by Amy Matayo
That’s disgusting. I give her a look that says so, but she ignores me. So I try a different tactic. More nervous laughter and even more obnoxious babbling.
“She’s kidding. That’s Presley, a laugh a minute. But no, I’d appreciate a standard head shot if you have one. If not, I’ll have our station manager email you one.”
Presley snorts. Mara gapes at both of us.
“I don’t have one, so please have him do that. Does he have my address?” The bag goes over her shoulder like a shotgun holster. “The email one, I mean. Of course you already have my home address. You can give him that one if you prefer. Just ask him not to sneak through the window in the middle of the night like you do.”
Seriously. Kill her.
“I have your email address,” I say, barely choking out the words. “You’ll have a head shot in an hour.”
“Sounds good. You have a great afternoon.” Presley turns at the door. “You too…What was your name? I didn’t catch it when I saw you at Micah’s house.”
“Mara,” she says rather timidly. Who could blame her? Presley could intimidate the President of our country if he were having a weak moment. “My name is Mara.”
Presley pauses thoughtfully in the open doorway. Except I know that look and I know her thoughts and they’re rarely pleasant. Or thoughtful, for that matter.
“Micah and Mara. One means godlike and the other means bitter. Cute in a tragic sort of way, I guess.”
I feel my eyes narrow. I see Mara’s do the same.
“You know what they say, opposites attract,” Mara quips.
Presley stares at her. “Like God and Satan, I suppose. They either attract or one gets thrown into a fiery hell for all eternity.” She shrugs and pats the door frame. “To each his own. Later, Micah.”
“Later.”
And she will.
See me later, that is.
I’ll be on her doorstep, holding a whip and chains and handcuffs and a gag and none of it for X-rated reasons.
After Presley leaves, I slowly turn toward Mara. She’s looking at me with all kinds of hurt in her eyes. It breaks me a little to see the two women I care about go at each other like that. But there’s nothing I can do but try to placate them both.
Up first, the woman in front of me.
“Happy Birthday.” Presley threw her arms around my neck in the hallway outside math class and squeezed, and I had the fleeting thought that someday I would have to let her go. Not now. Not today. But someday. I pushed that thought out of my mind and held on, liking the way we fit together.
Eighteen. I’d finally made it. It was mid-March, which meant I only had to survive the next two months of school before graduation, and the day I could officially be out on my own. And I would be. I had plans. Plans that I hadn’t even shared with Presley, and she knew everything about me.
Almost everything.
It was the almost that I was most afraid to share with her. So I wouldn’t. Not today.
Maybe on Presley’s birthday. She would be eighteen the day after graduation. That was the day we would both move out; me into my own apartment and she into hers. We had no idea if we would be able to afford the move, but we were making it anyway. Side by side or in separate towns, a hundred square foot loft or something a little larger…that was yet to be determined.
As for today, it was my birthday. Today wasn’t the day for thinking about tomorrow.
“What’d you get me?” I said into her hair, smiling when she began to laugh.
“What makes you think I got you anything?”
I didn’t say anything for a second. “Because if you didn’t, I would have to kill you.”
“Well for the sake of not dying this close to adulthood…” She let go of me and opened her bag, then pulled out a small blue package tied with a darker blue ribbon. Presley always chose blue for me, ever since that first day with the sidewalk chalk. Of all the traits I’d grown to love about her, this was the greatest. She remembered everything. Every word I’d said over the years, every thing I’ve ever wished for, every detail of past memories that were already hazy to me. Nothing was hazy to Presley. I supposed it was what best friends did when they really loved you; they immortalized you in some way, even if the only outlet was inside their own minds.
“Open it.”
Someone bumped into me from the back, and I moved closer to the lockers. More than likely this would be the only gift anyone gave me today, and I certainly wouldn’t risk it getting knocked to the ground.
“Should I be worried?”
“Always.”
I stared at the ribbon and wondered how I got so lucky. Before Presley there was no one. No one to talk to, no one to share secrets with. I played by myself, nursed wounds myself, grieved by myself. When you live in the broken part of town with an even more broken family, camaraderie isn’t easy to come by. Because of her, the empty spaces have been filled with something…including the belief that maybe this life I’ve been stuck in isn’t permanent. Because of her, I now have plans that wouldn’t have existed before.
You’ll never be good enough. Your plans are a waste of time…
I blinked at the box in my hand, my father’s frequently spoken words hitting with full force. But he was wrong. I would be good enough, and some day I would prove it.
“Well, open it already. We only have a couple more minutes before the bell rings.”
I pushed down my sudden foul mood and raised an eyebrow at Presley. “Don’t rush me, it’s my birthday.”
“Alright, birthday boy. Just know that in just over ninety seconds I’m headed inside that room.” She indicated with her head. “I can’t afford another detention.”
“Fine.” I pulled at the ribbon and watched it fall away, then carefully removed the paper so as not to tear it. A habit from a life lived reusing every possible thing. Tucking the paper under my arm, I removed the small lid and grinned. It doesn’t take money to make the biggest impact on a person. It takes time. Effort. Thoughtfulness. Presley was thoughtful in spades and I’m not sure she even realized it.
“I can’t believe you got me this.”
When I looked at her, she was smiling. She might not have known just how much I thought of her in that moment, but she definitely knew she had picked out a darn good gift.
“Do you like it?”
I pulled the black Zippo out of the box and opened the lid. “I love it.”
“Good. I figured it was time to retire that cheap yellow Bic.”
Presley gave me a lighter. A black and silver lighter with my initials engraved on the front. The nicest one I’d ever had. The girl who’d been literally burned several times in her life gave me something she should—in reality—entirely despise. I would keep it forever.
“I think you’re right.”
“Quick, see if it works.”
I flicked it open and watched the flame dance to life. It was stronger and more powerful than my previous lighter, the flame a beautiful mix of blue and orange and purple. The fact that I found beauty in fire was somewhat troubling, but Presley understood and supported it. People like her were hard to find, and that fact hit me in a wave all over again.
I grinned over it. “It works.”
“Good.” For a long moment we stared at each other with two stupid grins on our faces, until she reached out and shut the lighter. “I don’t want you to get suspended on your birthday.” She stepped forward and kissed me on the check. “Happy Birthday, Micah. See you after school?”
I nodded and watched her walk away, hoping the end of the day would come fast.
I hate myself for sneaking in the window. It makes her right and me wrong and I hate being wrong even more than fighting. But she wouldn’t answer her door and it’s been dark for a while now and most people generally frown on men who bang on doors late at night and won’t take no for an answer. So I came in through the window. Thank goodness she always leaves that particular window unlocked and doesn’t have a guard dog.
However, she does have a cat that she rescued last year when someone abandoned it as a kitten on the side of her building. I’m not a big fan. For that matter, neither is Presley. We’re sitting on the sofa with her cat in between us…a cat we’re both allergic to. For some bizarre reason, it’s a fact she has decided to overlook for the time being. As though she can read my thoughts, Presley sneezes.
“Why do you let her sit on the sofa when it makes you so miserable?” I say, brushing white cat hair off my black pants. “You know we’re both allergic.”
“It isn’t her fault that we can’t handle her flaws. Someone had to take care of her.” This time we both sneeze in tandem. She stands up and heads toward the kitchen, then retrieves a bottle of medication from the pantry and pops one in her mouth.
“What is that?”
“Benadryl,” she says with a shrug. She holds the bottle out toward me. “Want one?”
“No.” I roll my eyes.
I hate Presley’s cat. I’m pretty sure she only kept the thing to annoy me. I sneeze again.
“Can you please put her in your bedroom for a few minutes so we can talk?” I sneeze again, and now my eyes itch. Just great. I have a newscast in the morning because I’m filling in for the weekend guy whose wife just had a baby, and now my eyes will be all red and blotchy on camera. Here’s to hoping I can read the monitor through swollen and watery tear ducts.
Presley responds by pulling Minka into her lap and staring at me in a challenge. Minka. She gave her cat that dumb name to further irritate me, and it worked. Minka and Micah. With Mara inadvertently thrown into the mix, the names sound like a bad sitcom. That thought, coupled with the move her yourself look Presley is currently leveling at me, makes my mood skyrocket on a flame ready to explode. I snatch the cat off her lap and march back to Presley’s bedroom, sneezing three more times on the way. I set the cat on Presley’s pillow in the hopes it will make it difficult for her to sleep tonight and close the door, then head toward the kitchen sink to scrub off the offensive animal residue from my hands and wrists. What is her problem?
“What is your problem?” I toss the words over my shoulder a little louder than I meant to.
“You’re my problem. Girls tend to hate it when guys act embarrassed to be around them. And news flash Micah, I’m a girl.”
“I’ve never acted embarrassed by you, not once.”
“Correction. Not only once. You did it again today with Mara. One second you’re hugging me, and the next second you’re halfway across the room like you got caught making out under the bleachers during gym class. Which—oh by the way—happened in high school too. Remember Brooke? It’s like she and Mara are the same person and I’m reliving that all over again.”
“Can we please stop talking about Brooke?”
“Sure. Instead, how about we talk about this? Why are you so afraid of letting Mara know we’re friends? Because if you’re going to date her, you have two options. Either stay friends with me or kick me out of your life. It’s simple, really.” She holds up her hands like it really is…simple.
It isn’t. There is no option that will result in me kicking Presley out of anything, ever. That scenario isn’t possible. But on the other hand, Presley needs to stop pushing. The last thing I need are more demands placed on my head.
“I’m not kicking you out of anything, so don’t bring it up again. But on the other hand, you can’t keep saying things like that, Presley. We’ve never even been skinny dipping before, and you know it.”
“Well she doesn’t, and I wanted to see her reaction. Maybe you don’t care, but I do.” She launches off the sofa and marches past me.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m getting my cat.”
“Leave that cat in the bedroom and come back here.”
She spins on her heel and crosses her arms, but she makes no move to rejoin me in the living room. I sigh, unsure how to fix things. I hate arguing with her, and her earlier words still dumbfound me. Girlfriend? Did I say that? I don’t remember saying that, but first things first.
“I don’t know if she’s my girlfriend.” I sigh and study the wall. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. From the first moment I spotted Presley drawing with sidewalk chalk on the pavement in front of her house across the street, I was drawn to her. A dying plant always searches for the sun, and that day Presley was the light to my very wilted dandelion. It was her smile. The way she waved me over and handed me dark blue because I was a boy and probably wouldn’t want pink or neon green, the only other colors she had in her possession that day. We worked and worked side by side until we created a tree over water and a dozen pink butterflies and our chalk was scribbled down to nubs. We were too young to care that we’d chosen a game for grade schoolers. The night was warm and there was peace in creating, so we created all evening.
Looking at it now, it’s probably the reason I’m in broadcasting. Just like print journalism, the profession is creative in its own way. An outlet. And if two people ever needed an outlet from the stress of the regular world, it’s Presley and me.
“Well you should figure it out,” she says, interrupting my daydream. “If she’s your girlfriend, you probably need to leave my apartment and go find her.”
Pink sidewalk chalk on her left cheek. I look at her now and it’s all I can see. The memories, the years, the bond so strong I’m not sure it will ever go away. I wasn’t supposed to fall for Presley all those years ago. Falling is supposed to be a good thing, right? She’s trash, just like you. You can dream all you want, but it won’t go anywhere. You’ll end up shackled together until she can’t take it anymore and leave. Just like your mom, she’ll find someone better.
It’s always there in my mind, that harsh reality. No matter how hard I try to prove him wrong—no matter what ladders I climb or bridges I cross or beautiful girls I date—I can’t get away from his words. There has to be a way to prove my father wrong. I won’t stop looking until I find it and take off running.
Even if it doesn’t involve Presley, I won’t let her kick me out of the house. That’s not how our relationship works.
“I’ll leave when I’m ready, and I’m not ready now.”
She doesn’t argue, just continues to stare at me. We’re in constant battle and both addicted to the fight. But neither of us ever wins. One of us just raises a white flag and the other uses it to spit-shine our relationship.
“If she comes banging on my door looking for a fight, just remember it was your decision to stay here. Not mine. Got it?”
I nod. “Got it. But she won’t.”
She stares straight ahead as though weighing the pros and cons of letting me stay or kicking me out. In the end, she rolls her eyes and lets me have my way. There’s the girl I love.
“Want to order pizza?” she asks.
“Sure. Want to watch a movie?”
“Sure.”
I place the call while she finds the remote and flips through the selections on Amazon.
By the time the doorbell rings thirty minutes later, we’re twenty minutes into a movie neither of us has watched.
Presley’s arms have been crossed the whole time, and I lost count of her sighs a long time ago. As for me, I keep waiting for Mara to text, which would only serve to prove Presley right.
Who knew this much nervous tension could involve pepperoni with extra cheese?
I don’t even knock, just barge into the newspaper office at closing time, intent on seeing my plans through to completion. After the night we had last night, I won’t take no for an answer. It’s time to get our friendship back on track, and I know just the way to do it.
Presley jumps at the sight of me, then covers her mouth with her hand to hide her laughter. “What in the world are you wearing?”
“What does it look like I’m wearing?” I give my chest a pat-down. “It’s a fly fishing vest.”
Her shoulders start to shake. She isn’t hiding anything now. I don’t look that bad.
“Do you even know how to fly fish?” Her eyes go wide and she points at me. “Oh my gosh, you’re trying to recreate A River Runs Through It, aren’t you? You were obsessed with that movie in high school. Please tell me that isn’t where your knowledge of the sport stops.”
I don’t like the way she puts air quotes around the word sport. Fly fishing is absolutely a sport. At least that’s what I’ve heard.
“Of course not. I’ve been plenty of times.” Once. I’ve been once. “Do you really think I would own this getup if I wasn’t an avid fly fisherman?” The answer is yes. I bought this outfit yesterday, and I’m embarrassed to mention how much it cost. Still, Presley and I used to fish together as kids. Sure, usually with sticks as poles and using nets to catch the fish we didn’t exactly know how to reel in, but how much harder can this be?
She gives me a look that tells me she knows exactly what I’m up to. But a least she has the decency to say the right words.
“I suppose not. Especially not with that floppy hat that looks two sizes too big.” She stands up to examine it, giggling in my ear. “Is this bug netting on the back? No one in their right mind would buy this if they weren’t a fan.” I’m pretty sure I see tears in her eyes. None of this is funny. “The question is, why are you wearing it?”
I hold up my hands. Isn’t it obvious? “Because I’m taking you fishing.”
“Now?” She glances down at her computer screen.
“No, I thought I’d hang out like this for a few hours, drink a few beers, maybe sleep on this sofa tonight and then—yes now. Get your shoes on. And you might want to change clothes.”
She just looks at me. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
“It’s too hot for jeans. Grab some shorts and meet me in my car. If you need to go by your apartment, I’ll take you.”
It’s been awhile since I attempted making demands of Presley, and the way she looks at me makes me think she might hit me. But then she turns back to her computer and shuts it down. I wasn’t supposed to see the smile, but I did.