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?