Holding Up the Universe(80)

It’s almost dawn by the time I get to bed. I lie on top of the blanket, wide awake, shoes on, clothes on, staring at the ceiling. I feel full, and also empty, but not in a bad way. Maybe empty’s not the right word. I feel light.

I may love Libby Strout.

Not just like like her.

Love.

As in I love her.

I love her rollicking, throaty laugh that makes her sound as if she’s got a cold. I love the way she struts like she’s on a catwalk. I love the hugeness of her, and I don’t mean her actual physical weight.

And then I start thinking about her eyes. If you asked me to tell you what Caroline’s eyes look like, I couldn’t tell you. Even though I can describe them when I’m looking directly into them, I can’t describe them when she’s not in front of me.

But I can tell you what Libby’s eyes look like.

They are like lying in the grass under the sky on a summer day. You’re blinded by the sun, but you can feel the ground beneath you, so as much as you think you could go flying off, you know you won’t. You’re warmed from the inside and from the outside, and you can still feel that warmth on your skin when you walk away.

I can tell you other things too.

She has a constellation of freckles on her face that remind me of Pegasus (left cheek) and Cygnus (right cheek).

Her eyelashes are as long as my arm, and when she’s flirting, she does this deliberate, slow blink that knocks me off my feet.

Also there’s her smile. Let me tell you, it’s amazing, like it comes from the deepest part of her, a part made of blue skies and sunshine.



And then I’m like, Wait a damn minute.

I sit up. Rub my head. Maybe it’s the booze, but …

When did I start being able to remember her face?

And suddenly I’m having this total Sixth Sense experience as my mind scrolls back over the weeks I’ve known her. I run through every single time I’ve seen her, every instance I’ve been able to pick her out of a crowd or find her out of context. I test myself.

Picture her eyebrows.

Slightly arched, as if she’s always amused.

Picture her nose.

The way it wrinkles when she laughs.

Picture her mouth.

Not just the red of her lips, but the way the corners turn up, as if she’s smiling even when she isn’t.

Picture all the pieces together.

The way her cheekbones curve out and her chin curves in, almost like a heart. The fierceness and softness and glow of her that make her look so ALIVE.

All this time, I thought it was her weight that made me see her.

But it’s not her weight at all.

It’s her.





I’m up early, even though it’s Sunday. I leave my dad a note and then I’m out of the house, bundled in a jacket and scarf. After a block, my hands are freezing, and I jam them deep into my coat pockets. I’m meeting Rachel in the park because I have something to tell her. I know why I punched Jack Masselin.

There’s a chill in the air that feels like winter, or at least the start of it. This is my least-favorite time of year because everything dies or goes to sleep, and there’s too much death and stillness, and the sky turns gray for so long, you think it will never be blue again. Right now the sky can’t quite make up its mind. It’s blue in patches, gray in patches, with spots of white, like a faded quilt.

Rachel has brought us hot cider from the coffee shop by her house. We sit looking at the golf course, blowing on our drinks to cool them down. I tell her a little about Mick from Copenhagen and Moses Hunt and taking Jack home.

“Jack as in Jack?”

“Jack as in Jack.”

Before she can ask me about him, I tell her about the dance team I’m starting with Bailey, Jayvee, and Iris. “The best thing is, anyone can join. No weight restrictions or height restrictions or age restrictions or sex restrictions. No restrictions at all. If you can dance, even a little, you’re in. And we dance for the joy of dancing, whenever and wherever we want.”

“Can I join?”

“Of course.”

“Will there be twirling?”

“Of course!”

“And costumes?”

“Yes, but each one will be different.”

She tells me about her new girlfriend, Elena, a graphic designer she met at Winkler’s Bakery. She says they have a lot of silly things in common but also real things, important things, like they were the same age when they came out to family and friends. She blows on her drink, takes a sip. She eyes me over the cup. “You know, that’s what you’ve been doing in a way—coming out. Coming out of your room. Coming out of your house. Coming out of your shell.”

“I guess I have.” I think about Jack, as alone in himself as I was in my room for all those years.

As if she reads my mind she says, “So why did you do it? Why did you hit him?”

“Because after all I’ve been through, I felt like he was trying to single-handedly pick me up and stuff me back into that house and lock me in. Like he was telling me I was right to be panicked and I was right to be afraid.”

“No one can lock you back in, Libby. You choose whether you let them.”

“I know that now, like really know that. I thought I knew that then, but I didn’t.”