Hard Love (9 page)

“So you
liked
it? I’m having a hard time figuring this out.”

“Yeah, I liked it, but the part that makes the rest of it work, for me, anyway, is the line about not wanting anything else to change. It just rings true. And because the rest of the piece is so guarded, it feels like it just slipped out, which makes it seem even more true. Do you see what I mean?”

I pulled the pages back to my side of the table. “I guess so.” I couldn’t even remember writing that line. Maybe it stuck out because it didn’t really belong.

“You know what I’d really like to read is a rewrite of
your “Escape” piece that you read to me over the phone. That one I could start to
feel
.”

“Yeah? I thought that was a mess, actually. I ditched it.” I was lying to her again, without even giving it a second thought. The piece was right there, right in my backpack, but this crap about writing down my feelings was a crock. Like girls keeping a diary or something. That wasn’t what a zine was about. Not mine.

Marisol waved to the waitress to bring more coffee. “Well, anyway, don’t get all mad about it. I like your writing. Whoever you are.” She almost smiled.

“So did you bring something for me to rip to shreds?”

“I tried.”

“What? You didn’t bring anything? Unfair!” Actually it was probably a good thing. Ever since my bout with Dad last night, I’d been kind of spoiling for another fight, as if liberating that little spurt of anger made all the rest of it frantic to escape too. Wouldn’t be a good idea to unleash it on Marisol’s writing.

“The thing is, I really want to write about a particular subject, something I can’t seem to get a handle on. I spent most of the week trying to get started on it and then I threw it all away. It was too … personal.”

“
Too
personal. I thought that was the whole point? You just told me …”

“I mean the details were too personal. There was a lot of pain just lying there on the page. That doesn’t work either. I guess I don’t have enough distance on it yet to understand it. Maybe I never will.”

“Was it about … a girl?” I wasn’t one hundred percent sure I wanted to hear some lesbian love story, but I did kind of want Marisol to tell me things about herself. I guess I wanted more clues to who she was too. Besides, I was tired of thinking about my own stupid problems.

She scanned the bookshelves. “Well, I’ll give you the short version. The details are boring anyway. It was about six months ago. I’d only been out for a few months, but I met this group of girls who said they were lesbians. One of them goes to my school, and the rest go to other schools around here. Anyway, there was this one girl, Kelly. She was funny and smart. Right away I fell for her. It was the first time I really felt like that, you know? No, I guess you don’t. Anyway, she flirted with me and we, you know, kissed and stuff. I was so happy. I thought I’d found the perfect person for me. She was so cool—she didn’t let me get away with any of my G and T bullshit. My show-off stuff. She was just … great.” Marisol stopped her story and started playing with the coffee cup.

“So, I guess she dumped you?” I know it was mean to cut to the chase like that, but I was kind of pissed off that she just assumed I couldn’t possibly understand what it felt like to be crazy about somebody like that. I mean, it hasn’t happened to me, but I read; I have an imagination. I think about it once in a while.

“Umm. But that wasn’t even the worst. I mean, it was, but, the way it happened. We were sitting in Harvard Square one evening, listening to this Peruvian street band. It was kind of cold, and we were cuddled together, and I
was feeling so in love. Out in public and everything. I’d never felt like that before. Gio, you can’t imagine how it feels when you’ve wanted someone as badly as I did, and thought you’d never find anybody, and then there she is—next to you—touching you!”

There was a raspy quality to her voice that was making my own throat close up. When Marisol looked at me I felt like she could see how I was put together, like I was one of those Invisible Man toys kids assemble so they can see how all their insides work. I wished her story was over already. I didn’t want to hear anymore. All of a sudden I was scared, scared of the feelings she’d had, and I’d never had, and scared of what would happen next.

“We were sitting there together,” she continued, “and I turned to her, to kiss her, and she looked down at me and said, ‘You know, Marisol, I’m not really sure I’m a lesbian after all.’ It turned out she’d been seeing this guy too, and she decided she really preferred the straight and narrow. Like homosexuality was just this
outfit
she was trying on, and it didn’t quite it. I never saw her again after that night.”

I could imagine it. That feeling in your gut like everything’s been pulled out and tied in knots, then stuffed back in any old way. That’s how I’d felt when Dad left, when Mom disappeared into the dark.

Neither of us said anything for a minute, until finally I got my vocal chords to work. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll find another girlfriend, though.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t hang with the so-called lesbian group anymore. Mostly I just hang with Birdie. Or you now.” She drained her cup. “I’d have to find somebody who’s not a goddamn liar.”

I trust the red sun setting, the leafless November trees. On Monday morning I look forward Fearlessly to Friday’s eve.

But humans are not as reliable as nature, as trees. I wonder if you’ll come back; I trust only that you’ll leave.

I hadn’t written a poem for ages, but this one came spilling out while I sat on a bench in Copley Square after Marisol got on the subway home. At first I thought it was about Kelly leaving Marisol, but the more I worked on it, I realized it was really my own poem. Maybe about Dad leaving. Except I also kept seeing her, Marisol, heading down the stairs to the station, black bag riding low on her back, boot heels clicking away from me.

“I promised Birdie I’d hang with him next Saturday,” she’d said. “He’s jealous as hell. Two weeks, okay? Call me if you want to read me something.”

Two weeks was forever. Maybe I would call, but I wouldn’t read her the poem. She didn’t lie. I didn’t trust her.

Chapter Seven

The nuns were climbing every mountain and fording every stream while a small team of mothers made final adjustments to the hems of their habits, and the Von Trapp family escaped over the mountains and down the aisle of the Darlington High Little Theater.

For some reason that song about following rainbows and finding your dreams made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I reminded myself Maria was only Violet Neville looking brave in a dumb hairdo, the captain was Vincent Brazwell carrying a small freshman on his back, and the Nazis were mostly kids who couldn’t act very well. Brian was already poking me in the ribs.

“Aren’t they great? The show’s going to be cool, isn’t it? You have to admit it, John.”

“Which one is she again?” I said. I hate when people tell me I have to admit something to them.

“Top row on the left. I think they’re done rehearsing anyway. You can meet her. Finally.”

For some reason I was dreading meeting Brian’s beloved freshman, Emily Prine. I’d been making excuses to him for weeks, but this was the final week of rehearsals before the show, and I couldn’t keep it up without jeopardizing the only male friendship I had.

Brian was waving like crazy, and finally this tall, smiley girl with a shawl of curly red hair all down her back came running toward us, a wimple in her hand. A mother chased her down the aisle.

“Emily, give me your costume. We don’t want it to get soiled before Friday night.”

So Emily stood there disrobing while Brian introduced us. She had on a very short skirt (for a nun) and green tights over her thin legs, which gave her a Peter Pan-ish look.

“I’m
so
glad to finally meet you,” Emily said. “Bri talks about you all the time.”

“No, I don’t!” Brian said.

Emily blushed. “I don’t mean
all
the time, or anything. So, are you coming to the play this weekend? I hope!” I could tell she was basically kind of shy, but so excited about the play, and about having a boyfriend and everything, that she was pushing herself forward more than she ordinarily would have. Brian grabbed hold of her hand like it was going somewhere without him, the kind of proprietary move that always aggravates me. You are
mine
!

“Yeah, I guess so,” I said. As long as I couldn’t see Marisol this Saturday, what was the point of going into Boston at all? To be with dear old Dad? I was glad to have an excuse to stay in Darlington this weekend.

“Friday night or Saturday?” Brian asked.

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“After Saturday’s show there’s a cast party. But if you go on Friday, we could hang around afterward or something.”

There was a thrilling thought. They’d be giddy over the success of the play, and I’d have to listen to them recap all the little backstage traumas. “Did you notice when the lights came on too soon? Doodah couldn’t find her so-and-so and she had to go
on
…” Besides, they were a couple now. Three’s a crowd.

“I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to let you know.” Surely I could come up with some … lie. Man, I’d been lying more since I promised Marisol I wouldn’t than I ever did before.

“You need a ride home, buddy? I’ve got wheels,” Brian bragged. Wheels. He couldn’t just say “the car.” Of course
not. Brian was walking the borderline of cool now; he was approaching the wall of coolness with a blow torch.

“Sure. You can drop me off. Where do you live, Emily?” I asked.

“Um, just about a block from here. But Bri drives me anyway.” She glanced at him sideways.

“Of course I do. And we take the long way.” He tucked her hand in his jacket pocket, so he could find it again when he needed it. I only lived half a mile from the school but I wasn’t at all sure I could stand to be in the car with the two of them for that long.

After I strapped myself in the back seat, I worked on becoming invisible, but Emily turned around politely. “So, John, who are you asking to the prom?”

God. I knew Brian had gotten an affirmative answer to the Big Question, but I thought I’d made my own feelings on the subject clear to him. “I’m not going. I’m not much for school activities.”

“But Brian said we were doubling with you! We don’t know who else to double with!”

“I never said …”

Brian looked at me in the rearview. “John, we talked about this. Remember? The thing is, none of Emily’s close friends are going. I mean, they’re freshmen; they don’t have upperclass boyfriends.” Emily wriggled happily in her seat;
she
had one. “And you’re my best friend,” Brian continued. “Who else would we go with?”

Best?
Only
would be closer to the truth. “You need a chaperone? Why can’t you just go by your …”

“Oh, that’s no fun!” Emily shouted. “I mean, it’s a party. You want to be with friends!”

Jeez, Emily, calm down. “There’s nobody for me to ask. I don’t date anybody.”

“Maybe Emily could fix you up with one of her friends. This weekend. Then if you liked her …”

“Yeah!” Emily was dancing all over the front seat, her hair smacking Brian in the face. “What a great idea! My friend Jessica! You’d love her! Don’t you think, Bri? She’s really cute and—”

“Wait! Hold on! I don’t do fix-ups …”

“Yeah! Jessica!” Brian chimed in. Things were getting way out of control.

“No! No, really. I mean, maybe there is somebody I could ask. But no set-ups. Okay?”

Emily was disappointed; Brian curious. “Who would you ask? That Sarah person in pre-calc? I swear she’s got the hots …”

How did this happen? I had no intention of going to the Junior Prom. “I don’t know, Bri. Just let me think about it, would ya?” Thank God, we were at my house. My haven. My hiding place. I jumped out before Brian actually stopped the car.

“Great meeting you, Emily. Can’t wait for the show.” She smiled, happy to believe me. She was having a terrific freshman year.

“Call me, John,” Brian insisted. “Let me know about the weekend and, you know, everything.”

“Yeah, soon as I think it over.” I ran inside and slammed
the door on the two strangers who’d driven me home. I was so glad to escape from Beaver Cleaver and his girlfriend, it took me a minute to realize that my normally quiet home was booming with rock music. What the hell was this? ABBA? Blasting from the den?

Never has my mind been more blown than by the sight that greeted me when I walked into the den. There was my mother, my sober, somber mother, dressed in a T-shirt and a pair of those tight, shiny knee pants, pedaling like a maniac on the old stationery bike that had been sitting in the corner since Dad left. (I’d come to think of it as the correct place to hang a shirt I hoped she’d get around to ironing.) And she was singing, “Mamma Mia” at the top of her lungs.

She was too out of breath to hit the high notes, but she did seem to be enjoying herself. The music was so loud she hadn’t heard me come in, so I thought I’d better sneak back out—she’d be embarrassed to know I witnessed this exertion, and I’d be embarrassed that she was embarrassed. But just then she turned around and saw me. I guess she always knows when another warm body is nearby; her security system is on alert lest I come too close.

The bike slowed down. “Oh, Johnny! Whew! I didn’t hear you come in.”

She didn’t seem all that embarrassed. “I know. How come … ?”

She climbed stiffly off the bike and lowered the volume on the stereo, then bent over at the waist to stretch out.
“Wow, I’m not used to this. I’ve been thinking lately I ought to put this bike to good use. It just sits here, and so do I, getting wider and wider.”

I shrugged. “You look the same to me.” Not that I paid much attention.

“I’m your mother; you wouldn’t notice. But with the wedding coming up and everything … well, people look at you. You should make some effort.”