weird and obvious, but she told me she’d make sure he got some.
“Could I ask you one more favor, please? You said you’re studying to be a stylist. And—well, look at me. I could really use a haircut. Do you mind? I’ll pay you, of course.”
She wouldn’t let me pay her—dinner was enough, she said. And I said, “But dinner was payment for the blowjob!” and she whacked me in the chest with the back of her hand. A few minutes later, I was sitting backwards in her kitchen chair with a sky-blue bath towel draped around my shoulders.
Miles Away from You Page 14