I used to change my room all the time, which mostly entailed the shifting piles of clothes, moving across the floor every morning. And then, for a while, after we started going out, I had this Moroccan theme that I was going for, but Cam always called it “Iraq the Casbah,” because my room’s always such a disaster, he said you’d think a suicide bombing fashionista had exploded herself in my bedroom, but anyhow.
And then, thinking spring, I thought about getting some new wallpaper and doing some sort of English floral punk rock, like Vivienne Westwood sort of vibe. I didn’t know what, exactly, but I had this idea of floral wallpaper and lace curtains and then I was thinking I’d spray paint, Oi! Oi! Oi! Or something over the walls, even thought that’s too skinhead, but something like that. Then, when swine flu hit, I was thinking I could graffiti over the skinhead spray paint, link insert little nk’s, so it’d read, Oink! Oink! Oink! Who says teenagers have no social conscience, right.
Anyhow. That afternoon we got in a fight, we went home and made up. My mom was over at Ray’s again, or I don’t know where she was, but just before Cam left, I asked him to write me a note. He was pulling his shirt over his head, and I said, Write me something. What do you want to write you? I want a surprise, I said, opening the drawer of my bed stand, handing him a sharpie. On you? No . . . not on me, on the wall. On your wall? Yes, I said, and then I fished out some black electrical tape, and I handed it to him.
What are those calendars called, the ones you open with the little windows at Christmas?
Advent calendars.
Yes. Like that: once in a while, I want you to surprise me with a secret message, and then you mark it with a big X.
So . . . he said, thinking: you want me to write you a note but you aren’t even going to read it?
Some day, I said. Some day, I’ll read your notes, all of them. But right now, I just want to watch you write me a secret message.
I thought you were going to paint your room or go death floral or whatever.
I did, too. But I just changed my mind, I said, waiting for him to take the pen, and then he did. And then I held up the tape, and he took that too, stuffing it between his belt and his boxers.
Don’t peek, he said, stepping so I couldn’t see.
I never peek, I said.
You peek all the time, he said, pulling the cap off with his teeth.
I meant cheat, I said. I never cheat.
He started laughing with the cap in his mouth, but then he started writing, not even hesitating. I waited for him to finish. It was a few lines at least, and then he covered the Sharpie and put it in his back pocket. Then he started pulling pieces of tape, and he marked the spot.
There. Happy now? he said, and all I could do was bite the inside of my lower lip, grinning. Because the thing is, I was happy. I was very happy. And even then, at that moment, I knew it wouldn’t last long, but I knew I had to try my best to remember exactly how that felt.
After he left, I went to the kitchen and opened the cupboard beneath the sink, where Mom kept some paintbrushes and this cheap can of hardware store black paint that she’d used on our front door, because they keep promising they’re going to paint the building, but of course they never do. Anyhow, I went back to my room, and I covered the black tape with a big X of black paint. I didn’t know what it said—it could say anything, it could have said, Thea Denny, you are the love of my life, but you see, that’s what I liked about it. I thought of it as this little treasure, just waiting for me if I ever needed. Because I knew a day would come when I needed it. Because those days always come.