“What’s wrong with your hair? It’s so thin. Are you losing weight?” Desi asks, brow furrowed. A shadow of worry creeps into her eyes.
Embarrassed at my disheveled appearance, I self-consciously brush my hair in front of my eyes. “I tried a new diet pill, but it had some side effects,” I lie, closing my eyes and pinching my lips between my teeth.
Desi grabs my chin to investigate my face. Her touch turns me to gelatin, and I have a hard time keeping my breath steady. I have no choice but to stare at her soft, pink lips. They are so close, but then they form into a scowl that stops me from doing something incredibly stupid.
“You don’t need to lose weight. Trust me, I’m surrounded by obsessive weight loss rails who force themselves to blow chunks after eating string cheese.” She’s still twitching a skeptical eye at me, but then yanks me into her arms. I melt into her and return the hug, perhaps for a bit too long. “Ooooohhh, I’ve missed you so much! Let’s go get a coffee and I can tell you all about L.A.,” she bubbles, vigorously rocking me side to side. It hurts, but my heart, soul, and body have ached for her, so my arms tighten further. This is something I will truly miss. My eyes prickle, and I strain for control.
The knot in my stomach twists, scraping against the peach pit. I know I have to bring up leaving school with delicacy. She looks too excited and happy right now, though. I don’t know how I’m going to do this. I swallow hard. I am a coward. She’s like a force of nature ripping through the earth, making her own path, and I am the diseased tree. What will she do when I’m not here anymore? We’ve been best friends since potty-training, but will she notice my absence in her monumentally busy life?
Fuck, I’m wallowing. Snap out of it! Don’t waste even a second in self-pity, you don’t have time. I’ve taken to lecturing myself lately. It makes me roll my eyes, but does give me the necessary ass-kicking.
She links arms with me and huddles close for warmth. I don’t resist. The smell of cinnamon wafts from her hair, and faint glitter dusts her face, making her look ethereal. She squints against the wind, but I can still make out that fern-green color through the slits between her long dark lashes. God, how I’ve missed her.
The coffee house is packed with various NYU students and the working class getting a tie-me-over snack before their commute home. The brilliance of the lights hurts my eyes, and the thrumming of voices mix in my already tumultuous mind. Desi spots some students leaving their table and makes a beeline for it. She gently tugs me along, oblivious to the admiring glances she always draws, and throws her purse on the table to mark her claim.
“The usual?” she asks, eyeing me. Nodding, I think I see something under her gaze. A flinch of suspicion clouds her otherwise bright, playful eyes. I nod but don’t connect with her stare for too long. The peach pit is rubbing the lining of my stomach raw. The confidence I’ve been building up for the last few weeks has withered into nothing. The pressure behind my eyes pushes at my restraint, threatening to make my tears show. I swallow the lump stuck in my throat and take a few deep breaths. Suddenly, it’s sweltering in this damn claustrophobic coffee house.
As I drape my coat on the back of the chair, Desi quickly makes her way to the front of the line and chats with the barista and the guy behind her. She’s always had the knack of being able to be insta-friends with everyone. Confidence and comfort in herself radiate from her, magnetizing everything with a pulse. She returns with my Earl Grey and two blueberry scones, but the look of scrutiny returns and her eyes pierce into me. As if she has x-ray vision, I think she can see how much weight I’ve lost. Though in my oversized NYU sweatshirt, the ten pound loss is safely camouflaged. She’s the only person aside from my parents who knows what I should look like.
“What kind of diet pill was this? You look like you’re on death’s doorstep.” Her eyes narrow further.
She’s one to talk. I can see the dark circles she has tried to cover with makeup. Even so, she is still beautiful. Instead of firing back a retort, I shrivel into my seat. I don’t tell her about Dr. Shaver, or the new medication we are trialing. I don’t tell her that soon I’ll probably have to shave my head so I don’t look stupid before I go completely bald. I don’t tell her how boneless I feel after a treatment, or how I can’t hold anything down. I don’t tell her what I need to. Instead, I stare at the blueberry scone and I pick little pieces from it. “It was just something I saw at the vitamin store. It was supposed to burn fat without losing muscle.” Another lie. “So how was L.A.?” I ask, trying to dodge the question.
Desi stretches her arms back, giving up a yawn. “It was a nightmare. You would think the casting director would have told me the male lead wasn’t set in stone before I flew out there. Maracella was pissed when I called and told her. She declined a few gigs for me here because of it. But that woman is a hustler! She got me a few TV spots out there, so it wasn’t a complete waste of time. It just sucks I missed the first two weeks of the new semester, though. How are your classes so far?”
Shifting my eyes back to the scone as if it’s the most interesting thing on the planet, I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. This is the perfect opening. Do it now, I try to convince myself. Yet my tongue is heavy, weighed down with thick words. It slaps the roof of my mouth, forcing me to swallow my rehearsed speech.
“Fine,” I finally spit out. Under the table, I dig my fingernails into my palm as punishment for my cowardice.
When I look up, she’s smiling with that dorky, I've-got-something-to-tell-you expression smeared all over her face. She's almost jumping out of her chair. It's probably some modeling or acting thing, but I play along and ask anyway, “What?”
“Did you hear they’re letting third years audition for the Solstice Symposium?’ she blurts out, pausing for my reaction.
Impossibly, my shoulders slump lower; another part of me is crushed. Last year, I would have sacrificed a baby goat to get into the Symposium. The Director of Undergraduate Studies, Professor Nixon even petitioned to let me, a second year, audition for the fourth year student-exclusive showcase, touting my musical prowess. He called me a savant, impressed by my ability to play any instrument with very few instructions. To me, reading sheet music is like reading a preschool flipbook. The placement of my fingers has been a natural sensation all my life, the temperateness of my breath is controlled without thought, and I feel the notes strung together in my heart. He said I was walking music and ecstatic I did not chose to attend Julliard. Little did he know, I never bothered to apply; Desi was going to NYU, therefore I was going to NYU.
I’m sure Professor Nixon would have told me about the Symposium yesterday had I attended his class. He probably knows by now that I haven’t registered for any classes this semester.
A throb similar to a marching band’s drumline stomps through my head. My thumb and fingertips begin rubbing opposite temples to the pulsating beat
“Hello.” Desi waves a hand in my face. "Earth to Reggie. Did you hear what I said? I thought you would be fist-pumping crazed for this opportunity. Didn’t Professor Nixon talk to you about it yet?"
In defeat, I drop my head. My fingers follow, finding my temples again and pushing in counterclockwise circles.
Desi becomes visibly distressed over my lack of enthusiasm; I can feel it rolling off her in waves. She knows me too well. Reaching over, she takes my hand and flips it over to rub her thumb along my scarred palm. It’s something she’s always done to comfort me. “What’s wrong? What are you not telling…?”
When her voice drops off, it gets my attention. As I look up, she is staring at my wrist and shoves the sleeve of my sweatshirt up. My bony, needle-pricked, black and blue arm goose bumps at her touch.
“What the fuck is this?” She scowls, making me draw my arm back and yank my sleeve down. “Are you doing drugs?” she asks with a low, vehement hiss. There is as much acidic accusation in her tone as there is disappointment and disgust. “What. The. Fuck?”
My hands find their way into opposite sle
eves like some Buddhist monk at prayer but continue their journey up to cup my elbows. My entire body concaves, and I lower my gaze to my lap.
Desi takes this as an admission of guilt. “Stupid people pay a bigger price to get more stupid…remember? We swore we would never touch the stuff. You know I’m surrounded by it all the time, and I still resist. I can’t believe you!” She’s standing over me now, flailing her arms. Her passion makes me love her more. I smile. For a moment, I forget why she’s yelling at me. I forget about what I have to tell her and relish in her misled commitment to my well-being.
“It’s not funny, Regina!” she yells with one hand on her hip, wagging her finger at me with the other.
The use of my given name shakes me back to the coffee house, smile dissipated, and eyes bulging. The ornery little imp curves an edge of her supple lips at my horrified reaction.
All eyes are on us, or at least it seems like it. The walls box us in, and stymie the air. Regaining her composure, Desi sits back down but never drops her neon glare. “Are you high right now?” Her voice has lost some of its sharpness, but I can still hear her ire.
“I’m not doing drugs,” I say weakly into my chest. Her stare bores a hole into the top of my head.
I should tell her about the million needle sticks for bloodwork, though she’ll ask why. But I should tell her the truth. That I'm sick. I should tell her I'm not coming back to school and that I'm leaving New York. I should tell her that Mom and Dad want me home so they can take care of me. I should tell her I’m in love with her. I know she suspects I'm gay. I think deep down, she's always known but never acknowledged it. I've always been able to artfully dodged double dates with her and her saveur du mois. My discomfort around her male model friends at her agent parties was pretty apparent.
I’m lost in thought when I feel Desi’s soft hand on my cheek. Her thumb brushes a tear that has fallen without my consent. “Hey, what’s really going on then? We took a blood oath to never lie to each other,” she says in a petal-soft tone.
I snort out a raspy chuckle. “We were nine, Dez.”
Without breaking her connection, she holds out her other hand to remind me of our identical scars. She motions for my scarred palm. “Best friends for life,” she says. Without lifting my head, I look at her through my lashes and give her a terse grimace.
WE WERE DUMB AT NINE years old and could have died from that rusty knife she found in the basement. But that summer at the lake house is the best one to date. From pajama-lounging on lazy mornings, to skipping rocks until the sun went down, we were inseparable. We made up games and chased each other all around the lake. When the only fish we caught thrashed, flipped, and flopped around the tiny row boat, we laughed between screams trying to catch it. Desi got a hold of it, but with a flick of its tail, it slipped from her hands and slapped her face before diving back into the water. I laughed so hard my stomach cramped up.
At night, she’d climb up to the top bunk bed, and we’d giggle about nothing till one of us fell asleep. Usually we’d drift off at the same time. That summer, I started to realize things were different with her, although I didn’t truly understand it back then.
When she proposed our Blood Sister oath, I was all gung-ho till she pulled out the knife. Nothing she said suppressed my nausea, and I lost my lunch when she made the cut. We held each other’s palms together and intertwined our fingers to let our blood mix. It forever bonded us even though I passed out a few minutes after. Daddy laughed at me and Mom grounded us so we missed the final summer lake party. Though it was a lame punishment. We had each other, so it really didn’t matter.
EVERYTHING IN THE COFFEE SHOP fades as I lift my hand to meet hers. She wraps her long fingers around it instead of folding them between mine. “Tell me,” she demands softly.
I can’t hold it back anymore. My lower lip is sucked into my mouth to keep from quivering and is trapped tightly between my teeth. Taking a quick inhale through my nose, I dart my eyes to the ceiling to stifle the tears that I know are so close to being exposed. Swallowing them down, I lick my dry lips.
“Tell me,” she says again, this time with more urgency. There’s a tremor in her voice. I am scaring her. I never wanted to do that, but I have to do it anyway.
She notices my eyes jet around our surroundings and takes in my hesitancy. We are connectively in sync with each other - always have been. Mom says we were soul sisters in another life. We finish each other’s sentences and at times randomly burst out laughing with just a look. Hastily, she gathers our belongings, grabs my arm, and pushes me out the door to face the hellacious noise of New York rush hour. After seven blocks of weaving between honking taxis and dodging various bike messengers, we reach our apartment building. I am winded even before she drags me up the three flights of stairs to our floor, but she barely seems to have broken a sweat. Keys rattle in her unsteady hand as she unlocks the door and we nearly trip over the luggage she must have dropped off earlier.
Desi forcefully sits me down on the couch. Waves of luscious dark curls fall forward, haloing her face as she sits on the ottoman to face me. Her hands fold patiently on her lap, but the grip on her inter-folded fingers denote her concern. “Now, tell me,” she almost whispers.
Scrubbing the perspiration from my hands down the front of my jeans, I only stop to gouge my nails deep into the fabric. Breathing hard from either the hustle from the coffee house or the words caught like marbles in my throat, I gulp air.
“I’m leaving school,” I say. The meekness equals the sadness in my voice. If I could embed myself further into this couch, I would.
“What? Why?” Desperation taints her tone as she leans forward grasping my hands.
The peach pit feels like it’s trying to impale its way through my belly button. I take deep, shallow breaths, deciding she deserves to know. I’m a shitty friend if I keep her in the dark about this. How can I say I love her if I don’t tell her the finality of my situation? We’ve grown up together, and I know she cares deeply.
“I’m sick.” My heart twists, slowly sinking into my gut. “Mom and Dad want me to come home for a while. They found some kind of specialist in Canada they want to take me to.”
Her hands look so delicate holding mine. I can’t stop staring at her long, beautiful fingers. There is little sound across from me. When she releases my hands, I look up from under my lashes, although I don’t want to. She's leaning back straight as a board. Her honey-flecked, green saucers sparkle with the beginning of tears. Damn, I’m going to miss those eyes.
“How sick?” Her voice cracks.
I blink against my own forming tears. Sinking back into the couch, I wipe them away and fold in my legs. Mindlessly, I rub my bicep. The last procedure left my arm stiffly sore, but really, I’m fidgety. Unable to look at her anymore, I rub my eyes. “Very,” is the only answer I give.
“How long have you known?”
My new Chucks are a good enough place to land my eyes as any. "I've known for a while, but I've been seeing a specialist here. The new meds and the procedure I'm trialing are the reasons for my stupid hair. It's a great weight loss program though,” I say with an upward twitch of my lip. My joke is not to her liking.
A plethora of facial tics take over her face and I’m unable to decipher if she is mad at me or empathizing with what I’m going through. The silence between us is a slow persecution of my sanity, but words fail me so I just sit and wait for her to say something. The fear of why I didn’t tell her sooner seems to be manifesting. Is she pissed I didn’t tell her right away? Is she sad? Is she wondering how much time I have left? Is she worried how she’s going to pay rent? Why the hell is she not talking or bombarding me with her usual tirade of questions?
The quiet of the ticking wall clock indicates a few minutes before she speaks. “Why didn’t you tell me? Have I been that shitty a friend that you thought I wouldn’t be there for you?”
Her words bite at me, but they are not laced with malice. Instead, her shoulders slo
uch with shame; she knows the answer. She hasn’t been around very much in the last nine months, what with her new career and school.
With stunned eyes, I realize it never occurred to me she would think that. “NO! That’s not it at all!” My tone is tight and high with raised panic. “I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure…I didn’t want to believe…I n-needed to know for sure, good or bad, before I said a-a-anything to you.” Stupid voice is cracking now and choppy with weepy syllables. Closing my eyes to regain control, I take a cleansing breath. After another, I open them and stare at my Chucks, then up at her, but Desi is focused on something out the window. “Besides, I wasn't going to be the reason you didn't get a cover or a spin on the runway. Seeing you on the big silver screen is on my bucket list!" She looks at me, and I wiggle my eyebrows, giving her an overly-toothy smile.
She is unfazed from her stupor despite my dazzling smile. “That’s not funny,” she squeaks out with a barely-controlled tremor. A fat tear rolls off the edge of her jaw. “Who is this Canadian specialist?”
“I dunno, my parents set it up. You know their fascination with alternative medicines. Now that they’ve discovered the internet, apparently I’ve got a few deadly diseases.” I think I see a small smile slip from her lips. “I spoke to my doc here, and he checked the guy out. He’s legit, so…you know…it’s like 40/60 now.”
“40/60? You mean you have a 60% chance of beating this.”
I love her optimism. But I watch her hope fall away as I shake my head. She has to know the reality. False hope is worse than a slim 40%. My pot-smoking parents are also desperately clinging on to the 40% despite my arguments. 40 is better than 0, but still…
My Last Season With You Page 2