Between You & Me

by Marisa Calin

  MIA

  Every emotion you feel around someone you love is heightened.

  My thoughts find their way back to you and our untouched picnic, and I realize how true it is. I’m closer to you than anyone else, and you’re at the receiving end of every one of my emotions. When I look up, Mia is watching my projector-screen face. She smiles. I blush. Now all that registers on her face is an interest in the thoughts that she can see tinting my cheeks pink.

  MY GARDEN. TUESDAY EVENING. 7 P.M.

  I’m in a tree. You haven’t spoken to me for a few days. I’ve sent you a gazillion messages but I can see it’s going to take more. This is more. I’m sitting in our tree house, my arms wrapped around my knees, waiting. Waiting for you to follow the path of tea lights that I started at your front door, that lead all the way down the street to my house, down the path, through the garden, and around to the tree house: 708 of them! I’ve wrapped fairy lights around the tree trunk and draped them through the branches. And I’m sitting in the middle of it all. I’ve lined the perimeter of our makeshift tree house with tea lights too and have been hoping since I climbed up here half an hour ago that they won’t make for a giant bonfire at any moment. Sitting in the middle of my own constellation, I can’t imagine how I’ll feel if you don’t come. That would be a surefire way to humiliate me: make me blow out 708 tea lights. This evening you had a scholarship presentation at school so by my estimation you should just be home and following my twinkling path at this very moment. I strain to see the gate in the dark. Still no sign of you. Five minutes go by. I rest my chin on my knees, remembering the time I snuck into your room and released a jam jar of fireflies when you were asleep. When you woke up, we lay on your bed watching them light up the room. Then we couldn’t get them to fly out the window and you were still seeing them days later. At night, they’re magical but in the light they’re just bugs. I hope this is more successful!

  I’m starting to feel cramped and I’m thinking of all the reasons you might not come, all the reasons you might be home late, and my tea lights will be burned-out shells of liquid wax. I’ve just closed my eyes when I hear your voice:

  YOU

  You’re a fire hazard!

  I laugh, relieved. Happy.

  ME

  That’s me. A Phyre Hazard.

  I peer down and there you are, your head tipped back to look up at me, hands on your hips. You’re all dressed up and you look perfect in my garden of lights, as if you’ve put on your best outfit just to walk a twinkling path made in your honor, your own red carpet. My “Sorry” speech has gone out of my head so I go with the short version as I reach out and pull you up into the tree beside me, trying not to set you on fire.

  ME

  Sorry I’m an ass.

  YOU

  Me too.

  I laugh again, heartily, elbowing you gently, but you make a show of nearly falling out of the tree anyway. I reach for your arm and keep hold.

  ME

  Missed you.

  YOU

  You did?

  And that’s it. We’re just you and me again.

  THEATER. AFTER SCHOOL. TWO WEEKS LATER.

  The weeks, crammed with rehearsals, are flying by. We’ve spent the afternoon watching in awe as the set has been built. According to Kate, Mia had her heart set on the play despite the complex set, so she brought in a friend: a handsome guy, not much older than she is—annoyingly handsome, the kind of guy described in books as “flashing a smile.” She’s been conferring with him attentively for most of the afternoon. Kate has been flirting. He doesn’t seem to mind but he talks to us like we’re kids and it reminds me how much respect we get from Mia. Kate stands beside me on the balcony above him (believe me when I say that a plumber’s crack isn’t flattering on anyone) as he straightens up and slips his screwdriver into his tool belt.

  MR. HANDSOME

  All right, girls? You be careful up there.

  Kate and I look at each other but my look says “urgh” and her look says “dreamy!” Flashing a smile, Mr. Handsome joins Mia, who is waiting at the door of the auditorium, and puts his hand on the small of her back (double “urgh”) as they walk out. I catch your eye, looking up at us from ground level and I do an impression of him. Loading my imaginary tool belt like a gun into a holster, I do my best Wild West walk and blow the smoke from my fingertips before giving you a wink and a finger point.

  KATE

  Are you crazy, he was gorgeous!

  ME

  Yeah, and he thought so.

  I picture again the way he ushered Mia from the theater before my attention returns to the upside. I look down at his handiwork from above, and it is amazing. Beneath us, for the second half of the play, he’s set a swimming pool into the raised stage. The removable floorboards of the Price house come up and this tank will be a glistening pool. The staircase to Lily’s bedroom in the first half becomes the balcony over the swimming pool. We’ve been appointed the task of set painting for the rest of the afternoon—a forte of yours rather than mine—so here we are.

  I’ve started on the shutters on the upstairs windows. Below me, you and Kate are painting the French doors. I’m trying to create the effect of slats on my shutter with a second shade of green as I catch snippets of your conversation. Kate is talking about a guy she’s seeing. He’s in twelfth grade and really hot— she hasn’t mentioned smart. Now she’s asking you. You’re mumbling something. I pause to hear better, as if my brushstrokes make too much noise. You haven’t mentioned anyone to me, and I’ve asked a million times! Why wouldn’t you talk to me if you liked someone? I can keep secrets too. I stick my head over the balcony to glare at you but you’re not looking. My glare goes unnoticed and Kate is busy admiring her work. I go back to my shutter, my attention to detail getting hazier by the minute. Next thing I know, you’re beside me. I pretend not to see you at first, tilting my head to evaluate my work. Then I huff.

  ME

  This looks like crap!

  You smile.

  You’re not supposed to agree.

  YOU

  Here.

  You take the brush from my hand and add a few choice lines of darker shadow. Miraculously, it already looks more like a shutter. I take the paintbrush back and sweep a thin streak across your cheek.

  ME

  Thanks, I was just getting to that!

  I turn away triumphantly. Greeted by too long a silence, I peer back at you. You’ve pressed your entire palm into my palette of paint and are coming toward me. Shrieking, I run for it.

  THEATER COURTYARD. AFTERNOON. THE NEXT DAY.

  The rehearsal schedule for today lists my scene with Gabe near the end of play. Mia and I are alone, waiting in the theater courtyard. We’re here under the sky because the scene is outdoors and Mia says we should rehearse in an open space. We’re sitting on the wall beneath the arch. Gabe is fifteen minutes late. She looks over her shoulder for him, and I watch the tendons spring in her graceful neck. She hops down off the wall.

  MIA

  Well, as you’ve taken the time to be here, let’s rehearse.

  I look at her, filled with nerves. The sun has come out between the treetops behind her, giving her a halo-like glow. I stand up and we move beneath the evergreen laurel trees lining the path. The undersides of the leaves are so peaceful, pale and vulnerable like the belly of a tortoise.

  Standing face-to-face in the dappled light, we are closer together than ever before. I can see her necklace at her open collar. I have never seen it this close and she notices me looking.

  MIA

  Cassiopeia.

  I meet her eyes.

  My necklace.

  She clasps it delicately between finger and thumb, and I feel the thrill of being let in on something personal.

  ME

  Where did you get it?

  MIA

  It was a gift.

  She doesn’t say who from, but I’m guessing boyfriend. I step even closer.

  ME


  Can I see?

  She nods and raises her chin. She lets go before I have the necklace properly between my fingers, giving me the chance to lift it gently from the notch in her collarbone where it falls. I realize with a quickening pulse that it’s the first time I’ve touched her. I tilt the tiny constellation to look at it in the sunlight, a delicate twist of silver.

  MIA

  She was beautiful and vain, Cassiopeia.

  ME

  So nothing like you. I mean, not vain.

  Help. I think I just called her beautiful!

  MIA

  Nothing like me—

  —She smiles.

  I wear it as a reminder that vanity can be a downfall.

  I nod my head wisely, then speak entirely without thinking.

  ME

  I have a Cassiopeia in freckles.

  MIA

  You do?

  I’m still holding her necklace so she can’t move away but she doesn’t seem to mind. My skin is mostly clear so I’ve always thought it funny that five freckles should arrange themselves exactly like a constellation. I come to my senses and let the necklace rest back against her neck.

  MIA

  Can I see?

  I hesitate, wondering why in the world I mentioned it.

  ME

  Oh, it’s on my body—I mean, not immediately visible.

  Left to the imagination it’s just sounding worse so I realize it’s probably better to show her. I carefully lift my shirt—hoping my slim-cut jeans are doing me justice—and on my left side is the small and exact replica of the “W.” She looks closer.

  MIA

  That’s amazing. Perfect alignment!

  She can’t see my nod as her face is inches from my body.

  ME

  Best yet, I don’t need a necklace to be reminded of the perils of vanity.

  She laughs, and I almost stop breathing. I’m so aware of her. Can she feel how aware I am? She has to. I can almost see the tentacles of blue electricity flaring off my body and reaching for her, like the globes in science. She straightens up, still smiling, and it takes me a second to realize I haven’t let go of my shirt. Now I’m just voluntarily holding it in the air! I quickly smooth it back into place, feeling ridiculous. I fill the millisecond of silence.

  ME

  So there we go!

  She brings us coolly back to the play with a comment about Lily’s vanity masking her insecurity, and we run through the scene. Mia turns to me thoughtfully at the end.

  MIA

  What’s she really saying here?

  My senses are working overtime, I can feel everything. The ground beneath my feet. Gravity. The breeze. The sun filtering through the trees. Mia’s gaze.

  ME

  She’s trying to give the impression that she doesn’t have feelings for him. She’d never want him to know. I’m not sure she even fully admits it to herself. But there’s a part of her that has to accept it. She loves him, and she wishes she could take a chance, that he feels it too.

  She smiles.

  MIA

  Good. So, say the lines as if you want him to believe them but remember that we can’t ever help giving away a little of how we really feel.

  When we play the scene again, I give myself the freedom to say everything I’ve wanted to. The words are the same but I stop repressing every self-conscious gesture that gives me away. I let my eyes express what I pretend not to feel at every moment. When we reach the end of the scene, she nods, suspended, engaged. And in that second, I wish she knew everything that I feel. She smiles breezily.

  MIA

  Excellent! See how interesting it becomes?

  As she turns away, I reach out and touch her arm. She looks back at me, her eyes wider than usual, waiting for me to say something. I don’t speak. I haven’t thought of what I would say.

  MIA

  Phy?

  My hand is still on her arm. I search for words to go with the gesture. After a second, she puts her hand gently over mine, moving it from her arm, but holding it warmly for a second.

  MIA

  You okay?

  ME

  Yeah. Fine. I … Thanks, for your help.

  MIA

  Need a ride home?

  MAIN SCHOOL HALLWAY. SOON AFTER.

  We stop by the teachers’ lounge so she can pick up her bag. I’ll just be a minute, she says, smiling over her shoulder as she pushes open the door. I peer after her into the empty room: the view from the door, the only view I’ve ever had. I picture the other side that I’ll never see. A place becomes so much more fascinating when you can’t go in. Then you have to imagine it. I’m sure that imagining is sometimes a lot more exciting than the reality. The hall is deserted and the door is still open a crack. I wonder what she would do if I just followed her in. There’s nothing to stop me, just the little voice in my head reminding me I am not supposed to. I wonder how different I would be in a world with no consequences. Will the voice telling me what’s right always be so loud? I’m still wondering when she reappears, her bag over her shoulder, and we head toward the gate.

  THE ROAD. LATE AFTERNOON.

  Watching the trees rush by behind her, I wonder how vividly I’ll be able to relive this moment—if I’ll be able to remember exactly how I feel right here, right now. I lean against the window of Mia’s car, my head turned so I can look at her. Cassiopeia twinkles in the light. The golden afternoon sun makes her narrow her eyes sleepily against the glow, and in the unfiltered light her white shirt is semitranslucent. From this angle, I can see the length of her collarbone to the curve of her shoulder. Music is playing quietly on the radio. There’s no need to talk. She sees me watching her and smiles with sincerity. Being with her makes me feel like an adult, like we’re stealing away together. Seeing the blur of streets go by, I imagine the possibility that she won’t take me home. That she’ll keep going. She’ll drive away with me to a place where we can be together and she can tell me how she really feels. So soon, it seems, she pulls over in front of my house. She’ll be gone in a minute, it’s happened too fast. I sit in the car for a moment, and when she looks at me again, I don’t look away. Shall I tell her I love her? Mom waves from the window. Mia waves back warmly.

  Standing at the curb, I stoop to say my thanks through the open window, and in the cover of a blinding sunset, I watch the taillights of the car pull away. I wonder for a second if she’s watching me in the rearview mirror. Blinking away the sun spots from my eyes, I walk up the path to the front door with one thought. Mia knows where I live. I’ll feel differently every time the doorbell rings because of the new 1 percent chance it could be her.

  MY BEDROOM. THAT EVENING.

  I flop onto my bed. My heart is still somewhere between the drive home and the rehearsal under the trees. I close my eyes to imagine my way back there, like when you wake up from the perfect dream and squeeze away awake in favor of asleep. The phone rings—I pick it up and it’s you. Hey, I sing, lightness and heaviness balled up together in my heart so it doesn’t know whether to sink or float. Hey, you say, with less enthusiasm. I sit up:

  ME

  What’s wrong?

  Check the school website, you say. Check Got Gossip. So I do, fingers shaking. I click on the header, apprehension flooding my body. My breath stops in my throat and I feel sick. The page shows a photograph, of me. A photograph of this afternoon. Mia on Phyre? I can barely bring myself to read on.

  A certain ex-hot-lister seen here wrapped up in private drama with her very own teacher: new flame or is Phyre just carrying a torch for her? Can the heat be sustained? Check back for more.

  I stare at the screen, wondering whether I’ll die so I won’t have to go to school tomorrow. For a second, it seems like nothing will ever be the same. We’re standing so close in the photograph, in the shadow of the trees, my hand reaching for her. She’s just a shape in the foreground but it’s as if the camera has captured every ounce of my longing. Reddening with anger and embarrassment, I
fight a sudden pang of isolation. Can they really do that? I’ve been so careful not to give anything away and in the single moment that I let it show, snap.

  SCHOOL GATE. THE NEXT MORNING.

  I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake for most of the night wondering if I could ever come to school again. My half-awake, half-asleep dreams played out the day ahead, with people staring and pointing, and now I have to go through it all for real. From the gate, the path to the steps has never looked so long. I dressed in black this morning, resigned. People take strength from other people being targets; it means they’re not at the bottom of the heap. I’ve been staring at the path for a full minute before I notice that you’re beside me. I smile a halfhearted “thanks for waiting”—you could have gone ahead to avoid being seen with me. People don’t look too menacing from here but I’m sure that when I start to weave between groups, they’ll notice me.