Just Like a Musical (4 page)

Thank God my mother had to go to work that Saturday! I could take a long shower, make myself a large cup of coffee, and try to think about the previous day in peace and quiet. To try – that was the only thing I managed to do. My effort was fruitless, brutally fruitless. My head was bursting with questions, and not even one tiny answer crawled out. I usually enjoy spending mornings inside, but that Saturday morning my brain was begging for some fresh air.

As I was putting on my favorite pair of skinny jeans and a dotted Peter Pan collar blouse, the image of Tanya’s upcoming party growled at me. An evening among my old school friends was approaching rapidly. It’s not that my old friends are not dear to me, but our lives are incomparable on so many levels. We grew apart over the years. Those were the years that I spent in hospital waiting rooms, or in my little yellow house with my mother and James, or wandering around the pine forest, while they were busy doing homework and choosing cheerleaders.

“It will be okay. I don’t have to stay till the end,” I whispered to myself as I locked the door.

My town looks like a sleepy, little island in the morning. Everything moves so slowly. Even the birds fly slowly, in a silent and mesmerizing way. I let my feet take me wherever they wanted to. There’s no use in arguing with your feet when your mind is on fire.

***

I was standing in front of the Green Ink bookstore, contemplating whether to go in and trying to conquer frantic, half-articulated thoughts, when the window glass reflected someone’s wide smile. My heart jumped and missed a beat. It was him! And when I
say “him”, it’s quite clear who I mean; there was only one
him
who dwelt in my thoughts that morning. I turned around and smiled back. I saw his lips moving, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I frowned, looking at him expectantly. He gently pulled the headphones out of my ears.
Stupid, Ruby, very stupid!

“What are you listening to?” he said.

His voice was crisp and affable.

“Um… Lou Reed… his first solo album,” I said, tucking my hair behind my ear, my eyes fixed on the tips of my shoes.

“Are you kidding me?” he said. “You’re the only person in this town who listens to Lou Reed! I mean, beside me.”

“Am I?” I raised my head, just a little encouraged.

“Of course you are! Haven’t you noticed all these clones in the streets? Look at them, they are all the same!”

His hands reached for my shoulders and stayed there for one immaculate moment.

“But I knew you were different,” he said, giving me a complicit smile.

Did I see all my worrying thoughts delightfully flapping their wings and disappearing on the horizon? Yes, I did. Did my flaming red hair suddenly become pretty, just like Mrs. Wheeler said the day before? Yes, it did. Was I willing to spend eternity in front of that small-town bookstore? I sure as hell was. And just when I thought how he didn’t wink even once, he cleared his throat. A toddler in a harlequin costume grabbed his mother’s skirt and burst out crying. We burst out laughing.

“I’m sorry for running away like that yesterday,” I said. “I totally forgot that my friend was waiting for me.”

Then I felt my tongue wrestling with itself, wriggling, and swirling in slow motion, and finally producing these words: “Listen, there’s a party at my friend’s house tonight. I’m not promising fun, but if you’d like to join me…”

That was by far the bravest thing I had ever done! Asking a guy out was beyond my boldest self-expectations. I once tried to ask Danny Walden to watch
Ice Age 2
with me when we were in fourth grade, and I even gave him a giant cherry flavored lollipop as a prelude to my invitation, but the words wouldn’t leave my mouth. They waited there forever and a day, all jumbled up, until I just gave up. I felt regretful over the lollipop; cherry is my favorite flavor.

“Sure,” he answered, giving me back my headphones and winking.

***

I can’t tell how I got home exactly, but I suddenly found myself in the hallway. I rushed to my room to try once again the dress that I borrowed from Mrs. Wheeler. It was a beautiful knee-length, sage-green flapper dress with a charming off-white lace hem. A sense of gratitude toward my dear neighbor
overwhelmed me, and I felt a jolt of guilt for not thinking of her since I met my throat-clearing guy again. I decided to visit her and see how she was getting through all the painful memories that her daughter’s birthday evoked, but when I knocked on her door, I found out that she wasn’t there. I turned back home, put the dress on one more time, took it off, and then tried to read a book, but soon it
slipped out of my hand
 and hit the floor. I wasn’t able to focus on anything. For the first time in my life, I looked forward to a birthday party. My lungs were full of sweet expectations – delicate yet strong. I could hardly bear the silent, endless march of time that went on in my head, and I was happy to see my mother back home. Wrapping my arms around her neck, I leaned my dreamy head on her shoulder.

“Do you want me to make us some coffee, Mom?” I said. “It’s been so long since we had coffee together.”

We stepped out onto our front porch with coffee mugs in our hands. The invisible clock was still ticking in my head, subdued by the soft, sweet-scented air and my mother’s voice. She was telling me about some funny guy in a yellow tie and sombrero hat that she ran into that morning. Her laugh was resonant, but her eyes were tired and melancholic. I wanted to hold her hand and set her free from that huge burden of guilt she had been carrying on her shoulders for so long, but I knew I wasn’t the one who was able do that. So I laughed about the man in a yellow tie, enjoyed tortillas that she fixed inspired by his hat, and listened to her chatting about new flowers she was going to plant, until my internal clock struck seven. It was a quarter past six in real time, but I had to hurry and get ready anyway.

***

The party was a pure disaster.

First, the music was awful.

Second, when we came in dressed like time travelers – me in a 1920s dress and Joshua – that was his name, I finally found out that when we met at the Hemingway Fountain – in a black smoking jacket, some guy approached us and laughed at us.

“Have you missed the century, guys?” he said. “You look kind of freakish!”

“That’s none of your beeswax,” I answered graciously. That is how people used to talk back in the 1920s, but he didn’t understand, of course. He didn’t have Mrs. Wheeler for his friend to tell him about all the great stuff from the past. So he just made a sour, pitiful face and turned around.

Third, Joshua called four people morons, and one of them almost started a fight, so I had to apologize to Tanya, although I didn’t feel like apologizing at all, and explain to her and everybody else who felt insulted about Joshua’s Tourette’s.

By ten o’clock, we were sitting on the stairs, alone and fairly indisposed. The loud and utterly senseless music made the conversation almost impossible.

“Hey, what do you think? Should we…?” I said, faltering.

“Should we what?”

“You know,” I smiled, nodding toward the door. “Should we get out of here?”

“That’s out of the question!” he laughed. “We’re having such a great time!”

I told Tanya that I didn’t feel well and promised I would call her the next day. I guess she was relieved, poor girl.

We stepped into the night.

“I like your jacket,” I said as the sounds of that soulless music faded behind us. “I thought I would be the only one dressed formally.”

“Where did you get that dress, by the way?” he asked. “It’s rad.”

A guy who pays attention to what
a girl wears.  I think I read something about that kind in one of my mother’s magazines.

“I borrowed it from a friend. She has the most amazing collection of old evening gowns. This one was worn by some old actress. Or dead actress, to be more precise.”

“Your friend?” he said, giving me a questioning glare.

“Yes, she worked as a costume designer in Hollywood.”

“What? But how old is she?”

“She’s seventy-eight,” I answered proudly. “She’s seventy-eight years old, and she’s the most interesting person in the world.”

***

He took me to the
rooftop of an abandoned building on the outskirts of the town. My mother would have gone nuts if she could see me on a chilly night, on a dark rooftop with a guy that I met only twenty-nine hours earlier.

I leaned on a chimney flue, observing the dark silhouette of a factory building across the street.

“So what’s wrong with your knee?” he said and leaned beside me.

“There’s nothing wrong with my knee,” I said, feeling my heart pounding
.

“You said yesterday that you were homeschooled because of your knee.”

“Oh, that…” I said, pretending that I hadn’t realized what he was talking about. “Well, when I was eleven, my knee was badly skinned during gym class. That’s why my mom dragged me out of school. She was really angry. It’s not that interesting, actually.”

“That was the reason?” he asked, swallowing hard. “That’s really weird.”

The car lights splashed over our faces. We looked at each other for a second before we sank into the dark again.

How do you tell the guy who you have a serious crush on that your mother is a full-time maniac who doesn’t let you go outside when it rains? I could almost see this giant, slippery ball of silent misunderstanding bouncing between us, threatening to take Joshua inside and carry him away. There was no way back. I had to tell him the truth.

“I had this condition when I was born… a heart disease. So my mom has always been very protective. She thought that I shouldn’t attend gym classes at all. Actually, she had tons of complaints about my teachers, and school policies, and food, and everything. I guess she was just trying to protect me in a wrong way.”

Was he winking? I couldn’t see; my eyes weren’t adjusted to the dark yet.

“A heart disease? Please tell me you’re not dying,” he whispered.

“We are all dying,” I answered. “It’s just that some of us are dying longer than others.”

Joshua pulled his ear. It wasn’t a moment for a bad joke, clearly, and I immediately regretted my words.

“Please…” he whispered.

“I’m not dying, you moron!” I said, and regret overwhelmed me once again. “Sorry, that was a bad choice of words… I’m not dying, that’s all I have to say.”

“You can call me a moron as long as you’re not dying,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulders.

“I’m not even sick anymore. I just have to go to the doctor twice a year to make sure everything is okay. Or twenty-three times a year, if you ask my mother.”

Then I told him the story – the story about my prenatal rotten luck, the one that I had never told before. I guess most people around me know the story, but no one had ever shared it with me, not even my mother. I collected the pieces of the puzzle myself, listening to the muffled phone conversations with my ear glued to my mother’s bedroom door, digging through her things, asking Grandma Julie questions and getting vague but still helpful answers.

This whole mess started exactly two weeks before my parents got married. My mother had second thoughts about her upcoming wedding, and she couldn't find a better way to clear her dilemmas but to jump into a casual affair with another man. Exactly four months after the wedding and about a month after I was conceived, she confessed everything to my father. She couldn't live a lie, poor Mom. My father generously forgave  her. But soon after that, she realized that it wasn't just a casual affair; she was in love with the mysterious man. She slipped into depression; she couldn't see the point of life if she couldn't spend it with him. She started to drink, and she drank so hard throughout her pregnancy that my little heart got severely damaged. A couple of days after I was born, she went to rehab, and I went to heart surgery. When she came home, she was sober, but her relationship with my father never improved. He left in May, the month when lavender blooms. I guess he didn't want to be anyone's excuse for unhappiness. I guess he knew that he deserved better.

The shoe factory engine growled. The night got lighter. I could see Joshua gently chewing his upper lip as he was listening to my words
– words that made my cheeks burn and my hands sweat. I pressed my palms against the cracked brick wall.

“
So what's your big secret?” I said.

“Besides Tourette’s?”

“Well, that’s hardly a secret.”

He removed his arm from my shoulder and leaned on the rooftop edge.

“My tics actually became pretty rare, but they worsened again last September,” he started. “That’s when everything fell apart.”

September was the month when Joshua lost his little sister to cancer. Joshua’s father accepted a job offer in California and they moved here last December; his mother couldn’t stand to spend Christmas in their old house, haunted by memories.

“She never gets out. She never smiles. She never cries,” said Joshua. “She’s a ghost. And my dad… he always finds new reasons to get out of the house. I guess that’s what I am doing, too. Her silence is unbearable.”