16Ricky and I trudge home together, and under the lamplights, one sphere of light from another, slipping in and out of consciousness with the darkness that shades us and then the orange and then the darkness again. Somewhere, a few streets away, violent screams and Ricky raises his eyebrows at me as if to say, 'See what I saved you from?' And I do not protest, because for all I know about what Ringleader Circumstance had in store for me, maybe he did save me. Who knows? Furthermore, who truly cares?
Suppose I got raped? Suppose I didn't.
To break the silence, give something to accompany the sound of our shoes against the pavement, I say, "I got asked out."
"Oh?" Ricky says, hands in his pocket, looking straight ahead but with a tad of an indulgent smile on his face; the kind of indulgent look he gets when we talk about my lovelife (or lack thereof, for he too knows of the disparaging trauma or Jeromey (apparently he could hear through the papersplit walls of our apartment it as it played out like a radio drama)), "And how did you snub this potential suitor? Did you use swears? Or maybe not answer at all?"
"I said yes," I say, glad to confront his expectations, sounding a little smug, "I gave him my number. My mobile number. He's going to call."
"Really?" Ricky raises his eyebrows, "Interesting... My little sister all grown up."
"I'm your big sister," I remind without any true heat, too tangled am I in thoughts of Josh Lewis. Him and his songs...
"Ah, say the papers, but we both know which of us is more advanced between you and I," Ricky says, ruffling my hair and I hiss a little at him disapprovingly but again without any true emotion.
(Josh Lewis)
And so here I find myself again, after one full rotation of a day, with so much else to talk of, so much else pushed out of my mind because of this - all these stories I wanted to tell you, which were to be profound and clever and insightful pushed out by dizzy thoughts of boys and Ricky, sex fiend, having called a girl and had her come over and he's banging her wildly and he knows I can hear because I went to bed (or at least said, 'I'm off to bed' and then sat on my bed, opened up my laptop, began typing) not ten full minutes ago, and even if I was actually intending to get to sleep, he knows I cannot sleep but must simply lay in bed for maybe half an hour before sleep even considers me...
But I have Josh Lewis to consider myself, but what to say about him, really? Nothing. But I think of his songs, consider where I may be able to find some, open an illegal downloading program on my computer (expecting FBI agents to burst through my door at any given moment, I tell you!) and type in his name. Josh Lewis, and up crop songs - ten songs, a selection of ten songs, and when it is fully loaded, a selection of twelve. The titles inciting memories and my eyelids lull closed and I think of them, relive them, and oh...
I fall asleep.
From what I can remember, it was a weird and dark Christmas day when I last saw my mother, harried little thing I choose to ignore now because the feel of her, the idea of her is too painful. She is not much to look at, and nor is she world-beatingly brilliant, but there's a quality, an essence, that of a mother, maternal, and she exudes it even when she's reviled so by Ricky, by me, by my darling, dutiful sister, her kids, abused maybe, neglected maybe, but her mistake that she made and she can't fix, so she goes out to whorehouses and flophouses, and fixes other peoples' mistakes so she will not be obligated to look at her own spilt milk.
Josh Lewis calls the next morning, a Saturday morning. I awake to the blare of my phone, obnoxious and insistent, and start when I realize what I have been doing, my laptop still poised on my lap and still whirring away indignantly, the names of Josh's songs still glaring at me. I click on them all, but then feel guilty for doing this (I suppose I should buy an actual album from Josh, because this is stealing but it is personal stealing, stealing from someone I know, practical thievery (which sounds a lot worse than just stealing, because you can steal words, phrases, etc., but you cannot thieve them). I, with hair askew, still the taste of sour whiskey in my mouth, I pick up the phone and open it and say into it, somewhat abruptly, "What?"
"Too early?" Laughter on his end.
(Josh Lewis)
"Er, yeah," I answer, "A little. I got a late night sleep last night and I'm..." I get stopped by the clock (ha! It must love that!), "Christ, I must've slept for twelve hours, then."
"You must've been tired, then."
"I suppose, more tired that I must've realized. I haven't been sleeping well-" I stop when I remember who I'm talking to, that this isn't any old friend, acquaintance, this person I'm conversing with and I best watch my mouth, censor it, make myself sound different, edit myself, make myself refined or at the least not babbling like usual.
"That's too bad," comes his rumbling baritone (ah! I was apart from it for maybe twelve hours, but still, achingly, I missed it, wanted to hear it again), "I haven't been sleeping too well either."
"Oh," is the best I can come up with under this new self-censorship, because anything else is veto-ed, too weird, too needy, too cliche (although 'Oh' in itself is a trifle cliche).
"Yeah..." a pause, "So. You wanna get coffee?"
I stretch a little, avoid my eyes in the mirror, looking at the savage girl's hair, bright eyes, blushing red cheeks, "Yeah. Sure. When?"
"Now, if you're not doing anything."
"Well, I just woke up, and I hadn't any real plans for the day so..." I bite my lip, "Yeah, okay. Give me an hour to get my face on, though."
"That sounds vaguely sinister," Josh says, "I know a place. Actually... Where do you live? I'll find a coffee shop near it."
I rattle off the adress before assessing whether it would be safe to do so, which was probably the wrong order to do it in, but I trust Josh Lewis, I guess. We click off the phone and I tramp out into the world outside, the Dutiful sister eating cereal happily at the kitchen island, watching our one TV, which gets terrible reception and plays nothing but rubbish. I've never had much interest in television, in fact I revile it, for it sucks away life (apparently some watch more than five hours a day - five hours! 35 hours a week, 1820 a year, 145 600 a lifetime. Some say the average human lifetime is made up of 600, 000 hours, which means that 145 600 hours of television are factored into this. Unbelievable, with all that living and working we are already obligated to do!). Very bizarre...
I shuffle to the fridge, get out a plate of half-congealed pizza, place it in the microwave, pull myself up to wait, sitting on the opposite island counter, between the toasted and the sink, yawning, ruffling my tangled hair, processing, waking up, beginning for another day... Sleep always makes the day after it very sluggish, restful, peaceful, clear and always pleasant, but sluggish, which I hate because I need my mind hectic for me to quite understand it. Ricky, upon hearing me leave my room, leaves his, comes into the kitchen where both his sisters slump, eating, waiting for food to be eaten, and he grins, "How are we?"
"Fine," Gerri answers.
"I have a date in an hour," I grumble, "And I can't really be fucked to move, even if it is with Josh Lewis..."
Gerri exclaims, "Oh! You've got a date?" (happily, a little surprised) the same time Ricky asks in annoyance, "Who the Hell is Josh Lewis?"
I choose to answer Gerri's question, as its easier, "Yeah, I got a date. And here I just assumed I'd wind up a crazy old cat woman."
"Wow. Congratulations!" Gerri says, singing, voice so melodic, smiling her sweet smile, so pretty and cute and ancient in knowledge and innocence (is that even possible?), "Is he hot?" but then reassesses after seeming to recall a rant I wrathed maybe two weeks prior, about hating the seeming appraisal of people based on lust and not beauty; based on cheekbones and not character; Thinness and not fabric, "Er... I mean... Is he 'beautiful'?" My dutiful sister seems to have a hard time keeping a straight face whilst repeating the world.
"Incredibly. Brilliantly. Totally. Like a bomb. Like the sunset after a nuclear holocaust," I say as the microwave sounds, slide down reluctantly, trudge equally slow to the pizza, but Ricky keeps the door shut with his hand and says, lip set in a line, "Who is Josh Lewis?"
"The guy she's dating," Gerri answers, indicating gingerly to me with her spoon, bemused, a little put off by his attitude.
"Who is Josh Lewis?" he repeats for the third time.
"Well, what Gerri said," I say, trying to push his hand out of the way and then sighing, "Honestly, Ricky. The big brother act doesn't really apply here, there's no need to be protective. You weren't protective when it came to Jeromey."
"That's because I knew that guy was a defect and there was no chance of you falling in love, getting your heart broken or anything like that," Ricky says, "This new guy, I don't know him, so-"
"He's amazing, so there's definite potential for heartbreak," I cut him off, and then regress to a move I used to use in childhood - bite at Ricky's wrist (gently), and he moves it away as a reflex, I open the microwave door, get the pizza, go sit down next to Big Sister and busy myself with runny cheese.
"Well," Ricky says, crossing his arms, "I don't like that."
I shrug, "Yeah, okay."
Ricky bitches and moans, as he is wont to do, to try and fix this, mend this, save me from my pagan virtues - out of some sort of repressive, almost neolithic need to keep me safe by totally eliminating life at all, all good and bad... Ah, men.
This is not good enough, I concede as I stare at myself, silly little savage redhead girl still marked from the venom of whiskey and her throat is dry and her eyes are wide and sparkling with anticipation - her hands are shaking, fingers trembling as she buttons up her anorak, looks outside at the white blanket or dome of cloud that is the netted sky, webbed to keep out sun. Outside my window - yes, the dreaded birds, let them sing, because today is the kind of day where birds and their song seem entirely justified, when I will not sneer at those handing out pamphlets on the street, when I will not laugh outright at the soapbox preachers, those wanting me to just give Jesus another piece of my heart to break when things tumble about me makes me tremor with a kind of thunderous, blundering hatred...
So I walk outside, out of the apartment, down the hall (ah, it is strange, to hear the noises now, the sizzling of breakfast being made at Mr. Apartment 1A's, the yowl of a fight in Spanish coming from Senor and Senorita 1H's), into the street, passing the subway, my phone clutched in my hand, anticipating Seb to at any moment respond to the harried text message I sent not five minutes ago, a simple blur of 'Hey meeting JL 4 coffee!'... Outside, cars whiz by, taxis slow predatorily to see if I need their services - oh! It is bitterly cold, a lot more cold than it was last night even, and the cold encroaches my skin - but I am safe and I am fine, because... Because... Pain cannot hurt me now. I am going to see a beautiful boy who sings words that make me want to whimper for their beauty; create in my this awed feeling, like a religious experience - it makes you want to kneel at the altar - his altar ... cry out, bow in prayer... lay your life down in ill-begotten, ephemeral, sugar-rush attraction...
And, thank God, praise the Ringleader of Circumstance! The phone blurs in my hand, vibrates, lights up, I press the 'accept call' button, put it to my ear, "Seb?"
"Who's JL?" comes his slurred, groggy answer. He sounds like he's coming down with a headcold.
"Hangover?" I make an attempt to say this quietly, but still he groans lightly into the phone, white static noise.
"Yes," he confirms, "A hangover. I partied for two after I got home. I felt unsatisfied with how the night had bloomed and unfolded before me, so of course I self medicated."
"I'm not," I say smugly, "Unhappy with how the night turned out, I mean."
"This I realize," Seb says, "Life, ey?"
"Life... is beautiful," I say, only two blocks from the coffee house we agreed on and oh God, oh Lord, oh Puppet Master, whomever this may concern, I think I can see him, dark-haired smudge in the distance which my legs now carry me towards faster, faster, one and a half blocks to go before him, before Josh Lewis.
"You're going to see Josh Lewis now, I assume?"
"I'm one block away, I can see him, Seb, he's outside the coffeehouse and he's got two cups and he's amazing, he's this conflagration of light and dark and all... All consuming - Seb - and, oh God-"
"Breathe," Seb soothes, "Although you're adorable flushed, you need to be clear. Concise. And stop talking so loud. Jesus Christ, riel him in, then reveal you're a lunatic! Have I taught you nothing constructive about building foundations for dysfunctionality?! Remeber, my long-legged Lolita: breathe."
"Okay," I breathe, and realize too late this will let a rush-noise whir of static down Seb's end. He groans, low.
"Fuck. Ignore my advice. How close are you now?"
I bite my lip, I'm in lunging distance and he hasn't noticed me yet, I whisper into the phone direly, "Very close."
"I'll go then," and he hangs up, leaving me momentarily darkened in a world without a fallback, without a comfort blanket, and I groan, and Josh Lewis looks up, sunshine or some sort of super-bright light burning from the very middle of his eye, the pupil, dark, wooden fire being burnt to keep my heart alive, to hear it beat, too strong, too fast, we're okay, you're okay.
"Hey," Josh grins, quirk in his cheek, dimple, pale little hollow in a perfect cheek I could dimple with answers and oh God settle down, settle down, Jacky Moreau settle down you'll make a fool of yourself, "You found the place alright?"
"Yeah," a moderate response, slightly closed, open up a little, don't overthink, stop thinking about overthinking, shush, quiet, Jacky, quiet... I point at the cup of coffee opposite Josh, ask, "Is that mine?"
He nods, "Yeah. I wasn't sure what you liked, so..."
I sit down, take a sip, "Caramel Mocha. I always get this."
"Uh. Yeah," Josh says, a little nervous, fingers trembling around where he cups his coffee with both hands, as if to warm his hands, "I... the guy behind the counter knows you or something. Since you suggested the place, I assumed you came here regularly, so I asked the guy, described you a little... And yeah."
I smile, let's unwind, let's unfurl, let's stop this tension in my chest which keeps my heart from beating, "It was a good call."
His eyes, those dark, rich eyes, flicker up for a moment, only a moment, hold mine whole for all of a splitsecond, and he says, another dimple, crooked smile, "Thank you."
"S'okay," I take a sip of my mocha.
"Ah..." Josh says, running a hand through his brown hair, looking at me, eyes flickering away, across the street, taking in my neighborhood - the florist, the '50s barber, the social security office where hundreds of them disenfranchised line up to claim their disabilities, play dead for Uncle Sam. He smiles, nervously, looks at the floor, his hands, mine, his legs, mine, across the street, follows a yellow taxi with his eyes as it hurtles down the road, looks at his hands again, begins to blush and says quickly, quietly, ashamedly, "It's funny, I had all these conversation starters all planned out so that it wouldn't be like this... So I wouldn't be like this, all nervous and sweaty and juvenile... But as soon as you came, as soon as you began speaking... They're all gone," hand running through his hair, looking into the pit of his coffee and I laugh, not unkindly.
"The same thing happened to me," I confess, and we look at each other, smile, look away again.
"So fate has made this awkward," he says, and then looks up at me, "Did I call too soon?"
"No!" I say sincerely, "Just on time."
"I woke you up," he states guiltily.
"I'd been asleep for about twelve hours, it was time for me to get up," I assure nervously.
Once I was a child and I thought like a child and here I sit now, in a grown up skin but still so achingly inept and there is shame raging within me and I pick at my palms, grimace nervously, cluck my tongue... I want desperately for something to happen, something to make this feel.. Or rather, to make us feel... To cement something, give us clear sign that this is right, that we're right for each other, because I am so young (fifteen!) and he is - how old is he? I should ask, because this awkward pause is stretched too long and thin and we are just staring, not sipping from our paper coffee cups and listening to the hoi polloi of other people live life around us.
"Say," I say, "How old are you?"
"Twenty-two," he answers clearly, bops his head a little, still looking into paper cup.
"Oh," I say, feel my eyebrows raise, feel the shock web its way across my face. Feel a strange twang of desire (thinking, again, mainly of sex). Seven years age difference, and the idea of being with a man and not a boy is so appealing, so assuring, so strange and foreign and so... so... and I am stuck there, for a millionth of a second, in dull, sleazy reverie, so unladylike, so masculine of me, him inside of me... Filling me up.
Josh frowns at the look on my face, a twinge of concern, "What? How old are you?"
Looking at my cup, "Fifteen, actually."
Such a cold pause follows -
"That club last night - it was twenty-one plus," he says, blinking quickly, seeming to only just be functioning.
"Yeah, there was no one on the door, and Seb was intimidating," I explain softly. I can hear the rhytmic pulse of his breathing, but nothing else. All other noise drained away. Nothing matters. I watch my angel's - God's - must I label him?! - my... I watch Josh Lewis' face and everything around him drains as he becomes gloriously coloured, bleeding in his richness - I wish I could put my lips on his heart, kiss it, that muscled mess of veins that keep him together! Oh, Josh!
"He was wearing a white dress..."
"Intimidating to bourgeois morals."
"Touché," he smiles, "Fuck. Crap. Shit. Fifteen, right?"
"Sixteen in eight months," I say, half-pleading, "So. Pretty much, I'm barely illegal."
"But you are," Josh Lewis blows out a breath, through his teeth, quirk of a dimple, looking at his hands, "Crap. Fifteen."
"Yeah," I wince, trace the rim of my coffee cup, "So. You don't like me anymore, right?"
"Don't be ridiculous, of course I do," he says, dismissively (and oh my heart sings at that, my blood fries, he likes me), "It's just... Now it's... Weird. Creepy, on my part. I never counted myself as a cradle-robber, and yet... I feel as if this is somehow me causing you a disservice... Or at least, that's how I know I should feel. I don't know. Just. Strange."
"Well," and my mouth feels cottony, a blockade of questions, words clotting in my head so silent and shaking and I don't know how to phrase this but, "Why did you look at me that way in the club? Why did you... Ask for my number like that? What made me stand out? Why do you like me?" And the question I leave unasked, If you like me, well, what the fuck is wrong with you?
Josh blushes brilliant red, "This is going to sound weird."
I shrug.
"I've had this reoccurring dream since I was five, of a girl who looked exactly like you and aw man, I knew this'd sound weird..." he hides his face behind a hand, looks at the ground, "You see... Well. I don't know how else to explain it. And you were there, in the club, in white like an angel and I just thought 'fuck she's here, you've been waiting your entire life, better do something Josh or she'll leave and that'll be it, you'll lose the girl from your dreams and for all you know she's supposed to govern the rest of your life'."
Best Read with a Little Joy Album, a flask full of whiskey and a hare-trigger to review.