(See Elies Van Renterghem, Image 1)

Setting: Melody and Thea are lying in the grass in the Knox’s back yard, Saturday afternoon, early May 2009.

You know, I don’t know what it is, but I think about her all the time, Violaine. I mean, she’s not even real, you know, it’s just this this character we made up, me and Mel. And at first, it’s like, we were just kidding around, but now, I’m just like, why not, you know? Like why shouldn’t we see what we can do with the story?

See, how it started is, I’d been making Mel playlists since the day we met, right. I had an old iPOD that I gave her, because every time I thought about it, like every time we got together, I just couldn’t believe how much she’d never seen or heard before. Seriously, it’s only two of the most important forms of communication, and Mel’s like a hostage to her parents bad taste. I’m sorry, but I just looked at Knox in such a different light, seeing that completely uncool, average side of him that just didn’t get it. Because he’s so cool in so many ways, but then there’s this other side to him that just doesn’t get it at all.

I mean, seriously, can you imagine never having heard The Smiths? It’s like Mel was living in a different universe. Of course, once she started hearing things, seeing things, she started jonzing for it, too, just like I do. And the thing is, I got to watch her experiencing that, and she just hummed, too. I’m totally serious, you could feel her muscles getting charged, just listening to a new song sometimes. I thought it seemed healthy, and she loved it, and the way I saw it, even if it wasn’t healthy, she loved it, you know.

So I brought a new playlist every time we got together, and we’d listen to it together, sharing a pair of headphones. Oh, totally goofy, right, putting our heads close together, and I didn’t even care. Because I knew I’d remember doing that with her, some day, twenty, thirty years from now. And for the first time in a long, long time, I really wanted to take pictures of me with a friend, my best friend, even.

We made a good team, too. Because we balanced each other really well, you know. And then, one day, lying in the grass in Mel’s back yard, I leaned next to her, holding my head in my hand, and I just looked at her, how happy she was, lying there, beside me, staring up at the sky. I felt the same, and I didn’t want to talk about it, I just wanted to remember how it felt again. To be in the right place at the right time with the right person. You know?

So there we were, me and Mel, taking pictures in their back yard. Heather, Mel’s mom was at work all day, and I was happy just to sit in the grass with her, taking whatever pictures she asked me to take. Just like always, I took my iPod and gave Mel one earplug, and kept the other for my left ear, leaning my head against her.

It was Mel’s idea, too. She came up with this whole idea about this girl, Violaine, who traveled back in time, and I thought it was a really cool idea. I really did. And then Mel goes, You know what we should do, Thea?

What’s that? I asked.

We should run away to Paris, she said. And get a beautiful apartment and take guys home all the time.

And give up all this? I said, spreading out my hands, meaning her house, our town, all of it.

Can I ask you something? she asked, kind of blurting it out like she had to ask while she had the courage.

Of course, I said.

Can I wear your shoes? she asked.

You can borrow anything of mine.

No, now. Here. Will you put them on my feet?

I’m not sure they’ll be very comfortable, I said, not knowing if that was a good idea for her. Physically, I mean. They were high heels, and I don’t know, maybe it wouldn’t be good for her legs? I didn’t know. We never really talked about those things. I mean, I didn’t like to talk about school and she didn’t like to talk about medical treatment, rehab, whatever. Seemed fair to me, if we just avoided both subjects.

Thea, she said. Look at me. Do I look comfortable? Ever?

I know, I said, seeing she was clearly not comfortable. But I don’t want to hurt you, I said.

You’ll only hurt me if you say no.

Oh . . . I said, because she really laid it on thick with that comment, going straight for the girl-in-wheelchair sucker punch. That’s low, Mel. That’s really low, I said.

Yep. Learned from the best, she said. So is that a yes?

Yes, I said, like of course it was yes, it was always yes, that’s what made it so cheap.

One problem, she said. The shoes really go with this outfit, do they? she asked.

No, not really, I said. Because they didn’t. We could choose a different outfit? I said.

You know what I really want?

No, but I’m scared, I said, taking a piece of grass and tickling her nose.

Stop! Stop it and listen, she said, and I stopped tickling her.

Itch my nose?

Over, she said, telling me where to scratch her nose: over, left, over . . . there.

What is it? I asked, hearing her sigh, satisfied.

I want to model, she said, just once. I want to have pictures taken of me wearing something really cute, with my hair down. I want to wear a dress and heels and some make up, I do.

You’d have to let me help you, and change your clothes for you, you know? I said, looking at her, wanting to see if she was being serious, and she was.

I know. That’s why I never asked until now, she said, but it’s fine. I mean, if you’re okay with it, I’m okay. So will you help me?

You want to do it now? I asked, sitting up, ready to go if she was.

Yes, she said. Now works for me.

So I called Knox and asked him to come out and help me take her inside, because she wanted to go to her bedroom for a while. And he knew something was up by the look on my face, because I couldn’t make that sound at all believable for some reason. I just couldn’t lie to him, completely, at that moment, don’t ask me why. Even though it was so innocent, it’s like somehow we’d found this little pocket that was kind of . . . naughty? It made me giggle, whatever the reason.

So I waited until Knox closed the door, and then I grabbed my bag and started taking out all the things I’d brought over to show her. Oh, I had clothes, jewelry, shoes, old gloves, just things I thought she’d like. Things I wanted to share with her, because I was certain she would like them, too. And she did.

It wasn’t easy, changing her. I’ll never say it was. But it was one of the best things I’ve ever done. And believe me, taking her hair out of that ponytail was so satisfying, I can’t even tell you. And turns out, she has gorgeous thick hair, too. I mean, criminal. Heather should be locked up, not me.

Anyhow, when we were done with her clothes and her make up, she looked so pretty. I could see the girl before me, in the chair, and I could see the girl in my mind’s eye, sitting on the side of her bed. They were two completely different pictures of her, and they were both completely true.

I took hundreds of pictures of her in the grass that day. And it wasn’t easy. Because she’s not easy to please and she’s very hypercritical, because she’s never been happy with the way she looks in her pictures. So it makes her very self-conscious, and it’s just going to take time for her to get used to the camera and relax, is all. And it’ll happen, I know it will, so I just erase anything she doesn’t like.

Let’s get back to Violaine, she said, changing the subject, tired of having her picture taken.

The thing is, I said, I keep trying to imagine what she could be running from. Like what would make a girl want to run that far?

I don’t know, she said. Maybe her boyfriend disappeared and people are posting porn videos that look like her and her best friend can’t walk or talk?

I can’t believe you just said that, I said, shocked. I mean, everything that was going on with me in the rest of my life, it had become the white elephant in the room, because I just needed a place where I could escape that whole circus for a couple hours now and then and feel, well, safe. And Mel didn’t say how much she knew about it or what she hear. She never told me and I never asked her, because it makes you paranoid, worrying what people are saying about you, all the stories.

No, the thing was, my my time with her had been an escape. But she didn’t want me to keep using her as an escape. She wanted to be included in my life, for real, and I could see how I’d kept her at a distance. I always gave Knox hell about trying to keep her a little girl for the rest of her life, but I did it, too. And I was so sorry for that.

I’d like to take a Super-8 of you next time, maybe? I asked. Would you let me?

Maybe, she said, and that was good. I thought that was a big step in the right direction for us.

Let’s talk about my outfits, and then I’ll decide, she said.

Outfits, plural?

Oh, if we must, she said, throwing her voice like she was throwing out her hand at me.

Laughing, staring at blue sky and the white clouds moving through all the leaves above our heads, I remembered what Cam said that day, the day he chose a picture of me. He said it was true. He said maybe it wasn’t the most beautiful picture of me, but it was the most true. And lying there, in the grass, seeing the first star in sky, I wished more than anything that Cam could’ve seen the picture Melody took of me. Because it’s like at that moment, Mel and I, I think we were our most true, together, too.

Note: This week, I’m enlisting the help of eight guest artists/DJs/collaborators in editing eight separate sketches, written since the start of this project. This is an edit of the post,

(See Maxwell Runko/Mansard Roof, Image 1)

Setting: Knox, Thea and Melody are driving in Knox’s minivan on the first warm day of spring, a Saturday in early May 2009.

Cloud porn. We were driving to the playground, because Melody was dying to go to the playground for some reason, and then, just before we got there, she looked out the window and she goes, Oh, look: cloud porn, and I started laughing, thinking, Oh, here we go again. Because we’d seen it on Flickr, something about the best Cloud Porn photos or whatever, and she just couldn’t get enough. Honestly, I don’t think I’d laughed so hard all year as the day she got on a roll with it; Oh, look: tree porn! Oh, look: squirrel porn! Oh, look: cookie porn!

Hey, Thee? she said, and I turned around. So, like . . . when, like when do think the whole world turned porn?

Huh. Good question, I said, turning back to face front, thinking about it. Sometime in the eighties, I think, I said, looking back again.

What’s that? Knox said, turning into the little parking lot in front of the playground.

When did the whole world turn porn? Was it like eighty-five, eighty-six, or before that, you think? I said, and Knox just looked at me, deciding to ignore the question, putting his dad game face on. Whatever.

Cumulust, she said, and I started laughing. Knox looked at me, and he didn’t ask, but he wanted to know. He always wanted to hear what she was saying, so I told him: Cumulust. Cloud porn, you get it?

He doesn’t get it, does he?

I turned to look at her, and I was about to agree, but how could he get it?

How could he?

Yeah, I s’pose not, she said, and her eyes looked upward.

We’d just been to the car wash. Melody loved it. I have to say, I loved it, too. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something so fun about a drive-thru car wash. Especially in the spring, like on a day like that, when it’s warm, and you remember how good it feels just to get warm arms, driving in the car.

So we got out and we pushed Mel over to a bench, beneath a tree, and Knox and I sat down on each side, with her chair backed up, against the bench, between us. There were a bunch of kids, playing on the jungle gym and slide, and there were all these mothers; some were playing with their kids, some were just standing around, talking to each other, and some were actually sitting, reading, totally able to block out the screaming of all the kids. I don’t know how they do that, either. I guess it just goes to show love truly is blind. And deaf.

Anyhow. Me, I don’t really do parks, but it was warm, like the first really beautiful day we’d had all year, and Heather, Melody’s mom was working all day, so we could just hang out for a while, not worry about her coming home, and I have to admit, the sun felt good. I stay out of the sun as a rule, because I start to burn in like two minutes, seriously. But that day, it was like one of those moments when you remember you haven’t laughed in a long time, really laughed, like falling over with tears in your eyes laughter and maybe even squeezing your legs together in case you pee, well, I definitely hadn’t laughed like that in a long time. Although cloud porn was close, Melody had me going, but still. Somehow I forgot how much you need the sun on your skin to feel alive.

Beautiful day, Knox said.

Yep, I said, watching one kid dangling from a monkey bar with one hand.

You know what? Mel said.

What’s that? I asked, watching the kid fall into the sand.

I want to sit in the grass, she said.

The grass? I asked, looking around.

Yes. I want to sit in the grass. It’s dry. You won’t get hurt, she said, and I looked at her, ha ha.

She wants to sit in the grass, I told him.

Where, here? Knox asked, same reaction.

What is wrong with you people? You can sit in the green grass, and you’d rather sit on a bench? she asked.

All right, all right, I said. It’s not really green, but fine. Where do you want to sit?

Over there, she said, looking with her eyes, and I knew what she was talking about. We’d been looking at pictures all week; she had an entire folder of pictures of girls lying in flowers and grass, and she said it was something she wanted to do, too, to lie in the grass and stare at the clouds. I should be able to do that much, don’t you think? I mean, you don’t have to move, right,  she’s said, and I just rolled my eyes at her. She was beginning to sound a little bit like me at times, and it was scary.

So Knox got up to push her, and we walked over to the nicest part of grass we could find. It didn’t look the pictures she’d chosen, but it was as close as we were going to get, and it was shaded. It was nice, it was, and then Knox started to spread out a blanket for us, getting down on his knees, smoothing it out. Sweet, seeing him like that, making sure it was smooth for her.

No, not on a blanket, Dad, I want to feel it. On my hands and my face, she said.

She said she doesn’t want a blanket, I said.

No blanket, he said, looking up at me, concerned.

No, she wants to feel the grass, I said.

I don’t know, he said, wrinkling his nose.

You two are such sissies. It’s grass, she said, and I said it, too, same time: It’s grass.

He looked at us, sighing, and then he got up. He started folding up the blanket again, and then he said, Screw it, throwing it over his arm, before unstrapping Melody. She never let me help with this part, she didn’t even like me to look, so I’d learned to turn away, while he picked her up. Even though the truth is, every time I see him do that, even out of the corner of my eye, I try to remember the last time my dad picked me up and carried me, and every time, I can’t remember when that was.

Is that okay? he asked, setting her down, on the ground, making sure her face was in the shade.

Move her over a little, she wants some sun, I said.

It’s not good for her skin, he said.

Dad, I’m wearing sunscreen, she said. Jesus.

She said she’s wearing sunscreen, Jesus, I said, and he bit his lip.

All right, fine, he said, raising his hands, he gave up.

Lie down with me, she said, so I did, scooching myself backward, putting my head next to hers.

Knox sat a ways away from us, his hands clasped around his bent knees, watching the kids on the playground. Looking at him, I reached for my bag to grab my camera, thinking I’d take a picture of us like that with our heads together.

All this time, she said, you know what I’ve never asked you, Thee?

I got up on my elbow and I looked at her, like, Please, not with your dad here, Mel.

No, not that, she said, laughing. No, I’ve never asked you what it’s like to take a picture, she said. What’s it feel like, Thee? she asked, and her voice rang in my ear like laughing. And I thought about it. How do you describe something that’s as basic as food or shelter, except to say exactly that.

It’s like breathing, I said. It’s like, I don’t know, like imagine if you couldn’t blink, that’s how hard it is for me to imagine now taking pictures and drawing, I said, and then, like I do all the time, I realized I’d been honest and said exactly what I thought and felt, but it hurt her. I hated hurting her, and the girl I saw, the girl I heard, she tried smiling through her hurt, because she was that beautiful. And it was so much more than I ever did for anyone.

You know what, Mel? I said, and Knox turned, looking at us. Here, I said, grabbing my camera. You want to try? Take one like the ones you have of all the girl in the grass, staring at the sky, watching the clouds?

How? she said. You know I can’t move fast enough, and I hated that fear in her voice. No, I didn’t hate it, but I had to put a stop to it.

Easy, I said. You tell me when, and I’ll push our fingers. Seriously, let’s just try, so you can feel it, just once? I asked, and she smiled.

I lied down, next to her, and pointed the camera upwards, and then I took her right hand, curling her index finger and thumb around the lens. I moved it back and forth so she could see and feel the movement, and I told her to tell me when to stop, when it looked right. I’d never really shown anyone how to use my camera, it’s strange, putting it in words, but anyhow.

Stop, she said, and I peeked, and it was right.

Now, tell me when to take the shot, I said, feeling a breeze start, and she waited, and she said, Now! And I pressed as fast as I could.

Look, I said, showing her, and it was good. Way better than my first picture, I said.

What did you take a picture of?

My feet, I said.

Dad, lie down in the grass. Here, she said, and I realized sometimes, she was so used to me hearing her, she forgot he couldn’t hear her voice. I forgot, too. All the time.

Oh, I said. She wants you to lie down with us, I told Knox.

Lie down?

Yes, lie down, I said.

I’ll take his picture second, she said, and I could hear how confident she sounded, and I’m thinking, I’ve created a monster. A beautiful monster, but still.

We’re going to take your picture, I said, and, looking at his, finally, he lied down, on the other side of Mel, getitng himself adjusted while I moved the camera for her to see.

That’s good, she said. Tell him to smile, she said, and I opened my mouth, and then she said, No. Don’t. This is what he looks like. Now, she said, and I pressed as fast as I could. I wasn’t even paying attention to Knox, until I sat up to look at the picture. I didn’t have to tell him, because he was smiling. Seeing their heads together, it’s like I’d never seen him smile before.

Do you like it? I asked, showing it to her, and she didn’t say. But I knew. She was taking it in, and it was a lot to take in, that one picture. I’ll print it for you, I said, both of them.

Thank you, she said, sounding so happy, so pleased.

You want to try my Polaroid? I asked, sitting up, reaching for my bag.

Yeah, totally, she said, but I want to take one of you, too, she said.

All right, well, Knox? Can you move over, and take this? I asked, handing him my Polaroid. There’s only one photo left, I said. You sure you want to take one of me?

Positive, she said, and I looked at Knox. He hadn’t taken the camera yet.

What do you want me to do?

Hold it, I said. For starters. Mel’s going to tell me, and I’m going to tell you when to press the button. Here, I said, showing him the button.

I just press the button.

That’s all you have to do, yes, I said.

On three, Mel said.

On three, I said, standing up, leaning over her. Can you see me?

Larger than life, she said. One . . .

One, I said.

Two . . . she said.

Two, I said, posing, holding my hands above my head.

Three, she said.

Three, I said, and Knox took the shot. The camera spit it out, and he held up it to Mel.

Can she see?

I can see, she said, but it’s not developed yet.

Yes, I said, and I sat down, beside her, watching it develop, holding it in front of her face, so the sun wouldn’t get in her eyes. It was good, too. In fact, I’d have to say it was one of the best photos that anyone’s ever taken of me. I told her, too.

Nuht uh, she said.

I’m serious, I said.

Cam didn’t take pictures of you? she asked.

The best photo of me I could show my mom, I said, laughing.

Knox looked at me, about to ask, handing me back my camera, and then he changed his mind. He knew. Mel started laughing, too, see the look on his face. And then I started laughing at her laughing, and he kept trying to ignore us. Maybe I was the only person in the world who could hear Melody’s voice, but even so, I like to think you could hear our laughter in the clouds.

Note: This week, I’m enlisting the help of eight guest artists/DJs/collaborators in editing eight separate sketches, written since the start of this project. This is an edit of the post, F-stops, Sketch 8.

(See Emma Cherry, Image 1)

Setting:

Strange how you can know something, hearing the phone ring or just walking through a door. Like you feel it, and you know. You just know. I don’t remember the day, but it was in November, like early November. It was cold that night, and I remember I had on boots, a scarf and  a hat and gloves, and walking home, I was so pleased with being all bundled up. I’d been playing at Lila’s, after school, and besides how cold it was, it was just like any other day, walking home. I mean, I saw the living room lights from the end of the block, and I felt nothing different.

I can still remember unlocking the front door, and that wave of heat, stepping inside, and then it was like some other light was turned on. Not the overhead, something else. Because when I closed the front door, behind me, looking up and seeing my mom and dad sitting in the living room, waiting for me to walk in, I knew. It was a trap—they’d set a trap for me in the living room—I knew the moment I laid eyes on them, and all I could say was, No.

I don’t know how long. Seemed like forever, though, just standing there, between the front hall and the living room, and they both looked at me, waiting for me to come in, so it could begin, and I just stared, hoping they’d change their minds, come to their senses or whatever. They didn’t, of course, they just kept looking, waiting on me, and then I said it again, louder this time, nodding my head; I said, No.

And for a second, there, I thought maybe, I don’t know, maybe I could actually close the door and sneak out. Like maybe if I was fast, faster than sound or light or time, even, I could stop this from happening. Felt like, somehow, I’d triggered everything, walking in, set it in motion, you know, what they were about to do. Don’t . . . please don’t, I said, standing there, in my coat, holding my book bag, nodding at them. Don’t do this to me. I don’t want to go, I said. I could hear myself, my voice, breaking, but I remember that feeling of watching myself, splitting into two. Many things, all at once.

Thee, come in, Mom said, and she knew. I knew she knew I knew what was happening, somehow, because tears were welling in her eyes.

No, I said, nodding, and I remember turning behind me, making sure there was no other way out, but there wasn’t.

Thea, come sit down, my dad said, but all I could think about was my bedroom: because I grew up in that room. It wasn’t rainbows anymore, it was wallpapered in tons of pictures and drawings—mine, all mine. It was my room, and I’d never lived anywhere but there, and it was gone. I mean, of course the walls were still there, but the part that was mine, it just disappeared. In that moment, our house was gone, my room was gone, my family, everything I had, just, like . . . poof. I mean, really, how is possible you’re a family one minute, one second, and then, what, it’s just over? I mean, seriously, if family’s so sacred, how is that possible?

Standing there, knowing my room was gone . . . I mean, really, unless you’ve stood there, you can’t say it’s cynical to think families are no different than cars or house or boats, things that you could buy and sell. They have expiration dates like anything else. The difference is when you do this with a car, what they were doing, it’s called an accident. When you do it with people, it’s called human. Go figure, right.

Sit down with us, Mom said, patting the seat next to her, on the couch, trying not to cry. And out of nowhere, she looked puffy. And I thought, Why didn’t I see this before? Why didn’t I see this this morning, at breakfast? How long has this been going on? Why am I always the last to know? And then I felt a burning in my cheeks, and it was just blood, buts still.

So I said it again: No. I said no, and then I looked at my dad, sitting in the opposite chair, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands. They were clasped, and he didn’t even look at me. He couldn’t look at me, and I waited, but he wouldn’t dare. I just stood there, looking at him, waiting, thinking, Coward. You’re such a coward.

And my mom, shellshocked. I never really knew what that meant–I mean, you saw it in war movies, you know. I’d never seen it in person, in front of me, on my mom’s face. Looking at her, sitting here, across from my dad, you could just see it in her eyes. Our beautiful house, our beautiful living room, all the time and energy and money she’d put into it, what did it matter? It wasn’t true. Not of it was true. And then Dad sighed this heavy sigh, and I just nodded no, like don’t do that. You have no right.

I don’t know how, really, but I knew everything in that, like, second, you know? No, seriously, in one second, it was like I’d read an entire book, and I knew exactly what he did. I knew the whole story. Somehow, I swear, I even knew who it was, the woman. All then, all of a sudden, I felt sick, so I dropped my bag on the floor and ran to the bathroom, downstairs, and I made it just in time, retching.

Mom came, knocking, asking if she could come in, and when I opened the door, she tried to touch me, hug me, and I stepped back. Don’t touch me, I said, looking at her hands like they were dirty, and so angry, too. Out of nowhere, it was like this fury in me coming up, pushing up from the floor to my ankles, and my ankles to my knees, it just kept rising, and she saw it, too, raising her hands and stepping back, hands off.

And what’s so screwed up, the worst part is I knew he was lying, but then I had to wonder if I was lying to myself, too. Maybe I was just like my dad, you know? Maybe I’d do the same to my kids one day, too. It was such an awful thought, I went to my room, locked the door, and I stood there. i just stood, looking around at all my  things, all these things I loved so much, all my pictures, my drawings, everything I thought I could keep. What was mine? Nothing. There was nothing that couldn’t be taken away.

I held my hand to the wall, just to . . . I don’t know, to hold myself up? To make sure it was there? And it was. Still, it took me a moment, because I couldn’t feel my legs at first, but then I knew what I had to do. I started tearing it apart, my whole room. The curtains, the bedspread, everything I had, I broke. I took my arm and swept it across my desk, knocking everything on the floor. I mean, what did it matter, really? They were just things, right? And if he could do it, I could do it, too. Why was it any different, what he’d done to us, sweeping us aside?

The strange thing was, while it was happening, I could feel my voice, but I couldn’t hear it. I just heard the words inside my head, not outside. And that’s when I heard my mom shouting, calling my name, pounding on the door. She’d heard me, and both my parents were banging on my door, demanding I let them in.

I don’t know how much time had passed, but when I stopped throwing things, when I could hear sound again, I looked around, and the room was a disaster. The porcelain hands and faces of my dolls were broken, down feathers, dozens of triangles of tape on the wall, where all the pictures had been ripped . . . I snapped back, looking around, and I was like, Ohmygod. My room was such a mess, I couldn’t believe I’d just done that. I really lost, too.

But, honestly, I have to say, looking around, I felt better. I felt like at least one person in our family, what was our family, could still be honest. Me.

The whole time, my dad kept pounding. That ’s all he knew how to do, pound on the door, telling me to unlock it, let him in. So I walked over, and I remember feeling so calm as I unlocked it and opened the door. I’ll never forget the look on his face, or my mom’s face, seeing what I’d done to all my things. My dad looked like he was going to fall back, and then he stepped forward, one step. He looked at me, shocked, but demanding an explanation. And I just looked at him, thinking, Who are you to look at me that way? Like you don’t know the answer?

And then I told him: I hate you, I said.

We stood there, the three of us, frozen. And then, for the last time, covering his mouth with one hand, he turned to my mom, needing her, and I’ll never forget this, how calmly she said it, just like a mom. She looked at him, and for the last time, she said, I’ll get the broom.

Note: This week, I’m enlisting the help of eight guest artists/DJs/collaborators in editing eight separate sketches, written since the start of this project. This is an edit of the post, Family Gatherings, Sketch 6.

(See Corinah Sharpova, Image 1)

Setting: Thea steps out of the principal’s office, starts heading back to class, and then stops. She turns around, staring at the front door. Then she removes her phone and calls Knox.

Foley has my file. He didn’t open it, he just rested his hands on top of it, twirling his thumbs clockwise, toward me, smiling.

He said, It hasn’t been easy for you, since you moved here, has it Theadora? I didn’t say anything. I just stared at the table, in front of his hands, trying not to blink. I don’t know why, really, but for some reason, blinking felt weak, like showing him weakness. It was best just to stare, just to, like, pick a point, and stare as hard as I could, without blinking, but not so hard he could see the effort. Pretend he’s not there, right. That’s what I was trying to do, and it’s not easy, believe me, but I figured a way to do it. You know how? By pretending he wasn’t alive, or at least he wasn’t human.

We sat there for I don’t know how long, two, three minutes, and then, finally, he said: It must be difficult for your mother, he said.

What do you want? I said, but not looking up. Staring at the half-moons of his thumbnails.

Just to talk, Theadora. I want to talk to you.

It’s none of your business, I said, and right away, like as soon as the words came out, I knew that was the wrong thing to say. Because he moved, showing me the file he’d been covering with his hands. There was a file on the table, right in front of him, and he smoothed it out, like it was a sheet or a tablecloth, you know. He didn’t say it, didn’t have to, because I knew what was in the file. I could see my name, typed on a sticker they’d attached to the folder. He had my medical records.

My dad had a cousin who attempted suicide once. I remember Nanna, my dad’s mom saying he’d been spoiled, he’d been given everything, his whole life, that he’d had everything advantage, the best education money could buy, and that’s how he behaved. He threw it back in their faces, the family. She said, Some people just can’t be pleased. She’d been drinking, I know, but she said he was pathetic, my dad’s cousin was pathetic, she said, because he cut in the wrong direction. If he were serious, I could respect him, she said.

When I got home, a few days later, when my dad and I flew back to Poughkeepsie, I asked my mom what the right direction was. Because I didn’t know there was a wrong and right, you know, and then she said the right direction was for me not to listen to anything Nanna said. She said it was pathetic of Nanna to . . . and then she stopped, nodding her head no, telling herself not to say it.

I couldn’t figure it out. Like I remember not understanding why sometimes it’s like you’re supposed to speak your mind and adults tell you that’s the right thing, and then sometimes you’re not supposed to say what you think at all. So how do you know what to do? It’s like, what direction do you cut, what do you say, when it the truth the wrong thing to say? It was all so confusing to me. The only thing I knew was that everyone was afraid of Nanna, and I don’t know why, even though I was afraid of her, too. But I think it’s because she always cut in the right direction. But not with a knife, with words.

Foley was staring at me, waiting. He was always staring at me, but there was a point where I just couldn’t take it anymore.

I have nothing to say, I said.

Another time, then, he said, folding his hands again, but I didn’t answer.

May I go now?

Of course, he said, and I got up and left.

I was shaking, you know. So soon as I got out the door, I called Knox. At first, I was afraid I’d get his voicemail, that he wouldn’t answer, and then I was afraid he would answer, and I’d have to tell him. And then he did, too. He answered on the second ring, and all I said was, We need to talk. Didn’t say hello, nothing.

Thea, are you all right? he asked.

What’s all right? I said, but I didn’t wait. I need to talk to you, I said.

When?

Now. I need to talk to you now, in person.

What’s going on?

I saw Foley, I said, just now. He knows, Knox—he knows everything, and I want you to know everything, too.

What does he know?

When can you pick me up? I asked, and he sighed, and I swear, it sounded like he was looking at the clock on the wall or something, trying to figure out a plan.

Well, he said, how’s now work for you?

That works, I said. Will you call Cheswick and tell them you need to talk to me?

Are you trying to get out of class again?

Always, but this is important, okay? I’m not screwing around—.

Okay, okay, he said. Give me ten minutes, I’ll pick you up out front.

Don’t forget to call the office, okay? I said, heading for my locker to get my books. Because there was no way I was heading back to fifth period.

Ten minutes, he said, and he hung up.

One thing I liked about Knox is he was always on time. My dad, forget it. My dad was never ever on time, and as a kid, I always thought all dads were late. Like I thought dad was synonymous with late, you know. Guess not. I got in the car, and I told him right away, putting on my seat belt, before he even had a chance to ask.

Foley has copies of my medical charts. He has my whole file, I said.

What’s in the file?

Everything, I said. Can we go? I can’t tell you if you’re looking at me, I said, and he pulled out, heading to the stop light. I waited for the light to change, and then I told him: I was committed for three months the year after my dad left us, and Foley has all the pictures, I’m sure. It’s a big file, I said.

Pictures of what?

My scars. I was committed because I couldn’t stop cutting myself, I said, not looking at him. I mean, I knew Knox wouldn’t bat an eye, but still.

I didn’t know, he said.

Why would you?

I’m sorry, he said. I just nodded my head no, it wasn’t necessary. I looked out my window, as we turned, heading down the street. So what happened? he said.

I fainted, I said.

Sorry?

See, the problem was—I mean, the reason I got caught is because I faint at the sight of blood. I can’t stand the sight of blood, I said.

Wait a minute, back up. So you’re a cutter—.

Recovering.

But, okay, sorry. You’d cut yourself, but you can’t—you can’t stand the sight of your own blood?

No, I said, nodding in agreement, and he furrowed his brow, like he didn’t get it. Knox, why is that so strange?

Well, I mean, I guess it’s no stranger than—any of the rest of this. I just never thought about, you know. I thought that was part of the appeal.

No, not for me, at least. Blood has no appeal, it’s feeling. I wanted to feel.

And, so . . . every time, you’d pass out?

If there was blood, I did. And that’s how I got caught. Because this one time, I cut deeper than I meant to, and it was a mess, and I tried not to look, and I always kept lots of towels around, old towels I hid in my room. But this one time, I looked, and then I passed out in the bathroom. My mom found me, because I hit my head, gave myself a concussion, and she came home before I came to. She started flipping out, called an ambulance, and then, you know, my secret was out, I said. I didn’t look at Knox, and he didn’t look at me. I guess he was taking it in as much as I was, telling him. Can I ask you something? I said, turning to face him, and he nodded, shoot.

Why are you telling me this now?

Because I thought you’d understand.

Why did you think I’d understand cutting?

Not cutting, I said. I thought you’d understand shame.

And why’s that?

Because you were in the army, I said.

You think it’s shameful I was in the army?

Not because of the army, I said, because of the war. You were in the war, weren’t you?

How did you know that? he asked, pulling over.

Mel told me, I said, and he knocked his chin in the air, knowing it was true.

It was a long time ago, he said.

Iraq one, I said.

Yes, he said, nodding, inhaling. What else did Melody tell you?

She said  . . . I said, not sure I should tell him or not, but I did. She said it’s not because of the exposure, if you were exposed to anything over there, chemicals or whatever—that’s not why she has palsy.

We don’t know that for sure, he said.

No, we don’t, but she does. And even if that was the reason why, it won’t change anything now, will it?

How, he said. How does she know?

How does any child know the truth without needing to be told? I asked, and he looked out his window, trying to figure out what to do. You wanna . . .? he said, then he stopped.

Do I want to what? I said.

No, no, bad idea, he said. I was just going to ask if you were hungry, he said, and then I thought about it.

Ugh, famished, I said.

Note: This week, I’m enlisting the help of eight guest artists/DJs/collaborators in editing eight separate sketches, written since the start of this project. This is an edit of a paragraph from the original project outline, available on the Saccades website.

(See Lauren Shannon, Image 1)

Setting: Thea follows Karen Conlon into Karen’s kitchen; Karen opens a cupboard, removing two glasses. (Continued from Double Exposures, Sketch 3.)

Sit down, she said, nodding at the kitchen table, heading to the cupboard. I didn’t think she would, but she took out two glasses and then she got a bottle of vodka from the freezer. Hard to believe Cam had to bribe me just to get me to meet her. Not because I didn’t want to meet his mom—I mean, I didn’t want to meet her, not at all, really, but just because I was afraid, you know? I’d never met a guy’s mom before, not like a boyfriend, I mean. Seriously, I was just ike, what if she doesn’t like me? What if I doesn’t like her?

They had a yard sale once, Karen and Cam. In late October. We’d gone out a couple times, but that was the first time I met Karen, really. Cam said she had some things she thought I might want, and she wanted to meet me, and I didn’t know what to say, really. But his mom was having a yard sale, and a lot of it was junk, Cam said, but there was one thing I might want.

What’s that? I asked.

You’ll have to come over over to meet her and find out, he said.

If I meet your mother, I’ll get a surprise gift? So you’re bribing me, basically, is that right? I asked.

Yes. Is that a problem for you?  he asked, sitting back in his seat, and I thought about it.

No, not really, I said nodding, taking a sip of the my lemonade, staring out the window of Coffee Shop. I mean, of course it was a problem, and stomach gurgled just thinking about it.

She’s cool, he said, laughing at my stomach. You’ll like her. And she’ll love you, he said, smiling.

So what’s the gift? I asked, trying to sound all nonchalant.

Not telling, he said.

You can’t be bribed, I said.

I never said I couldn’t be bribed, he said, before looking up, smiling at Sharon, who was bringing our plate of fries.

Anything else, hon?

No, thanks, Sharon, I said.

She was speaking to me, Cam said.

You’re welcome, doll, she said, speaking to me, but nodding her head at him, always amused by Cam and his lines.

She wants you to come over for dinner, Friday, and then we can look through the stuff she’s selling before dinner. Okay? he asked, grabbing the solid red plastic ketchup bottle, giving it a good hard shake. I watched him squeeze it out, thinking it sounded sounded just like my stomach had, and I nodded yes.

I actually lost sleep over it. Like I couldn’t get to sleep, Thursday night. Which is silly now, but at the time, I don’t know. It’s like I couldn’t figure out what to take over; I couldn’t figure out what to wear. Getting ready for dinner, my room, which is never exactly tidy, it looked like an explosion had gone off in my closet, leaving clothing shrapnel and lone shoes everywhere. I just turned off the light and closed the door, because it was too much to deal with.

My mom drove me over. Cam offered, but he was helping set up for their yard sale, so I asked my mom. She was in one of her good moods that she gets in when I do something or have one of those coming-of-age moments, and she gets all nostalgic and misty on me. But I’m glad I asked her, and I probably should’ve invited her in, but she knew. I had enough to deal with, without having to introduce my mom to Cam’s mom, you know what i mean?

So I got out, and I walked up their walk, and I turned back, and my mom, she was leaning over the wheel, peeking, and I waved her off, like, Stop, would you? Go, go on. I’m fine. She knew what I was saying, too, but she just sat there, waiting for me, waving. I was just like, ohmygod, Mom, could you be any more obvious? I mean, I wasn’t really annoyed, I was just nervous.

So I walked up, I took a deep breath, and I knocked on the door. I swear my hand was shaking, just knocking, too, and then I heard a woman’s voice that had to be Cam’s mom, answer, Coming! And then the door opened. And she was beautiful. That sort of long, curly almost white-blonde hair. Fine nose, light freckles, tall, thin. Nordic looking. Nothing like me. Kind of intimidating, and nothing like me at all, right.

Hello! You must be Thea, she said, opening the screen door.

Yes, I said, not sure if I should call her Mrs. Conlon or what, because you know some mothers don’t like that and some mothers think it’s rude, because it makes them feel old or whatever. And then some mothers just want to hear that you know and have manners enough to call them that until they tell you to call them by their first names, and then, of course it doesn’t feel right, calling them by their name yet. Like even with friends, it’s so complicated, I just didn’t call her anything.

Hi, I said, holding up my hand.

Come in, come in, she said, smiling, standing back so I could walk past her. Cam? Thea’s here, she called, and then she asked to take my jacket. I had a whole breakdown about what to wear, and I settled on a black dress and flats, and then I saw myself in the hallway mirror and I looked a little Tuesday Adams. That’s what my mom called the look, Tuesday Adams, Wednesday Adams’s older sister, ha, ha, and I almost lost it with her, too, because I was so not in the joking mood, but anyhow.

Oh, I love your dress, Thea, she said, and I smiled. Is it vintage?

Yes, I said, smiling. Honestly, I wanted to fall on my knees and thank her for saying that, because I didn’t know if it was right or not.

Hey, Cam said, walking down the stairs that was at the end of the front hall. You’re here, he said.

I’m here, I said, trying to smile, but feeling like my lips were doing something strange, pursed, I don’t know.

Come sit down, Thea, Karen said, turning and then turning back. Oh, do you want me to hang your bag? she asked.

No, it’s fine, I’ve got it, thanks, I said, following her to the couch, and Cam following behind. I took a seat at the end of the couch, and I looked around the room, and it was . . . stylish. I didn’t see many stylish rooms. Style, period. In magazines, yes. But here, it was like people, you know, they chose floral wallpaper and matching drapes and matching carpeting and American Colonial dining room sets, I don’t know. This was, this was stylin’. I wanted Karen to do our house. Except that I never ever wanted her to see our house.

Cam, why don’t you get her something to drink? she said.

What would you like? he asked, and I almost said, Vodka.

Anything, I said, nodding, realizing how stupidly agreeable I sounded, and he nodded.

Coming right up, he said.

I love your house, I said, smiling at Karen, sounding stupid again, wanting to pound my head on the wall first chance I got.

Thank you, she said, smiling, still taking me in.

Oh, I brought you something, I said, remembering why I’d held on to my bag. I didn’t have any money to bring anything, and Nanna drilled it into me, you always take something with you when you’re invited to someone’s house, so I drew her a picture of flowers. I looked up a bunch of things online, and I chose the flowers, just like I would if I actually had the money and we had a posh florist who’d have flowers like those. I didn’t have a chance to go to the flower shop, so I drew these instead, I said, suddenly realizing how stupid it was.

Cam walked in then, holding two glasses of something with bubbles, and I wanted to run out of the house, I swear.

Oh, look at that, she said, looking at the picture, really looking at it, and them looking up at me, like she was looking to see if I’d really drawn it, myself, and then looking at the picture again. Thea, this is so much better than real flowers, she said. And I love real flowers, don’t get me wrong, but this is . . . beautiful. Just beautiful. Thank you, she said, showing it to Cam. And then he looked at me, looked at his mom again, and then handed me my drink, smiling.

Cam told me you’re very, very talented, she said, smiling, still looking at the picture.

Thank you, I said, taking a sip of my drink. Cherry seltzer. Made me burp, but I hid it.

Cam, go grab the box, will you? Karen asked, taking the drink from him. Cam stepped out of the room and returned with a big cardboard box, setting it down by me.

We saved a few things for you, things Cam said you might want. So take a look, Karen said. Please.

I peeked inside the box, and I saw right away: it was a Super 8 camera and film, and I pulled it out, no idea what to say.

The film’s pretty old, I can’t vouch for it, but the camera works just fine, Karen said. And there’s a projector, too.

No, I have the projector, Cam said. You get the camera. Make me an offer I can’t refuse, and we’ll talk, he said, and I was sipping when he said that and I almost spit.

Indeed, Karen said, hearing me clear my throat, before looking at him with this look, and then she said, Oh, is that right, little man?

Hearing her say that, I lost it, and almost spat. I didn’t, but I dribbling down the front of my dress.

Now look what you’ve done, Karen said.

Better her than me, he said. You like it? he asked me, sitting down beside me to look at it.

Yes. I’ve always wanted one, I said. And it was true, I’d never had a Super 8. I’ll always remember that, sitting there, on their couch, meeting Karen for the first time, looking at her through the lens of a Super 8 camera.

Next day, I stopped by for the yard sale. I’d left the camera there, because we were going out after their sale, so it was just easier. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on, take it for a spin. It was a nice day, clear, in the fifties, and I wanted to get this picture of Karen walking out, on the back porch, carrying a tray of drinks or something. I guess because I always associated Super 8 films with old family movies of birthday parties from the late sixties and early seventies, mothers walking out into the sunlight, with their sprayed hair dos, carrying big white birthday cakes, and a pack of rowdy  kids jumping around, shouting, but silent.

I think Karen made over five hundred bucks that day, I was really impressed. Seemed like a lifetime ago, meeting her. Maybe because it was a lifetime ago. A couple lifetimes, at least.

There was something about the house, about, like, the whole energy of the house was off. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it’s like she’d just let it go. Like she couldn’t, she couldn’t deal with that anymore. The place looked a little dusty. Actually, the place looked really dusty. Like all the books on the coffee table. I mean, if they were cars, someone would write, WASH ME, on the windows for sure.

I’d gone over to talk to her about a dream I had about me and Cam. Which sounds crazy, I know, and maybe it was, but I had to tell her. I’d woken up that morning, and I wrote it all down, everything I could remember about the dream. I showed her what I’d drawn, too. I took over my notebook, and I told her the whole story, even showing her the date date, March 13.

Karen, what happened on March 13? I asked, looking up.

His father died, she said: that was the day his father died.

He never told me that, I said, looking at her, not sure if she believed me. Karen?

Yes?

Do you believe me now? I said, looking at her.

But she looked at me a long time, and then she just exhaled, this huff. Well, it’s something, I said. I don’t know, maybe he told me and I just forgot, I said. Heart attack, I said.

Sorry? she said, cocking her head to the side like she didn’t hear what I said.

His dad died of a heart attack, I said.

Is that . . . is that what Cam told you?

Yes. Cam said his dad had a heart attack, I said, waiting, looking at her, like, right? Isn’t that right? Her face went blank, like she was trying to figure out what to do or say. Looking at her, all I knew was it wasn’t true. What Cam told me, about how his dad died, that wasn’t what really happened. Finally, she stood up: You know what? I think I need a drink, she said, offering me her hand.

Me, too, I said, taking her hand, and she smiled that mom smile that said, Very funny, but no way. I just looked at her, and then she nodded, like she just might change her mind. Which told me this couldn’t be good. Whatever she had to tell me couldn’t be good if she was actually thinking about letting me have a drink. Was she protecting him, or me, or, I don’t know, herself? All of us, somehow? Nothing was making sense. I mean, you’d think I’d be getting used to it by now, but . . . but no.

I knew something was really wrong when she took out two glasses, and then she got a bottle of vodka out of the freezer, and she poured both glasses. She turned around, about to hand me a glass, like for real, and then, looking at her, seeing she had something she had to tell me, something really important, I realized, Wait, his dad didn’t die of heart attack, did he? And then, I realized, Wait a minute . . . is he even dead?

Note: This week, I’m enlisting the help of eight guest artists/DJs/collaborators in editing eight separate sketches, written since the start of this project. This is an edit of the post, Of Paper and Canvas, Sketch 6.

(See Haley Stark, Image 1)

Setting: Thea’s sitting with Cam’s mother, Karen Conlon, on Karen’s living room couch, May, 2009.

But wait: how did he die, then? I mean, why would Cam tell me that if it weren’t true? No . . . no, no, no, he wouldn’t, he would never tell me that if it weren’t true, it would just be so, so sick. I couldn’t, I didn’t believe that. He wouldn’t do that to me. He’d never lie to me about something like that. And then, looking at Karen, waiting for an answer, her face went blank, and I knew something was wrong.

Tell me again. Tell me everything you remember, from the beginning, she said, and I know she wanted to know, but honestly, I think she was buying time, too. Because she didn’t know what to say, but I told her anyway. I needed to talk because . . . because, sitting with her, seeing the way she was looking at me, I was scared. When I told her the first time, I wanted her to believe me, but now, now I’m not sure I did, really.

We were on a plane, I said, sighing, starting all over again, from the beginning. What I remember is we were on this plane, and it was daytime, like it was bright outside, and and I was sitting in the window seat, looking out the window, and Cam was sitting beside me, looking over my shoulder. And it was one of those things where I had no idea how we got there, but it made perfect sense, you know? Like of course we were on this plane, where else would be, right? And then I turned to look at Cam, because I was just so happy he was there, with me, you know? But at the same time, it was like nothing had ever happened, like he’d been with me the whole time, like he’d never gone missing, and then he leaned over and kissed my cheek, before I turned back to the window.

Looking out the window, I told him, I said, Oh, I wish I had my camera, because I wanted to take a picture so badly. Not just because of the view, because everyone takes pictures of airplane wings, and it’s kind of cheesy, I know, but because we’d never been in a plane together. We’d talked about going so many places, what it’d be like, and where we’d go on our first trip together, and there we were, and I forgot my camera. So stupid.

Cam smiled and said, You’ll remember, and he put his hand on the back of my head, shaking it, like, silly girl.

I hope so, I said, and then he squeezed my hand like he was telling me of course I’d remember and be quiet, all in the same squeeze. But where are we going? I said, squeezing his thigh. I go, Cam, where are we going?

Ah, that . . . he said, leaning back in his seat.

Ah, that, yeah, I said, thinking, Oh, yeah, silly me for wanting to know where we’re going.

Surprise, he said, grinning and scrunching his shoulders, so damn pleased with himself, just like Cam, right? I said, looking at her, and she smiled, but I could tell she wanted me to go on. I mean, it should’ve been bizarre, I know, but it all felt so normal, I said. Like of course we’d be on this plane, going somewhere secret, even though I had no idea how we got there or what was going on, but still.

So then, I started looking around, but I couldn’t see anyone else, sitting across from us. So I unbuckled my seat belt and I stood up, bending over so I wouldn’t bump my head on the overhead compartment, trying to see how many rows of seats there were between us and the cockpit, like how far back we were. But then, when I looked around there wasn’t anyone else on board, no one. Sounds totally creepy, I know, being the only two on a plane with these crazy seats, but I wasn’t scared. Not at all, I said, and Karen nodded, yes, go on, I understand.

And it wasn’t a huge plane, either, like a jumbo 747 or whatever, it was smaller than that, but big enough. Like six seats across, but really tight seating, like being in Economy, and then the really weird thing was that all the seats were in these blocks of black and white, so it looked like checkerboard all the way up and down the aisle. Which was kind of wild, when you looked toward the cockpit, like your eye could get snagged on it, kind of like watching an escalator too closely.

Anyhow, I turned to see if I had a black or white seat, and when I turned around, my seat  and Cam’s seat were red, like fire engine red. It was nice, too, I think the fabric was cashmere or something, and I’m thinking, Huh. What airline is this, Virgin? Singapore? And then Cam goes: Cool, right?, just totally reading my mind. Like he always did, I said.

And just when I thought, like the very moment it crossed my mind that it was a dream and I was going to have to wake up, and I’d panic, not wanting him to disappear on me again, Cam said, he goes: Don’t babe. Don’t do that. And I go, Don’t do what?, and it’s like, just hearing him say that, my throat started contracting, and I could feel the tears in my throat, you know?

Don’t stop breathing now, he said, smiling at me, nodding his head no, don’t you dare. You made it this far, he said, keep going, and then he took my hand, lacing his fingers in mine. It was like his way of telling me that he was there, and it was real: feel his hand, right?

So I took a breath, trying to listen to what he’d said, but then he started slipping away, the light in the cabin turned so bright, I couldn’t see, and then I realized the light I was fighting was actually coming through my bedroom window. I’m telling you, I could feel his hand that whole time, and when I woke, my fingers hurt from trying to hold on.

The thing is, when I opened my eyes, I reached for my sketchbook on my nightstand and I started drawing everything I could remember, like about the plane and the view from my window. I mean, I was drawing as fast as I could, but still, I was losing it by the second, and my hand started cramping up right away, because I was so frantic to get it all down. It was a mess, every drawing was such a mess, but I knew if I had a picture, it would come back to me, so I just had to draw as fast as I could to hold on. It was kind of like the scene in the movie where someone falls off a cliff and someone else grabs their hand at the last second, and you have to hold on. You have to believe, right, except it wasn’t me and another person’s hand, it was just me and my own hand.

That’s why, I said. That’s why I had to come over here to tell you, and I know it’s going to sound crazy, but he’s alive. I know Cam’s alive, Karen, I just know it. And he didn’t just run away, either, I said.

Because you had a dream that he’s alive, she repeated, as if she hadn’t heard me correctly.

Yes, I said nodding. But it was real.

Anything else? she said. Is there anything else you can remember?

Yes, I said, nodding. He asked me if I trust him, I said.

And what did you say? What did you tell him?

I woke up before I could answer, I said, pulling out my sketchbook to show her. I mean, I had proof: clear as day. I can show you, I said, holding my sketchbook up, and then she snapped to. Seeing the drawing, the view from my window seat, she really looked at the pages, taking them in.

What? What’s wrong? I asked.

No, no, it’s just . . . I recognize this, she said.

But doesn’t everywhere look the same from the air?

No, she said, nodding. What else did Cam say?

Nothing, really. I don’t know . . . I said, unsure if I should tell her the rest of the dream or not.

Tell me what else he said, she asked, looking at me, so serious.

Well, he said, Tell my mom something for me, when you see her. He said, if she doesn’t believe you, tell her I asked you to pass along a message.

What’s the message? she said.

I had to think about it, close my eyes and hear what he said, and then I remembered that I wrote that all down, too. So I flipped to the page and read what I’d written: Tell her this, he said: It is a good viewpoint to see the world as a dream. When you have something like a nightmare, you will wake up and tell yourself that it was only a dream. It is said that the world we live in is not a bit different than this. And then, I wrote a date, March 13. Karen, what happened on March 13? I asked, looking up.

She smiled a sort of Mona Lisa smile, but sadder, sort of. His father died, she said: that was the day his father died.

He never told me that, I said, looking at her, not sure if she believed me. Not sure I believed me, either, really. I mean, sitting there, I tried to remember if Cam had ever told me the date, the day his dad died, but I, I don’t think so, no. I really don’t think he ever told me what day, he just said he died, and. Karen?

Yes?

Do you believe me now? I said, looking at her. And the thing is, I’m not even sure I wanted her to believe me anymore. Crazy almost seemed the sanest option, you know what I mean?

But she looked at me a long time, and then she just exhaled, this huff. She hadn’t looked like herself since Cam left. She dressed the same, she did her hair the same, she showered, nothing like that. Just a, a light, sort of. Maybe I looked the same to her, too. She dropped her head to the side, smiling at me, like she didn’t know. She was saying she didn’t know. Well, it’s something, I said. I don’t know, maybe he told me and I just forgot, I said. Heart attack, I said.

Sorry? she said, cocking her head to the side like she didn’t hear what I said.

His dad died of a heart attack, I said.

Is that . . . is that what Cam told you?

Yes. Cam said his dad had a heart attack, I said, waiting, looking at her, like, right? Isn’t that right? Her face went blank, like she was trying to figure out what to do or say. Looking at her, all I knew was it wasn’t true. What Cam told me, about how his dad died, that wasn’t what really happened. Finally, she stood up: You know what, Thea? I think I need a drink, she said, offering me her hand.

Note: This week, I’m enlisting the help of eight guest artists/DJs/collaborators in editing eight separate sketches, written since the start of this project. This is an edit of Black Light, Sketch 1.

(See Oliver Bryce Yates, Image 1)

The moving van was there when I got home from school. My dad had moved out by then; he was staying at a hotel, and my mom was handling the move, alone. I said he should be the one dealing with it, since it was his fault we were moving, but Mom said no, it was easier if she handled it, and I didn’t ask why; I was learning not to ask.

You know, I didn’t think about it then, because I was so sure he’d fooled us both, my dad. I thought we were in the same boat, sort of, my mom and me, but now, I don’t know, really. I mean, I always thought the hardest part was that I didn’t know about my dad, what was really going on. Now I think it would be so much harder if I had, like if I had known what was up. Now I wonder what Mom knew, what she suspected—I mean, she had to know. She had to.

I mean, I don’t know, maybe she told herself it was just a fling. Or maybe she didn’t tell herself anything, she just hoped it would go away, but then it didn’t. I think about asking her sometimes, if she ever suspected he was cheating on her, but I don’t. Like I said, I learned not to ask. That was when I learned what it means when people say that it’s better not to know.

Anyhow, we were spending Christmas vacation with Gram, my mom’s mom, down in Maryland, so Mom decided she wanted to get the move over with before we drove down to Bethesda. She said she wanted a clean start for the new year, and I was just like, Yeah, well, good luck, because it’s going to take more than a move to clean this, Mom, but whatever. But I didn’t, of course. I didn’t say anything, and really what was there to say?

The plan was I went home after school, the last day before winter break, and soon as the movers were done, we’d follow them to the storage unit Mom had rented for all our things. She hadn’t worked in years, but she’d been offered a job as a paralegal or office manager or something, in some town, upstate, so she drove up one day to meet with them. Of course the whole time, I was hoping she’d hate it there, so we could at least stay in Poughkeepsie, but no such luck. I knew the minute she pulled into the driveway, when she opened the car door. Don’t ask me how I knew from the sound of a car door, but I did.

Of course my plan was to avoid her, and maybe if we didn’t talk about it, she’d change her mind. So I stayed in my room until dinner, but then, when she called me down to dinner, she told me she got the job, and she tried selling me on it, the move and everything, saying the town was so pretty and safe and clean. She said we’d stay in a motel, hotel, whatever until we got settled, and that we’d go apartment hunting together. Isn’t that fun? A whole new life, she said, and I just looked at her, like, As if.

For two weeks, I’d hoped she’d change her mind or that once they met her, they wouldn’t offer her the job, or that there was some way we’d stay in our town. I mean, I wouldn’t even let myself think about moving, really, but that night, I had no choice. Can we just not talk about it? I said, eating pizza at our kitchen table, the night before we moved out, and she looked hurt. But seriously, did she think I was going to be like, Great, can’t wait! I mean, what was I supposed to say? I loved my old town. I loved my old house, all my old friends. I loved my old life, and just because she didn’t, I’m sorry.

We’ll give it a year and see what happens, she said, returning to the table with a beer, and for a moment, I don’t know why, but out of nowhere, I wanted to hurt her. I’m sorry, but honestly, for a second, there, I wanted to say, Yeah, well, I might end up living with Dad, so you can give it a year or however long you want. But of course, soon as the thought crossed my mind, I knew there was no way. Living with my dad? For real? No way.

I got up to carry my paper plate to the trash, which at that point was a black Hefty bag on the floor, in front of the back door, and the rest of the kitchen was packed. There were boxes stacked everywhere, all marked in my mom’s perfect handwriting, and it looked so sad. I didn’t understand our things, boxed like that, but, then again, I didn’t understand anything, really. There was so much space, but it was hard to breathe, so I started walking upstairs, wanting to be alone, and my mom called my name.

What? I said.

Come here, she said, and I stood on the staircase, wanting to say no. Thea, come here, she said, I was just so annoyed, I wanted to scream. I don’t know why, really, but I was annoyed with her all the time by then. So I rolled my eyes, turning around and walking back into the dining room.

What? I said, not asking her, telling her, making sure she knew how annoyed I was.

Good night, she said, looking like herself again for a second, with that look in her eyes, telling me I knew better, because we always said good night, especially the last night in our own home.

Good night, I said, turning around, heading back to my room. I think that was the last time I saw my mom, I mean, the woman I remember her being. It didn’t hit me until I grabbed the rail, and then, walking upstairs, I felt like I was going to cry all of a sudden. I made it to my room, and I closed the door, and I really wanted to—I even sat down on the side of my bed, getting ready for it, but then nothing came.

Well, so the next day, when I got home from school, the movers only had a few boxes left to load into the truck. It only took about five minutes for them to finish up, while Mom and I stood in the living room, looking around, nothing to say for ourselves. So when we heard them open their doors, we locked up for the last time and we got in Mom’s car, ready to follow the moving van to the storage unit. Mom wanted to make sure everything was unloaded and properly stacked in the storage unit, before heading to my Gram’s. I’d been thinking about that moment all day, all week, for a couple weeks, actually, and to be honest, I was glad they’d taken the boxes away, because it was just too painful. But once we got in the car and I put on my seat belt, looking at our house one last time, I couldn’t do it.

Wait, I said, and I told my mom I had to pee. I held my breath while she reached for her purse and took some Kleenex out and handed them to me with her set of house keys, because I didn’t even have my own keys anymore. I don’t know if she knew or not, but I didn’t have to pee, I just wanted . . . I wanted to be in our house, alone, for a few minutes. I guess I wanted to say goodbye in my own way.

The thing is, when I walked in, it didn’t feel like our house anymore, and I guess it wasn’t, really. I’d never seen it like that, so empty and naked and . . . lonely. Our house had never been lonely before, you know; it always had us there. It was too much, so I went upstairs, heading toward my room, but before I got to the end of the hall, I stopped in my parent’s bedroom, their old bedroom, whatever, facing the driveway. The curtains were still there, because mom was just too burned out by the very end to pull them down, and she didn’t want things from that room anymore, anyway, she said. So I walked over, and I stood, looking out the window. Mom had gotten out of the car, too, and she’d turned her back to the house, leaning against her car door.

She was smoking. I guess she’d smoked until she got pregnant with me, but I’d never seen her smoke before my dad left. We’d gotten into it a few times, because I was just like, What are you doing, Mom? You’re smoking? And then she gave me, Who’s the mom here, you or I? And I said, Well, if you have to ask, that’s a problem, don’t you think? At least she knew she couldn’t smoke in the car, because I get really carsick, but still. It was gross, and to me, it just seemed like she was turning into this sad, old divorced woman, overnight, and it made me so angry.

Standing there, catching her, sneaking in another cigarette, I wanted to knock on the window, yell at her, but I didn’t. I just stood there watching her exhale clouds of smoke, her shoulders relaxing. And then it happened again: I felt nothing. Every time I felt something, it pushed up in my chest, almost like I couldn’t breathe, and then it disappeared. Along with the rest of my old life, I guess.

You know I walked in on her once, in the bathroom, my mom. It was after we were at my Gram’s house, and I should’ve knocked, but I thought she was with Gram, at the grocery store, because the house was so quiet. She was taking a bath, and she scared me, even though she was the one in the bathtub, naked. She didn’t move, either.

I’m sorry, I said, and I was about to turn around, but the problem was Gram only has one bathroom, and I really had to pee. I didn’t, the day we moved out, and I went back inside, but that time, I really did. I mean, I really had to go, but there was my mom, sneaking cigarettes, sneaking in the bath, just . . . strange, you know. It was all just so strange, I didn’t know what to do, really. And honestly, for a second, I thought I might have to pee outside, behind the tree in the back yard. I’m not even kidding.

Go on, Mom said, knowing, reaching for something in the water, and I wanted to say no. Not because I wouldn’t pee in front of her, but because she was smoking in the bathroom. She knew, too.

Last time I smoked in here, I was your age, she said. My parents went to some convention in Florida for my dad’s work, and it was the first time in my life I had the whole house to myself. So, first thing I did was take a hot bath and smoke a cigarette. I wanted to drink a glass of wine, she said, I had this romantic idea of a hot tub, a cigarette, and a glass of wine, very French, very sophisticated, I thought. But my parents didn’t drink wine, so I had a beer.

You want a beer? I asked, not knowing what she wanted, really, and then I saw she had a glass of wine, already. But she didn’t seem very French or very sophisticated.

I’m fine, thank you, she said, and I could see her smile, hearing herself, because she was not fine. She was so far from fine, but whatever. I started smoking at your age, Thea. Disgusting habit, she said: never start.

I’m not planning on it, I said, knowing she wanted to say something, but was that it? Was that really what she wanted to say?

Thea? she asked, looking over her shoulder.

Yes?

Don’t tell Gram, she said, meaning about her smoking.

You think she doesn’t know? Mom, it stinks in here, I said.

Please, she said.

I guess Gram knowing wasn’t the point, really. But seeing her there, I knew one thing. When she was fifteen, smoking in the bathtub, I bet she never ever imagined she be here again, twenty years later. Like my mom always says, it’s not what you think it’s going to be. Then again, my question is, what is?

Note: This week, I’m enlisting the help of eight guest artists/DJs/collaborators in editing eight separate sketches, written since the start of this project. This is an edit of Family Gatherings, written January 1, 2010.

(See Marianna Fierro, Image 1)

Setting: Thea’s sitting at the kitchen table, hiding her face in her hands,  with her homework spread across the table, Monday night, September, 15, 2008.

You know my mom was an English major. She loves writing. Or she used to, at least. I don’t know what she loves doing anymore, but anyhow. Me, I’m just the opposite. I mean, I don’t know what happens, really, but I just freeze up, especially when it something that’s going to be graded. Like I’ll know what I want to say, but then, when I start writing, it gets all mixed up. Not like dyslexia, just, I don’t know. I just get so afraid that I won’t get the answer right, that I’ll get a bad grade, whatever, and then I sit there, and I just stare and stare. And then, finally, I get so frustrated, I want to throw my computer out the window. Just like with geometry and chemistry. Just like everything anymore, really.

I don’t know what happened, because I used to love English. And I love to read, I really do, it’s just . . . I don’t know. I can’t explain it, really. And sometimes my mom gets really angry with me when I don’t do as well as I used to. Which is like all the time anymore, basically. Once, one time she started to say, Thea, what happened to you? Then she stopped. So she changed her tactic.

Last time we fought about it, she goes, You’re smart enough, Thea. You’re plenty smart enough to get an A in this class. You just psyching yourself out, you have to push through, is all.

Is that all? I said.

Yes, that’s all, she said, as if that was the end of the conversation, right. And I’m thinking, like I was this close to saying, Why, Mom? Why do I have to push through my fear or whatever? So I can be as successful as you? I didn’t say it, of course. But I was so close.

It’s like some nights she understands, and then some nights she doesn’t, you know. Depends on her day, her mood. Mine, too, I guess.

If it’s been a bad day, at night, when I’m trying to do my homework, I just stare at the book, at the words, and it’s like oil and water, like the words won’t go into my head you know, my eyes won’t take the words in. And it makes me want to cry, it really does. I’m sorry, but I get so fucking frustrated, I want to cry.

By the second or third week of September, I had to get a tutor, too. Because I failed my first geometry test, and nowadays, they don’t even give you two tests. The counselor steps right in, and it’s cool. I mean, it’s important that they get on people and try to help as soon as possible, but I had a tutor last year for Algebra I, and I don’t know. Anything that makes me stay at school an hour longer twice a week, come on. How helpful is that, really?

So I think I was just so bummed about that, about the thought of staying at school until four-thirty every Tuesday and Thursday for god knows how long, you know. I tried working in my room, but it wasn’t working, the working in my room, so I went to the kitchen, instead. Probably because there aren’t as many distractions in the kitchen, I don’t know. But my mom came in, right after she got home and changed out of her work clothes.

What are you working on? she asked, peeking over my shoulder.

Take-home test, I said: I’m supposed to read this poem and answer three questions.

What’s the poem?

The Second Coming, I said, wondering if she’d know it, but of course she did.

William Butler Yeats, she said, turning my book around to face her. What’s the first question?

The first question is, discuss the gyre motif, I said, so annoyed for some reason.

Not really a question, is it, she said.

Yeah, well, just one of many problems, but anyhow, I said.

Hold on a second, she said, walking over to the counter, turning off my iPOD.

Mom, don’t turn it off, ti’s the only thing keeping me awake, I said, whining. This poem’s like a narcoleptic fit, just waiting to happen, I said.

That’s good, she said. Write that down.

Ha, I said, unamused.

Go on, just read it through, she said, and so I sighed again, because i wasn’t getting out of it, but I was just so, so irritated.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre—.

Slow, slow down, she said, holding up both hands, like, what’s the rush? Come on, take a breath, read each line, and start at the beginning with the title, she said.

Mom, this isn’t drama, okay. I just want to answer the questions, please, I said.

I realize that. Which is why you need to take a deep breath, read each line, and start at the beginning, she said, speaking in that tone that told me I was getting close to crossing the line with her. Which I wanted to do, actually. I’d much rather fight with her than do my homework, actually.

The Second Coming, by William Butler Yeats, I said, slower. Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer; things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; mere anarchy is loosed upon the world . . ..

That’s so much better, see? she asked, but I just shrugged, whatever. Have you read it through a few times?

Of course I read it through, Mom, I said, almost rolling my eyes.

So what’s it about? she said, sitting down, across from me.

I don’t know, I said, sighing, and she just waited. I said: It’s about anything you love, everything you thought was true, it’s not. It’s a big, fat lie. Everyone’s been lying to you. And there you are, standing, turning around, trying to, you now, just stand up, but you can’t move. You can’t get away. There’s no escaping it. Gee, great poem, I said.

So what’s the center, you think? she asked, ignoring my attitude, but I didn’t answer. Thea, what’s the center, to you?

Love, I said, glaring at the table. What else is there?

So let’s put these two things together, she said, taking my pen and my notebook and drawing lines between the two circles of words she’d drawn, and I was just like, Will you please stop?

Don’t get hung up, move on. Let’s here another question, she said, ignoring me.

Discuss the beasts, I said, saying the words in a huff, nodding my head at the question.

You don’t like that question, either, she said.

No, I don’t, I said. I don’t like the question, and I don’t like this poem, because I think this poem just goes to prove it’s useless. I mean, that’s his point of view: what hope is there? The Apocalypse is coming, nothing you can do about it. It’s Pentecostal, if you ask me. I mean, seriously, I said, reading from one of the critics said about Yeats: And he feared that the beast was coming to claim its kingdom, right on time.

So who are the beasts? she said.

I don’t know, I said. It was just knee-jerk, but I could tell she was losing her patience, too. Good. Why should I suffer alone?

Who are the beasts? she said, like it was my last warning.

People who want to destroy everything and anything just because they don’t understand, because it’s different, because they’re afraid, I aid.

Like this poem, for example? she said, smiling, but I ignored her. When is this due, these questions?

Thursday, I said.

So you have two more days; we’ll work on it tomorrow night, she said.

Mom, I have tutoring tomorrow. Remember?

After tutoring, she said, and I just nodding no, no. What’s wrong? she said.

What’s wrong? What’s wrong is I hate my life. I want my old life back, I said, and I felt tears. I did. My eyes got all teary, but she wasn’t having it.

Beasts, she said. So what’s the kingdom? she asked, propping her chin in her hand.

The best of what we are. Art, I said, biting the inside of my lip, not knowing what else to say anymore.

So draw it, then, she said. Draw something for me, and I just looked at her, like, Mom, you aren’t helping. You are not helping at all! What if you could draw your response? What if you draw a picture instead of writing it? she said, smiling like it was this great idea, right.

I can’t do that. It’s English, not Art, Mom.

Pretend, she said.

Pretend I could pass. Pretend I—.

How does it make you feel?

It’s English, not therapy, Mom. Come on, I said.

How, Thea, she said, telling me, not asking me.

Scared. And angry, okay. Because I don’t understand why it’s happening, I said.

Fear and anger, she said, writing the words on my paper. Which just made my toes curl, I was so angry, because it wasn’t helping! Writing fear and anger does not help—I could’ve done that.

Thea, quit worrying about the grade and just tell me what you’re thinking, she said.

I’m thinking . . . I’m thinking this is a complete waste of time. I think I’m going to fail another class, Mom. I’ll be stuck here, in this stupid town, my whole life.

You and me, she said. Right here, at the kitchen table for all eternity—.

No!

Read the last few lines again, she said.

So I read them: And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

What do you think of that? she asked.

I think . . . I think it’s awful, what an ugly thing to write. I said, and I was so angry. I don’t know where it came from or what it was, but it’s like I hated Yeats. I hated his ugly fucking poem; I even hated my mom for trying, for making the mistake of walking in and sitting with me. Go away: all of you, go away.

Thea be quiet, she sad, even though I didn’t say it out loud. I’m tired, and I’m feeling pretty beastly, myself, so don’t push it. Draw the picture you see in your head when you read the poem. Hand it in with your notes, and I’m sure you’ll have worked as hard as anyone else in class, she said.

I’m done with this, I said, turning the book around, about to close it and go to my room.

No, she said. No, you are not done. And you’ll sit here until you’re done with the three questions. Cry if you want to, then get back to work. I want to see some drawing, and I want you to write some notes, she said, getting up, walking to the living room.

So I sat there, and I drew. I drew clouds, horse hooves, human limbs piling up on a desert floor. Vultures circling like swarms of flies. A river of blood. I was doing better when she came back into the kitchen to start dinner, but there was something dark in me, something black that wouldn’t quit fighting.

How’s it going? she said, looking over her nose, seeing that I’d been working on something.

There’s no light in this poem. I can’t draw without light, I said.

You want light?

It wouldn’t hurt, no. If you ask me, it’s not God, it’s man: mankind is the beast. People are the ones who are turning and turning, repeating the same mistakes, over and over, I said.

Did you write that? she asked.

No.

Then read what you’ve written so far, she said.

Nothing, I said.

Just read what you have there, she said, and I didn’t want to. I so didn’t want to, and it make me so angry with her, like why are you doing this to me? Why?

So I read what I’d written. I said, This poem makes me feel hopeless. It makes me feel frustrated. It’s way too religious and over the top. I don’t think it has any relevance to life today, except maybe for war, which is a constant, because people are such beasts. I don’t like this poem because there’s no love in this poem, I said. It’s ugly and hopeless and no fifteen-year-old should have to face anymore of that than they already do, every day.

Thea, she said, softening, and I couldn’t do it anymore, and my eyes welled up.

I don’t get it. I don’t get it! I don’t get it! I said, rolling my eyes back.

You do, Thee. You get it, exactly. It’s demonic; it’s evil; it makes no sense, but it keeps happening. We can’t get ahead of it, falcons or no, she said. Thea, believe it or not, I think you’re too hard on yourself. You just need to be quiet and listen. You’re so smart, Thea, you can do this. You just have to believe, babe. You want to find the hope in this poem, look at yourself, first, she said.

I don’t want to be here, Mom, I said, almost crying. I hate it here. And it’s only September, I said.

It’ll get better, she said.

You always say that, Mom, but it doesn’t get better, so stop saying it.

No, she said. Then she did something she hadn’t done in so long, I couldn’t remember when the last time was. She wrapped her arms around me, and she held me against her waist, and then she leaned over and kissed the top of my head. I love you, she said, and I wanted to say it, too, but all I could do was nod. Yes.

Note: This week, I’m enlisting the help of eight guest artists/DJs/collaborators in editing eight separate sketches, written since the start of this project, or, as in this case, writing a sketch that came to mind, but I never had a chance to finish. Original post: Gain, October 26, 2009 in Sketches.

The Second Coming, William Butler Yeats (1864-1939)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

We were just sitting on the couch in the living room, one day, after school, and we both had our computers open, and I was perfectly happy, minding my own business. It was probably like five, I guess, because it was just before sunset and the light was so pretty, it was this really deep, deep orange, shining through the blinds, that I was thinking of setting up my camera, taking a picture of us, with our matching black and white computers, and, I don’t know, I just thought it would be a great shot, you know. And then, just as I was about to get up, Cam leans over, looking at the pictures I’d just downloaded, and them he just balks, like shaking his head at me. I mean, he just makes this face, like, You can’t be serious. Didn’t say anything, he just gave me that look, you know. Hate it when he does that. So I was just like, What, already? Speak or leave me alone, already, you know?

I go, Cam. Why are you making that face? And he goes, No, it’s nothing, it’s whatever, and he just sort of shrugs and sits up straight again, and I’m like, If it’s nothing, then why did you make that face, Cam? He goes, No, I’m just surprised, that’s all. And I go, Like I said, by what? Surprised by what? And he goes, I don’t know, I’m just surprised. Seriously, do you really like that photographer or you think those people look cool or what? he said, nodding his head side to side, making fun, because, like, they’re so cool he has to wobble his head.

And I was like, Cam, what if I do? What if I do like the photographer and I do think those people look cool and I just like to look at cool people? Is that a problem for you? Really?

No, it’s not a problem for me; I just don’t understand what you see in those pictures.

Yeah, well, you don’t see, and I don’t see or hear a question.

Excuse me: my question is . . . okay, for starters, what’s with you and the rabbits, already?

I wanted to tell him, too, but I was just like, I don’t know, Cam. What’s with you and the faceless women with their asses hanging out? I said, really starting to get pissed, like really pissed off, and he thought about it, and then he goes: Yeah, okay, but . . . I asked you first, he said. And he thought he was so cute, too. Ugh.

You’re being a dick. I told him, I did. I said: You’re being a dick. And I’m not hurting anyone, and my rabbits aren’t hurting anyone. And just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean I can’t like it.

That’s true. But doesn’t mean it’s good, either.

Doesn’t mean we’ll have sex again if you keep this up.

You gotta be kidding, Thee.

No, I’m not kidding, Cam.

Come on . . . seriously. I can’t believe you’re going to throw the sex card out again.

Yeah, well, I can’t believe it works every time, I said, biting the inside of my cheek, staring at my screen, nodding. I knew he was still looking at me, but whatever.

Good point, he said, and I could see him smiling in my peripheral vision, but I wasn’t smiling back, like piss off. Yeah, no kidding, I said.

I apologize, okay? he said, squeezing my knee. You’re right, and I apologize—.

Don’t, I said, slapping his head away, holding on to my computer. And don’t talk to me like I’m a moron just because I hate geometry, I said.

Oh, babe, no . . . that’s not why I talk to you like a moron, he said, grabbing for my hand.

You always do that, Cam. You always frown and make a face and roll your eyes when you disapprove. Then you say, Do you like that? Do you see four images here? I mean, what do you think?

Okay—.

No, let me finish. And then, then, just to add insult to injury, you act like I’m overreacting—like I’m the problem here—when the truth is, you know you were giving me a look. I’m not overreacting, okay: you were making a face at my computer screen, making it perfectly clear that you don’t like what I’m looking at. It’s like the time you said, You think that’s art? Let me show you real art—.

Hey, hey, I apologized. And you forgave me, remember?

Yes, I forgave you, because I thought you wouldn’t do it again: duh.

Oh, well that’s the problem right there. I didn’t know we had a deal—.

Oh, you’re so funny.

Look, I’m sorry, okay. But you don’t have to fly off the handle.

I didn’t start this, Cam: that’s the part you keep forgetting.

All right, I hear you. I hear you; I apologize; we have a deal, okay? So what can I do to make this better?

I don’t know, but how about keeping your mouth shut?

Okay. I can do that.

Good: because that’s what you can do.

But first, one question?

This better be good.

It is. It’s very good.

Let’s hear.

If I keep my mouth shut, we’ll still have sex, right?

I really need to start working on Thea’s voice. And I will in the next week. Because I know how she thinks, but it’s going to take some time. And some young women to help guide me in developing a true voice. It’s not about this particular scene; it’s about creating a genuine speaking voice.  Not a writing voice, I want a speaking voice, as though I’ve transcribed their conversation, or even the thoughts in her head, verbatim.

That’s what I wanted to explain most to my friend, how many times you have to go over and over it, it’s like you have to sand and sand and sand down—or at least I do, before I really hear a voice in my head. Fortunately or unfortunately, voices don’t just appear and narrate an entire book all on their own.

That said, my friend had a very good point, which was how differently men and women, of all ages, communicate. Yes, indeed. To be continued.