Beast(65)

“Is there an us?”

“I think so,” she says in a hush. Jamie turns toward the window to check the night, and I see the vestiges of her XY chromosomes sneaking through but only because I’m making myself look for them. I see it in her bones. I never saw before the day she told me, and I don’t really care. Not here with just the two of us in my room, anyway.

If we went away where no one knew us, we’d be free. We could hold hands wherever we wanted and not care what people think, because we’re just like any other couple, which we are, but we wouldn’t have to answer any questions. We’d get married and adopt some babies. She can go and take pictures, and I can stay at home with the kids while I study and teach classes as an adjunct professor in England. “Come with me to England.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“My dream, my waking alive real dream, is to get the Rhodes Scholarship,” I say. “And I’m going to Oxford to get my master’s and study, maybe doctorate too.”

She laughs with the corner of her mouth. “In what?”

“I have this crazy idea that the spread of cancer has similar wavelengths to historical outbreaks of evil. Like hysteria. And I wonder if it can be tracked down and pinpointed to one gene or one cell. Was it Tituba, the possessed teenage girls, or the people who believed them that began the Salem witch trials? Can you nail down Hitler before he invades Poland? That kind of stuff.”

“So you want to give human thoughts to cancer cells?” she says.

“No, I think they already have them. Which is why you watch people do terrible things in history. The creep of being bad starts slow and builds. Like one idea that people latch onto and let it get this almost magical thinking mentality that they use to excuse what they’re doing, you know? And then only after the fact, people are like, oh yeah, that whole Nazi thing was really bad. But the Nazis didn’t think so while they were in it. The teenage girls in Salem thought what they experienced was real, but if you break it down, the women who got hanged were mostly widows. The minority,” I say. Jamie watches me intently. “Just makes me think that must be what cancer is like. The spread. You start with some cells and end up taking over whole organs and bones. There has to be a connection.”

“Whoa.” She lies back on the pillow. “That’s quite the thing you’ve thoughted up.”

“Thanks. And I love books, so I might do something with English, but nothing serious because all I want is an excuse to read.”

“Naturally.”

“We can get an apartment, or a flat, whatever they call them, and you can fly to Europe and take pictures whenever you want,” I say. “It’ll be amazing—come with me. We’ll go over and live together. We’ll get a cat—”

“We need a cat?”

“I’ve always imagined studying at Oxford with a cat. Dogs need to be walked; won’t have time for that.”

“If you don’t have time to walk a dog, how will you have time for me?”

“Who said I won’t? And besides, you’ll be right next to the rest of Europe; you can zip over through the Chunnel and go to Paris whenever you want. Go to London, hit up the National Gallery. It’ll be perfect.”

“So I get to be a tourist for four years.” Jamie’s forehead wrinkles down. “What about our parents?”

“You can’t stand your mom. It’ll be fine.”

“I never said that,” she says, all defensive. “All I want is for her to stop worrying about everything. Maybe we can come home after you finish up at Oxford.”

“No, we need to stay in England.”

“Hey, let’s go crazy and play the What Does Jamie Want game because that’s fun too. Okay, ready?” Her hands flare. “I want to go roller-skating with you. I want to get pretzels and walk through pretty, lit-up neighborhoods at Christmas. I want us to hold hands and walk down the sidewalk on a sunny day with nowhere to go and no place to be. Just walk.”

“Okay. Well. Maybe you can go to college in England the same time I’m there.”

“And what if I don’t want to go to England?” she says. “What if I want something completely different, like to go to RISD like my idol, Francesca Woodman?”

“What the hell is a riz dee, and who is Francesca Woodman?”

“Rhode Island School of Design. She was a photography major and her work is flipping unbelievable and I love her, but my parents hate that I love her, because she killed herself and that’s become a bit of a touchy subject around the house.”

“Since when do you have an idol?”

“I’ve always had one; you never asked.”

“Why can’t you be England’s version of alive nonsuicidal Francesca Woodman?”

“Why England?” she asks.

“Because that’s my dream. That’s my goal.”

“To go write papers on the dangers of magical thinking in cancer cells.”

“Do not make fun of me,” I warn her.

“I’m not! I love magical thinking. Listen, do you remember when we met? Remember in group I said I made a wish on a shooting star?”

“Yeah.” That I actually remember.

Her hands play across the broadness of my chest. “I wished for someone who wanted to just be with me. That’s all. To just be.”