The Truth About Keeping Secrets(61)

She shook her head again and looked at all of me, eyes big and pained and beautiful, then lowered her gaze to the floor. ‘I just don’t think that’s a good idea. But I’m here for the time being, so …’

‘Well, OK. That’s fine. What do you want to do? We can just sit, or … They’re cleaning up but I bet there’s probably some pizza left, so maybe we could …’

‘Honestly, I’m kinda bummed I didn’t get to …’ And then her right hand travelled upwards, moved a little too swiftly along my bicep and then further up, towards my collarbone, round my neck, then behind, and then her left hand followed and arrived beside the other. They linked together behind me.

I froze and melted, froze and melted until my atoms drifted and split and died.

This was happening. This was happening here and now.

‘Is this OK?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I muttered, intending the word to sound decisive, but it ended up being hardly more than a breath. What do you do? What do you do, now, when you’re me? ‘But you said you didn’t come for the dancing?’ Images of Bea and I tucked away in the forest materialized in my head; trees hid just about as much as bleachers did, I thought. I wanted to check behind me to see if someone was watching, but I didn’t want to scare her away. My arms dangled uselessly at my sides, my hands closed and opened; I was unsure of where they should be or why they were even there at all. It occurred to me then how many parts a human body has – how are we ever expected to coordinate everything at the same time? And how every part can feel, a billion little nerve endings … ‘Are you sure we should be …’

I didn’t finish the thought. Neither did June, who led in the rhythmic foot-stepping, looking at me with such a heavy seriousness, such a terrible melancholy that I sort of felt like crying. ‘I don’t really know.’

I laid my hands gently on her waist and held her to me.

Sweat from her neck and chest mingled with sweat from my palms and chest, and I decided I would never shower again, that I would vial up whatever Frankenstein concoction of my and June’s liquids was being created and wear it as a necklace or a perfume or a crown.

Multiply it. Bathe in it.

From now on, when the death crept in, this memory was where I would live.

I wanted so badly for her hands to stay on me. I wanted to glue her to me. Actually, no. I was glad she could remove them whenever she wanted; she wanted to be here. She initiated. She pulled the strings. I was happy relinquishing control.

I imagined myself out of my body, splatted on to the ceiling, the wall, watching me, watching her, watching us. I’d drip, drip down.

Is this it?

For a moment, I floated. This was the first good float; the first time it felt correct to be away from my body. Just one big release of everything pent up, everything validated. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t imagining it. This was all June. It felt like a moment that existed somewhere else, like this crawl space behind some bleachers was a fucking rip in the timeline and we were nestled inside it.

‘You should probably sing something,’ she said.

‘Should I?’ I pinched the smallest bit of flesh on the inside of my mouth with my teeth to make sure my senses were keeping up with whatever, exactly, was happening. I wouldn’t want to miss this. The feeling of her hands on my neck was so foreign and wonderful; she’d touched me before, I guessed, exactly like this physically, but there was something different and stirring about how she did now. ‘I can’t sing.’

‘Neither can I,’ she said. ‘Friday night and the lights are low!’ she began, suddenly clutching my hands and sending the pair of us lurching in a sort of ballroom dance fashion. She was right. She couldn’t sing. ‘Looking out for a place to gooo.’ It was completely terrible. I don’t think she hit one note.

‘June.’ I laughed despite myself, with her still trying to sing, as she pitched me around behind the bleachers after Spring Fling. I wasn’t sure why I’d said her name – not necessarily to get her to stop or to get her attention, but it seemed like saying it would help me grab hold of the situation. She laughed too. ‘June, someone’s gonna –’

She screamed. ‘Dancing queen! Young and sweet, only seventeen –’

‘Someone’s gonna hear –’

‘Dancing queen, feel the –’

‘June.’

‘OK!’ We jolted to a stop. She grabbed my biceps, too hard this time, and I pulled back, sort of from the shock. ‘OK. That’s fine.’

My arms were sore where she’d squeezed them. ‘What do you mean, that’s fine?’

June’s face shifted and she pulled me into her. I was just holding her now, my whole world the smell of her neck and the frizz from her curls.

When she repositioned her head, her lips sort of brushed up against the side of my cheek; this was different. I was absolutely sure about it. There was something so intimate about this, from the way her hands pressed into my back with too much familiarity, to the way her breaths came out in shallow gusts. This was different. This was new and wonderful and everything I’d wanted – everything I’d wanted! June in the driver’s seat! June pressed to me. June here. June now.

But it was all wrong.

This was all wrong.

It was all suspended in the air, hanging from the ceiling, limbs dangling: the folder.