by Jen Brooks
CHAPTER 4
KYLIE DOESN’T ASK ANY MORE questions. “awkward silence” describes the whole ride to her house.
I turn into her driveway and shift into park. She gets out and pulls the seat forward to reach her pack. She walks around the back of the car over to my window. I wind it all the way down.
“Why did you freak out about my poem?”
“I didn’t freak out.”
“Yes, you did.” She rests her hands on the open window, leans in.
“I have to know,” I say. “Who is it about?”
She chews her lip, making me wait for the answer because I won’t explain why her poem bothered me. “No one in particular. Some woman by the grave of her husband.”
“A she and a dead lover.”
“What?”
“Never mind. As long as it’s not about me.”
“I only write love poems for you.” She smiles. The ice breaks. We’re both thinking of the Valentine’s Day poem she wrote a couple of months ago.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?”
I nod as she leans all the way in and kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll call you later. Please pick up.” When I nod again, she seems satisfied and goes up the walk to her door. At least to her, everything is all right. I really am freaked out.
I pull out of the driveway and head to Uncle Joey’s, overwhelmed by questions. What does it mean that both Kylies wrote the same exact poem? Which Kylie wrote the poem first? It has to be my world mix-up. I was worried about the real Kylie hating me, but this poem thing is the actual fallout. How could almost kissing someone in one world make people in two different worlds share a poetry brain?
When I get to Uncle Joey’s, the driveway is blocked by an unfamiliar car—silver, midsize, a little worn. I have to park along the curb.
I don’t see the driver anywhere, so I head inside and find the front door open a sliver. My mental warning bells start clanging. I push the door open and notice that the keypad on the security system is still glowing. It reads System Disabled. Someone has entered the correct code.
It must be Uncle Joey, but the car outside isn’t his, and it’s parked all askew like the driver was in a hurry.
I don’t call out. Instead I creep through the foyer and peek into the kitchen. No one there. I pass through the kitchen and the living room toward Uncle Joey’s wing. He’s not in his bedroom, his bathroom, or his massive closet. Then I hear footsteps above. Someone’s on my floor.
Terror seizes me. An intruder is in my house. No way could it be Uncle Joey, who never ventures upstairs. My first instinct is to hide, and my second is to run. I should just blink out and go back to the real world. Deal later with the aftermath of whatever’s occurring, when I come back to wait for Kylie’s call.
I don’t do any of those things. I have to know who’s up there, so I steal back through the living room and kitchen, grabbing a knife just in case, and round the corner so I can see the landing above. A figure pauses at the top of the stairs. I clutch the knife a little tighter and retreat a step. A pair of legs scrambles into view, and I see a girl, a high school girl with long black hair and a heart-pumping figure shown off by her tight jeans and tight tank top. She has a tattoo on her shoulder I can’t clearly make out.
In her hands is the silver shoebox I keep in my closet.
I drop the knife, and jump back when it hits my foot.
She turns toward my racket, and I see her face. I don’t know her, but I’m hit with déjà vu stronger than a baseball bat to the head. She dashes down the stairs and out the front door. I run after her, but she’s fast. She’s already at her car and throws the door open. I’m able to grab it before she can seal herself in. She tries to yank it closed while jamming her keys into the ignition, and as the car starts, she puts both hands to the door and pulls. I let go because I want to keep my fingers, and she puts the car in reverse and hits the gas.
I’m only a distance runner, but I surprise myself with how quickly I sprint to my own car, start it up, and pull it onto the road. She’s already at the end of my street, but she’s stopped at the stop sign because of traffic. I’m almost to her bumper when she peels out, and I barely slow down before swinging my car out into the traffic behind her.
She puts her hand to her rearview mirror and gawks back at me. We’re on Marberry Road, which is fairly busy, since it’s the main access to west Pennington. She goes the speed of the traffic, and I get a twinge of disappointment she’s not good enough to make this a high-speed chase. Marberry connects to Main Street via a fork, and we both merge into the greater traffic. I cut someone off to stay directly behind her, and get the blare of a horn for thanks.
No problem, buddy.
Why did some girl just steal my old shoes? Did she break into my house with the intent to steal them? And who is she? Combine this with the Kylie questions, and I might have to hire a private investigator.
The girl puts on her directional and turns right onto Pine Street. I stick to her bumper, concentrating on being too close for her comfort. At the end of the street, it takes me a moment to register the stone archway—Pine Street Cemetery. I hit the brake and skid to a stop. I can’t follow. Not in there.
This is the only entrance I know of. I cut the ignition, stay in the car, and wait.
* * *
An hour later the girl still hasn’t come out, and I realize I’ve just wasted sixty minutes of my life. I drive back to Uncle Joey’s and reset the alarm code. Though the thief girl looked familiar, I don’t have a name to put with the face. I can’t think of a single reason why she’d want my shoes, and I can’t think of a single way she’d even know they were in my closet. Not even Uncle Joey knows I have them, but she must have been searching for them specifically. No one surprises themselves by taking a pair of ratty sneakers during a break-in, not when there are so many more attractive things in Uncle Joey’s house.
I wait downstairs for girlfriend Kylie’s call and grab a glass of milk before sitting on the couch. Shows blur past as I scan the channels, worlds birthing and dying. Something in my head is on fast-forward. I realize I have an ear cocked to hear if the girl intruder returns.
The phone rings.
“Hello?”
“You picked up!” Kylie says.
“I said I would.”
“I wasn’t sure I believed you.”
“I am one hundred percent capable of being trusted today.”
“So you’re feeling better?”
“Mostly.”
“Wanna do something tonight?”
“How about Lacy Pastry for a hot chocolate?”
“Will you pick me up?”
“Give me ten minutes. And, Kylie?”
“Yeah?”
“Bring your creative writing notebook. I need you to write a poem.”
CHAPTER 5
WE PICK A SPOT BY the wall and arrange our hot chocolates and plates of pastry on the glass table. She’s chosen a triangle of baklava, and I’ve picked a fat éclair absolutely smothered in chocolate.
Lacy Pastry is a girlie shop when it comes to decor. Doilies sit under the napkin holders on each table. Thick, protective plastic wraps the white chairs upholstered in lace. Every inch of wall space is covered in a Victorian mural—ladies with wide lacy skirts, lacy gloves, lacy parasols, men in top hats carrying canes, roads peppered with horse-drawn carriages and lined with flower gardens. Every time I look at that mural, I think it might be interesting to make it into a world, but then I ask myself what I’d even do if I got there.
Kylie takes the lid off her hot chocolate, stirs the whipped cream into the cup, and blows on it before venturing a sip. I put the cup to my lips and take a slog through the hole in the cover, then pick up my éclair. It’s so damn good, it’s worth braving the girlie decor time after time.
“So you want me to
write a poem,” she says. She picks up her baklava and bites. Honey drips onto her chin, and she catches it with the tip of a finger.
“It doesn’t have to be a good one, but I think it has to be about me.”
“You think?”
“It doesn’t have to be a love poem.”
“Where are you getting these rules?”
“God.”
She smiles. “Uh, doubtful.”
“You doubt that God talks to me?”
“I doubt you’d listen if He did.”
“Fair point.” We’ve done the religion talk. Kylie was raised in a churchgoing Catholic family with rather liberal religious views. She did CCD and First Communion and all that but goes to church only on Christmas and Easter. Despite the fact that she’s a questioner of religion, she’s the most spiritual person I know. I kind of envy that about her.
I, on the other hand, have had such a considerable amount of crap happen in my life that I prefer to think there’s no such thing as God. If there were, He or She would have a lot to answer for.
“Okay, the voice of the Almighty is not in my head. I’d rather not explain, but I need to do a test, and you’re the only one who can help me.”
“By writing a poem about you.”
“Yes.”
“And not a love poem.”
“Maybe not this time.”
“There’ll be a next time?”
“Depends on the voices.”
She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, but she is smiling. She’s so going along with my craziness. I want to reach out and give her a great, big bear hug, that’s how much I love her at this moment.
“So what kind of poem?”
“Something about how I like éclairs?” I pose with the pastry in front of my open mouth.
She pretends to consider this possibility. “I’m not sure éclairs provide sufficient poetical inspiration.”
“That’s a shame.” I take a huge bite. Éclairs inspire me.
“How about running? I think I could do a little something about running.”
“That should work.”
She opens her notebook, then fishes in her purse for a pen. I sit silently, polishing off my dessert while hers goes untouched for the moment. “Do you want serious or funny?” she asks.
I shrug. “Your call.”
She sips her cocoa and gets to work. Her right hand scribbles words on the paper, pauses, crosses words out, replaces scratches with new words. I’m tempted to read across the table, but the truth is I’d rather be surprised, so I shift in my seat so my back’s against the wall and I’m facing the inside of the shop. Two other tables host solitary coffee drinkers, and one table by the window holds a giggly group of middle schoolers all sharing a giant slushy drink. The germophobe in me cringes as the one straw gets sucked by so many different mouths one after the other.
A man at the counter orders a coffee and a dozen cookies. He’s dressed in a suit, like the ones Uncle Joey wears, or maybe even my dad used to wear, and I wonder how old the kids are who’ll be eating chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin cookies with him tonight.
As far as I can remember, my dad didn’t bring me home cookies this late at night. He was always home when I got back from school. If I were a kid again, I wonder if I would prefer cookies from a late dad to no cookies from a dad who was always there. Knowing what happened to my dad, I’m ashamed to think that the stupid little kid me might have wanted the cookies. I give that regret half a second and push it away.
I drain my hot chocolate. Kylie takes a quick bite of baklava and a sip of cocoa, but her pen keeps moving. The germ-sharing preteens leave in a flurry of voices, and in the silence following their exit, Kylie puts down the pen. “Done.”
I scootch my chair so I’m facing her again. “Is it serious or funny?”
“It’s done.” She turns the notebook so I can read right-side up, then stuffs the remaining baklava into her mouth.
JONATHAN AUBREY
by Kylie Simms
He runs the mile,
Sometimes the half- or the two-mile.
It’s so much better
To have a distance runner boyfriend
Than a sprinter,
Because I get to savor his race
A lap at a time,
Watching his stride,
The swing of his arms,
The determination on his face,
And cheer for him each time he passes.
But nothing is finer
Than running beside him
Casual mile after mile
With no particular finish line.
Just him and me
And our breathing
And the trail,
And I wish running could be done
Holding hands.
“Jeez, Kylie.”
“I know. I’ll edit it at home if you want.”
“No, no, don’t change a thing. But you wrote a love poem.”
“I didn’t set out to, but I didn’t have a choice, with you sitting right there.”
It’s a compliment. That remark, the poem. I’m seized again with the urge to hug her. She licks the last of the honey from her fingers and pulls a napkin from the dispenser on the doily. For a second I’m a voyeur watching her through a one-way glass. Her beautiful brown eyes shift to the door as some new customer jangles the bell by coming in. I have a flash of memory from earlier in the day—that girl who stole my shoes had nice eyes too, but hers were smothered in makeup.
“Can I take this?” I make like I’m going to tear the sheet out of her notebook.
“That’s why I wrote it, right?” Rip. Out it comes.
“Do you have a lot of homework tonight?” I ask.
“A little. Why?”
“Wanna bring it over? I have a little too.”
Of course, we both know that means quality time on the couch. At least until Uncle Joey gets home.
* * *
I drive Kylie home a little after ten. Uncle Joey’s still not home, but she’s tired and I’m tired, and we did manage to get our homework done before moving on to more intimate pursuits. But all good things must come to an end.
After I take the car back to Uncle Joey’s, I squeeze my eyes shut and emerge in my bedroom in the real world. I check my closet to make sure my real-world little Jonathan sneakers haven’t been snatched. They’re resting peacefully at the back. I drop Kylie’s poem onto the nightstand and collapse into bed, not bothering to get undressed.
Sleep comes quickly, but I wake several times in the night, chasing the leftovers of dreams I can’t remember. It’s the kind of night I have every so often, and I’m not surprised when I wake up exhausted to the alarm clock radio. Kylie’s poem still sits on my nightstand. I fold it and put it into my backpack, take my shower, dress, and head to school.
First period Non-Western History goes by in its usual blur of notes and anecdotes. I didn’t have creative writing homework last night, so I have nothing to copy over. I’m so tired, I catch myself falling asleep a couple of times. By the time the bell rings, I’m fully awake, though. The anxiety of seeing real Kylie grips me like mortal fear.
I wind my way through the halls, navigating clusters of people stopped at lockers or doorways, and get to creative writing early. To my surprise Kylie’s already there, just settling into a seat. Today the desks are arranged in groups of four. Only three other kids have arrived, and they’re sitting with one another in a grouping at the front. I shuffle along the wall to the grouping farthest away from Kylie.
I pull my notebook and pen and girlfriend Kylie’s running poem out of my backpack. I tuck the poem into the back of the notebook, not sure what I intend to do with it. It’s not like I can show it to real Kylie. It’s in her handwriting, assuming her handwriting is the same in both wor
lds, and the title has my name followed by the attribution of her name. If someone showed me a romantic running poem that my double wrote in another world, I think my head would explode. My purpose today is not to make Kylie lose her head. It’s to see if she wrote the same poem last night. I want to know if yesterday’s matching grave poems were an isolated incident I can chalk up to cosmic weirdness, or if the Kylies really have been connected somehow.
I don’t know how I’ll find out. If she wrote a poem on her own last night, it’s not like she’d show me, is it? Oh, Jonathan, by the way, I wrote a poem about us running together. Wanna see?
Emily and Zach come crashing into the quiet of the room. Kylie’s head pops up. Her eyes find me, and she looks quickly away. I try not to stare, but I can’t help but notice the color rising in her cheeks.
Kaitlyn Frost arrives and sits across from me, effectively blocking my view of Kylie. I resist the urge to strain around her to see, but I’m annoyed. Luis Alves plunks himself down as well, and we almost have a full four. That last seat is very likely to remain empty.
The rest of the class comes in right before the late bell and settles into seats. Mr. Eckhart clears his throat and rubs his hands together like they’re cold. “Today is group day,” he says. “Count off by fives, please.”
We do so. Kylie is a two, and I’m a three. I’m not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved that we’re not in the same group. People grab their stuff and reorganize according to the count-off. I move toward the window and one of my new group mates, Zach, while Kylie ends up with Luis back where I came from. I try to sit facing Kylie, but Amber Hirsch sneaks in before me, and I’m left with a seat overlooking the courtyard.
My group is me, Zach, Amber, and Claude Arsenault. Overall not bad, though I’m sure they see me as the weakest writer. Zach is my friend in Kylie-Simms-is-my-girlfriend. Amber is one of those girls with glasses who’s mousy but not bad-looking and has her own group of friends. Claude is quiet and a little overweight, and one of creative writing’s stars because everything he writes is sarcastic-hilarious.
“Okay,” begins Eckhart. He rubs his hands together again. “In addition to group day, today is also contest day.”