by Alex Flinn
Presumably because of what he’s seen, Jonah doesn’t seem to think I’m crazy. “You think I can break the spell?”
“You’re a handsome prince, aren’t you? Or as close as we have.” We reach a corner. I grab the wall to stop myself, then check around it.
“Oh, yeah.” He’s panting, but he grins. “Guess I am.”
We round the corner at a fast walk, me working hard to keep up with Jonah’s longer legs. I say, “So you’ll do it?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Why not? Because you might be putting yourself in a witch’s path. But I don’t say it. Why would I? If he’s too dumb to realize it, I’m not going to enlighten him. I just need him to wake Celine. He can leave right after. In fact, I’d prefer it.
We fast-walk around a last corner, then to Celine’s door.
I open it.
She is so beautiful. It’s been a day since I’ve seen her, and I am stunned by her like it’s the first time. She lies there, so pale against the white sheets. Her black hair is fanned out behind her on the pillow, and her full, red lips are exactly the ones I’ve always wanted to kiss.
Please let this work. Please come back to me.
I jut my hand toward her, in case Jonah doesn’t get which comatose girl exactly I meant. “That’s her.” It’s hard to form words. “Celine.” Something’s wedged in my throat, making it hard to talk. The idea that, if this doesn’t work, maybe nothing will. She might never awaken, she might die, and with her, the possibility—however slight—that I keep with me every night as I drift off to sleep, the possibility that she could someday love me.
Of course, if it works, if Jonah’s kiss wakes her, that possibility will be gone anyway. He doesn’t know her, but once he sees how pretty and sweet and funny she is, he’ll fall in love with her. Even a douche like him would know she’s special. They’ll walk off into the night together, like Andie and Blane, and I’ll be left all alone—well, alone with a houseful of people, but without her. So, alone.
Still, I have to try it. I love her. She needs to be alive on this planet, even if it’s not with me. That’s what love is, after all, wanting the best for the other person, not yourself. I learned that the hard way.
Jonah looks at her, and smiles. “She’s lovely.” His admiration is genuine, of course. With his accent, it comes out all loff-lee, which is probably why girls think he’s so hot. Maybe someday, I can move to another town where nobody knows me, pretend to be a Brit, and get all sorts of girls, short girls, tall girls, lots of girls. Just not Celine.
“She is,” I say. “Loff-lee. She’s nice too, and funny, and talented and . . . good with kids. She’s like no one I ever met before, which is why I need you to help her.”
“And you think my kissing her . . . ?”
“I hope so.” Do I hope so? I do. “I can be straight with you now that you’ve seen the witches, seen what they can do. This is her only chance.”
He shrugs. “Guess we can try.” And then, without another word, he leans down toward her and . . .
I can’t look. I turn away. This is what I wanted, dammit. This is what I wanted, the reason I traveled so far, lied to my parents, hid in the room service cart, and hung from a balcony. I want this. I just want her to wake up, no matter what.
The room is silent. God, are they still kissing, all this time? I want to look, but I don’t want to see if she’s, you know, enjoying it too much.
Finally, Jonah’s voice says, “I don’t think it worked, man.”
My chest is a deflating balloon. My eyes ache like I just came out of salt water. I squeeze them together. I wanted it to work. I did. Now what?
I turn back, opening them. Jonah’s staring down at Celine. “I was really hoping it would, and not just because I wanted the reputation of having my magic lips raise someone from the dead. I knew if you were willing to go to all that trouble for her, she must have been pretty special.”
It’s a really coherent thing for him to say. Still, the past tense about kills me. My eyes are damp, but I’m not going to wipe them, not in front of him. “She was. She is.”
He tosses his hair a little girlishly. “So this spell, the spell the witch put on her, it said I had to kiss her?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. In all the fairy tales, the girl gets awakened by a handsome prince. I was going with that idea.”
He chuckles. “Perhaps not handsome or princely enough.” He looks down, thinking. “My mum used to read me those storybooks. It was nice. I was a shit to my mum, wasn’t I?”
“Yeah, sort of.” I was a shit to mine too, and it didn’t even help.
“You know,” Jonah says, “most of my books talked about true love as well. Perhaps that’s a factor. Perhaps that’s what’s missing, the love part. Beautiful as she is, I don’t love her.”
That must be it. Still, I say, “She loves you, though. She listens to all your songs, has posters of you all over the place, writes your initials on her notebook in pink highlighter . . .”
He throws back his head then and laughs. “But that describes half the teenaged girls in the world, these idiots who camp out in the airport. Do you think I can resuscitate all of them too?”
“They probably don’t all need it.” Celine’s not an idiot, but he does have a point.
“Still, I think your definition of love may be a little thin.”
“My definition of love isn’t thin at all.” I take Celine’s hand and squeeze it in the silent room. It’s so soft, and I remember teaching her to play the piano, one finger over the other. I love her fingers.
Jonah sees me and nods. “Surely there must be someone who actually loves her, who knows and loves her. She’s quite pretty.” He looks back at her, and now, I hate him looking at her, since it didn’t work. He turns back toward me.
“She’s very pretty,” I say. “Nice too, and talented and fun. But she doesn’t have a boyfriend, if that’s what you mean.” When you think about it, it’s crazy that someone as cool as Celine doesn’t have hundreds of guys in love with her. She once told me she didn’t like guys who think they’re hot. That describes most guys at our school.
Jonah tugs at his pants, then seems to realize they aren’t falling down, since they’re the geeky pants his mom got him. “Well, maybe not a boyfriend, but it strikes me that someone who went to all this trouble for her—I mean, someone who could have been arrested dozens of times. Someone who did get beaten up by my bodyguards—that, perhaps, that person may in fact be her true love.”
Oh. Duh. He means me. Am I that easy to see through? Is he smarter than I thought? “Yeah, well, of course I love her. But that doesn’t mean she loves me back. I mean, look at her, and then look at me.”
“Of course,” he says, and I sort of want to hit him for agreeing so quickly, but then, he says, “Ahem. I mean, of course, we don’t know what she thinks, and she isn’t awake to tell us. She could love you. You have rather a charming personality.”
“Gee, thanks.” This guy’s getting less charming by the minute.
“But even assuming you’re right, does it have to be mutual? If you are truly in love with her, might that not be enough love?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of that.” I hadn’t.
“Should you not perhaps, try?”
I think about it. I’ve wanted to kiss her since forever, or at least a few months. But the thing that stopped me was her reaction, what she’d think of me. If I didn’t kiss her, we could be friends. I could be with her all the time, like buddies, see her every day. But if I kissed her, it would get all awkward if she didn’t love me back. I didn’t want to upset things.
Now, she’s in a coma. She wouldn’t need to know I kissed her. In fact, I’ll take it to the grave. Is that pervy? Maybe. Perhaps, as Jonah would say. But does that matter? The fact is, she holds my heart in her body, and if she doesn’t awake
n, I may die.
I nod. I step up to Celine. Her lips are so full in her heart-shaped face. I wish she’d open her eyes so I could see those too, so I don’t feel like I’m taking advantage. But, of course, that defeats the purpose of kissing her. I touch a lock of the shiny, black hair on the white pillowcase. It feels soft like the satiny ribbons my mother uses on packages at Christmas or on my sister’s hair. Celine used to do Isabella’s hair in ribbons. I can hear her breathing, smell the sweetness of her breath. I imagine for a moment that she loves me. It’s not so impossible, is it? I’m a great guy. I picture us sitting at the piano that one night, me playing “Clair de Lune”, trying to impress her. She could have loved me then. I reach forward and adjust her face so it’s leaning toward me. I feel like there’s no air in the room.
It’s not like I’ve never kissed a girl before. Just not this girl, the one that matters. And there’s the part about her being asleep. I inhale through my nose. Then, my lips meet hers.
God.
I mean to give her a small kiss, a polite kiss, not be like one of those guys who waits until a girl passes out then mauls her. I love this girl. I love this girl, but I don’t want her like that, not by fraud. In my fantasies, she wants me too. And yet, when our lips meet, I feel a flash of something—call it electricity, call it magnetism, call it magic—binding us together, and I can’t let go, I can’t let go, and I’m kissing her like I’ve always imagined.
Finally, I back off. I more than back off. I pull my lips off her like a plunger getting yanked out of a toilet. I run behind Jonah, then out the door.
It didn’t work. I knew it wouldn’t. A regular guy like me couldn’t possibly be the true love of the most beautiful girl in maybe the whole world. I’m not Blane. Heck, I’m not even Duckie. Still, I hoped it would work. I hoped it would because now, I’m out of ideas, and Celine’s still in a coma and I am there with her. Maybe she’ll die or just stay there, suspended, forever, and I will never have anyone to teach piano to or watch John Hughes movies with, no one to tell me I don’t have to be funny for people to like me.
And, at that moment, with no one there to see except the nurses (who are probably used to it), I give way to the tears that had been threatening to seep out of my eyes for the past week. I bury my face in my hands and sob. Celine.
“You’re here. You?”
What? A voice from inside the room. Not Jonah’s voice. A girl’s voice. Celine’s voice! But how?
“I am here,” Jonah’s voice says back. “Was it . . . Celine?”
“Yes. I had a dream about you. You were in it. In my dream, you kissed me. I thought it was only a dream because it sounded so crazy. I mean, why would Jonah Prince be here with me? It’s so incredible.”
She’s talking to Jonah. She’s so happy to see him.
“Why indeed,” he says. “A little friend of yours came to see me, to tell me about you.”
No. No. Don’t tell her I kissed her. It will ruin everything.
“A little . . . oh, you must mean—Goose! In my dream, you weren’t the only one who kissed me. In my dream, Goose kissed me, and that’s what woke me up.”
What?
“Goose!” She’s calling me. “Where is he?” Her voice holds a note of panic I can’t help but imagine is from missing me. Could it be? I wipe away the embarrassing tears. My face hurts.
“Celine?” I step from behind the door frame before I have time to chicken out. “I’m . . . I’m here.” Is she mad? Will she laugh at me?
She’s half sitting up on the bed, leaning on her hands, her blue eyes wide open. When she sees me, her face breaks into this huge smile that wasn’t there before, not even for meeting Jonah.
“Goose! You are here! You went away, and I missed you so much!” She adjusts herself on the bed, then reaches out her hand.
I run to take it. God. It’s not like I haven’t touched her hand before, but this is so . . . intentional. Almost like kissing her, but almost kind of better than kissing her because she knows I’m doing it. Is it possible? Could my kiss have awakened her?
“You . . . missed me?” I ask. “You knew I was gone?”
“Of course. Everyone thinks that people in comas don’t hear anything, don’t know anything. But we do hear or at least I did, and we have a lot of time to think, too, about . . . everything. I knew you were here all that time. And then, I knew you left. Why did you leave? I missed you, even when I was asleep.”
She missed me. I get more daring. I squeeze her hand. I see the little burn scar I noticed that day. It’s really her hand I’m holding. “I left to find Jonah, to get him to kiss you.”
“Why did you want him to kiss me?” She squeezes back, only instead of just a little squeeze, she clings to my hand.
“Kendra said a handsome prince might break the spell. I thought . . . Jonah Prince. Prince. I thought he was your handsome prince, your true love.”
She laughs, shaking her head. The light from overhead makes her hair sparkle like those black stones goth girls have in jewelry. “He’s not my true love. I just like his music.” She looks at Jonah. “No offense.”
“None taken,” he says. “You seem quite a pleasant girl, but I don’t love you either.”
“I do love your music,” she says politely.
“But you woke up,” I say. “How?” Because, even though the thought has been forming in my head, I want her to say it. After all, maybe it’s just that I love her. That’s what Jonah said. Maybe me loving her is enough.
“You silly goose! How could you have awakened me without knowing the answer?” I guess I’m still staring at her blankly because she says, “True love, right?”
“True love?” Obsidian. That’s what those black stones are called. They’re supposed to be magic. Her hair is like obsidian. “What? Who?”
She’s still clutching my hand. With the other, I gesture to myself. “Me?”
“You.” She loosens her grip. “I mean, if you feel the same way. Maybe you don’t.”
“If I feel . . . ?” And suddenly, my mouth is stretching so far, my face smiling so hard it hurts. “You mean you and me? You don’t mean you love me as a friend, or . . . any of those other things girls say?”
She’s just staring at me weird, and she says, “Nuh-uh. None of that. That first day at auditions, I was like, ‘This guy is awesome.’ You were so bold. And I agreed to be Oliver partly so I could know you better. And then, when I did, you were sweet and funny and smart. And brave. You protected me. You saved me, like a hero.” It’s like in my dreams, every dream I’d had. Her voice, saying she wants me, and it’s finally dawning on me, what she’s saying. “You’re the one who woke me up after all.”
“I did, but . . .” I step closer, wanting to take her in my arms now. “You really . . . ?”
“Perhaps I’ll go get a nurse,” Jonah says, “let her immortalize this moment on film to tweet to my fans and make my agent happy.”
I guess he leaves. I’m not really paying attention.
“I read the poem,” she says, “the one you wrote.”
“You did? It’s really . . . embarrassing.” I’m still not completely wrapping my head around the idea that this is happening.
She shakes her head. “I loved it.” Celine holds her other hand out, wiggling her fingers until I come closer. Then, she touches my face. Her hand is so soft. “It let me know you felt the same way I did. I hadn’t admitted it to myself before then, even when Izzy flat out asked me.”
“Really?” I wonder how long she felt this way, how long I was wondering when I didn’t have to.
She nods. “God, you’re so adorable.”
“Really? Adorable? That’s the adjective you’re choosing? Like I’m a kid or a teddy bear?” But I’m thinking, She thinks I’m adorable.
“Oh, don’t be stupid. People call big guys cute all the time. Adorable as in, I ad
ore you. I adore you G . . . what’s your first name? It’s strange to love a guy called Goose. When I was sleeping, I tried to remember if I’d seen it in the program for Oliver!, but I couldn’t envision it.”
I laugh not because it’s really funny but just because I’m happy. “Nope. It wasn’t there. They listed me as Goose Guzman. That’s what I told Connors to do.” Now, I want to stop talking and kiss her again.
“But that’s not what’s on your birth certificate. At least, I hope it’s not. I mean, when you graduate, your diploma won’t say Goose Guzman, will it?”
I laugh again, all stupid-happy like our neighbor’s shih tzu, who practically turns himself inside out from ecstasy when you pet him. “Nah. My father wanted me to have a big name since I was a little guy. His name’s only one syllable, Jorge; two if you pronounce it the Spanish way, Hor-hey. They gave all of us big names, Antonio, Isabella, and me, Mauricio. It’s a dumb name.”
I’m talking too much. Less talking, more kissing.
She smiles. “Mauricio. I like it.” She rolls closer to the edge of the bed. “Aren’t you going to kiss me again, Mauricio?”
I do. I do, and the sparks and the magic and the fireworks are all there just like before.
Suddenly there are people in the room, and there’s music, a guitar, and a voice,singing.
Sometimes when I see your face,
It takes me to a better place.
When I look into your eyes,
Walls fall down and curtains rise . . .
And I’m kissing Celine, holding, crushing her to me like I always wanted to and never dreamed possible. She loves me and I love her, and she’s alive and safe, and we’re together.
Finally, though, we break apart, and I say, “What is that music?”
“Oh, sorry.” It’s Jonah. “I was feeling a bit of the third wheel here, so I thought that, if this was a movie, there would be music. I do love a happy ending. Harry brought up the guitar, but perhaps it is a bit—”
“No.” I grin. “There would be music.”
“There definitely would be,” Celine agrees.