When we separate to breathe she murmurs, “You got me up here so we could make out? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
I stroke the back of her neck with one hand, a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth.
“Well, yeah.”
She pinches me in retaliation, and I pinch her back, and her grin spreads from one side of her face to the other like a sunrise.
“Live a little, Melanie Ellis,” I breathe against her lips, and then I’m kissing her again.
This time I push so she’s up against the wall. Melanie makes an irritated noise when her hair gets tangled behind her, but she’s not stopping me. I can feel the rush everywhere, the flush everywhere, the slow-rolling heat.
“Does that line work with all the girls?” Melanie mumbles against my lips, and I trace a finger over the exposed skin of her hip where her shirt’s ridden up.
“Not really,” I say. “Just you.”
She gives me a shove, but her hands stay grasping my shirt, like she wants to pull me closer, not push me away.
This close I can see the places where her eyelashes stick together with mascara, the smooth line of her eyeliner, the tiny scar at the corner of her left eye.
“Where did you get that?” I ask, brushing over the scar with my thumb.
“When I was six,” she says. “Tripped and fell, got scratched up by a branch. The doctor said I was lucky not to lose my eye.”
“That would’ve sucked,” I say, and I know I sound like an idiot, but my brain is overwhelmed with the feeling of her body so near mine.
“It definitely would’ve,” Melanie says.
I lean down to press a kiss to her lips.
“I like it,” I murmur.
“You’re demented,” she whispers back.
Melanie
It happens at least twenty times a day. I do something or say something or see something and I want to send a postcard to that place where you are with no address:
WISH YOU WERE HERE.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I wake up with a tingling hum under my skin. I dreamed about Damon, his hands everywhere: along the inside of my thighs, at the small of my back, fingers tracing over the knobby bones of my knees, pressing into my belly button, flickering over my collarbone, thumbs tilting my chin, angling my face.
This happened. This happened to me.
Well, maybe it didn’t happen exactly like that. Maybe it happened on a windy rooftop, and mostly we kissed, and it was less like a romance novel and more like a wrestling match, with too many limbs involved and not enough dexterity. And yet I never felt claustrophobic or scared, never wanted to be anywhere else. The only thing we needed was space for our bodies to move, and all we wanted to do was share that space between us.
I yawn and stretch, flip over my cell phone to see the time, and notice I have new messages. Who is texting me at the crack of dawn on Saturday? I swipe it open and check—Tristan, of course. Six messages, composing a poem of increasing desperation.
can we talk?
i’m not doing so great.
i need to talk.
meet me for lunch.
or before. meet me before.
meet me now?
I blink, then rub at my eyes. The last message is time-stamped 6:26 a.m., only a few minutes ago.
I dial his number and am not surprised when he picks it up on the first ring.
“Hey,” Tristan says. His voice sounds scratchy.
“Tell me where,” I say. “I’ll be there.”
We meet on Wisconsin near the Metro, walk down past Best Buy and duck into Morty’s. Tristan orders coffee and a bagel and I get french toast, figuring that whatever’s going on with him, it might require the energy provided by a full stomach. We sit in a corner booth. Tristan shreds his napkin into tiny pieces, then scatters them across the table like snow.
“Tell me about Damon,” he says.
I blink. “What about Damon, exactly?”
“How are things going with you two?” Tristan asks. “You had another date, right?”
A date, right. Fast food and fast kisses.
“Things are going really well.”
Tristan scratches the back of his neck. He’s all quick movements today, twitches and shivers. I want to reach out and hold him still, to say: Breathe.
“That’s good,” Tristan says. “That’s awesome, that’s amazing. I’m so happy for you.”
He doesn’t sound happy for me. He doesn’t sound happy.
“Tristan, what’s up?” I say. “You leave me this string of texts on a Saturday morning, and—”
“My parents want me to go see a therapist,” Tristan interrupts. “They said it was because they were worried about me, but I know it’s because they want someone to, like, talk me out of being gay. The therapist is one of my dad’s friends. I said no, and they said if I didn’t go I couldn’t be in the play. So I guess I’m going to a therapist.”
“Oh, God,” I say. “This is how your dad thinks he can cure you?”
“Apparently,” Tristan says.
“Maybe he’s scared,” I murmur.
“Of course he’s fucking scared,” Tristan says. “Probably the first time in my life my dad’s ever been scared of me.”
I glance up to meet Tristan’s eyes, and God, he looks furious. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Tristan look that angry before.
Yes, Tristan. Yes.
“Maybe he should be scared,” I say.
His blue eyes flicker almost green, but then they dim dark. The table is covered with pieces of napkin now, victims of Tristan’s anxious fingers.
“Speaking of scared,” Tristan says. “Bryan kind of . . . ended our thing.”
I suck in a breath. I knew it. Fucking closet case, I knew he’d be a bastard. But there is no comfort in this thought, in being right.
“If he doesn’t see what he’s got in you—”
“I know, he’s an asshole who doesn’t deserve me, et cetera, et cetera,” Tristan cuts me off. “I get it, I don’t need the lecture.”
“Tristan—”
“I see the way you look at me,” Tristan says, biting off each word. “Like, oh, Tristan, he’s so adorable, he’s got a crush.”
“I never said that,” I say. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“I know you think I’m an idiot for dating him,” Tristan says. “You think he’s just some dumb jock, that all the guys I want to date don’t have two brain cells to rub together. He’s not like that, though. He’s—”
“Jesus,” I say, temper flaring. “You want me to be a part of this conversation, or you doing okay without me?”
Tristan sighs. He scratches one fingernail over the surface of the tabletop, Formica squeaking.
“French toast?”
The waitress places a large plate of breakfast in front of me, but suddenly I’m not hungry. I push my plate away.
Look at me, please, just—
But Tristan keeps his eyes on the table, fingers curling into a fist.
• • •
On Monday I don’t really want to go to rehearsal, but I have to. Opening night of the play is drawing nearer and Calvin’s starting to freak out in his own unique, subtly detectable way. Last time I showed up ten minutes late, he stared at me for a full fifteen seconds without blinking, then narrowed his eyes to indicate his displeasure. It was very disconcerting.
Tristan’s not going to be at rehearsal today—they aren’t running his scenes. I’m relieved, because I don’t know what to say to him right now. Tristan has a right to be angry, and anything I say sounds like a lame attempt at smothering that furious flame. Tristan’s got enough people telling him what he feels is wrong. I don’t want to be one of them, another hollow, insistent voice in the crowd.
In the auditorium
Damon spots me and bounds across the aisle to tug me into an embrace. He kisses me on the mouth, paying no attention to the whoops and cheers that erupt around us from the gathering cast, and lifts his hand to give them all the finger. He winds one hand through my hair, twisting. His lips are warm against mine.
When we break apart I say, breathless, “What was that for?”
“Time to rehearse, my darlings!” Mrs. McAvoy shouts, and everyone begins to disperse.
Damon grins at me and takes off for the stage.
I’ve got no choice but to go backstage and pretend like I didn’t just get a little weak in the knees. Calvin hands me a brush, pursing his lips. Max clomps past me in combat boots making kissy noises. I studiously ignore them.
The scenery is starting to look like something real now—it’s sort of amazing. The castle walls appear 3-D, and the arched supports look as if they might actually be able to bear weight. Much of this is Calvin’s work, his precision and care and experience, but I like being a part of it too. So what if most of what I do is fill in between the lines as if the whole set was some giant paint-by-numbers? When Calvin stops by and gives me an approving nod, I feel warm and accomplished.
On my break, I take my usual spot in the wings. They’re rehearsing tough stuff today: the final act. I watch the scene unfold. Karen as Emilia, Desdemona’s handmaiden, discovers Desdemona sprawled on the bed. Damon stands stiff and frozen in a corner, paralyzed with what he’s just done.
“O falsely, falsely murdered,” Lacey murmurs from the bed. Her hair is a mass of tangled curls, white dress fanned out around her, lacy and delicate.
“O Lord, what cry is that?” Karen looks around, wild-eyed.
“That? What?”
“Out, and alas, that was my lady’s voice!” Karen shrieks, stumbling over to the bed. “Help! Help ho! Help! O lady, speak again! Sweet Desdemona, O sweet mistress, speak!”
Karen shakes Lacey’s supine body. Lacey lifts her head from the pillow and gasps out, “A guiltless death I die.”
Karen shouts, “O, who hath done this deed?”
“Nobody,” Lacey whispers. “I myself.”
Damon makes a sound in the back of his throat, reaches out for the wall and grasps at air.
“Farewell. Commend me to my kind lord,” Lacey moans. “O, farewell.”
“Why, how should she be murdered?” Damon asks. His voice is thin and nasal, as if he’s not getting enough oxygen.
“Good, Damon,” Mrs. McAvoy calls from her seat in the audience.
“Alas, who knows?” Karen asks.
“You heard her say herself, it was—it was not I,” Damon stutters.
“She said so,” Karen affirms. “I must needs report the truth.”
Damon’s hands are shaking. He’s breathing as if he’s just run a seven-minute mile.
I move forward. Is he—
“She’s like a liar gone to burning hell!” Damon grits out. “’Twas I that killed . . . ’twas I—”
But Damon can’t say it. He stands completely still for a moment, an unmoving tree, then turns and walks toward the wings. His eyes are locked on me, but it’s like he’s not seeing me at all. He brushes past me without a word.
I can hear the mumble tumble of raised voices onstage, the murmured confusion, Mrs. McAvoy saying, “Damon, do you need to see the nurse?”
All I can see is Damon.
“Hey,” I say, breathless, and reach out. I touch skin, wrap my hand around his arm and hold on. “Damon—”
“Please leave me alone.”
“I don’t want to,” I say.
“Melanie,” Damon says, and my name sounds wrong, like a song sung out of tune.
“Talk to me,” I say. “What happened?”
“I fucked up,” Damon mutters.
“It’s just a play, you know. Can’t you—”
“It’s not—” Damon backs away so fast, I think I might have left scratch marks.
“It’s not what?” I ask. “Not easy? I realize that. But—”
“It’s not the fucking play,” he says.
His eyes are the silver-green of snake scales, sharp and bright.
Why is he angry at me? He practically mauls me before rehearsal, and now he won’t even talk to me?
I am so tired of talking in uncertainties and vague hints, of trying to decode the words of the people I love—Tristan, Damon, my dad. My mom, who didn’t want me to know until it was too late. I’m so sick of this dance. Dancing with someone is only fun if that person understands your movements and wants to make them with you, not trip you up and watch you stumble.
“I want to help you,” I say slowly. “But I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. Why are you upset with me? Everything seemed so—”
“You can’t help me,” Damon says.
His voice is low, controlled. It chills me to my marrow.
“Hey,” I hear, and Lacey is there. “Damon, are you—”
“I’m fine,” Damon says.
“You’re not fine,” I say. “You’re not—”
“Don’t tell me what I feel,” Damon says, sharp.
Lacey backs away. I hear her talking to other cast members. She’s probably telling them we’re having some kind of romantic tiff. Lacey loves gossip.
“Maybe I can help you,” I say. “How do you know whether I can help you if you don’t tell—”
“You don’t understand,” Damon says, whipping back around. “And I can’t make you understand.”
“I understand Othello fine, and he’s plenty fucked up,” I snap. “Why couldn’t I understand what’s going on with you?”
Damon’s face falls. “I don’t mean—”
“What the hell do you mean, then?” I ask.
Damon won’t look at me. He won’t look at me and he won’t talk to me and he won’t let me touch him, and why should I be patient with someone who pushes me away?
“You said this was a play about grief,” Damon says. “About losing, right?”
I’m so angry.
“Maybe it’s a play about some asshole who strangles his wife,” I bite back. “Maybe he’s a douchebag who made his own bed. He didn’t really lose her, did he? He didn’t misplace her. It’s like you just said. ’Twas I who—”
“Jesus Christ, Melanie,” Damon hisses. “I know the lines. I know the play. I mean that it’s more complicated than that—losing someone.”
“I know that,” I say. “I know a little bit about grief too.”
“I know you do,” Damon says. “I’m not trying to say—”
“What are you trying to say, then?” I say.
It’s Damon who reaches out this time, but I pull away. I can feel the fabric of my shirt rub against my skin as I press back into the wall.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
All these sorrys, these apologies for what’s wrong with the world, all the regrets and sympathies and condolences in the universe.
None of them will ever bring my mother back.
Maybe I can’t understand him. Maybe he’s right. And he can’t understand me.
Nobody can understand.
“Just stop,” I say. “Don’t tell me you’re sorry.”
I step away, feeling the air fill the space between our bodies. I can see him standing there, shoulders rising and falling, body contorted with breath.
“I can’t do this,” I blurt out.
“I—”
I turn and run, and run, and run, run out of the theater and the school and over many blocks, around cars and past houses. The sound bleeds and blurs around me, a noisy smudge.
By the time I reach my front porch I’m heaving, arms wrapped around my middle. I lean against my front door for a moment, feeling the wood press into my skin.
I hate crying—the way it fe
els, the tears messing up my eye makeup and staining my cheeks red and making my eyes puffy and bloodshot. I hate breathing like this: the panting, choked-off sighs, the tightness in my chest.
I unlock the front door and climb the steps to my bedroom. It’s a mess. My room never used to be a mess. Mom was always vigilant about it: Melly, keep it clean. A messy room is a messy mind.
Well, yeah. My mind is a mess. I am a mess without you, Mom. I am a total disaster.
I want to kick something. I want it to hurt. I want to throw things like she did. I want to be angry. I’m so fucking angry.
I kick the bed frame. It rattles and shakes. I kick it harder and the whole bed moves, but it’s not enough. I want—
I see the corner of something under the bed, cardboard edged with red.
I know what it is. It’s my sketchbook.
There’s a part of me that wants to shove it under the bed and forget it exists, but I’m drawn to it. I lean down and pick it up and flip it open.
The drawings seem infantile. Derivative, because that’s what they are. Copies of things. I page through them—a feral Wolverine, Mickey Mouse. People I saw in the park. A vague sketch of Tristan. Silly stuff, kid stuff.
This is all I do, even after all this time. Imitate. Make boring art. Fade into the background.
Except. Except then I flip the page, and there are these. The drawings of my mom I did when she was sick. God. I forgot about these. It’s a grim sort of flipbook, each one showing her a little thinner, a little less like my mom.
Turning the pages is like watching her die all over again.
In the last one she is asleep, the contours of her face smooth, narrow, peaceful. I touch my finger to the page but it’s just paper. It’s not skin. It’s not her.
It’s not her.
I turn the page to see what comes next.
I didn’t do this.
Two whole pages are covered in my mom’s handwriting. It’s shaky, so I know it’s recent, from her last weeks when her hands weren’t steady anymore.
Dearest Melly,
I don’t know how long it will take you to find this. I hope it’s not too long. I hope you’re not angry that I found this and looked through it. Whenever I find art it’s hard for me to put it away without looking. So I looked.
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