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?

imogene

Even though I don’t have any muffin left, the pigeons are still here, swarming my feet for more tidbits. It’s too cold for them to be out, and I’ve honestly never seen so many in one place, but somehow by the time I reach the corner I have an entourage.

“Shoo,” I cluck at them. “It’s time for me to go.”

One of them cocks its head at me and allows me a beady glare before it marches off in the opposite direction, fluttering its wings sporadically. Now that they’ve left, I’m tempted to chase them with breadcrumbs and win them back. I watch as a boy lets go of his mother’s hand to terrorize the creatures, causing a frenzy of fluttering gray rainbows in the air. It’s 9:30 in the morning and I’m late to class.

It takes a subway ride of ten minutes and another five-minute walk to get to my part of campus, but I know I’ll be caught in the bustle of late rush hour if I go now. Cutting class is the last thing I want to do, even though I know I could probably survive without a review of partial differentiation. I have no reason to be, yet I’m perpetually anxious about falling flat of my mother’s expectations or suddenly landing myself in an inescapable rut. I used to have nightmares when I was young, laughably mundane dreams about being swallowed by debt.

“Genie,” my mother would laugh as she stroked my hair, “you’re too young to be thinking about that sort of thing. You’re like a middle-aged woman in a child’s body.”

So I was, and I haven’t grown out of it, ironically. I wonder if I’ll be a fiery eccentric in my old age. An eighty-year-old teenager, aging backwards.

I chafe my hands to warm them, but as soon as I’ve breathed on them, they’re cold again. The sign flashes do not walk at me, so I pause to shove my hands in my pockets and enjoy the acerbic early-spring breeze on my face. The subway is just around the corner; I’ve decided I’ll try to make it to class.

The faint slapping of sneakers on pavement rebounds behind me, and then a familiar – albeit out-of-breath – voice calls to me:

“Are you Imogene?”

I turn curiously. It’s the second time we’ve met and I can already feel my mind spiraling out of control at the sight of his lopsided smile. It’s a cheeky sort of grin, but with enough bashfulness that I believe in him.

“Remy, was it?” I know his name. I know it perfectly well.

“Yeah. I knocked you over last time,” he says sheepishly. “You said you didn’t need multivariable calculus.”

“Who does need it?” I ask dismissively. I realize that if I don’t catch this next ride to campus, I’ll have to wait another half-an-hour, and I might as well not go then. Despite this, I don’t walk any more quickly, nor do I shrug him off.

“Not me. I’m an art major.” He glances at me. “I’m not keeping you from any appointments, am I?”

“I actually have a class right now,” I begin to say, but what comes out of my mouth is “Not at all.” I start walking again with the hope that he’ll follow, and he does. “You want to have a small tour of the city?”

“Sure,” he says.

We walk along in silence, taking in the smoky vibrancy of the downtown. There’s music streaming out of bars and restaurants here, and the occasional tinted bus stop. Withered trees greet us every few feet with the barest of branches, and some even shiver as the cars pass by. More than city-watching, though, I watch his expression as we make our way down the road, smudged as if by a giant eraser from so much melting snow. The strange combination of domestic and danger suits him so well that I’m almost certain he’s a city-dweller, and he surprises me with that half-grin again just as I think this.

“This place is really small compared to New York,” he observes.

“You’re from New York?”

“You could say that. I’ve been too many places to count, but that’s where I was born.” Remy rolls up his sleeves and adjusts his bag, then gestures to the office-buildings towering around us. “These would probably be the squattest of skyscrapers in New York. You could get vertigo if you stared at them too long.”

“It sounds like an amazing place,” I say.

He shrugs. Then, as an afterthought, “It makes me claustrophobic.”

I realize suddenly how lean he is, almost unnaturally skinny for a boy. His features are irregular but delicately shaped: he has a bit of a retroussé nose and his chin is pointed, which gives him the appearance of a sweet-tempered sprite, and he has chameleon eyes that leave you unsure of their color even when they’re familiar as the scent of warm laundry. They’re the color of water – dark, reflective, shimmering. Pools I could drown in if I’m not careful, that I want to drown in.

“Could you tell me the way to the nearest airport?” he asks, as if he’s repeating himself.

I blink slowly; I’ve been staring at him.

“Right, sorry,” I stammer. “The easiest way is probably to take the shuttle directly there. You could wait here for it if you wanted.”

“Thanks,” he says, but he makes no move to sit down or find a place to set down his bag.

“You’re not... you’re not leaving, are you?” I wince at the sound of my own desperation. I know I’m far to earnest for my own good, probably due to the fact that I repressed my affections in high school and well into college. Even at the university, with plenty of attractive young men, I could never get any luck. There was Monique, strutting around like a peacock in resplendent dominatrix fashion, and then there was... me.

He looks at me, a bit surprised, and I wonder if I’ve come on too strong.

“Oh, I’m not leaving. I was supposed to leave town this morning, but I decided to stay.”

I nod, trying not to look too relieved. “Where are you staying?”

“Actually, I – ” He stops. “Hereabouts, I suppose?”

“I won’t stalk you, I promise,” I say with a laugh.

He looks genuinely uncomfortable now, which puts my mind in overdrive. What did I say? I suddenly feel like a complete imbecile. Of course it’s unnerving for a stranger to ask where you live.

“I don’t know where I’m staying,” he says sheepishly. “I’ll probably have to check out of the hotel.”

“Hotel?”

“Yeah.” Remy shrugs with his chin lifted to the sky and then relaxes with a sigh. “The thing is, I came here with my friend Greg. I’ve been touring the country in search of adventure or a job, whichever comes first, but neither has. That’s the short answer.”

“So,” I hedge, “what’s the long answer?”

“You want my life story, then?”

“Why not.” I smile at him.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, but steeples his fingers over his mouth.

“Well,” he finally says, “you have to understand that I’ve been a misfit for a long time.”

I must look surprised, because he offers me an inquisitive glance, then shrugs again.

“Basically, I had few friends in my formative years, probably from a combination of the fact that I was always somewhat queer and that I went to school in one of the poorer regions of New York where they weren’t as accepting. To their credit, they were very frank about it. I was shunted from the edges of cliques until college, whereupon I decided I would stop caring altogether. It’s worked great for me.”

He stops to dig out a crumpled dollar bill and proffers it to an old man I didn’t even noticed on the side of the street. He’s bundled in rags and sitting on a dirty towel, which I realize also doubles as a carpet for miniature carvings.

“You have a great day now,” Remy says to the man, and then, continuing as if nothing’s happened: “We were close at that art academy. If you’ve ever been in the humanities department you know everyone’s weird there. They were like my family. The other thing you probably know about humanities majors is that we’re constantly in need of a job, but there simply aren’t any.”

I nod.

“You knew that, right? That’s why you’re taking mathematics courses?”

“Partially,” I say, not wanting to admit that I like doing math.

“I have these quirks... that make it difficult for me to hold any job. That and I’m really hot-tempered,” he tells me easily. “Anyway, back at school, I had one pretty good friend who I could tell everything. He’s great, and he’s been driving me around all this time, from Chicago to Nevada to Idaho and everything in between. But Greg needs to sort out some problems with his girlfriend back in Chicago, and I didn’t want to go back with him. So here I am.”

We’ve made it around several blocks already, and are heading into residential area. There are few trees here, and what trees there are look naked. I shiver under my wool coat and hope he doesn’t notice. He doesn’t; he’s staring fixedly ahead when I next look at him, and there’s the slightest shade of regret around his mirror-like eyes.

“Is there anything I can do?” I ask.

He looks surprised at this, as if he isn’t used to being asked such a thing. For some reason, this makes me self-conscious, and I return to staring at my feet as we walk.

“That’s very kind of you,” he says, “but I don’t want to get you mixed up in my troubles.”

I don’t know what inspires me to say what I do, because what comes out of my mouth is unwarranted and so utterly strange that I can’t comprehend it. I’m caught in my own flustered thoughts and I want to reach for his hand. I’d swear that it’s a momentary lapse in judgment, that I’m simply drunk on springtime and the quicksilver of his eyes, but it’s not true. I feel him backing away, and it makes me want to close the space between us. It makes me rash. Impatient. It makes me say –

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