Seven Ways We Lie(88)

I imagine

myself next year, walking a stage, steady feet, steady breath, steady pace,

steadily myself.

And what will I remember about his eyes besides that they had him inside, and they made me feel some sort of way— sick with hope?


I imagine

Hemingway and Beukes, Christie and Martin, Márquez and Morrison, Rowling and the Bard boxed and taped and stacked beside a spare wheel.

His emptied house would barely fill a car— he was built to carry his home on his back.


I imagine

futures with him and futures without.

But on Thursday night, I don’t dream of him.

I dream of a city made from violin strings and Saran wrap, bubbling in the heat of a summer sun.

I dream of voices I haven’t heard yet and haven’t missed yet;

of places I haven’t known, pieces I haven’t played,

and people I haven’t loved.

I wake up to music, an alarm-clock croon, and I stare at my ceiling, serene.


I think I’m beginning to understand how hearts fit together.

Not like diseased carnations that lean against their crutches.

Not like vines that twine tight, throttling their hosts.

But like two trees:

two systems of deep, untangled roots, two patterns of flowering branches, whose leaves drink their own sunlight and breathe their own air.

Two trees with something slung between them, a hammock or a tapestry or a swing, some third, beautiful thing that neither would die without.

Hearts fit together like hands.

Not by necessity.

By choice.





“HO-LIVIA,” SAYS A GUY’S VOICE FROM BEHIND ME.

My mouth full of green beans, I glance over my shoulder, determined to chew very angrily at whoever was responsible for the ‘ho-livia’ comment. But alas, the fast-moving stream of kids passing through this channel in the cafeteria has masked his identity. Resolving to chew angrily at him some other time, I turn back around.

“Yo,” Matt calls after the dude.

“Not worth it,” I say. Matt sighs, slouching back down, doodling faces on his History notes. On his other side, Burke Fischer has his septum-pierced nose buried in Kierkegaard.

“What’d they say?” Juni asks me over the cafeteria table. “I didn’t catch whatever profoundly unnecessary insult it was.”

“Ho-livia,” I explain over the chatter echoing off the cafeteria ceiling. “It’s funny, because ho means whore and also rhymes with the first syllable of my name. Ha-ha. Excellent joke.”

“Don’t let it get to you,” Juni says. “You look tired, lady.”

I make a grumbling noise. “?‘Tired’ is the understatement of the year.” I point at Kat, who sits beside Juni. “You didn’t tell me your show was, like, ninety-seven percent crushing misery.”

She shrugs, slurping from her juice box. “It’s Russian.”

Someone taps my shoulder. I turn again, wondering if ho-boy has returned, but no.

“Claire. I—hey,” I say, setting down my fork on my lunch tray. Juniper told me about their conversation yesterday, but Claire never found us during lunch. I hope to God she was apologizing to Lucas.

“Mind if I sit?” she asks, every word a tentative little push.

“Sure.”

She perches on the blue plastic disk to my right. A wisp of hair slips out above her ear. “I get it. I think.”

“Get what?”

She lowers her voice. “Why it’s not fair if guys expect . . . things from you. It’s that they shouldn’t respect you less whatever your choices are, and, um, neither should I.” She swallows. “What I’m trying to say is, sorry. For judging you. And I’m going to stop.”

Gratitude warms me. Knowing Claire, this is the hardest thing she’s ever done. “You practice that in the mirror?” I tease, keeping it gentle.

The skin behind her freckles flushes deep red. “Maybe.” She looks back and forth between Juniper and me. “I was also thinking, um—it’s been a while since the three of us hung out. Do you guys want to come over after I get home from practice?”

Claire’s cheek is puckering from where she’s biting it. Jeez. I haven’t seen her this nervous since tennis tryouts freshman year.

“Sure,” I say. “But only if, one, we watch Parks and Rec, and two, you stop talking to us like we’re going to break.”

“What?”

“Claire.” I knock her softly on the shoulder. “Claire. We’re good, okay?”

It takes a minute for the words to struggle off her tongue: “We’re good?”

“I mean, I’m good,” Juni says.

“And I haven’t been this good in a while,” I say. “So if you’re yourself again, and if you’re good, then by definition our little trio is, in fact, all good.”

“I . . . okay.” I swear, I feel the relief rolling off her, a gentle wave. A smile spreads across her face. “Then we’re good,” she says, and her voice evolves back into its brisk, businesslike self. “Also, do you guys think you’ll come to Young Environmentalists? Because I have all these brochures. I printed out, like, a hundred, and—”