by Lindy Zart
“My favorite color is a rainbow. In the fifth grade, Mrs. Williams asked us all to come to the front of the room and state what our favorite color was and why. You were in her class too. Do you remember that day? I got up there and said what my favorite color was. She told me not to be silly, that I had to pick one color, and I told her I couldn't, and I wouldn't, because I loved all the colors, and I especially loved all of the colors found in a rainbow.
"She sent me to the principal's office for being insubordinate. I painted my hair in stripes of yellow, orange, red, green, purple, and blue the next day. She hated me from that moment on. Also, my mom threw a fit when she tried to clean it from my hair. It took weeks for all the colors to be completely gone.
“I thought about trying out for choir freshman year. I love to sing. I'm not saying I'm good at it, but I love it. I didn't try out, and not because I was nervous or scared, but because singing is something I treasure, and I didn't want it to somehow be used against me in a negative way. What if I wasn't good enough? What if I was mediocre compared to everyone else? What if people made fun of me just to make fun of me? I didn't want the joy of it to get lost in sharing it with others, or to have it taken away from me by knowing I'm not any good at it. I don't even know if that makes sense. Probably not.
“I feel bad for bugs. I mean, I don't want them swarming me or biting me or anything, but I understand them. I understand how they're judged a lot of the time on the way they look. People don't like ugly things. People don't like things they don't understand. I know what that's like. I've been disliked just because of how I look for a long time—because I chose to dress differently from everyone else. Because I like stuff that doesn't necessarily match or go together, because I didn't want to be like all the other kids. Why try to be like someone else when our individuality is what makes us us?
"I could have let myself get bitter over it, but I really just feel sorry for people like that. I suppose it used to upset me, but the longer it went on, the more immune to it I became. I decided I was above all of that petty shit, although at times, I did lower myself down to respond to situations when I probably should have ignored them. The whole high school scene is bizarre, if you really think about it. Kids are mean, everyone is struggling to find their identity, social status is your life. If you aren't good at sports, you suck. If you aren't popular, you might as well fade into the woodwork. People...” I trail off as I notice how still he is.
I look up and meet his unflinching gaze. It's black, unfathomable. I feel like I could get sucked into his dark eyes and become wrapped in him.
“People like I used to be,” he says in a rough voice.
I lean back on my heels, letting my hand fall away from his face. “I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
Slowly standing, I push down wayward strands of my hair as I become aware of what I must look like. My hair is a wreck on a good day and I can't imagine what it looks like now. I catch his eyes going up and down my body and face like a warm touch. I self-consciously cross my arms.
“Are you okay now?”
He doesn't answer, turning his face forward.
“All right then.” I head for the door.
“Stay.” Softly spoken, raw with emotion—this one word has the power to halt my steps.
“What?” I turn around to face him, but he won't meet my gaze. I think I must have heard him wrong.
Even with his face partially turned away, I can see the confusion and need warring in his expression. I think he astounded even himself when he said it. “Will you...stay?”
A long minute ticks by, the weight of my decision heavy in the room. Will I stay? What will it mean if I do? What does he expect from me if I do? I glance at him, knowing there was nothing seductive about that request. It was brought on by vulnerability in a hurting young man. I don't think I can leave, not after he said that. Walking away would be a pretty nasty thing to do after he ignored his pride to voice that word, and I am a lot of things, but cruel is not one of them. He needs someone. It probably isn't really even me, but just someone. I can be that someone for the night.
“Yeah,” I whisper, flicking the light switch off before we can gauge each other's reaction to his surprising question and my just as surprising answer.
In the dark I make my way to the large bed, aware of him scooting over to make room for me. The rapid beat of my pulse is proof that this is insane and completely unexpected. We're practically strangers, we are from different worlds, and we don't exactly bring out the best in one another. Yet, here we are, together because of night terrors. I know what nightmares are like. Sometimes they are there whether we are sleeping or awake, unavoidable and inescapable. I suppose Rivers feels like he is in the middle of one, even when his eyes are open. I exhale slowly, knowing exactly how that feels.
I lie on the bed with my hands clasped together over my midsection, my body tense. His body heat seeps into my side, as does his sweet smell that makes me homesick for a home I've never had. It's more of a sense than an actual place—a feeling of wholeness. Where I am and what I am doing sinks in the longer I am in his bed. Me, lying next to Rivers Young. Crazy. This summer has been a collision of disbelief upon disbelief. Strangely enough, this one I don't mind so much.
“What did you dream about?”
“Water,” is his gruff response.
I close my eyes against the dark only to see more dark. I wonder if this is what Rivers feels like he is in—waves of unending darkness, never knowing how to get back to who he used to be, unable to tread forward through them, constantly sucked under them, struggling to breathe. Stuck. Lost. His arm relaxes against mine and he instantly moves it away. I pretend I didn't notice, asking, “Do you have nightmares often?”
The silence is drawn out to the point where I don't think he is going to answer me, but then he says softly, “Every night.”
No words are really appropriate after that admission and I focus on the steadiness of his breathing instead. In and out. Slow and deep. I feel him sinking back into the nothingness of slumber. How do you break through the black and into the light? How does a boy who used to have everything decide he has something to fight for when he's lost all he's known? What will be strong enough to pull him from the waters of his dark abyss of reality? I think he has to do it himself, but he has to want to. I also think it's the scars of his heart that need to be mended, not the superficial outside ones.
It is true that no one can save you, no one but yourself. And sometimes...even you cannot save you, no matter how much you wish it was untrue. Sadly, some things are not meant to be saved.
My limbs melt into the mattress as I fade away.
THE FIRST RAYS OF SUNLIGHT awaken me, warming me from the direction of an uncovered window. I almost smile when I realize he left the curtains open. Then I remember I can only know that because I am lying in his bed with him sleeping next to me, and the compulsion to do so disappears. I lie still for a moment, convincing myself last night really happened and it wasn't just a dream. It was completely innocent—the only time we touched by accident. I guess he just needed to not be alone in order to sleep. I'm sure any warm body would have sufficed.
Slowly turning my head, I take in the body lying next to me. It's long and tanned, the muscles defined in a way only someone naturally athletic and constantly moving can acquire. Studying the olive-toned features, I note the boyishness not normally seen on Rivers' face, the long, black eyelashes that kiss his cheeks, and the slight part between his lips. He looks so young without the lines around his mouth and the frown between his eyebrows he habitually has while awake. A shadow of stubble frames his jaw, adding a roughness to his otherwise youthful features. Rivers is a perfect mix of clouds and sunshine, openness and hardness. He's an impeccable, yet inconsistent being of all that is good and all that is not. And I am in his bed.
If I had a list of things least likely to happen, this could be on it. No—this would be on it. Maybe even number one
on the list.
It takes another moment for me to realize there is a heavy weight on my stomach. His arm is across my torso with his hand around my waist, keeping me exactly where I am. My fingers slide down the tendons, muscles, and bones of his arm, stopping on his hand. I know I shouldn't enjoy the feel of him so much, but I do. He's made so differently from me. I may be active on a regular basis, but I don't have the hardness to my muscles that he does. A fine dusting of hair covers his arm, glints of blond catching my eye. I am paler and my hand is smaller than his. Everything about him is more, larger, harder—extraordinary. I squeeze my fingers around his for just a touch longer than is necessary and carefully move his hand away, able to breathe only when we are no longer touching.
The process of getting myself out of the bed is methodical, but once on my feet, I run from the room as if I can run from last night. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't do anything but sleep beside him. Still, there was an intimacy to it that I am unsure how to feel about. The only boy I've ever fallen asleep beside is my brother, and that was so long ago that I only know it happened from photographs I've seen. Of course, there is no way to compare the two as they are on completely different levels of understandability.
I shower and get myself ready for the day, deciding pancakes sound good. Homemade pancakes are better than from the box, and I resolve to have it be my mission to make the mouthwatering thought of them a reality. I get out the flour, eggs, milk, and vanilla, placing everything on the counter. Finding a recipe book proves harder than it should. After futilely searching through all the drawers and cupboards, I lean against the counter top and sulk.
Minutes later I hear the precise footsteps of Rivers. I straighten as I wait, heat crashing over me in unrelenting waves as an image of his sleeping form shoots through me. Don't think about it. I decided earlier to pretend like last night never happened, for both of our benefits. We'll see how good I am at pulling it off.
The first thing I say to Rivers when he appears is, “Does your mother not cook?”
He's wiping sleep from his eyes and drops his hand to blink at me. The shirt he's wearing is teal with a silver surfboard on it and his shorts are black and loose—quite a change from his usual camouflaging pants. I wonder if he's even been surfboarding before. I answer myself with, Of course he has. He is one with the water, which makes his accident all the more baffling. I mean, even his name is a connection to water.
"Why were you named Rivers?"
“What?” he asks around the lingering fog of sleep.
I decide to go back to my first question, most likely confusing him, but deciding it's the lesser of difficult questions for him to answer. “Your mom. Does she cook? I can't find a recipe book.”
“Why do you need a recipe book?”
“So I can cook?” I raise my eyebrows.
A frown twists his lips. “Pretty sure my mom isn't paying you to cook.”
“Pretty sure your mom isn't paying me to sleep with you either.” As soon as I say it, I bite down hard on my tongue, tasting blood. So much for my idea to pretend last night never happened.
Shutters close over his face and he turns away.
I make my voice bright as I say, “Forget cooking. Let's go out to eat.”
Rivers pauses long enough to say, “I am not going out to eat with you.”
“Oh? Scared to be seen with me in public?” I ask curiously. It doesn't bother me if he is—that's his problem. I just like to know these things.
He mutters to himself.
“What did you say?”
“I said, you don't get it.”
I reach into the bowl above the fridge and find the rectangular piece of plastic. I also find a set of car keys. I take both. “Well, I'm going out for pancakes. You can stay here. 'Bye!” My arm grazes his as I fit by him to get to the front door.
Clouds obscure the sun as I walk from the house to the detached white garage. The four-car garage is bigger than the whole downstairs of my house, a fact that has me shaking my head. The inside of it is cool and bare except for two cars, a gleaming white Ford truck, and a small stack of totes along the far wall. One of the cars is a reproduction of an original Volkswagen Beetle in pastel green and the other is an older model, gun metal gray Dodge Charger. I stare at the two-door vehicle with something close to awe swirling through me. I don't even care whose car it is, I just really hope I have the right set of keys.
I push a button on the wall and the garage door rambles up. I get in the Charger and put the key in the ignition. Joy abounds within me as it fits, and a wide smile cracks my face. I don't know a lot about cars, but I know I like fast ones. I'm hoping this is one of them, but if not, at least it looks cool. It reminds me of the car used in the television show 'The Dukes of Hazzard', a show my mom used to watch reruns of on a regular basis. I never understood that. As I gaze at the shiny leather interior of the car, I decide it had to have been because of the car.
I roll down the windows as a voice says, “That's my car.”
I just shrug.
Rivers stands in indecision beside the passenger door before wrenching it open and getting in as quickly as his body allows. “If anything happens to this car, Bana, it's your ass.”
“Psssh.” I look in the rear view mirror. “Hold on.” And I hit the accelerator, laughing as Rivers shouts an obscenity next to me.
I find a classic rock station and The Doors play as we zip along the back streets of Prairie du Chien. The car handles a lot more easily than my mom's Ford Taurus. I almost want to say it's touchy. It's sleek and slim-framed, everything inside it formed with a touch of daintiness to it. If I told Rivers that, I'm thinking he wouldn't like it too much. Rivers Young and muscle cars? Never would have thought it. He seems too polished for such a thing. Cars like this make me think of boys covered in dirt who smoke cigarettes and slack off in school.
I know—people and their misconceptions. And I among them.
"How come you never drove this car to school? You always drove that white truck I saw in the garage."
He gives me a look. "Right. And have someone bash into it?"
"You're like one of those people with the flashy cars that park all alone in the Wal-Mart parking lot so no one is by their car. They never seem to realize that parking like that just calls even more attention to it." When he doesn't respond, I say, "It's so sad you keep it hidden away so no one can enjoy it."
"Looks like you're enjoying it," he mutters.
I laugh. "Well, yeah, but that's because I commandeered it."
"Is that what it's called?"
Smiling, I ignore that and ask, "How can you afford a truck and a car? And nice ones, at that. Or did you parents buy them for you?"
"I've worked every summer for as long as I could as a lifeguard. Didn't you ever go to the pool?"
Once. Riley and her friends made fun of my ghost skin the whole time. It got old. I didn't return. "Nope. And that's still not enough money to be able to afford something like this."
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch his shrug. "I worked at the grocery store during the school year, in between and around sports. And I got this at an auction for a lot less than it was worth. It was a heap. Some friends and I worked on it every weekend for months. The truck is technically my parents. I just drive it."
Knowing that Rivers worked to get this, that he paid for it and made it what it now is with manual labor and not just green paper, makes me soften toward him. It wasn't just given to him and I like that. He earned it.
"What about you? How come you don't have a car?"
"I like my bike, and when I have to, I take my mom's car. I don't need a car for myself." I add, "I'm practical."
"Practical," he murmurs quietly, his tone saying he doesn't understand why anyone would want to be that.
“Where do you want to eat?”
“Whatever is closest,” is his immediate response.
I look over at him and laugh again. Rivers is sitting against the door, on
e hand gripping the armrest with the other over his eyes. “I'm a safe driver,” I call over the wind and music. After I get the initial zeal for speed out of me, I slow down and pull over, putting the car in park. “Want to drive?”
He just looks at me.
“What? You like me chauffeuring you around?”
“I can't drive.”
“Why not?”
“Didn't you get really good grades in school?”
“Valedictorian,” I supply quietly.
“How can someone so smart not have any common sense? My legs are ruined. I can't drive,” he says harshly.
I fist my hand and thump him on the shoulder. “Are your legs gone?”
“No.”
“Can you walk?”
“Barely.”
“Can you walk?” I insist.
He mutters, “Yeah.”
“Okay. Your legs are not ruined. You just have to figure out how to use them differently, that's all. And you can drive. Unless a doctor told you you couldn't?”
He shakes his head, a scowl on his face.
I open the car door and get out.
“What are you doing?”
I walk over to the passenger side.
“I'm not driving, Bana!”
I reach for the door and he locks it. Shrugging, I sprawl out on my back on the crinkly green grass beside the road and close my eyes, my arms out wide. Luckily, we are in the business part of town and not residential. I suppose people may have an issue with me camping out in their front yard, but the fabric shop probably won't be so quick to notice my prone form in the grass on the other side of their parking lot. Well, hopefully anyway. I have nothing but time right now.
Shadows and light play over my eyelids as the clouds catch and release the sun. I'm wrapped in sunshine and warmth. A stillness comes over me, an awareness of the earth around me, and peacefulness with it. I enjoy it for as long as I can, tranquility taking over and turning my limbs languid. The shadow suddenly holds, though, and I slowly open my eyes. Rivers is glaring down at me, standing in his uneven way.