Everyone Knows How Much I Love You

by Kyle McCarthy

  “But aren’t you happy?” Leo said, in a shy, pleading voice, and a little door opened in my mind. I didn’t consciously think a thing beyond: Oh. They sound like they mean it.

  * * *

  —

  At the next rehearsal we pushed the desks to the wall, and with masking tape I marked off the boundaries of our imaginary stage. “Blocking,” I announced crisply, new authority in my voice.

  It was marvelous, like running after lead weights have been released from your legs, to talk to Leo without my usual yoke of self-consciousness. I even touched him lightly on the shoulder to tell him where to go. “Look at her when you say that,” I instructed, and: “Throw the apple at her feet, but deliberately miss,” using a crumpled brown paper bag to demonstrate.

  The best part, though, was getting them to fight. They liked it too: they got into it, yelling themselves hoarse, disgust and scorn in their voices. I kept changing it, making it more dramatic, the insults more personal, and I noticed that they were not as loving to each other afterward. Some of the sourness hung in the air. “Guys,” I would say. “That was so good. That was so real.”

  Yes, in that pale blue classroom, with the long slow late afternoon heaving itself toward night, amid the ancient posters of Impressionist art and cheery reminders about grammar, we made a kind of—it is embarrassing to say—a kind of magic. When Lacie, shivering with outrage, boomed out angry words about paradise, and Leo, playing Adam as a kind of slacker, sulked and whined, I got chills. Maybe it is beyond tacky to say this about your own work; maybe it is even comical to say this about your work from high school. But in accounting for everything, I am trying not to lie.

  We spent a lot of time laughing, too, or just hanging out, running to the vending machines for more soda, more M&Ms, more potato chips. Afterward we would all walk back to Swarthmore together, the three of us tromping up the long fishhook of Yale Avenue, and at the top, they went their way and I went mine.

  That turning away was always when I first felt the slide back to the ordinary. We weren’t really three. Lacie and Leo were dating. Lacie and Leo were a couple. Alone in my room, and alone, later, at a party, my mostly full beer carefully clutched in my hand, I learned again that I was disposable. It was only when we were rehearsing that there was a place for me.

  One Saturday, Lacie said we should go pick out material for costumes. I assumed she meant a trip to Joanne’s, up Baltimore Pike, but when I offered to drive she looked at me curiously and said, “I was thinking we could go into the city.”

  On the train out we sat with our feet up, Lacie with her hair in a messy bun held together by a mechanical pencil (alone in my room, I had tried to copy this style, but I could never get the bun to stay). She wore blue jeans, not her usual flowy skirt or dress, as if to say Today is for work.

  “What did you guys do last night?” I knew she had been with Leo.

  “Nothing.” Lacie leaned her head against the glass. Behind her profile, the soccer fields strobed past.

  Nothing. What did that even mean? Did “nothing” include sex? Was it code for sex? The usual spin cycle began in me: longing to know more, fear of knowing more, annoyance that Lacie wouldn’t spill. Agitation that I could be so close and yet so far away.

  Yes, she had told me they had done it, but in a handwritten note passed between third and fourth period, and that wasn’t the same as telling. She had marked off boundaries just as our stage was marked off by masking tape. I wanted to rip it up; I wanted to run ourselves together. I wanted to know all the things she knew.

  Normally I never would have asked, but in the warmth and isolation of the train, with bright cheap billboards and loopy graffiti blinking past, I found myself saying, my voice furred with shyness, “This is weird, but what’s he like?”

  “What do you mean, what’s he like?” She looked at me, amused. Then she laughed. “Wait, Rose, do you mean sex?”

  Not exactly. I wanted to know if he liked to snuggle, if he ever pulled away, if they fought, if they had pet names, if they talked on the phone a lot, if she had discovered his emotional issues. Yes, his emotional issues: I was dying to know.

  But sex would work. Blushing, I waited. Sometimes, in moments like these, I could almost feel the gears in Lacie winding up.

  Slowly, stabbing the seat back with her forefinger, she said, “He always falls asleep right afterward. And I get so lonely I feel like I’m going to scream.”

  “Yeah?” I quivered with the weight of what she had confided. “That sucks. He shouldn’t do that.”

  “It’s okay.” Her eyes closed. She seemed so faraway to me in that moment, faraway and yet in need of my protection. I wanted to spread my arms over her like giant wings, I wanted to protect her from all the boys, from Leo, but instead, I stared out the window, buzzing with her, watching the athletic fields of Drexel fly past, and then the winking blue of downtown.

  We got off at Market East and Lacie led me past noodle shops to a street that looked perfectly ordinary, gray and commercial, until I noticed that every single store window was cluttered with mannequins dressed in awkward, unmistakably homemade dresses of yellow or purple or green.

  “My mom always starts here.” We went into a low, crowded shop with fabric stacked three deep. A squat older woman materialized from the back, crooning Yiddish and pressing Lacie to the double rolls of her breasts and belly.

  At great length Lacie explained our mission. I blushed when she introduced me as the playwright, though the storekeeper only nodded tolerantly before continuing to pepper Lacie with questions. Like a frugal housewife at the fishmonger, Lacie expertly picked among the cloth, often lingering over two samples that looked identical before, with a sigh or shake of her head, moving on. After she had worked her way around the perimeter, she took the old woman’s hands in her own—and I had never seen Lacie make such an adult, confident gesture—and promised solemnly to return soon.

  For the next three hours we looked. Up and down that tiny street, in and out of airless shops that smelled of detergent and mold and rattled with giant fans. One by one a series of bent Jewish men and women listened to Lacie describe my play. I blushed when she called it fierce, and studied my feet when she said it was a blend of modern and ancient. I was flattered; I hadn’t realized she had spent so much time thinking about the world I had made.

  Then together Lacie and the shopkeeper would cluck and sigh over silk or muslin or lace, fingering bright prints, pacing the crowded, narrow aisles, sometimes holding a length up to my chest and sighing thoughtfully before issuing judgment: not quite.

  I began to tire. It was just the same thing over and over. “Whatever,” I started saying when she asked my opinion. “It looks good,” and consternation came over her face. But I was hungry. It was past two, and we hadn’t had lunch. Her fingers over the bolts of fabric were invasive, her careful consideration overly mannered, but I tried to bite back my impatience. I had never seen Lacie happy in this particular way before: utterly intent, critical, definite in her opinions and unafraid to share them. And—I had to keep reminding myself of this—she was doing this for me.

  Finally she said, “Yes. This is it.”

  I stared silently. Surely she was joking. “Pink?” I croaked.

  “Yes.” She nodded happily, and the proprietor beamed. “And black silk for Adam.” At my look of disbelief she laughed. “Just wait for it,” she said. “You’ll see.”

  For two weeks she didn’t show me a scrap. She wouldn’t even show me the pattern she had chosen; she had made a separate trip back to the city for that. About her, in class, there was a happy, distracted air.

  Other things were changing too. When I passed Leo in the hall now he would give me a wordless high five. For an hour afterward I would glow with the force of the smack. In rehearsals he sometimes stood with his arms crossed, nodding, as I talked. Once, with Grogan and a few other guys, I heard
him call me “so fucking smart,” and though it wasn’t clear he meant me to overhear, he seemed pleased when he caught me smiling. Before, his attention had slid over me, frictionless, but now it snagged.

  Sometimes, too, when I stepped into Lacie’s place to show her how to say her lines, his hand would linger on my arm. Longer than necessary, his hand would stay, holding me.

  * * *

  —

  We choreographed the killing. We staged it. It was important to get it right; even Leo said so. I think he sensed that his reputation might survive getting onstage if this moment wasn’t botched. But if everyone laughed—and I thought it nearly inevitable that they would—his murder would become a joke, and there would be a lifetime of people coming up to Leo in the hall, mocking his bug-eyed disbelief, his stagger backward, his slow crumple to the ground. He didn’t want that. I didn’t want that. So we practiced it again and again.

  The key was the length of the stab. She had to gut him. She had to drive the retractable knife up to the hilt, and it was essential, absolutely essential, that they lock eyes; it was essential, absolutely essential, that neither of them make a sound. If they groaned theatrically, either of them, we were sunk; if they cried out, we were done. It must be quiet.

  But Lacie couldn’t do it without laughing. Looking so deeply into Leo’s eyes tripped her up. Or the violence did. Or me watching. Yes: me watching her kill undid her. Closer, I would say. Slower. Not that slow. Faster. Do it again. And she would giggle, or drop the knife; “Sorry, sorry,” she would say, stepping away and wiping her face.

  Finally I said, “Let me do it.”

  Silently she handed me the knife.

  At this point in the play Adam thinks Eve is going to stay. He thinks he’s won. He is hiding the apple behind his back, and there’s a moment—I had explained this to them—when he realizes it’s too late, when his eyes register his mistake, but because he hesitates, she can get the knife in.

  As I drew close, his chipped blue eyes sharpened. In his Chucks he was half a forehead taller than me, and his skin was an ivory white, with delicate blue veins underneath. He smelled of clove cigarettes, and, very faintly, the orange sherbet sold in the cafeteria.

  I feinted. I stabbed. Up close his irises had a slow spoil of yellow. “Like that,” I said. “You’ve got to do it like that.”

  There was fire in my palm. In that moment I had actually wanted him dead.

  The night of the performance drew close. I kept asking about the costumes and Lacie kept saying “Don’t worry” in a way that made me think that I should. It occurred to me that I had never actually seen Lacie sew anything. We were six days away, and then four, and then two, and still nothing.

  I was standing on the stage, going over the script with Nathan, a bored and pimply sophomore who had agreed to run the lights, when they emerged. Lacie was in a pale pink slip edged with lace; she looked like a Greek goddess, fierce and frilled. Leo, in black silk trousers, was simply debonair. How had she convinced him to go shirtless? Their feet were bare. They looked like refugees from a champagne lunch.

  Staggering back, swooning, I cried, “Oh my God, Lacie, they’re beautiful, they’re awesome, how did you know? You’re a genius. When you picked out that fabric, I couldn’t see at all how—”

  “You hated it.” Lacie smiled affectionately.

  “Well, I was skeptical. But it’s perfect. And Leo—”

  “Leo—”

  He had wandered to the edge of the stage and now sat with his legs dangling, his dear bony spine curved. We exchanged knowing smirks.

  “He’s perfect too,” I declared, and for once Lacie didn’t shrug off the compliment. Her whole face a rush of pleasure as together we looked at her boy.

  * * *

  —

  Of the performance itself I remember very little, only the darkness of the auditorium and the blue-black stage coldly lit, the air smeary with the warm fuzz of listening bodies, and the way, when my play began, my heart dropped like a hanged man.

  Never had I felt so violently in love with both of them. Sick with need, I watched, feeling something of what a gambler must feel watching his horse round the track, the soft, urgent moaning of Oh, please, the prayer: Dear God, just get it done.

  And they did. They filled the bare, pockmarked stage with their long grace, and when they fought it was glorious: sneers and cruelties, Leo’s pale rib cage flashing as he yelled, and Lacie with her crown of braided hair, circling and circling, trying to find a way out.

  When she stuck the knife in him, no one laughed. The woman beside me shook her head. Like the sea the audience flowed away from me. They had been on Eve’s side—they had thought her feisty, and laughed at her insults—but they hadn’t wanted Adam to die.

  Afterward, when our principal was introducing me to a school-board member, distaste blinked across the man’s face before he blandly, warmly shook my hand. My sickness twisted; my jelly guts were exposed. Was this what it meant to write?

  I wanted to see Lacie and Leo. I wanted to give them their flowers; I wanted to be swept up in their hugs. The school-board guy kept talking; then my mom wanted some pictures. By the time I escaped the clutch of grown-ups, I was frantic to find them.

  They were at the end of the hall, back by the music classroom. Overjoyed, I hurried over, and even when I heard Leo say, “Why are you trying to cut off my balls, babe?” the sly jokiness in his voice stopped me from realizing what was going on.

  “Guys!” I exclaimed. “You were amazing! So good!” I hugged each of them in turn, but their bodies were as stiff as boards. “Here, I brought you flowers.”

  Their faces were shiny with cold cream, and stoic like masks; I pushed first one, then another bouquet of lilies into their hands, which they accepted without looking away from each other.

  “Guys?” I said. “What’s going on?”

  Darkly Lacie said, “Leo doesn’t want to go to the Art Night party.”

  “Oh, no! Come!” I pleaded, and made a joke of pulling on his arm, but he shook me off without his eyes leaving Lacie’s, and that’s when I realized they were in deep.

  “You always do this.” There was iron in his voice.

  “I don’t ‘always’ do anything.” Something patient, long-suffering, in hers.

  “Yes, you do.” He gestured angrily, and that’s when I really should have left, but I didn’t. “You just want me to be your stupid fucking doll!” he snapped.

  “Oh, fuck off, Leo. Mr. Cowan wants everyone to come. I’m just trying to help you be polite.”

  “No, you’re not, okay? You’re just trying to control me, just like your mother tries to control your dad, okay? And it’s fucking pathetic. You think I’m your little plaything.”

  There was another beat as we all stood in stunned silence. A strange huffing sound filled the air—Lacie was trying not to cry. I put a hand on her back.

  “Excuse me,” she gasped, shaking me off, and there was something touching in her formality, something poignant in her footsteps as she hurried down the hall. A weird power ticked through my veins. You think I’m your little plaything was a line from my play.

  “Fuck!” he shouted at her retreating form. “She was my fucking ride!”

  I stepped closer. There was no one else around. “I got you.”

  When we reached Leo’s house Stevie Wonder was on the radio. I turned off the engine and together we listened to “Lovin’ Cup.” Tonight there was something obscene in the swerve of Stevie’s voice. Leo bounced his fingers off the car door.

  After the song he thanked me for the ride. But he didn’t get out. I pictured the tiny huff of Lacie’s back as she left us. “Well, so are you happy?” he asked abruptly.

  “Happy?” It seemed a strange word.

  He flicked his wrist. “Your play. Your big amazing play. Everyone loved it.”

 
“Yeah. Yeah. I am.” A big swell of feeling hit. I buried my face in my hands. “I think everyone hated it.”

  “No, no.” He reached out but did not actually touch me. “They loved it,” he said softly.

  What I said next I can only attribute to the fact that we were alone. Right into his vulnerability I spoke. “Everyone is kind of weirded out by me.”

  “What do you mean?” His voice was gentle.

  “I actually just felt really exposed during the play. Like, really exposed. Even though you guys were the ones onstage, and it was just, like, a bunch of parents, I felt so exposed.” I reached for another word, but only visions of X-rays came. “It actually just made me feel really emotional.”

  “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

  “It doesn’t feel good.”

  Idly Leo made the automatic window go up and down. In the silence my words came echoing back to me, shaming me. I was emotional, but I was also performing my emotion for him.

  “Look.” He sealed the window tight. “Do you want to come inside?”

  I glanced furtively at the dark second floor, the blue shutters like faces. “What about your mom?”

  “She’s cool.”

  And so I parked the car and followed Leo Kupersky up the drive. As he unlocked the front door I winced at the jangle of keys. “She’s cool, she’s cool,” he repeated. “Don’t worry.”

  Through the darkened living room we went, and upstairs to his room. While he plugged in his Christmas lights I slowly walked around, taking in the lava lamp, the crooked poster of Phish, the incense holder with its crumbly trail of ash. The tiny white lights twinkled.

  We weren’t looking at each other. Though everything was completely absurd—Leo and I alone in his bedroom at night—we were acting as if it were normal.