Page 12 of Fade into You
“How sweet.” I nod at the whipped cream and make thewwwh-ksshof a whip snapping.
“Being a gentleman doesn’t mean I’m whipped,” he says, wiping up the spill. “Be nice. If Kayla starts to hate you, I may not spend much time with you anymore.”
He’s joking, but I’m not sure it’s a joke. Fear pits in my stomach; I’ve been alone before and I don’t want to be again. Dade may be an ass, but he’s the only ass willing to spend time with me. I lose him, I lose everything. Fuck Kayla for that, fuck her for even being here. Shit, she’shere.
She sways up to the table, her gigantic JNCOs swishing against the floor, accentuating her hips and forcing eyes to zero in on her peekaboo belly with the belly-button ring that has a pot leaf on it. Such a badass… I roll my eyes thinking of what a wannabe she is. Dade rises to her presence… thankfully just by standing up. She jumps toward him and he catches her as her legs wrap around his waist, and they begin a process much likeOuroboros trying to swallow his tail. So. Much. Tongue.
“Hey, where’s your friend?” I shout, trying anything to make them unlatch.
Kayla ignores me as usual. And then, as if I hadn’t already asked, Dade glances around when they part for air. “Is your friend here, or what?”
“She’s somewhere around here.” Kayla laughs and waves her hand through the air. “Probably barfing from stage fright or something.”
And they’re back at it again.
I am now forgotten, and I take the time to look about the crowd more, seeking a familiar if not friendly face. There’s a few dicks around here I know from school. Not the worst, but they’ve taken potshots before, so I’m not likely to strike up small talk with them. A lot of people here I’ve seen but never really talked to. A social desert. But my oasis shows up in the form of Natalie Sprigman.
A year ago Natalie came up to me at lunch and asked if I wanted to come over and study together. I am unsure if Natalie has ever studied in her life, but it turned out she was looking to brush up on anatomy and early exploration—of me. In her mom’s trailer, steeped in old cigarettes and the ever-present smell of boiled mac and cheese, we had an encounter that was awkward and somewhat satiating for my raging hormones. After, she held my hand as we stared at the ceiling and murmured, “This was just for fun. No one knows, okay?”
Then she showed me the wonders of weed, and I’ve never looked back from the green seven-pointed love of my life. Bestpart about seeing her is I know she’s carrying something kush, which is a relief ’cause I’m dry. I catch her eye and she smiles big, showing off the gap in her front teeth. I tilt my head toward the bathroom, and she stands up, walks over, and gives me a loose hug—just like a platonic friend would. I hate that it still excites something in me.
“Hey, woman,” she says, clicking her tongue ring against her bottom teeth. “Show’s about to start, how about after it kicks off, so Jeremy won’t catch us?”
Jeremy doesn’t actually care that people smoke pot in the bathrooms, his rule is just an excuse to confiscate teens’ stashes and add to what must be a mountain of fucking weed at his home.
“Sounds good,” I say, wishing we could spend the rest of the night in the bathroom getting wasted and giggling. I’m sure someone if not everyone will be reciting poetry about suicide, cutting, madness—all the classics they know jack shit about. I found Mack bleeding in the bathroom once; it wasn’t something I’d chant out in the phony soft urgent poet voice all of them use. It’s something my mother would probably break her “Thou Shalt Not Kill” vow over and take a knife to me if I ever mentioned it in public. It’s something we don’t talk about at all and supposedly the not talking is helping it not to happen again, but I think we’re running a flawed system, and soon enough something worse is gonna hit the house of Papadopoulos.
Natalie looks over at Dade and Kayla, now seated in an overstuffed armchair and attempting to meld into one another. “Dude, that’s AIDS central.”
I give it a half laugh, even though I know AIDS isn’t really alaughing matter, and pretend to stick my finger down my throat. “It’s a serious problem,” I shout, trying to get Dade’s attention. “We need to call the Centers for Disease Control!”
“Okay, woman, I’m gonna get back to my table, but cruise by the bathroom soon.”
I nod, hoping she’ll kiss me again. Unlikely, but lesbians need tongue too. I make it back to our table as the lights dim, some people clap, and Jeremy, of the long gray hair and Deadhead T-shirt, comes onstage to announce the first poetry reading of the season. There will be more. Every Saturday. Fuuuuuuuck.
“And first up, I am pleased to announce, recently returned from the New England Young Writers’ Workshop, Elizabeth Nardino.”
Up walks a girl with thick dark curls, the kind you’d expect on a Greek goddess, and curves that beg for hands to grip her waist, her back, her anything. I feel my breath catch a bit. Her lips are a deep red shade and her eyes smoked with mascara; it gives a hot, mysterious air to her. She’s gorgeous. I mean, beyond Michelle Pfeiffer (my dream woman, meow) and hotter than Alanis… It’s a unique beauty, something maybe not everyone might see at first when they look to that heroine-chic style… I definitely dig it.
Then she starts to speak, sort of quiet and shy at first—I’m prepared to hate it, but there’s something so damned attractive in the demure nature of her wholeway, and I do not usually go for that. But then she’s building into bravery and maybe even… pride. The words in her poem, they’re something more than just playing off perceived pain or longing. There’s some kind of lovelost. There’s depth there. It’s real. “Because you said I’m your favorite animal…” Oh my god, why did that line just jolt my heart with adrenaline? This is definitely not excruciatingly bad teen poetry. It’s almost excruciatingly good. Damn, it could be a fucking song, it could be a hit. I feel myself leaning forward as I listen, smiling because it seems like she’s forgotten we’re here, like she’s just talking to herself.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see Kayla has found a seat other than Dade’s lap. I try to catch his eye, but he’s busy deeply ignoring the stage. I pinch his arm.
“Sonofabitch, Jessa, that hurt!” he hisses.
I whisper back, “Shut up, wimp, look at Poetry Girl, she’s hot as hell.”
Dade looks up and starts laughing quietly, a little cackling wheeze. He leans in close to me and says, “Yeah, she’s got a great set of poems on her,” and scoops his hands under his nonexistent boobs. I nearly choke on my coffee, promptly punching him in the arm.
“Fuck off,” I say, still grinning until I realize the poetess is now looking right at me, talking through her shit. I can feel my face flush and it’s not just embarrassment. I like her eyes on me. She delivers her final line: “A secret I forgot to tell: You were my favorite too.” And then steps down, walking toward me while people are clapping. Damn, is she actually into me? Did I finally get theI think you’re hotlook nailed down? She walks straight up to the table, and a cloud of horror passes over me as Kayla hops up, gives her an overexaggerated hug, and then introduces us. “Y’all, this is Bird.”
Crap on toast…This is theBird, the bestie of my nemesis. I am not supposed to insta-crush on her, I’m not even supposed to like her. Overwhelmed by the mix of attraction and confusion and that the dream-girl fantasy my stupid brain has conjured is most definitelynotabout to play out in real time, I need an escape. I jump up, knocking the already precarious table, and say, “I gotta take a piss,” before running off to the bathroom without looking back. God bless it, the skunky smell of Natalie’s dank flower is hanging in the air. I knock on the wall of the handicapped stall, even though there’s no door. “Welcome to my home in the clouds,” she says, and leans in to gunshot me.
BIRD
I can’t believe I justdid that. Why, why, why did I just do that? How did I convince myself that this would be good for me in any way? Because I am one million percent positive I’ve never felt worse about myself than I do right at this moment.
My legs are gelatin as I step down from the platform. I’m zeroed in on the table, the open seat next to Kayla: my destination. My heart is pounding, and I try to concentrate on my feet and not meet anyone’s eye, because every time I look up, my whole body is thrown off-balance. But then my focus sways and Idomake eye contact with her and she’s smiling and why is she sitting with the people who were just openly making fun of me?Keep walking,I tell myself.People are watching.When I finally, finally, finally reach the table, Kayla pops up and throws her arms around my neck, and I think she’s going to tell me it’s okay. It wasn’t that bad. But she doesn’t.
