remy

I pause to appraise my handiwork and my mind strays to the two gray eyes staring back at me. Gray, it’s always gray. I don’t need anyone to tell me whose they are; I’m having trouble withstanding their influence, it’s so obvious. They’re burning – if gray can be burning – and they’ve already scalded the insides of my mind.

I sigh and brush the eraser shavings from my desk, but it can’t change the familiar tilt of the eyebrows in front of me.

There are so many curves to a face: the dip of an eyelash, the slant of a nose, the slope of a cheek. It never fails to amaze me how many combinations there are, how many possible ways there are to arrange a person. Sharp cheekbones, a high forehead. Or maybe a flat nose, with full lips. Dark eyebrows, bright lips. Sturdy chin, round face. Sketching this portrait in the cramped space of a motel room with my sadly deformed piece of charcoal, I’m reminded why I took art in the first place.

The first time I fell in love was high school. At the risk of sounding stupid, it was one of those instant connections that leave no doubt what you felt – a spark, a certain electricity. She was the kind of girl anyone would like: funny, kind-hearted, and absolutely gorgeous. It took a certain restraint to even gaze upon her. She was a TA in two of my classes and served as the student body president, taking concert master in the school orchestra and French club leader besides. Amazing. Perfect.

She was unpretentious, and wholly honest. All the same, an inexplicable sadness emanated from her. No one else seemed to notice, but I did, and till the very last days of senior year, I tried to plumb the depths of her melancholy. I felt somehow that we knew each other, perhaps in the strangely spiritual way people do when they’ve met in a previous life.

That she even bothered to give me the time of day was miraculous. I could never understand why she chose me to spend her lunches with, why she even bothered speaking to me when there were high achievers flocking her on every end. Yet she would meet me everyday, precisely as the bell rang, and sit with me where I always ate lunch on the hill.

“Remy,” she told me on one of these days, “there’s something nakedly pure about you.”

I was in over my head. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. You’re just... yourself. You’re not anyone else.”

“I’m not much,” I said. “I mean, I exist without really taking part.”

“You should take part. You’re beautiful, I can feel it.”

I drew my knees to my chin and put down my sandwich. I was determined not to cry at this, no matter how deeply moved I was. That was the way she made people feel – incomparably special, and invaluable to the world. I didn’t want to be in love with her, of all the wrong girls I could be in love with (all of them).

“You’re doing exactly what you want, aren’t you?” She played with the edge of her skirt, pleating it and then smoothing it down. “You’re in art classes. And your work is beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I muttered.

She looked at me for a moment, but I couldn’t understand the emotion behind her gaze. It was surprisingly tender, yet there was a fierceness that I had never seen from her, as if she had long concealed the anger that now consumed her.

“Why?” she whispered, and there was such anguish behind the one word that I couldn’t speak. “Why you?”

“Me?”

She didn’t answer for a moment. I could tell she was crying from the way her shoulders shook.

“Listen, if it’s something I’ve done to upset you... I’m sorry. I really am.”

“It’s not that,” she said in a quavering voice. “I just can’t stand it.”

“Stand what?”

They were large and brown, her eyes. I can trace them with my fingers, even now, even in my dreams. Doe’s eyes. The reassuring color of hazelnut.

“This,” she said, leaning in to kiss me.

Her lips were surprisingly firm, molded against mine as if they belonged there. They tasted of nostalgic regrets and missed sunsets, the forgotten longing of a child on the brink of becoming too old for daydreams. She pressed against me urgently, deeply, until I couldn’t tell up from down. Until all that was left of me was the unshakable sensation of being drawn out of myself, being kissed and kissed and kissed into being.

She broke off after an eternity, but it felt like an instant. She left without a word.

I called after her dizzily, scrambling up the hill again, but she wouldn’t respond.

I dreamt of her that night, more vividly than I ever had. Of myself, reaching, and of her, walking away. It was the first nightmare I’d had in a while. The next day, she was gone.

I never found out exactly where she went, or why she left. The pain behind her steady gaze bespoke more forbearance than I could fathom, that was certain. For months and even years afterwards, I wondered if she really did love me, if she had kept it from me all the time because she, too, was afraid. I later found her name in the papers, though not in the way I expected. She was on the front page for attempted suicide by drowning. The last I knew of her were the last words of the article: “She is now seeking treatment at C— County Hospital.”

I wipe off my grimy hands and decide to make myself a cup of coffee. Black, and extra strong. What I really want is tea, but I know it won’t keep me up for the whole night.

The paper is crinkled now, and slightly damp at the edges where I’ve placed my hands. Suddenly, it’s too much for me – the lifelike drawing in front of me, the grit of the motel, the tragedy of a girl lost so long ago to grief unspoken. I tear the drawing in half, crumple one half and tear it further. To shreds. To particles. Atoms. I wish I could split even those, make an explosion that will cover the scream I so much want to release.

The other half is still in front of me, and now the eyes are accusing. I used to draw her eyes because I didn’t know any others, because they were grottos I wanted to explore. Now they’ve turned into a different pair of eyes. Gray ones. Gray like the belly of a pigeon, like the air of a snowy day, the slushy road of almost-spring. Gray.

I’m breathing hard, clutching pieces of paper that no longer have any meaning. I don’t know what’s going on anymore, goddammit, I’m laughing and crying all at once, I really think I’m going crazy, and there’s still these eyes in front of me that I can’t get rid of because they’re in my head. I can’t stop now; I’m on the slope and it’s all downhill from here.

I see her in my mind’s eye. Imogene. She so resembles her, yet it’s not the hair or the eyes or even the smile. No; it’s far subtler than that. It’s the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the way she looks up when she talks as if there might be something just above her head that she can’t see, the way she walks, so lightly she could take off from the ground. I see her laughing, raising her eyebrows, blushing. I see her smiling. Holding hands with a boy.

Fuck, it hurts. It knocks the wind out of me. It’s my own fault, I know, but I can’t help it. It’s fucking stupid of me to keep up this charade, this ironic deception that makes me not who I am. Is it worth it to give up part of myself so I can be rescued from my solitude? Because that’s what it is – rescue. There’s nothing noble about my pretense. It’s all about craving, wanting, needing. Rightness has blurred in my mind; what’s important now is clawing my way out of the hole I’ve dug for myself, had no choice but to dig.

I take a fresh sheet of paper from my bag and lay it flat on the table. It’s nearly 2:00 AM now, and I’m far from tired. It’s probably the coffee that’s given me this nervous energy to work with. I’m jittery, and I need to do this, of all things.

There’s no computer here, so I pull out my sketchbook and find all the male portraits I’ve done recently. My classmate from several months ago, Greg, an old man I met outside a café, my father. I tear them off and place them all side by side in front of me. Then, I pick up my charcoal.

I start, as always, with a circle. I make the lines as unforgiving as possible, as true as I possibly can. The eyes here, the chin there, the curvature unflattering. Messy hair, cropped short, with thick eyebrows to match. A crooked mouth and a jutting, ill-formed chin. I make the lips thin, the nose hooked. Once I’m done, my reflection stares back at me. Jagged, smudged, but female. Definitely female.

I don’t know why I gave her the picture today, but already it feels like a mistake. It was too soon, and too strange. Her heart was too evident in those moments, her eyes too bright.

“Thank you,” she said. She meant more than that, I could tell. A lot more.

And me? I couldn’t stop grinning like a fucking idiot. I couldn’t stop looking at the shape of her ear and the flutter of her fingers. I wanted to draw her again already.

“I want to say something,” I stammered. My mind was blank. I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about.

“Yes?”

It felt like the world was tilting just slightly. In my favor or against, I couldn’t tell. It was moving, something was changing. My pulse must have been off the charts. I could hardly stay put.

“Can I have your number?” I asked, abruptly, stupidly, irrelevantly.

imogene

What the hell am I doing?

The thought strikes me as I hurtle down the stairs, hardly allowing my feet the chance to touch the steps before I’m off, bursting through the doors and rushing into the brisk, almost-spring air. Even though I’m perpetually self-conscious, the jarring sense of abandonment doesn’t usually come so suddenly like this. I’m reserved; I’m refined; I’m anything but rash.

Yet here I am. I can hardly make it to the sidewalk fast enough before I’m jogging into town, heading towards that park where I know someone’s waiting. Part of it is the excitement of being wanted, being cared about, like getting a letter in the mail or realizing someone’s left breakfast on the table for you. But what’s becoming increasingly unsettling is the magnetic field that surrounds this newcomer, Remy, that draws me to him and makes me ache inside. It’s too soon and too strange, and even though I’ve spent so many years carefully crafting my reservoir of calm, calm is the last thing I am at this moment.

I barely catch the bus before it rumbles to life, pulling out of the stop with a thunderous belch. There’s no time to lose – at least, that’s what it feels like. I hold onto the railing and stare absently out the window, my thoughts racing.

“Nice view?” a low voice asks, close to my ear. I jump nearly three feet out of the way.

“Y-yeah,” I splutter. “Nice view.” When I glance at the speaker, a chill runs down my spine. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s not exactly a good feeling, either.

It’s someone I should know. He’s wearing a sweatshirt with the insignia for my school on it, and he’s got a backpack as well, so he has to be a student, probably around my age. He’s got the same lazy smirk that I’ve seen most frat boys wear when they know they’re getting laid that night. I try to recall his name, but come up with a blank – what was it? Rob? Chase?

“Carter,” the frat boy says, offering me a hand. “And you are?”

“Imogene.” I smile at him uncomfortably. His hand is warm and dry, which makes mine feel all the clammier by comparison. I wonder dimly what he’s doing talking to me when I’m obviously not his type or even in any of his classes, as far as I can remember.

“We’re in Psych 101 together,” he tells me, as if he can read my mind.

Oh.

“Right, of course.” That class is at least 100 students large. “I must have missed you.”

“Look, I know this is sudden and all, but...” Now he’s the one who looks uncomfortable. “Do you have time for a coffee? Really quick, just run down to Starbucks or something – ”

“I’m going to meet someone right now,” I blurt, without knowing why. At this point, I’m just trying to escape the encounter unscathed, but I’m fairly certain whatever I try, the situation won’t improve. The languid attitude has got to be a sham, the way he’s shifting around now.

“You are?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” This comes out much more defensive than I intend. “Really.”

“This your stop?”

“None of your business,” I mutter, but it comes out far too loud.

The city is flashing by more slowly now, until finally, with a tug under the feet that’s reminiscent of the diminishing tide, the bus screeches to a halt. Passengers get to their feet, and suddenly what was before a fairly roomy space is now tight and crowded. Even before the doors open, people off the side of the road are struggling to board. I glance around for Carter, but he’s disappeared.

I leave almost furtively. I don’t know why I feel guilty; it’s not as if I’ve committed a crime by turning him down, and I would have concluded the conversation a bit more nicely if I’d had the time. Nevertheless, I’m reluctant to go on my way without saying a word of goodbye. I walk slowly, at a leisurely stroll, but there’s still no one behind me. After I check for the fifth time (and run into an old woman who promptly drops her purse), I decide to go back.

He’s still standing there. I don’t know if I’m surprised or not, seeing him puzzle over a map inside one of the bus stops.

“Right,” he says. “Left... right, cul-de-sac, and turn in here.”

For some reason, this makes me smile. “Hi. Sorry about what I said.”

He glances at me impassively, then returns to his maps. “Starbucks should be right around this corner, unless I’m mistaken.”

“You’re holding it upside down.”

Carter does a double take, then bursts out laughing. “God, no wonder I can never do anything right. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” I think about leaving him to his directions, but I figure I should probably at least show him to his beloved Starbucks, lest he lose his way again. He’s still poring hopelessly over the map, so I sigh and approach him again. “I can just show you the way, if you want.”

He looks to me with this mock surprise that makes me regret my decision. He probably knows exactly where it is.

“That’d be great,” he says.

I don’t touch him; I don’t even stand close to him. He’s not bad-looking, to be honest, but from his dirty-blond hair to his scuffed sneakers, he has a decidedly ‘slacker’ look that instantly puts me off. His eyes are a lazy gray-green that don’t make a big deal out of themselves, but his jaw is finely chiseled to match his confident grin. I kick myself internally for giving him the opportunity to make another pass at me, and resolve not to let things go any further than simply bringing him to the café.

As expected, Starbucks is really quite close. There’s no reason he couldn’t have found it himself – it’s fairly obvious now that the whole thing was a ploy, and I’m so disgusted with it I don’t want to say another word. When we arrive, the shop is bustling with activity, the baristas tripping over themselves to get to every order on time. A line of people winds across the floor and every table is already occupied.

“Here you are,” I say. “Enjoy your coffee.”

“You’re waiting for someone, too, right?” he asks, pushing open the door.

“I’m meeting him elsewhere,” I clarify. I’m about to turn and walk back to the park before I waste anymore time, but he grabs my wrist out of nowhere and I end up stumbling backwards, uncomfortably close to him.

“Let me buy you a drink?” he inquires pleasantly.

I wrench my hand from his and begin a steady walk towards the other side of town, still fuming. I’ve barely made it five feet when he’s calling my name again. I decide I’ve had it, and whirl around and shout:

“I’m not going to date you, okay?”

It’s not Carter’s face that greets me. Two wide and slightly confused eyes stare back, and I realize our faces are extremely close, close enough that I can tell these eyes resemble nothing so much as liquid mercury. Blushing furiously, I leap backwards and barely venture to look up again.

“I didn’t even ask yet,” Remy says, with a peculiar expression on his face. Something between a smile and a stare. “...Should I?”

“No, that’s not – ” I shake my head. “I meant... Well, ignore that. Sorry. That really wasn’t meant for you.”

“Fight with the boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend? You mean – ” I’m so embarrassed I can barely speak. “I didn’t know him. At all.”

“Didn’t seem like it,” he remarks under his breath, but I must have imagined it, because in the next moment he’s laughing. “I guess I’m hardly surprised.”

“No.” It comes out as a murmur; I don’t even know what I’m protesting, but it’s making me want to curl into a ball and sink into the ground.

“Just joking, Imogene, don’t mind me.” Remy grins and hands me a piece of paper. “Here, I drew this while I waited. I figured I might as well do something with my art degree.”

It’s a beautifully rendered portrait, smudged on the sides as if the artist were in too much of a hurry to pay attention to the details. The strokes are broad and sure, somehow without being messy. The girl staring back at me has shy eyes, gently curled tresses, and a smile that could have thawed an iceberg.

Two gray eyes stare back at me. I don’t need him to tell me whose they are.

remy

Three intersections and fifteen apartment complexes later, along a snow-spangled sidewalk, I know without a doubt that she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met. There is something intimate about the way she looks up from under her lashes, tucking her hair behind her ear out of habit whenever I fall silent, as if she’s forgotten what to do with her hands. I like this gesture more than I can say, and it puzzles me for a good ten minutes as we trudge along before I decide to give it up.

That’s why her next words disarm me so completely, leave me feeling lost. She says it ardently, but earnestly (earnestness, yes, that’s part of why I find her so goddamn gorgeous); she says to me:

“Remy, you’re the most beautiful boy I’ve ever met.”

I can’t respond. The familiar paralysis is back, having my voice taken away by as simple and innocuous a statement as this, only a very small assumption, but an assumption nevertheless. My own foolishness shames me to silence as the chasm between I and they appears once again, as I have to offer my tired explanation and watch her face fall and her countenance turn cold. I don’t think I can stand it.

“I’m not – ” I begin to protest, but the words die on my tongue even as I start to speak. Because I’ve thought of something, and even though I hate the choice I’m making, even though I would’ve laughed at myself for even considering it a week earlier, it’s beginning to seem like my only alternative. I don’t know why it matters to me that Imogene continue to walk with me. Hell, I don’t know if I want to know.

“You’re not?” Imogene asks, after I falter without explanation. I realize she’s been staring at me expectantly this whole time.

“I’m not beautiful.” I manage a forced laugh. “That said, you don’t look too bad, yourself.”

She flushes, but seems to be relieved that I’ve brushed it aside.

“Thanks for that.”

“No problem.” I drum a beat on my arm with my fingers. “I hope this isn’t strange, since we just met and all. We only spoke briefly yesterday, but since I had the good fortune to see you as you were leaving the coffee shop... I figured I’d say hello.”

“It’s not strange at all,” she says. “It must be unnerving, not knowing anyone in town after your friend’s left.”

“Slightly.”

“I can understand it.” She tilts her head thoughtfully towards me. “I moved during the second semester of sixth grade, just when I’d finally begun to feel at home. I know it’s not really relevant, but I wouldn’t want you to be overwhelmed in a city full of strangers.”

“Thank you,” I reply awkwardly, although I really do appreciate it. I want her to tell me things about herself, perhaps allow me a glimpse of behind the cerulean of her eyes, but I don’t know what to say.

As we walk, she becomes more and more distracted, and she glances at her watch when she thinks I’m not looking. At first I can’t understand her agitation, but the memory of her abundant stacks of books and her noncommittal insistence that she’s free this morning jars me in a moment of understanding. She’s a student. Of course.

I’m about to bring it up when she does herself: “I’ve actually got a class this afternoon, so I have to go for now.”

“Did you have a class this morning as well?”

“I’m sure nothing of consequence happened today,” she says evasively, but her flush gives her away.

“Right,” I say. I am utterly taken aback by her trusting confidence in me. After being shunted to the side for so long, her welcome attitude comes as a shock, jolting me out of my cynical complacency and forcing my head up as if to convince me, Yes, you’ve missed something important in this world. You’ve missed the hope which has been there all along. In the next moment, I remember that I’m a boy to her, and this is how the female-male dynamic works. I’m weaving in and out of my composure.

“I’m sure I’ll see you again,” Imogene says desperately, and I think she must have seen something change in my face. This isn’t a statement, but a question.

“I’ll wait on your doorstep,” I quip, “or I’ll get lost within a few minutes of you leaving me.”

The laugh bubbles out of her unexpectedly as she begins to back away, breaking into a jog but still calling over her shoulder. “Take care. I’ll meet you here again at three in the afternoon!”

Three in the afternoon? I want to see her. I don’t want to see her. I wave goodbye without knowing what I’m doing, and run my hands through my hair, making my bangs stand on end. I don’t want to wait for her, but as I start wandering around the park, I know it’s exactly what I will do.

***

At least it’s clean here. The verdure is considerably healthier in the Midwest, and the birdsong is clearly audible over the scant traffic, unlike the motor-dominant cities of Chicago and New York. A sense of tranquility permeates this scene, and I enjoy it as best I can as I sit at a water fountain near the center of the park. I must have circled the perimeter already, and made several unnecessary detours besides, but at last I’m back where I started and no less decided about what I should do next. I need to figure out my situation, borrow some money, find a job, but I do none of these things. I sit on the cool marble and peruse the lines of tree branches against the azure sky.

Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, the panic is setting in. What the hell was I doing, telling Greg I’d be staying here? I have nothing, not even a change of clothes, and in a town that’s already proven itself hostile to who I am. Without Imogene, could I even have made it through today? I stare grimly at a man attempting unsuccessfully to reason with his elderly mother as they stray farther and farther from the restaurant. Snippets of their conversation float through the air (“I won’t be served by such a –  ” “Mother, there’s nothing wrong with him...” “And you would defend...”) that belie a message no more hopeful than my original impression. I rummage through my bag to find my phone, but it’s dead, and has probably been dead for a good half an hour now. It’s lunchtime anyway, so I head uncertainly into the city once more to find a sandwich shop.

My phone springs to life as soon as I connect it to an outlet, an impossibly long string of missed calls on the screen, all of which seem to have come from Greg. I wonder wryly if this flood of attention is retribution for being reckless to a fault this morning, or if he’s actually worried about me. It rings in my hand, and this time I catch him before he hangs up.

His furious shout explodes in my ear: “Remy, what the fucking hell?”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” I say in a low voice, covering the mouthpiece. He’s already attracted the attention of several other customers on the other side of the shop.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“You’re right. You’re completely right, and I’m a fool.”

“An idiot.”

“An imbecile,” I concur. “And I’m sorry for leaving you like that.”

“You could have said something. I waited for you all morning, and then went around the city looking, but you fucking disappeared.”

“You waited for me?” I straighten suddenly, surprised. “But you won’t get to Chicago till after midnight.”

“I know,” he growls. “You didn’t make it any easier. Why’d you change your mind, anyway? At the last goddamn minute.”

“So did you,” I point out, but I know I still owe him for all the trouble he’s taken, so it makes me feel guilty.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he says defensively; I can tell he’s been taken down a notch. I hear the sound of his blinkers flashing, then a quick honk! that probably came from the driver behind him.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I repeat, just as he admits, “I was worried, Rem.”

“You know I always come out fine in the end.” I keep my voice carefully dismissive, but I’m touched by his kindness.

“One day, you might not. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I’ll worry about that when the time comes.”

“You can’t always do that.”

“I’m alright,” I insist, somewhat irrelevantly. “I’m with a friend.”

“A friend?” The skepticism in his voice makes me want to defend Imogene, even though as far as I know, she’s not any different than the beet-faced man who fired me this morning. I push aside the notion with equal parts disgust and fear, although I can’t shake it.

“Yes. A friend.”

He has every reason to be unsure. “Did you meet someone here?”

“Of course. That’s how I know her.”

“Her?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not – ”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” I interrupt him, because I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hear the rest of the question, and I wouldn’t be able to answer it, either. “Anyways, I’ve got to go. I’m sorry for holding you up. Drive safely.”

“Remy! You can’t just hang up on me no– ”

I end the call with sigh, waiting for the minutes to pass till I can see her again. Despite all rationality, despite all contrary advice, I’ll do my best to stay here. But what the hell am I doing?