The problem is that she doesn’t know what her story is really about, not anymore. The more she edits, the more she fucks it all up. Giving the main character hints of empathy have stolen from the one aspect that made the early version good, the urgency. Where the reader might have rooted for, or regretted, his death in early versions, now the climax just feels forced and unnecessary. Charlotte flips back through her journal entry again, searching through her ranting about the break up with Anthony for something that might help. A knock downstairs interrupts her rereading of regret blasted across so many useless pages. She considers letting her parents answer the door until she remembers she’s alone in the house.
As she walks down the stairs, she tries to remember what oh-so-important engagement her parents had tonight. Oh, yes, she recalls, a fundraiser for a prospective comptroller. Another night alone (not that she’s complaining) so her parents can rub elbows with River Valley’s wealthy and important, all eleven of them. Who even has a fundraiser for a comptroller in a town of forty thousand people? Raise your glasses to a glorious future for all of us… if this random dude becomes comptroller of River Valley, she thinks. She can just picture them all with their glasses raised in self-congratulations, hear the crystal clink, “To Ken!”
Charlotte laughs as she grips the knob, running through a list of excuses for why she can’t go out tonight. Sorry, Toni, I know I’m lame, but I’m really tired. But when she swings the door open it isn’t Toni. The kid has his back turned, standing on the top step like he’s ready to leave. He’s in running shorts again. Charlotte looks at his legs, down to his tight calves. When he turns around, Charlotte looks up, just in time.
Every opening Zain had considered before knocking falls right out onto the porch when he turns around. Charlotte’s dark hair frames a face that’s even prettier than the one he remembered. She’s in another t-shirt with a band name he’s heard of, but doesn’t know anything about.
“Hey you,” she says.
“Hello,” Zain says quickly. He can’t remember if he has ever greeted anyone with a hello, maybe his grandparents. He tries to remember if this was one of the options he planned on starting with, probably not. “What’s up?” he asks.
Charlotte chuckles, smiling. She looks a bit confused, “you’re at my door,” she says. “What’s up with you? Taking a little run?”
“I snuck out.” Jesus Christ, he thinks, that was definitely not what he planned on saying.
“Oh,” she says, raising her eyebrows.
He could run, he thinks. Dash so fast he wouldn’t even have to hear her close the door. Just take off down the steps and across the yard in a dead sprint. He’s fast, he could do it. What the hell was he thinking coming here? She still has her hand on the door. Her perfect arm disappears into a short black sleeve. And now he’s staring, and silent.
“Just needed to get away for a bit?” she asks, ducking her head to look him in the eyes.
“I’ve been grounded,” he says.
“Because of last weekend?”
Zain nods.
“Shitty,” she says. She looks back into her house.
Run! he thinks
Before he can move she speaks, “Want to come in?”
“Um, ok.”
“Ok,” she says. Again with the chuckle.
A goal emerges through his racing mind: talk, make her laugh, get her to talk to you. That’s not bad. Was that the plan? He’s inside the goddess’s house. Breathe. She walks down the hallway, her hips bouncing in her tight jeans. Breathe. Zain follows her into the kitchen.
“You want a drink?”
“Sure, please.”
“Whiskey, beer, Coca-Cola Classic?”
Water would seem lame, right?
“Whatever,” he says, stopping next to a shiny chair at a high kitchen counter separating the appliances area from the table area. He traces the twisted metal of the back part of the chair, looking around the room. What the hell do you talk about with girls? he thinks. Should he comment on the room? Tell her he doesn’t have a counter like this? Or a huge kitchen, with an empty sink, that smells like candles instead of dirty dishes?
“So, your mom caught you coming in, or what?”
“What?”
“Last weekend,” Charlotte says. “Was she waiting for you?”
“Oh, yes. She usually comes home late. But I guess I was too late.” Oh, god, that was actually pretty good, he thinks. Sounded like it didn’t really matter, a little funny even.
“That sucks. Hope you didn’t get in too much trouble.” She pops the tab of a coke and hands it over.
“Thanks,” he says.
Charlotte pulls an open bottle of wine from the fridge, pulling out the cork with her fingertips. She swings open a large cabinet full of rows of glittering glasses organized by size and shape. When she turns around she has a wine glass grasped in her hand, the stem dipping between her thin fingers. He should’ve asked for a beer, he thinks. Probably better he didn’t. Remembering the warm beer from last weekend brings a bit of microwaved taquitos up into his throat. Charlotte pours herself half a glass and sits at the table. Zain takes the chair across from her, gulping down a big swallow from his coke can.
“So, how’s the dream drawing?”
“Good, I guess. I’ve had a lot of time to draw this week.”
“Did you finish the one with the boat?”
“Ya, I finished it.” Zain isn’t sure if he wants to talk about it. Finishing the piece was a labor, for sure. Definitely more of boredom than of love, though. He has tried not to think about it since finishing. He doesn’t need anything else to remind him of the end of that night. Walking in last weekend, his mother had been waiting in ambush. Sitting in the living room with all the lights on. You’ve got to assume the unexpected. A week replaying the night taught him that much. She was still up and annoyed (probably about having to stay up more than anything else). He’d told her he was just at the park drawing, but she said she “smelled the booze on him,” and grounded him for ten days. He thought about arguing, saying maybe it was the booze she smelled of every weekend, including that night, but decided against it. He didn’t want to risk having his sentence extended. While his mother talked at him, Zain kept the picture safe, his hand grasping lightly in an O, so as not to squeeze the rolled picture too tightly. His mother looked at his hand as she stood up to head to her room, but didn’t ask.
“That was a weird night,” Charlotte says, taking a sip of her wine. She regards him, a quick glance over the rim of her glass, with the same look as that night. Bored, but nice.
“Totally,” he says, taking another pull from the stupid soft drink can. With every gulp of the soda he feels more like a child sitting with a woman. Suddenly, a portion of the plan he hatched on the way over comes back: talk about her. He remembers the stack of papers collected on her desk, the top page from a story. Something about a beautiful boy slipping into waves.
“What about you?” Zain asks. “How’s the writing?”
Charlotte looks at him, a little suspicious maybe, but only for a second, then her big eyes soften.
“I don’t know,” she says finally. “You ever have something you just can’t give up on?”
“Yes,” Zain says.
They sit in silence again, Charlotte nodding, her eyebrows pushed together.
This whole thing is weird, she thinks, but there is something about this kid. Every time he shows up, so obviously nervous, he has absolutely nothing to say, but there is something. Whatever it is it’s why she kept walking with him that night, other than keeping him awake and alive. Why he’s crossed her mind more than a few times over the last week. Why she could’ve closed the door quietly when his back was turned earlier, but didn’t. Maybe he needs her, but she knows that’s not all of it. Talking with him is comforting and he’s harmless. It’s a nice change. Nothing wrong with harmless or with cute. And he’s both.
“You want to tak
e a walk?” she asks.
Zain shoots up out of his seat, his head just inches beneath the chandelier. Any taller and he’d be laid out again. He doesn’t notice. “Sure,” he says. Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his hoody, he seems to be trying for calm but looks constipated. Charlotte can’t help smiling.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing, come on,” Charlotte says. “I could use some fresh air.” She drains her glass, leaving it on the counter on their way out.
The night is calm, the air still, not as electric as during their last walk. Zain’s hands are sweaty but he keeps them tucked into his pockets. He makes mental notes of Charlotte’s story about a show she went to on Thursday. Names, places, personal definitions. A show, as far as Zain can gather, sounds like a house party with a band. He’ll have to verify that before too long. Then there is Toni, Charlotte’s friend, who ditched Charlotte to hang out with some guy, whose name wasn’t important enough for Charlotte to mention more than once. Toni kind of sounds like a bitch. Zain doesn’t understand anyone not wanting to be around Charlotte. The show was at a house out past the freeway with a lot of land and people drinking and smoking pot. The mental checklist isn’t too long, but he’s not sure how much it will help. With every step they take, and every word this completely cool person speaks about her “pretty average” Thursday night, Zain becomes less and less sure what he’s doing here. Charlotte is interesting and indifferent and beautiful and experienced and Zain has nothing to add to any of her stories. Charlotte goes to parties on school nights. Zain hasn’t even been to a house party, though he’s lied about it a couple times. Charlotte drinks wine when her parents aren’t home (at least he thinks they weren’t home) and then leaves the glass on the counter like some discarded candy bar wrapper. Zain has been drunk exactly once, last weekend, and was grounded as soon as he walked in the house.
A mean-looking black car zooms past, hip hop blasting from the open windows. As it speeds away, Charlotte sings the next few words of whatever the song was. Zain has never heard it, but nods along to the beat. He stops nodding when he realizes he can’t hear the song anymore.
“You like Kendrick Lamar?” Charlotte asks.
“Totally,” he lies. She’s smiling again, that same smile from her porch.
They walk along in silence for a bit, Zain wondering if he missed the end of her story about Thursday’s show.
“So, you must be pretty good,” Charlotte says finally.
“What?”
“Michael told me about the Beer Pool Mile. Just for Varsity.”
“Oh, yeah, I guess,” Zain says, his cheeks suddenly burning. “You know Michael?”
“I do,” she says, shaking her head slightly and rolling her eyes. Whatever kind of smile she gives, however brief, Zain is sure he doesn’t like it as much as the other ones. “I told you he asked if he could use my pool for the race. Remember?”
“I guess I forgot,” he says.
“You like it?”
“Your house? It’s awesome,” he says.
“No,” she says, “running.”
“I love it.” Zain says. “Taking the curves on the track feels like floating with your feet on the ground.” Charlotte nods, looking over at him. He looks back at her, “Or passing another runner like their feet are stuck in shit and you just stand up tall in your stride,” he says. She laughs a bit (one of the good smiles again). “Maybe give them a little nudge on the way past,” he says, “sometimes.” She looks down the sidewalk, scraping her foot along the cement, softly kicking a pebble back into a gravel yard.
“It helps too, you know?” Zain says, looking up the street.
“With what?”
“I feel better when I run.”
“I could see that,” she says. Zain waits for her to continue, but Charlotte doesn’t say anything else. They walk on in silence, not awkward, but not uncomfortable either.
When he plays this perfect night back later, all the details and adventure he couldn’t see coming, he’ll forgive himself for talking so much about running because he was relieved to have something to talk about, something to contribute to the conversation. Something he knows about. And it felt good to be honest with someone who asked a question and really cared about the answer.
Charlotte was wrong. She sees it now. The nervousness, the hands in the pockets, the sneaking away just to see her (she is sure of it), all of it is cute. But he is not just cute. Listening to him talk about running is like running beside him, or watching him draw. There is a beauty there, or will be. When he’s absorbed, lost in something, she can see it. After the acne is done with him, once his face fills in around that big goofy mouth, after he’s grown into those long thin legs, he’ll be something more. More than the sad life that’s printed on his brow, even when it’s not creased in confusion. If he makes it that far, someday this boy will be magnificent.
As they cross the next street, Charlotte points out the black car that passed them earlier parked along the curb. Zain looks behind them, then up the walk to a little house with a dirt yard and waist high chain link fence. How long have they been walking? he thinks. He looks up the street they’ve crossed onto. Every bit of curb is lined with cars. He’s never been to this part of town. Not on any of his long runs or Sunday car rides from before. When they’re past the stop sign Charlotte stops, looking up the street. She cocks her head. Her eyebrows raise, her head nodding along to the deep bass pounding down the street. Between the beats, Zain can hear laughter and yelling. The sounds waft over them, low and heavy, carrying with the beats of bass a sweet and bitter-scented smoke.
Zain knows the smell. The senior girl who sits next to him in health class right after lunch always stinks like it. But with the smell of fresh smoke on the air comes a different memory, a night last fall when his father’s friends were over. They were so loud Zain couldn’t sleep. Dad hardly ever had friends over, but his mother was gone (a rare and welcomed weekend trip back to El Paso to visit her sister). Zain tiptoed out of his room and stood along the wall by the backdoor watching the group of men seated around the table. They all looked so happy. All laughing and talking, drinking from brown beer bottles, they passed around a hand rolled cigarette. Zain stood and watched his father take a small puff and pass it along. Watching those men pat each other on the back, laughing and reminiscing, Zain hoped to have that someday. A group of friends to laugh with. He stood, observing the group, until Steve, dad’s oldest friend, pointed out Zain, peeking through the screen door. His father caught him halfway back to his room, but didn’t scold him. He just apologized for the noise, gripping Zain’s shoulder like he might with any of the friends out on the porch. After promising to keep it down, he closed the bedroom door with a smile. That understanding and loving smile Zain misses with a hurt he can’t seem to shake off.
“Sounds like a party,” Charlotte says, looking to a small two story apartment complex up the block. “I could use a drink. You?” Charlotte says.
“Totally,” Zain says. Anything to keep this night going, he thinks, and to try and shake the memory of that smile. Even just for a little while.
Charlotte looks around the room. She recognizes most of the faces from a year or two back. A young crowd of River Valley’s lower hangers-on. A year or two yet from the bars along the river, they still spend their drinking hours at house parties. Must be an RVCC party, she thinks. The apartment is full of the never-gonna-leaves from River Valley’s El Paso Community College branch that opened a few years ago. River Valley Community students are locals, students who would’ve stayed in town with or without the “opportunity” of a local college. Despite the campus’s mission statement of “bringing the world to the valley before leaving the valley for the world” (or some such bullshit), the community college has served as little more than an excuse for River Valley’s not-quite-lowest graduates to take classes while they hang out. None of them hatching any plans to leave. The college taking their money all the same
.
“This is cool. Do you know these people?” Zain shouts over the music.
They have settled in the kitchen. He is leaning against a counter, nodding and trying to look relaxed. The kitchen is surprisingly spacious and almost empty. Most of the crowd is in the living room, spilling over the arms of two raggedy couches, or gathered around the DJ booth, some dancing on the carpet. Charlotte doesn’t recognize the DJ, but the setup is easy enough to spot (daddy-bought decks complete with a cheap lighting rig). A few people stand around the scratched-top thrift shop kitchen table, half empty bottles crowded around a stack of red plastic cups. Charlotte pours two half cups of bourbon from a glass handle, adding a bit of warm Coke to each. “I think so,” she says, as she hands Zain his cup. “Most of them went to River Valley High.” As she leans against the kitchen counter her arm brushes against his, neither of them move apart.
Zain takes a sip and swallows hard. “So, we’re crashing this shit?”
“Yes. We’re crashing this shit,” she says. Jesus, she thinks, how cute can he be?
“Cool,” he says, taking a sip, gagging down another swallow. He looks around, first at the people in the living room, then at the sink and counter like he’s inspecting the carpentry.
“Char?!” A large, pale freckled form in a thin, sweaty t-shirt is bounding out of the darkened living room. Alvin? she thinks. Aaron? She remembers as the guy wraps her in a sweaty hug. “Aiden!” she says. “How are you?”
“Shit, girl! How long has it been?” he says.
Charlotte hates this question. Like either of the people have lived long enough apart to have anything real to report. She always knows how long it has been. River Valley isn’t big enough, in space or time. In Aiden’s case it is eight months. Eight tiny months in a tiny town. The last time she saw him was at a party at Carlos V’s house, which Aiden probably remembers (though he was pretty drunk that night too). She can guess where Aiden has been since last spring. Here, always here. She can’t be too upset though. If you’re not going anywhere (which is probably the case for Aiden), then any amount of time must feel like forever.
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