by N. K. Smith
Although she is uncomfortable, she doesn’t look away. I stay quiet because something’s happening that would never happen between the two of us if words were involved. There is nothing in this world I’d rather be looking at right now. I’ve noticed before that her eyes change color depending on the day. Sometimes they’re blue, others green, another time they’ll be a smoky gray; but today they’re deep blue, like the Atlantic ocean when a storm is about to hit. Little flakes of silver circle the iris, and if I wasn’t so close to her, I’d have missed them.
“I told him I hated him when he reenlisted. Again.” Saige takes a deep breath, but doesn’t look away. This may be the longest she’s kept eye contact with me. “I mean, he was a marine before I came along. I realize that it was his life, but—”
“You’re upset because it seems like he chose his career over you?”
“Yeah,” she says in a whisper. “I mean, I get it, especially after what happened.” She pauses, and if it’s possible, an even heavier look of pain crosses her face. “He was killed a month later. I can never take back those words.”
“You were a kid.”
“It doesn’t matter. The words of a kid made him cry, and with that in his heart, we went out and died.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was in a vehicle and—”
“One of those IED things?”
“No. That’s almost passive, you know? Wrong place, wrong time. My dad was apparently accompanying someone important and was targeted in a rocket propelled grenade attack.”
I usually know what to say in almost any situation, but I’m struggling here. She lost her dad at eleven, and I’m not sure putting your mom in a hospital at age six is a good enough equivalent. But maybe losing a parent is losing a parent, no matter what takes them. Death. Disease. Mental Instability.
“He left something lasting though, you know?”
At this, she turns her eyes to the shelf with the folded flag. “What’s that?”
“A lot of stuff, actually. Like the fact that he was trying to do good by fighting in a war that—”
“I disagree,” she says with fire. “He shouldn’t have been over there. There’s nothing lasting about being blown to pieces.”
I’m not prepared to deal with a fiery Saige simply because she’s not usually fiery like this. At least not with me. “Okay. What about that picture he painted? You’ll always have that. And don’t forget about his best living legacy. You.”
She shakes her head, puts her feet on the floor, and makes a movement to get up. I curl my fingers with hers and keep her with me. “I’m serious. You’re his legacy, right? You’re the way his memory will last. Maybe it’s not what you do, but who you impact that’s important in life.”
Saige makes no more moves to leave the couch, but I keep my hand connected to hers. “It’s like all those people in New York when we were just kids, you know? It doesn’t matter if they were bankers or receptionists. If they were a CEO of a major company or if they were just a stockbroker. In ninety years when no one living was alive when those planes came in, the whole event won’t pass out of living memory simply because those people had made an impact on others. All those people who died left a lasting mark on the people in their lives, and they’ll never be forgotten because of it.”
Silence hangs over us, and I’m not sure what to do with it. She may like the quiet, but if it lasts too long, I don’t think I could handle it. It’s not me who breaks it though. Saige turns back and locks eyes with me again. I try to give her a smile like I did before, but there’s no hint on her face that she even sees it.
“My mom died on 9/11. I was five, and I barely remember her. How is that a legacy?”
I’m slow to speak. I don’t want to stick my foot in my mouth, but more than that, I don’t want to upset her. “First, I’m sorry.” I squeeze her hand. “That’s horrible. Losing your mom, then your dad. I can’t even imagine it.”
“Don’t imagine it. Nothing good will come of thinking about being so alone.”
I pull her hand into my lap. With both of mine, I massage the palm, then move up to her fingers. “You’re not alone. You have Myka and Valentine.” I take hold of her other hand and start rubbing it with my thumbs. “And me.”
When she stays silent, I open my mouth to speak, but before I can, she pulls her hands away, twists her body so she’s completely facing me. One of her legs is up on the couch, her knee pressing against my thigh. “There’s no substitute for your parents, Fox. My grandma tried, but I couldn’t stand how she tried. No words of comfort mean a damn thing when your dad’s being shot at and your mom’s body hasn’t even been found. I was five when she was killed. It took me until I was eight to stop praying every night that she’d come home.”
She pauses, then asks, “Don’t you feel abandoned by your mother? I mean, she’s still living, I understand that, but still, it’s not like she’s your mom anymore in anything but name.”
My heart starts to hurt a little. “I don’t like thinking about it.”
“Because when you do, it hurts like hell, right? Is that her legacy to you?”
I try to think of a joke that will work in this situation, but I come up empty again. I can already feel my mood slipping into a place I never want it to be, so I struggle to find something to hold onto because I don’t want to think about the legacy of fear and confusion my mother has put on me. I don’t want to think about how my chances of being schizophrenic are much higher than someone else’s simply because my mother has it. I don’t want to think about those dark images she put in my mind when I was too little not to listen, and I don’t want to linger on the fact that from my earliest memory on, my mother was absent in my life.
Before I know it, I’m chewing on my fingernails, and I’m lost in a world where I’m a helpless kid.
“Knock, knock.”
I blink, swallow hard, then refocus on Saige. She’s sitting there with hope in those blue eyes. I look down and see that she’s taken a hold of my hands this time. “Who’s there?”
“Banana.”
“Banana who?”
“Knock, knock,” she says again.
“Who’s there?”
“Banana.”
“Banana who?” I ask.
“Knock, knock.”
I wonder if she even knows the format of a knock knock joke, but I ask again, “Who’s there?”
“Orange?”
“Orange who?”
“Orange you glad I didn’t say banana?”
The smile that spreads on my face is genuine and hers mirrors it. With a little twist of my wrists, I take a better hold of her hands. Our palms are pressed together now. “That was funny.”
Saige shrugs. “I just remembered it. I think my dad told it to me.” Saige averts her eyes for just a moment, and when she brings them back to me, she asks, “Do you want to work on the book?”
For once, I’m at a loss for words, so I nod and appreciate how respectful she is that even people like me, with a naturally positive outlook on life, sometimes just feel like crap. Apart from the joke, she doesn’t try to pull me up out of the muck of my mind; she just lets me work through it all in the manner best suited for me.
As she flips open her laptop and starts telling me all the stuff she’s written for our graphic novel, I can’t take my eyes off her. It’s almost ridiculous how much I adore this girl.
Chapter 9
Saige
“So? Spill it!”
“Spill what?” I say to Myka even though I already know what she wants to know.
“Fox! What the hell’s going on with you two?”
I toy with the idea of not telling her a damn thing, but the bright expression of hope she wears rules that out. “He’s awesome.”
Myka claps like a little kid but earns a few strange looks from the weirdos around us. She clears her throat and asks, “How awesome is he? Have you kissed him?”
I already know my cheeks go pink bec
ause all of the sudden my whole face is burning, but I say, “I’m not telling you that.”
“You have. You dirty, dirty little whore.”
I shove her with the heel of my hand, and she bumps into the guy with the crazy Mohawk next to her. He gives a narrowed eyed glance, but she just beams back at him. I think their matching synthetic red hair color works to unify them, and the dude just gives her an incline of his head. I guess that means all is forgiven in cool-freak speak.
“Myka, don’t—”
“Hell, no. I’ve been waiting for this for many years, my dear, sweet Saige. You like Fox, and I’m going to bask in the glory of it.” She lifts her head and holds out her arms, like she is soaking up the best rays of sun ever.
While I want to deny her words, I can’t. It’s like the little piece of me I’ve sewn shut is ripping open. “You know that feeling when you look at another person, and you think he is so cool?”
“You are scared shitless right now, aren’t you?”
I glance back up at the stage and watch as a girl with about fifty tattoos on her arms adjusts the microphone and blows into it to check if it’s working. “How do I stop liking him?” I ask.
“Oh, my God, you don’t. Embrace it, baby. He likes you, and you like him, it can’t be more perfect.”
I shake my head and look at her again. “It’s probably just a summer thing, right? I mean, he’s got some trip planned and I’m going to—”
“Where? Where are you going? Have you made up your mind? NYU or California?”
I sigh. “I don’t know, but either way, it’s not here, right? So there’s no real point in even pursuing this stupid—”
“You’re going to drive me nuts, girl. Why wouldn’t you go after him if you like him? Especially given that he’s totally into you. Don’t let it slide away because you’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” I say, but my defense comes out like a child’s voice.
“Please.” She cocks her head to the side and pushes out her lips. “You’re practically peeing in your pants because he likes you, and you have no idea what that means or what you should do.”
She’s right. Of course, she’s right, so I ask, “What should I do?”
“Go with it. It’s not every day a hot dude walks into a woman’s life and wants to make with the sexy times.”
My face is hot again. “There’s no sexy time!” About fifty faces turn to me, and I bury mine in my hands. “Damn, Myka, you’re going to kill me with all of this.”
“Nope. Just make you stronger. So why no sexy times? I guarantee he’s got all the necessary parts, and yours might be a little rusty, but I’m sure he can work it out.”
I double over and hug my legs. It no longer matters that I’m at poetry reading with a hundred other people. I’m going to stay in this tight little ball until the floor opens and swallows me whole.
Myka puts her hand on my back. “Grow up, Saige. Big boys and girls like each other, and when they like each other enough, the boy and the girl—”
I cut off her words by sitting up. “This is already difficult. Stop putting the sex shit into the mix as well.” My words are a harsh whisper, and I’m sure everyone around us can hear them.
“Sex shit?” Myka squeezes my face between her thumb and fingers. I pull my head away. “I think that’s a little too kinky to start off with.”
“Shut up.”
The huge smirk on her face slips into something softer. “You know I’m just joking. Listen, he likes you, you like him. Who cares about anything else? Just do what’s natural.”
“That’s the problem. Nothing’s—”
I stop speaking when someone else starts talking fast into the microphone. Myka and I listen to the poets as they deliver their words with passion, and when it’s her turn, I clap louder than I’m comfortable with.
She is so small up there as she adjusts the microphone. Like all the others, she has no paper, nothing written. Everything’s in her head. She pushes her hip out to one side, places her hand on it, and levels her eyes at the audience. “This is called ‘My Steampunk Valentine.’”
She takes a deep breath, then layers her words with excitement and emotion.
“Like a thermal peashooter in the dead of winter,
I drive my thoughts into your head.
You heave your steel throwing knives into my heart,
chasing me deeper into the hot, sweaty river.
Dense, open sky rains down love and admiration,
my lustful, mechanical heart is long twisting.
I’d die a thousand deaths,
if my steam-powered body can’t have you.
You’re a gun slingin’ rock star,
guzzling my love in the dusty railroad saloon.”
I sit and listen in awe, wondering why I can’t be brave like my friend.
***
A text from Fox wakes me up. Why did the cowboy adopt a wiener dog?
The clock tells me it’s just before midnight. I haven’t seen Fox in two days. He worked a double shift both yesterday and today, so instead of pitching a fit because he’s interrupted my sleep, I send him a text back. Why?
He must have pretyped the answer since it comes back in less than a second. He wanted to get a long little doggie.
You have too much time on your hands, I send back, even though of the two of us, I have much more free time than he does. He works two jobs to support himself, even though he still lives at home. I don’t work at all to afford this apartment and all the trappings of my life. That’s what you get when your parents are killed horribly. A life of lonely luxury.
Obvi not since I haven’t seen u in 4ever. Whatcha doin 2morow?
I reply, Sleeping now that you woke me up.
I smile at his next text. Want some company?
Are you a good sleeping companion? I text back before I lose my nerve.
The best. I’ll show u. I’m really warm 2.
A thought pops up about how it is he’s able to text this well with his dyslexia, so I ask him. His reply makes me blush even more than the thought of sleeping with him. Someone else is typing 4 me.
OMG, Fox. Who? If you say your dad I’m going to kill you. Totally kill you.
Totally kill me? Not just kind of kill me? Srsly, not my dad. . .this time.
I text back, I’m still going to kill you. Who is this?
This is Gage, Fox’s super awesome friend.
Super awesome is one way to describe Gage Metz. He was captain of nearly everything when he was at Pechimu High. Another way to describe him is womanizer, asshole, and douchebag extraordinaire. It’s not like I care or anything, but he made his way through the female student body of my high school and enjoyed making disparaging remarks about the girls he either wasn’t interested in or thought were beneath him.
Well, tell Fox goodnight.
A second after I send it, my phone rings. It’s Fox. “Hello?”
“Saige-e-la, how are you?”
“Fine. You?”
“Better now. Are you pissed because I have someone help me text?”
“Not pissed.”
“But?”
“But I think if you tried harder, you could do it on your own.”
Fox laughs. “Judgmental Saige, how I enjoy you!”
“I wasn’t being judgmental.”
“Okay, next time I text you, I’ll do it myself, but be prepared for nonsense. Are you doing anything tomorrow?”
“I don’t know, are we hanging out or will you be tired from your wild night out with Gage?”
He chuckles again. “Not a wild night. He’s drinking beer and being an ass in my basement. I want to hang with you. I have a night shift at the Joint tomorrow, so can we chill in the morning?”
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Stop it, Fox.”
“Okay. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” I repeat.
“Go
od night, Saige.”
“Night, Fox.”
Tomorrow comes sooner than I would have liked. The buzzer sounds over and over until I stumble out of bed and make for the door. I don’t bother looking out of the peephole because I’m still halfway stuck in my dream of bright beaches and the gorgeous men of California.
“Well, hello, sunshine!”
I can see the outline of Fox just fine; it’s the details and definition of him that are blurred and fuzzy. “Wazzle farm natch.”
His arms fall to the side. “Huh?”
Not even I know what that was, so I just sweep him into the foyer with a grand wave of my hand. I shuffle my bare feet as I go to the kitchen and hit the brew button on my coffeepot. As I stand there, I become aware of the way all of my clothes have twisted during the night. The waist of my leggings has slid down to mid-hip while the ankles have come up my calves. My t-shirt has twisted to mid-belly.
After much tugging, all the appropriate skin is covered. I don’t look at Fox again until I have my empty coffee cup. When I glance up at him, I quickly look away. He’s staring at me with that stupid, happy smile on his face.
“You are like a gift from the gods, aren’t you?” I ask. “Happy and charming, even in the morning.”
“Gift from the gods,” he says, his voice pulling every nuance out of the words. “I like it. Can you write that down on a name tag for me? Hi, my name is gift from the gods.”
“Coffee?” I say as I try my best not to grin at him.
“Yes, please, and to strengthen my gift from the gods status, I bring donuts.”
I groan as I pour his coffee first, then mine.
“What? Don’t like donuts?”
“Yes, I flippin’ like donuts.”
“Then what?” He reaches out for his coffee cup but instead tickles my torso.
“Hey, hot liquids here, Mr. Sunshine.”
“So what’s up with the donut-hate?” he asks after he takes his cup. “You have milk and sugar?”
His thoughts move fast—too fast for the morning haze of mine, but I manage to put them in order and answer the most pressing question first. “Fridge and table. It’s not donut-hate. It’s just that. . .”