In Caleb’s eyes, I see that old television.
Turned off.
Like the shows never existed.
>
September 2—late at night
Dear Isabel,
Topics of substance and despair abound! They’re sprouting up all over the place, in fact. To wit, I just met someone who scares the shit out of me. As I write this, he’s sleeping (I think-hope-pray) on the other side of a campfire, so I need to be quiet and quick.
Here’s the thing: this person reminds me of a terrible feeling I once had, and it’s one of those terrible feelings that might not be as bad as I remember it. So I need to write it down, because sometimes writing a thing down is a good way to work something out. So here goes.
Three straight birthdays, I snuck out of the house with my friend Henry Timoney to the Retro Movie Plex. Henry and I first became friends in the school library, where we each noticed the other reading a Crichton Collection copy of Jurassic Park. Our relationship gained traction when Henry berated the movie for allowing Mr. Hammond to escape Isla Nublar alive. I, being a rationally minded literary purist, agreed. However, I voiced my opinion that what the film lacked in the way of subtle nuances and erudite accuracy, it more than made up for in special effects, cinematography, and Jeff Goldblum goodness. Henry, being a rationally minded cinematic purist, agreed. (My parents, film-rating sticklers that they were, had no idea I’d taped over their Carol Burnett marathon when Jurassic Park was aired during a free trial of HBO. I’d been watching it in secret for years.)
“You sure know a lot about Jurassic Park,” said Henry. “For a girl.”
“I know a lot about a lot of things,” I said. “For anybody.”
Henry nodded and straightened his glasses, and we quickly became what we’d always be: friends by default.
Now, as fate would have it, Retro Movie Plex, a theater that only aired older movies, happened to be showing Jurassic Park that very weekend—the weekend of my eleventh birthday. But as the film was rated PG-13, there was no way my parents would allow me to go.
So Henry and I developed a foolproof plan.
It began with my sneaking out the front door after dinner while my parents watched the nightly news. Henry’s big brother, a meathead named Steve, had a friend who worked at the theater and had agreed to sell us tickets even though we were underage. Steve would be our ride to and from the theater. I was sexually attracted to Steve insomuch as I was an indiscriminate, preadolescent girl. Was he good-looking? Sure. Very. Extremely. But no amount of hotness could make up for his constant misuse of the word literally, overuse of the word bra, and downright baffling pronunciation of the word library. As in, Check it, bra, I literally died yesterday in the libary, when . . . Alas, I was eleven, and he was devastatingly male—my hands were tied.
Lack of subtle nuances and erudite inaccuracies notwithstanding, Jurassic Park was ten times better on the big screen, and by the time it was over, Henry and I vowed never to criticize the film again. On the way home, I sat in the backseat of Steve’s Jetta, and while he navigated the snowy streets of downtown Ashland, I navigated the ripple of muscle at the base of his neck. (Yeah, okay, that’s weird, but I’m being honest here—before I ever knew about sex, it knew about me.) As the car rounded into my driveway, I saw the light in the den turn on, and in that instant, I knew I was in trouble. Steve and Henry wished me luck as I walked inside. My parents were waiting on the couch, cross-legged and tongue-tied. Mom got up and clicked the TV off. No need for conversational details. I had walked right into the thick air of punishment.
Grounded. One week.
On my twelfth birthday, my theatric insubordination paid dividends to the tune of Highlander II: The Quickening. (I have to say, my parents could have saved their punishment on this one, as the movie was punishment enough. Blimey.) Afterward, Sexy Steve drove us home, and as I was a year older, new images sprang to mind: less boxing-ring-chest-pounding, more bedroom-floor-topless-romping. And, upon pulling into my icy driveway, I was not at all surprised to find the den light on. Steve and Henry wished me luck. I went inside, and—another week grounded.
For my thirteenth birthday, we chose The Shining, which messed me up for weeks. Afterward, Steve drove us home, and as I was now thirteen, I saw through the bullshit. Sexually speaking, Steve was dead to me.
As he made the turn onto my street, I geared myself up for a grounding. Sneaking out to a bad movie, having goofy fun with Henry, riding home with Steve, then getting caught—at the time, I wouldn’t have admitted this, but the getting caught was just as much a part of my birthday tradition as anything else.
But on this night, the den lights were off. Climbing out of the Jetta, both Steve and Henry congratulated me on finally getting away with it. I nodded in a daze and walked inside.
The TV was on in the empty den, but muted.
No one was awake.
No one was mad.
No one cared.
My God, Iz . . . I hope you don’t know what that feels like.
Signing off,
Mary Iris Malone,
Friend by Default
P.S.—I wish I hadn’t written this down.
19
The Talismans of Disappointment
I WAKE UP in cutoffs, mud caked to my face, and a roaring stomachache. The moan—which started in my toes, then wriggled its way through my veins and arteries, organs and muscles, all the way to my lungs—almost escapes. But the kinetic power of a moan is nothing compared to the willpower of a Mim.
It’s the kind of middle-of-the-night you feel in your bones. I don’t know what time it is, but my bones tell me it’s somewhere between two and four a.m.