The Lonely Ones (4 page)

After lunch,

someone new joins the class.

He stands up front,

fidgeting nervously,

and tells us about

life in New Orleans.

The boy is beautiful.

His voice is a soft drawl

that I could wrap around myself

like a blanket.

His face

is a story

waiting to be told.

Afterward,

as I gather my books,

he turns in my direction.

“Hi, I'm Matthew,” he says.

I glance over my shoulder.

Heart pounds—

I realize

no one else is there,

he is looking at me.

Suddenly

I miss being invisible

yet suddenly

I never want

to be unseen again.

When I say nothing,

he asks for my name.

“Fain,” I whisper.

“Fain,” he repeats.

But I hardly hear him;

I am a balloon

filling with air and light,

floating up

and up

and up.

When I look down,

Matthew seems so small.

I hover in the air,

realize I want to hear the words

coming out of his mouth.

My feet touch the ground,

and it feels more solid

than ever before.

I am rushing,

whooshing over and under

this way and that

eager to escape the school walls

and get to the quarry.

I burst through the doors,

stop short at the sight

of Carl sitting on the lawn.

He looks so content,

even as everyone walks around him

like a current slipping past a stone.

He bends over his sketchbook,

drawing with such fervor

that the river of rumbling buses

and shouting students

doesn't hinder the strokes

of his pen.

I begin to take a step toward him—

a car honks.

Carl closes his sketchbook,

stands,

hurries off.

I stand there,

alone on the shore,

and watch the waters run.

It is one thing

to be alone

because there's no alternative.

It is something else entirely

to choose this isolation.

I stand in the quarry,

gazing out at the water.

“How are you?” I shout

into the vastness.

“How are you?”
it screams back.

I don't know what to say,

not quite sure how I feel,

so I don't respond to the quarry's call.

In this place,

it's much easier

to believe that someday

I might have an answer.

I sit down

open my notebook

and write.

The scribbles of my pen

bring close everything

that is out of reach.

I write

about a girl

who is great at basketball.

I write

about a girl

who sits with others during lunch.

I write

about a girl

with a loud voice and a smile that beams.

I write

about a girl

who has no time or need

for solitude and quarries.

I write

about a girl

who demands to be seen.

These stories

might be realistic for some.

For me,

they're only fantasy.

She lies still;

the setting sun casts

a dark silhouette

onto the couch and floor.

“Mom?” I ask.

Silence

is her reply.

She's become a statue,

permanently frosted

like the winter glass.

Then a voice so faint,

as though it's folding

back inside of her

like a flower hiding from the cold:

“It's just so hard sometimes.”

“What is?” I ask.

Another second of quiet,

full of so much unsaid

that it feels as though

we're drowning.

Then Mom

utters a strange laugh,

disappears into her room.

She doesn't come back

with a rope or a life jacket.

I sink slowly into the depths.

That night I soar

through the ocean deep,

a world as powerful and blue

as a tear.

My hair

billows around my head

like golden seaweed.

Bubbles flow from my monsters' mouths

as they shriek and laugh and play.

“Treasure, treasure!” I know they are saying.

We are whale riders

explorers

hunters

until suddenly

we are not alone.

Mermaids croon in my ear,

voices soft as their scales are hard.

Together

we are a parade

of danger and beauty.

We swim to where

a ship waits for us,

buried in sand and time.

We explore every part of it,

grinning with excitement

when we find piles of gold coins

sparkling jewels.

Without greed or intent,

the mermaids and monsters and me

sift through the treasure,

watch it float around us,

rich and triumphant in every way.

Time seems to slow,

and I know

I'm running out of air.

The sun is coming;

I must return to the surface

where I belong.

After class on Monday,

Mrs. Olsen pulls me aside.

My story

rests quietly

in her hand.

She tells me about a contest

I should enter,

a magazine that publishes

the best short stories,

that I need a teacher to sponsor me,

she'd be happy to do it.

A lump grows

in my throat,

until I can hardly

ask the question

burning on the tip of my tongue.

“Is it really good enough?” I say

around the flames.

Mrs. Olsen

puts her fingers on my shoulder

and squeezes.

“No,” she answers.

“It's
better
.”

“Hi, Fain.”

The sound of that voice

jerks my head upward.

The pain

is worth it.

Matthew stands next to my tree,

smiling down at me,

shifting from foot to foot,

hair falling into his eyes.

“How are you?” he asks.

It feels like

I was born without a tongue.

I clutch my notebook tighter,

wish I was clever or dazzling

like Mary Mosley and her friends,

and mumble the answer he expects,

something shapeless and simple.

Matthew sits on the grass

without invitation,

startling me so badly

I almost run.

Matthew leans back,

closes his eyes.

I pretend to write,

steal glances at him through my lashes.

My heart races fast and loud;

I wonder if he hears it.

“What are you doing?”

Even though he's now the second person

to ask me this question,

I still feel the shock of it

his curiosity

his sincerity

in my bones.

“Writing,” I whisper.

He grins,

tells me that's cool,

and for the rest of lunch

we sit together,

talk about my stories.

Matthew confesses

his difficulty with writing and English.

“I can help with that,” I say

eagerly.

He grins again,

we both grow quiet.

He enjoys

the breeze,

I enjoy

the view.

But I keep wondering

why he would want to sit beside

someone like me?

Matthew turns his head,

catches me staring,

reads the confusion

on my face,

hears the unspoken question.

“They're just so loud,” he says,

glancing toward our peers

doing cartwheels on the lawn,

hiding their insecurities

behind cheer

laughter

superiority.

I smile,

almost tell him that if silence

is what he likes,

I'll never say another word.

The sky fills with gray

and I know

walking home

or to the quarry

would be foolish.

I call my mother;

she surprises me by answering.

I wait by the curb

until she pulls up

in a burst of smoke and sound.

Time alone with my mother

has always been rare.

Now, finally,

I have her attention.

I could ask her anything,

about the future or the past.

But all I want to mention

is the contest.

“Mom?” I say.

She takes a second too long

to respond.

A moment

is all it takes

to lose courage.

Without taking her eyes

off the road,

she says, “Yes?”

Even the growing darkness

can't hide the weariness

in her voice.

I give in,

hear myself ask her

what's for dinner.

“Macaroni,” she says.

I force an excited smile,

as if we haven't had it

twice already this week.

Then I turn my head away,

watch rain quiver

down the glass.

My brother asks for a snack,

so I walk to the fridge

open the door

bathe in its light.

Scant shelves

peer back at me,

begging to give them

purpose again.

I open a drawer,

find some forgotten fruit

green oranges

brown apples.

I feel a kinship

with these perishable things,

these foods that have waited,

been neglected for so long.

And I wonder

if my family knows

that when we're not careful

not quick enough

things will fall to rot and ruin

so far

so badly

they can't be saved.

I cut out the bad parts,

hand what's left of the apple

to little Peter.

He beams at me

as if it's the sweetest thing

he's ever tasted.

From our place

on the faded carpet,

Peter and I balance blocks.

The stillness is disrupted

by a rumbling of thunder

a trembling of everything.

I look to the window

but the sky is clear,

a serene shade of orange

that fades into pink.

My father bursts into the room

like a clap of lightning,

whooping and waving the phone around.

“I have an interview!” he shouts.

Without warning

he drops the phone

picks up Peter

grabs my hand

and begins to dance.

Mom stands in the doorway,

grumbles, “About time.”

Peter's tower

tumbles down.

Dad's hips swing

from side to side;

Mom looks on

without smile or cheer.

Hers is the face of lightning,

threatening to strike,

destroy our hope.

My lips twitch

with uncertainty

and Dad's eyes are so bright,

they are painful to look at.

But this storm of happiness

soon sweeps over me and Peter

until all three of us

are drenched.

We spin in dizzying circles,

and I secretly pray

we won't need an umbrella.

Tonight my friends

greet me with a request.

“Tell us a story,” they beg.

In my backyard

transformed to sandy beach

we sit in a circle

by the glinting sea,

listen to air whistling through the rocks.

“Once upon a time,” I begin,

because that's how the best stories

always begin,

“there was a girl.”

“You!”

“It's you!”

“The girl is you!”

“Shhh,” I say, grinning,

and tell them a story

of hope and trees and New Orleans.

As my mouth moves I gaze up at the moon,

thinking of how similar we are.

One side always hidden

while the other

shines so bright.

Every day this week

the boy from New Orleans sits with me.

His eyes are sunlight,

my stomach is a garden in bloom.

Sometimes our words

float light as air;

sometimes our quiet

sits heavy as stone.

There are days

we work on

his English homework,

sitting so close

our elbows nearly

touch.

Afterward

I am so full

of thoughts about Matthew,

the pages of my notebook

remain empty

in my lap.

After class the next day

I ask Mrs. Olsen

if she's heard anything from the magazine

about my story.

“Patience,” she says

with a wink.

Frustration bubbles up

inside me.

I want to tell her

that I'm tired of waiting,

that all I do is wait

for my peers to notice

for my family to hear

for the moon to rise.

It feels as though

I'll be withered and gray

by the time this wait is over.

But I smile at Mrs. Olsen

like nothing is wrong

and walk away.