Spring Break, Sketch 2/8: Laurence Philomene Collaboration, Part 8/8. Originally posted December 16, 2009.
See Laurence Philomene, Image 8
Setting: Thea’s bedroom, the morning of April 15, 2009
Bright: too bright: the light was shining in my eyes. I’d forgotten to close my curtain, and for a moment, I couldn’t remember anything. I mean, I was never what you’d call a morning person, but lately, I wasn’t feeling like much of a person person, either. Seriously. So I covered my eyes for a moment, letting it fill up like a tub, and then, piece by piece, things fell into place: bed; bedroom; morning; sunlight; awake in bed, and then, finally, Thea, my name is Thea, and I’m here now.
Funny how that keeps happening. Every morning, I take it from the top, all over again, asking myself: Where am I? What time is it? What day is it? How do I do this? I took the hem of the curtain and closed them in an angry sweep of my arm, before turning over, hiding beneath my pillow until my mom started banging on my bedroom door again, and I finally got up.
I got in the shower, wincing as the water poured into my face, finally giving in to the day, once again. When I got out, I dried off, and wrapped my head in a towel, before inspecting my skin. When I leaned forward, the light was terrible, and I wiped the mirror. Then I checked again, and my mouth fell open, because I was sunburned. My face, it looked like I’d been sunburned, wearing a mask. And it looked just like it felt, too; the eyes were sort of feline, and the straps were about an inch thick—not like a burn with sunglasses, this was definitely a mask, okay. And my face was definitely burned.
My mom knocked on my door, and I stepped back, behind the door, in case she actually tried to come in for some reason, not wanting her to see me. Just . . . too many questions. I couldn’t, I couldn’t take one more question, because I didn’t understand. I believed it: I mean, look at me, look at my face, of course I believed, but don’t ask me to explain. Please, I thought, talking to her through the door: please just leave me alone and don’t ask. Because I don’t know, okay. I don’t know what’s going on, and if I have to look at the look on your face when you see me . . ..
So I slipped out. I did, I snuck out without even saying goodbye, and I felt badly, but it was that or risk a confrontation with my mom when she annoyed me by asking exactly the question I’d meant to avoid by sneaking out without saying goodbye, you know what I mean? Anyhow, it was overcast by the time I left the house, and somehow, I managed to get to the stop a couple minutes early. I saw the mobile prison unit better known as the yellow bus approaching. The twins weren’t there, which was good. I was in no mood for their stares. Still, seeing the bus, I felt that tiny wave of nausea that’s daily ritual, and my mouth watered with that sickening school feeling, like rock salt churning in my bowels.
I got on last, as per usual, and when I got to the top step, Mason’s mouth fell open. No, seriously, he took one look at me, and then he goes, Dude, what happened to your face? He said it like that, too, Your face? So I looked at him, like this close—this close to raising both middle fingers, slamming them at him, and then I changed my mind. Before he could move, I turned back around, and I got off the bus. And then I started walking: screw you. I swear, despite all the cars on the road, heading in to work, the entire highway went silent.
Ten seconds later, I heard Mason getting out, yelling after me: Thea! Wait, Thea! What are you doing?
I’ll walk, I shouted, staring straight ahead.
You can’t walk to school, he called, and I couldn’t see him, but I knew by teh volume that he’d gotten off the bus. Come back—come on, would you get in the bus, please?
And then, in my mind’s eye, I raised my right arm straight in the air and flipped him off: Can’t I? Just watch.
Please, Thea? Please, he called: think of my children!
I balked, stopping, and turned around: You don’t have any children, Mason!
Let’s pray, he said, pumping his clasped hands, beseeching me, then twirling his right wrist, calling me back: come, come . . ..
I stood there, glaring, nodding, and then I walked back to the bus.
He waited until I reached him to have a word, and then he said, I didn’t mean, like, dude, your face doesn’t look good, I meant—.
I held up one hand, back off, and he nodded. He’d learned that much about the female sex, at least. Don’t ask me what else the man has gathered in his time on earth, but he knew that much.
So I got on, after him, but then, when he got to the top step, he grabbed a couple of the little kids who always sat in the front seat by the back of their backpacks, gently picked them up, wheeling them around, and redistributed in the first four seats, giving me a seat at the front.
Waddle, waddle, he said, shooing the cluster of kindergartners and first graders into their new seating arrangements like they little ducks they were. Of course by that point, everyone was leaning over, heads folding into the aisles; everyone quiet, but only so they could hear for themselves. With that, Mason stepped forward to give a speech: All right, listen up, he said. Now let’s all just . . . he said, raising his hands, crowd controlling: let’s just through this, he said, nodding to himself, enough said, and returning to his seat. The bus made its squeaky exhale, and we were off again.
When I got to school, I called and left Knox a message, and he called me back after lunch.
What is it, Thea?
My face. I’m sorry, but you need to see my face. Like, pronto, basically.
Because . . .?
Because, I said, annoyed: basically, you need to see it with your eyes, pronto. And because I can’t handle the bus again, no way. So if you don’t mind giving me a ride home after school, we’ll kill two birds with one stone, how’s that?
He said he’d be there, waiting after school, and he was. He was even on time, but then, when he saw me, like when I approached the car, he leaned over, looking up at me as I got in, and then he goes: Ouch. What happened, Thea? Did . . . did you go to a tanning salon?
Knox, do I look like the sort of girl who goes to tanning salons? I told you, I said. You didn’t believe me last night, but it’s the mark. It’s the mask I told you about, I said, twirling my fingers around my eyes, demonstrating. You still don’t believe me?
Thea, come on, he said: how am I supposed to believe what I don’t understand?
Knox, I said, running my fingers across my collar line: do I look like a priest to you? Can you see this?
Yes, he said, raising his eyebrows and then tilting his head back, inspecting like it might be a hoax or something.
And tell me, did I have a sunburn last night when you saw me?
No, he said.
And is it sunny out today?
No, he said, peering up at the sky.
No: I didn’t have a sunburn last night; there’s no sun out today; I didn’t cut class; I didn’t fall asleep in any tanning beds, so what? What happened? I told you last night: I was in a field, and Cam was there, and he found Lola, and then my dad appeared out of nowhere, and he took off, like he always does, and now I have the burn to prove it. In other words, I got burned, and that’s the moral of the story. I don’t know how you’re supposed to believe in things you can’t see, but you said it, yourself, right?
Sorry, one second, he said, reaching for his phone, he said, taking the call, switching hands. Whoever it was, was female, and Knox sounded familiar, the way he kept saying, Yes, yes, I understand, let me, I’ll be right there, one my way, and then he hung up.
Melody’s babysitter. The woman’s four-year-old son got a box of raisins stuck up his nose, he said, shaking his head like, kids these days.
The entire box? Like those little lunch boxes, you mean? I asked, squeezing my fingers together in case he didn’t understand.
Who knows, he said, checking the rearview, but she needs to take him to the doctor. Kid isn’t breathing, apparently, he said, completely nonplussed, and I started laughing.
What’s that? he asked, wry.
Kids, I said, nodding no, it’s nothing. So whose Melody?
My daughter, he said, looking over. I thought we’d talked about her?
Uh . . . no, I said, rolling my eyes back, no such talk.
Last night, you asked me about . . .? We talked about this, remember? he said, and I looked at him. Huh, he said, scratching the side of his face. Well, I have a, I have a daughter, he said, shaking his head yes, yes, I have a daughter.
Really? How old is she?
About your age, I guess, he said, shrugging.
Wait . . . she’s my age, and she has a babysitter? I asked, and I didn’t mean to make a face, but I don’t anyone fifteen with a babysitter, you know.
Knox didn’t say anything for like an entire minute, he just sat there, like he was thinking it through, and then, when we reached the next stoplight, he sighed this heavy weight-of-the-world-on-my-shoulders sigh, and then he leaned over the steering wheel and started rubbing the sockets of both his eyes with his thumbs, like he just couldn’t get a handle on this, none of it, and all I could say was: Tell me about it.
Note: in the original story outline, Thea meets Melody on April 16, 2009, but I think I’m going to change that to April 15, easy enough.