by Amy Reed
Sometimes I feel like I’m barely alive.
Love,
Isabel
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Tuesday, December 6—9:22 PM
Subject: Re: good news
Dear Isabel,
Sometimes I wonder if your feelings are really as big as you make them out to be. Like maybe they’re just normal, run-of-the-mill feelings but you’re better at describing them than the average person. Nobody likes filling out college applications.
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Tuesday, December 6—11:12 PM
Subject: Re: good news
Connor,
I assure you, these feelings are as big as they sound. Bigger. Massive. Overwhelming. Monstrous. I’m offended that you’d think otherwise.
Isabel
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Wednesday, December 7—8:38 PM
Subject: Re: good news
Isabel,
I’m sorry I doubted you.
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Monday, December 12—11:53 PM
Subject: deep thoughts
Dear Connor,
Today in art class, everybody was talking about Dalí this and Dalí that, like he is the greatest thing that ever happened in the world, like the words “Dalí” and “surrealism” mean the exact same thing. Some genius freshman even thought he and Diego Rivera were the same person. He was like, “Oh yeah, he was that Communist guy who hung out with Trotsky and was married to the lady with the eyebrow,” and I was like, No, you racist asshole, there is more than one famous painter with a Spanish name. We were looking at slides of Dalí’s most famous paintings, the elephants with the stick legs, the bubble lady, the photo of him with the flowers on the end of his pointy hipster mustache, and of course everyone oohed and aahed at the stupid melting clocks they love so much.
Everyone loves Dalí like he’s the only surrealist that ever lived, but that’s only because he was a marketing genius and knew how to sell himself. But what about all the others? Ernst, Man Ray, Miro? FUCKING PICASSO, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!! What about all the writers who started Surrealism in the first place? What about the fact that Dalí was kicked out of the movement for being a capitalist pig? What about the fact that Magritte is way more awesome and versatile? Magritte didn’t feel the need to shock and show off. He was more classy, more subtle. Like you can look at one of his paintings, and for a second it looks like any old painting. Like that one The Empire of Light, where it seems like a totally boring and realistic picture of a house, but then you realize the light’s all fucked up and all of a sudden it starts feeling haunted. You start feeling like something’s off, like something doesn’t add up. And you can’t figure out what it is for a while, you just feel it in your gut.
That’s what dreams are really like, you know? They’re not full of melting clocks or floating roses or people made out of rocks. Most of the time, dreams look just like the normal world. It’s your feelings that tell you something’s off. Not your mind, not your intellect, not something as obvious as that. The only part of you that really knows what’s going on is the part of you that’s most a mystery. If that’s not Surrealism, I don’t know what is.
Oh boy. Deep thoughts with Isabel. That was exhausting. I think I’ll go watch some TV.
Love,
Isabel
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Tuesday, December 13—8:28 PM
Subject: Re: deep thoughts
Dear Isabel,
Still not doing my homework.
Top 10 Things That Are as Awesome as Surrealism
10. Crop circles
9. A grilled-cheese sandwich with tomato soup on a rainy day
8. Lying down in a pile of fresh, warm laundry
7. Licking the slugs that make your tongue go numb
6. Laughing so hard it makes you pee
5. Winning stuff
4. Wikipedia
3. When my dog farts and it scares her so she runs away
2. When little kids talk about imaginary stuff like it’s real
1. Total silence
Love,
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Tuesday, December 13—10:52 PM
Subject: awesome stuff vs. pretty girls
Connor,
Some things to add to your list of awesomeness:
• The smell of fresh-stretched canvas
• Miranda July. Every single thing she does.
• Hedwig and the Angry Inch. The movie and the soundtrack.
• When it’s hot and you turn your pillow over and it’s nice and cool on your face
In other news, I want to tell you a story about this girl at my school. I’ve told you about the Two Aris; now meet Erin. She’s in eighth grade and she’s beautiful. Like really, really beautiful. Like supernaturally, supermodel beautiful. Like if you saw her walking down the street, you’d probably trip over yourself kind of beautiful. Like I know who she is even though she’s an eighth grader and I’m a senior kind of beautiful. But she hates herself. It’s obvious. She’s probably at least 5’ 9”, but she stoops so low she’s practically my height. She’s new this year, so she doesn’t have any friends, and she’s really shy and afraid to talk to people, and she never looks you in the eye. All I can think is that something bad must have happened to her, you know? And it would have had to be pretty horrible if it could trick her into thinking she’s so small and not worth looking at.
And of course the boys love her. They’re always talking to her and trying to make her smile, and some of them are even kind of sweet about it. But there’s this one guy in particular who’s braver than the rest, who actually asks her out. And the rest of the guys kick themselves for not trying that, because she actually says yes, and this guy is a real loser. Like carries around a skateboard but can’t even skate kind of loser. And he’s a junior, which is just creepy. (Yeah, yeah, I can smell what you’re thinking. Trevor and me, whatever. I’m eighteen so it’s legal now, by the way.)
So they go out, and no one really knows what happens, but the rumor starts going around that they slept together, and of course she’s in eighth grade so everyone’s like “Whoa,” and Loser Guy of course isn’t denying it. But no one asks Erin what happened. No one even talks to her except a couple of guys who think this means it’s a good time to ask her out. And you can just see her shrinking into herself. You can see her disappearing until she’s barely even there.
Maybe a week of this goes by, and Loser Guy thinks he’s real hot shit. Then all of a sudden Erin shows up at school one day and everything’s different. Her hair is gone, for one thing. She used to have this gorgeous long, straight, silky hair, but now she’s bald. Like completely bald. Not some cute pixie cut, but absolutely no hair. And she’s not wearing any makeup or jewelry. She used to dress really cute, like out of a magazine cute, but now she’s in bad-fitting jeans and a ratty sweater. But it’s more than that. Something has changed in her eyes, like she’s not just sad now, she’s angry. She’s furious. And it’s like she’s somehow punishing everyone by taking away her beauty. Like we don’t deserve it anymore. We abused it and took it for granted, and now this is what we’re left with.
What does this have to do with Isabel? you may ask. Well, I’ll tell you. It’s about beauty and not-beauty, about being wanted and being ignored. It’s about how every guy on earth, even the ones who claim to be “evolved,” all know to prey on the pretty girl with low self-esteem. It’s like an instinct. They don’t even think about it. They just see a girl with a nice ass and sad eyes and they know she’s the right conquest, the best effort-to-prize ratio. Not too hard to get, and the returns are wonderful. And she probably won’t complain when you treat her like shit, which you inevitably will
, and she’ll keep saying yes even though deep down she wants to say no. Until she can’t take it anymore. Until she breaks. Until she finds some way to get revenge, even if it means destroying herself.
Even though I’m loud and obnoxious, the smart guys know I’m really one of these girls on the inside. Trevor knows. He saw through my fake confidence and could tell it was just an act, a cover-up for how shitty I really feel. He knows he can fuck his way across the East Coast and I’ll still be here waiting for him when he gets back. And maybe I’ll try to ask questions, but he’ll tell me to shut up, and I will.
I admire Erin. She’s in pain and she’s miserable and probably even lonelier than me, but at least she did something. She took herself back. Even if it meant destroying part of herself, at least she was the one in control.
Trevor finally texted me last night. He’s coming to Seattle in three weeks and wants me to keep him company. And of course I said I will.
Love,
Isabel
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Wednesday, December 14—5:03 PM
Subject: Re: awesome stuff vs. pretty girls
Isabel,
Why didn’t you go talk to her? Erin, I mean. If you can tell she’s so lonely and in so much pain, why don’t you try to help her?
I thought you said you were done with Trevor.
Connor
From: yikes!izzy
To: condorboy
Date: Wednesday, December 14—10:46 PM
Subject: Re: awesome stuff vs. pretty girls
Connor,
Yeah, thanks for making me feel even worse than I already do.
Isabel
From: condorboy
To: yikes!izzy
Date: Thursday, December 15—8:33 PM
Subject: pretty girls & kissing boys
Dear Isabel,
That’s not what I meant to do. I thought it might help you feel better. My mom’s always saying stuff like that—like being of service to other people is sometimes the best way to heal yourself. “The best way to build self-esteem is by doing esteemable acts” is one of her favorite sayings when I’m moping around. I’m not really sure how it’s supposed to work, but I tend to trust my mom about these things. If anything, thinking about someone else for a little while means not obsessing about yourself, and that’s a good thing, right? Sorry if this is annoying. It’s annoying when my mom says it too.
Have you ever tried telling Trevor how you feel? Told him you feel like he’s using you? Maybe he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Although, honestly, I find that hard to believe. I hope you’re not offended, but he sounds like a real asshole to me. What do you see in him? Have you ever stopped to think about that? You could do much better. Trust me.
I guess you have a point with your “pretty girls with low self-esteem” theory. Guys can be assholes, I’ll be the first to agree. But maybe not all of them do it for the same reasons. Maybe some of them aren’t predators. Maybe they go for these sad girls because they have some instinct to protect them and take care of them. Although I guess that’s still pretty egotistical when you think about it. The guy gets to think of himself as a kind of knight in shining armor, and the girl still probably doesn’t feel that great about herself, but now, in addition, she’s dependent on some guy. Jesus. My mom jokes sometimes that most of society’s problems could be solved if the government provided all citizens with free therapy. I think she’s on to something.
In other news, I kissed a boy the other night. It’s not as exciting as it sounds, so don’t start planning a big coming-out party for me just yet. Jeremy and I were hanging out on this dock Saturday night. Remember how clear and still and weirdly warm it was that night? Somehow Jeremy got a bottle of rum, and I don’t even like to drink all that much, but it seemed really important to him that I drink this rum, so I did, and we got sort of drunk. We were looking at the little phosphorescent plankton in the water, and we had a pile of rocks we collected from the beach. We’d throw the rocks in and watch the plankton light up as the rock sank to the bottom, kind of like the sea’s version of a shooting star. It was pretty magical, and the rum was making me feel all warm and nostalgic. It felt a lot like camp, except instead of you, it was Jeremy. And I guess that’s what I was thinking about when this conversation happened:
Jeremy: “What if I tried to kiss you right now?”
Me: “Huh?”
Jeremy: “If I kissed you, would you kiss me back?”
Me: (thinking for a second) “Yeah, probably.”
So then he leans over and kisses me and I drop all the rocks I’m holding and I hear them scatter all over the wooden dock. For a second I’m just in shock, and then my brain registers that my lips are moving and there’s a tongue in my mouth, and I’m pretty sure it feels good. So then I relax and I think I’m enjoying it, but then I remember it’s Jeremy, and that makes me feel weird, and then I realize I’m just too conscious of the entire thing, and what my brain thinks and what my body feels are just not agreeing. So I stop and Jeremy’s looking me in the eye with this expectant look on his face, and I just feel so embarrassed and exposed, like I’ve been caught in a lie, and I don’t know what to do so I just look away and start collecting all the rocks that I dropped. Then this conversation happens:
Jeremy: “So?”
Me: “Hmm.”
Jeremy: “Hmm, what?”
Me: “Your lips are harder than a girl’s.”
Jeremy: “What else?”
Me: “I guess it was okay.”
Jeremy: “Gee, thanks.”
Me: “No, I mean you’re a good kisser and everything. I just don’t think I’m very gay.”
Jeremy: “Oh.”
Me: “I’m sorry.”
Jeremy: “It’s okay. It was worth a try.”
Me: “If I was gay, I’d totally be gay for you.”
Jeremy: “Thanks.”
Me: “Are things going to be weird now?”
Jeremy: “Probably. For a little while. But I’ll get over it.”
Me: “That’s good.”
Jeremy: “Someone should start a college that’s all gay people, so people like me who grew up on straight-ass islands can be sure to get a date and not get crushes on straight boys all the time.”
Me: “Maybe in San Francisco.”
Jeremy: “Yeah, I’m already applying to all the schools in San Francisco. Even the Catholic one.”
Me: “Especially the Catholic one.”
Then we sit there for a few seconds, and it’s awkward, and Jeremy says, “This is awkward,” and I say, “Yeah,” and he says, “Why don’t I take you home and we can start forgetting this happened,” and I say okay even though I know he probably shouldn’t be driving, but I don’t know what else to do. We don’t say anything the whole way there, and when we drive up to my house, I say, “Bye,” and he says, “Bye,” and that’s the end of that. Everything has stayed pretty much normal at school, except for some little things. Like I’ve noticed he doesn’t look me in the eye as much as before. And he doesn’t touch me as much—not that he touched me a lot to begin with, but sometimes he’d slap me on the back, stuff like that. It’s like things have turned slightly formal between us. I really hope this doesn’t last forever.
I’m confused. I keep wondering if maybe I’m a little bit gay. Maybe my aversion to kissing Jeremy just came from some internalized homophobia I’ve picked up from the media. Maybe the true feelings were in the moments I was enjoying it. But then every time I think of it, it doesn’t turn me on at all. But I have this feeling like I miss Jeremy. Maybe I’m not very gay at all, but I just miss the ease of our friendship. Maybe when you’re drunk, kissing anyone feels good.
How are you supposed to know?
Dazed and confused,
Connor
Friday, December 16—11:48 PM
condorboy: hi
yikes!izzy: damn. you caught me
condorboy: yeah, it’s like yo
u’re almost real
yikes!izzy: almost
condorboy: did you get my email last night?
yikes!izzy: the one about you being gay?
condorboy: . . .
yikes!izzy: what do you think about when you masturbate?
condorboy: WHAT?!!!
yikes!izzy: just go with it. i’m being scientific here. what do you think about when you masturbate?
yikes!izzy: guys or girls?
condorboy: girls
yikes!izzy: always?
condorboy: yes
condorboy: always
yikes!izzy: you’re straight. case closed.
condorboy: thanks doctor
yikes!izzy: do you think about anyone in particular?
condorboy: no comment
yikes!izzy: have you ever fantasized about more than one girl at once?
yikes!izzy: like together?
condorboy: jesus, what is this? i’m growing uncomfortable with this line of questioning
yikes!izzy: just answer the question
yikes!izzy: remember, i’m a doctor
condorboy: ok. sure. yeah. what guy hasn’t fantasized about that?
yikes!izzy: why do you think that’s every straight guy’s fantasy?
condorboy: i don’t know
condorboy: maybe because girls are pretty and two girls are even prettier. squishy parts bumping up against each other. that sort of thing.
condorboy: can we stop talking about this now?
yikes!izzy: maybe, but then I wouldn’t get to rant about why it pisses me off
yikes!izzy: isn’t that your favorite thing about me?
condorboy: what?
yikes!izzy: my ranting about things that piss me off. it’s pretty much my greatest talent.
condorboy: ok. whatever you say.
yikes!izzy: on that note . . .