Under Rose-Tainted Skies(45)
He gets lost for a second, staring vacantly at the swirling pattern on our wallpaper.
‘How does it work?’ he asks. ‘I mean, have you always been afraid?’ I look at his face and see a bubbling stew of kindness and sincerity with just a dash of curiosity.
‘You don’t want to hear all this.’ I’m not sure if I’m saying that for him or me.
‘Yes, I do. I want to know who you are.’
I want to make progress. I want to, should do some explaining. It’s not like it’s a secret any more. He’s already seen me melt down a handful of times in our brief friendship, and he’s still coming over, asking questions, sitting next to me on a staircase drinking orange juice. That has to count for something. Plus, once I know how he feels, I’ll know. Constantly trying to guess what he’ll make of my so-called life seems to be destroying my brain cells. Literally. Mom and I were doing the crossword at breakfast this morning and I couldn’t answer a single clue. That never happens, but I started sketching cartoon hearts and my mind went totally blank.
The buttons in my brain that control the crazy must think it’s time to open up too – at least, they can’t seem to find a counterargument strong enough to make my mouth stay shut.
‘I wasn’t always afraid. I mean, sometimes I might have closed down a little, or preferred my own company to anyone else’s. I wasn’t scared, but maybe I was shy.’
‘Did something happen?’ The one question I wish I could answer in the affirmative. Not that I want some tragic story to tell. I just mean, it would make it easier to explain to everyone else. There are no sceptical questions for the guy who developed a fear of reptiles after he was bitten by a snake.
‘No. Nothing.’
‘So, you just woke up one day and were afraid to leave the house?’
The fingers of my free hand curl around the lip of the step. I hold on tight, worried the force of his question will blow me away.
‘Wait . . .’ he says, shaking his head. ‘That came out wrong. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to sound so . . . dismissive.’ Regret streaks his forehead, and a nervous hand, fidgeting around like it’s forgotten what it’s used for, slaps his knee. He’s being sincere. I can recover.
‘It’s okay,’ I tell him, smiling. If I was brassy enough, I’d throw in a wink. ‘At least you didn’t ask me why I don’t “just get over it”. Or, my personal favourite, “Why don’t you just not think about it?’’’ I click my tongue, fire finger-guns at the empty space in front of me. ‘Sure. I’ll get right on that,’ I say to all the hundreds of sceptical voices that seem to think I’m living like this for fun.
Luke tucks his hands between his legs, presses his knees tightly together so they make a prison, and I wonder if maybe it’s because he wants to reach out and touch me. Save me from a different kind of fall.
‘Does that happen a lot?’
‘It’s happened a few times. Friends – former friends – have said it before.’ I shrug. That was a day that started out with popcorn and a movie, but ended with tears and heartbreak.
Mercy Carr, a girl I’d only known since kindergarten, began the discussion before the opening credits had even begun. Mercy liked to talk with her hands. They began flapping as she casually mentioned that she and a couple of the girls were talking – aka questioning the legitimacy of what was wrong with me. Apparently they couldn’t figure out why I didn’t just tell myself not to be afraid. She compared my situation to her disliking the colour purple. Then one day, her mom bought her the cutest pair of lavender capri pants and she got over her aversion. Just like that. I didn’t see Mercy again after that. I didn’t see any of my friends again after that.
‘My grandma said it to me once.’
Luke’s eyes pop with shock. Mine did too at the time. I kind of expected Mercy Acts-Like-She’s-Eighteen-but-Thinks-Like-She’s-Eight Carr to question what she often referred to as my head drama, but when my gran did it, I died a little inside.
‘Yeah,’ I say, smiling.
‘Bet that was hard to swallow.’
‘Like nails coated in acid.’
‘Ouch.’
She didn’t mean to say it. Gran was like a replacement parent. My dad’s mom, she never forgave him for leaving us. When I was growing up, she tried everything to get him to come back and take responsibility for me, even threatened to cut him out of her will. Which I assume is why a week later I got that letter.
‘She freaked out one day when I passed out over black bits in my food. But she was actually kind of the shit.’ I laugh because besides this one, almost every memory I have of her is funny.
‘Oh, really?’ He arches his eyebrows.
‘She was Katie Maine, of K. Maine Bath and Beauty products.’ At one time, her Sugar Sand Scrub was in every bathroom in America. Her beeswax lip balms bought Mom and me this house.
‘No way. My mom has a ton of that stuff on her shelf.’
‘Yeah?’
He nods while taking a swig of his orange juice, and I hear his teeth click against the glass. I’m about to get all anxious about it shattering in his mouth, splitting and slicing through his strawberry lips, when he pulls it away and sets it back down on the step.
‘She took good care of me and my mom.’ I think about the summer when I turned nine and she took us to Disneyland. She came on all the rides with me because Mom was too afraid. She lost her false teeth on the log flume. ‘She was super-quirky and kind of impossible to stay mad at. And when all this started, everybody got scared, you know? It took a lot of effort and adjusting.’ My gran’s heart was so big, I was shocked to discover that’s what killed her.