Love Hurts, Page 20

  ‘I want to find out,’ I told her.

  The trouble I felt coming when I met Ashley was nothing compared to the trouble I felt when I first realized I didn’t need her or anyone like her. People fall hard for the notion of falling, and saying you want no part of it will only get you sent to the loony bin. C’mon, you’ve seen the movie: As soon as the headstrong girl announces she’s not going to fall in love, you know she’ll be falling in love before the final credits. That’s the way the story goes. Only it’s not going to be my story. I don’t care for the way it’s supposed to go. Some people find happily ever after in being part of a couple, and for them, I say, good for you. But that’s no reason we should all have to do it. That’s no reason that every goddamn song and story has to say we should.

  I tried to explain myself to people.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missing,’ Teddy, who usually had about four crushes going on at the same time, told me. ‘It’s the best excuse in the world for getting absolutely nothing done.’

  When I called my sister at college and told her about my revelation, she acted like I’d announced I was shipping myself off to a nunnery. (Which would only be another form of crushing, if you ask me.)

  ‘Did someone hurt you that badly?’ she asked.

  And I told her, no, it wasn’t that.

  ‘You want to be single?’

  I said yes. And then I told her that I thought single was a stupid term. It made it sound like you were unattached to anyone, unconnected to anything. I preferred the term singular. As in individual.

  ‘Does this have anything to do with . . .’

  My sister couldn’t bring herself to say it, but I was still impressed. Besides a few gender-neutral terms (like someone, see above), she’d never really acknowledged that I was a [whatever term you want for lesbian].

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ I told her. ‘I’d feel this way even if I were into guys.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘just don’t tell Mom. You’ll never hear the end of it.’

  I didn’t tell Mom. I did, however, finally speak to Ashley again. I couldn’t avoid her forever. As soon as Ashley sensed me not wanting her anymore, she stepped right into my line of vision.

  ‘I miss you,’ she said.

  ‘That’s special,’ I told her.

  She laughed, and this time the laugh meant nothing to me.

  ‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said.

  ‘You know about me and Lily?’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It just happened.’

  ‘Let it, then. Why not let it?’

  It felt so good not to care. Not to need.

  ‘Miss Lucy,’ she said. Quietly. Sweetly. Trying to pull me back in.

  ‘Miss Lucy’s gone to heaven,’ I told her.

  You never think of heaven in terms of who likes who, or who’s with who, or whether this crush works, or whether the sex is good. In heaven you don’t worry about what you’re going to wear, or what you have to say, or whether someone loves you back, or whether someone will be with you when you die. In heaven, you just live. Because it’s heaven.

  ‘Let’s go on a trip,’ I told Teddy and Heron. ‘Let’s drive until we find Miss Lucy.’

  The three of us. The four of us. The hundred of us. The thousands of us.

  You see, us doesn’t need a particular number to make it fit.

  I’m tired of convincing myself otherwise. I can put that energy to better use.

  Let the boys and girls go on kissing in the dark.

  I want more.

  FROM

  I AM THE MESSENGER

  BY

  MARKUS ZUSAK

  Clown Street. Chips. The Doorman. And Me

  It’s the hottest day of the year, and I’ve got a day shift in the city. The cab has air-conditioning, but it breaks down, much to the disgust of everyone I pick up. I warn them every time they get in, but only one gets back out. It’s a man who still has his last lungful of a Winfield in his mouth.

  ‘Bloody hopeless,’ he tells me.

  ‘I know.’ I only shrug and agree.

  The stone that Lua Tatupu gave me is in my left pocket. It makes me happy in the festering city traffic, even when the lights are green and all the cars remain still.

  Not long after I return the cab to base, Audrey pulls into the lot. She winds her window down to talk to me.

  ‘Sweating like crazy in here,’ she says.

  I imagine the sweat on her and how I’d like to taste it. With blank expression, I slide down into the visual details.

  ‘Ed?’

  Her hair’s greasy but great. Lovely blonde, like hay. I see the three or four spots of sun thrown across her face. Again she speaks. ‘Ed?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘I was thinking of something.’ I look back to where the boyfriend stands, expecting her. ‘He’s waiting for you.’ When I return to Audrey’s face, I miss it and catch a glimpse of her fingers on the wheel. They’re relaxed and coated with light. And they’re lovely. Does he notice those small things? I wonder, but I don’t speak it to Audrey. I only say, ‘Have a good night,’ and step back from the car.

  ‘You, too, Ed.’ She drives on.

  Even later, as the sun goes down and I walk into town and onto Clown Street, I see all of Audrey. I see her arms and bony legs. I see her smiling as she talks and eats with the boyfriend. I imagine him feeding her food from his fingers in her kitchen, and she eats it, allowing enough of her lips to smudge him with her beauty.

  The Doorman’s with me.

  My faithful companion.

  Along the way I buy us some hot chips with lots of salt and vinegar. It’s old-style, all wrapped in the racing section of today’s newspaper. The hot tip is a two-year-old mare called Bacon Rashers. I wonder how she went. The Doorman, on the other hand, cares little. He can smell the chips.

  When we make it to 23 Clown Street, we discover that it’s a restaurant. It’s tiny, and it’s called Melusso’s. Italian. It’s in a little shopping village and follows the small-restaurant ritual of being dimly lit. It smells good.

  There’s a park bench across the road and we sit there, eating the chips. My hand reaches down inside the package, through the sweaty, greasy paper. I love every minute of it. Each time I throw the Doorman a chip, he lets it hit the ground, leans over it and licks it up. He turns nothing down, this dog. I don’t think he cares too much about his cholesterol.

  Nothing tonight.

  Or the next.

  In fact, time is wasting away.

  It’s a tradition now. Clown Street. Chips. The Doorman and me.

  The owner is old and dignified, and I’m quite sure it isn’t him I’m here to see. I can tell. Something’s coming.

  On Friday night, after standing outside the restaurant and going home after closing, I find Audrey sitting on my porch, waiting. She’s wearing board shorts and a light shirt without a bra. She isn’t big up there, Audrey, but she’s nice. I stop for a moment, hesitate, and continue. The Doorman loves her and throws himself into a trot.

  ‘Hey, Doorman,’ she says. She crouches down warmly to greet him. They’re good friends, those two. ‘Hi, Ed.’

  ‘Hi, Audrey.’

  I open the door and she follows me in.

  We sit.

  In the kitchen.

  ‘So where were you this time?’ she asks. It’s almost laughable because usually that question is asked with contempt to unreliable-bastard husbands.

  ‘Clown Street,’ I answer.

  ‘Clown Street?’

  I nod. ‘Some restaurant there.’

  ‘There’s actually a street called Clown Street?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Anything happen there yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see.’

  As she looks away I make my mind up. I say, ‘So why are you here, Audrey?’

  She looks down.

  Away.

&nb
sp; When she finally answers, she says, ‘I guess I missed you, Ed.’ Her eyes are pale green and wet. I want to tell her it’s barely been a week since we last got together, but I think I know what she means. ‘I feel like you’re slipping away somehow. You’ve become different since all this started.’

  ‘Different?’

  I ask it, but I know it. I am.

  I stand up and look into her.

  ‘Yes.’ She confirms it. ‘You used to just be.’ She explains this like she doesn’t really want to hear it. It’s more a case that she has to say it. ‘Now you’re somebody, Ed. I don’t know everything about what you’ve done and what you’ve been through, but I don’t know – you seem further away now.’

  It’s ironic, don’t you think? All I’ve ever wanted was to get closer to her. I’ve tried desperately.

  She concludes. ‘You’re better.’

  It’s with those words that I see things from Audrey’s perspective. She liked me being just Ed. It was safer that way. Stable. Now I’ve changed things. I’ve left my own fingerprints on the world, no matter how small, and it’s upset the equilibrium of us – Audrey and me. Maybe she’s afraid that if I can’t have her, I won’t want her.

  Like this.

  Like we used to be.

  She doesn’t want to love me, but she doesn’t want to lose me either.

  She wants us to stay OK. Like before.

  But it’s not as certain anymore.

  We will, I try to promise.

  I hope I’m right.

  Still in the kitchen, my fingers feel the stone from Lua in my pocket again. I think about what Audrey’s been telling me. Maybe I truly am shedding the old Ed Kennedy for this new person who’s full of purpose rather than incompetence. Maybe one morning I’ll wake up and step outside of myself to look back at the old me lying dead among the sheets.

  It’s a good thing, I know.

  But how can a good thing suddenly feel so sad?

  I’ve wanted this from the beginning.

  I head back to the fridge and get more to drink. I’ve come to the conclusion that we have to get drunk. Audrey agrees.

  ‘So what were you doing,’ I ask later on the couch, ‘while I was at Clown Street?’

  I see her thoughts swivel.

  She’s drunk enough to tell me, at least in a coy kind of way.

  ‘You know,’ she embarrasses.

  ‘No.’ I mock her a little. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I was with Simon at my place and we . . . for a few hours.’

  ‘A few hours.’ I’m hurt but keep it out of my voice. ‘How’d you manage the strength to get over here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she admits. ‘He went home and I felt empty.’

  So you came here, I think, but I’m not bitter. Not at this moment. I rationalize that none of the physical things matter so much. Audrey needs me now, and for old times’ sake, that’s good enough.

  She wakes me a bit later. We’re still on the couch. A small crowd of bottles is assembled on the table. They sit there like onlookers. Like observers at an accident.

  Audrey looks me hard in the face, wavers, then hands me a question.

  ‘Do you hate me, Ed?’

  Still stupid with bubbles and vodka in my stomach, I answer. Very seriously.

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘I do.’

  We both smack the sudden silence with laughter. When it returns, we hit it again. The laughter spins in front of us and we keep hitting it.

  When it calms completely, Audrey whispers, ‘I don’t blame you.’

  The next time I’m woken, it’s by a cracking at the door.

  I stammer there, open it, and there in front of me is the guy who jumped my cab. That feels like an eternity ago.

  He looks annoyed.

  As usual.

  He holds his hand up for me to be quiet and says, ‘Just’ – he waits, for effect – ‘shut up and listen.’ He actually sounds a touch more than annoyed as he continues. ‘Look, Ed.’ The yellow-rimmed eyes scratch me. ‘It’s three in the morning. It’s still humid as hell, and here we are.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agree. A cloud of drunkenness hangs over me. I almost expect rain. ‘Here we are.’

  ‘Now don’t you mock me, boy.’

  I reel back. ‘I’m sorry. What is it?’

  He pauses, and the air sounds violent between us. He speaks.

  ‘Tomorrow. Eight p.m. sharp. Melusso’s.’ He walks away before remembering something. ‘And do me a favour, will you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Cut down on the chips, for Christ’s sake. You’re making me sick.’ Now he points at me, threatening. ‘And hurry up with all this shit. You might think I don’t have better things to do, but as it happens, I do, all right?’

  ‘All right. It’s only fair.’ In my stupor, I try for something extra. I call out, ‘Who’s sending you?’

  The young man with the gold-rimmed eyes, black suit of clothes and brutal disposition returns up the porch steps. He says, ‘How the hell would I know, Kennedy?’ He even laughs and shakes his head. ‘You might not be the only one getting aces in the mail. Did you ever think of that?’

  He lingers a little longer, turns and trudges off, dissolving into the darkness. Blending in.

  Audrey’s behind me at the door now, and I’ve got something to think about.

  I write down what he told me about Melusso’s.

  Eight p.m. tomorrow night. I have to be there.

  After sticking the note to the fridge, I go to bed, and Audrey comes with me. She sleeps with her leg across me, and I love the feel of her breath on my throat.

  After perhaps ten minutes, she says, ‘Tell me, Ed. Tell me about where you’ve been.’

  I’ve told her once before about the Ace of Diamonds messages, but not in any detail. I’m so tired now, but I do tell her.

  About Milla. Beautiful Milla. As I speak, I see her pleading face as she begged me that she did right by her Jimmy.

  About Sophie. The barefoot girl with—

  Audrey’s asleep.

  She’s asleep, but I go on speaking. I tell her about Edgar Street and all the others. The stones. The beatings. Father O’Reilly. Angie Carusso. The Rose boys. The Tatupu family.

  Just for now, I find I’m happy, and I want to stay awake, but soon the night falls down, beating me hard into sleep.

  The Woman

  The yawn of a girl can be so beautiful it makes you cringe.

  Especially when she’s standing in your kitchen in her underpants and a shirt, yawning.

  Audrey’s doing this right now as I do the dishes. I rinse a plate and there she is, rubbing her eyes, yawning, then smiling.

  ‘Sleep OK?’ I ask.

  She nods and says, ‘You’re comfortable, Ed.’

  I realize I could take that comment badly, but it’s a compliment.

  ‘Have a seat,’ I say, and without thinking, I look at her shirt buttons and her hips. I follow her legs down to her knees, shins and ankles. All in a brief second. Audrey’s feet look soft and delicate. Almost like they could melt into the kitchen floor.

  I make her some cereal and she crunches it. I didn’t have to ask if she wanted some. Some things I know.

  This is confirmed later, once Audrey’s had a shower and dressed fully.

  At the front door, she says, ‘Thanks, Ed.’ She pauses before speaking again. ‘You know, out of everyone, you know me the best, and you treat me the best. I feel most comfortable with you.’ She even leans close and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Thanks for putting up with me.’

  As she walks away, I still feel her lips on my skin. The taste of them.

  I watch her all the way up the street, till she turns the corner. Just before she does, she knows I’m standing there, and she turns one last moment and waves. In answer, I hold up my hand, and she’s gone.

  Slowly.

  At times painfully.

  Audrey is killing me.

  FROM

  GRASSHOPPER JUNGLE


  BY

  ANDREW SMITH

  Stupid People Should Never Read Books

  It took me a very long time to work up the nerve to kiss Shann Collins, who was the first and only girl I had ever kissed.

  There was a possibility that I’d never have kissed her, too, because she was the one who actually initiated the kiss.

  It happened nearly one full year after the Curtis Crane Lutheran Academy End-of-Year Mixed-Gender Mixer.

  Like Robby explained to her: I was shy.

  I was on the conveyor belt toward the paper shredder of history with countless scores of other sexually confused boys.

  After the Curtis Crane Lutheran Academy End-of-Year Mixed-Gender Mixer, I tried to get Shann to pay more serious attention to me.

  I tried any reasonable method I could think of. I joined the archery club when I found out she was a member, and I offered multiple times to do homework with her. Sadly, nothing seemed to result in serious progress.

  At last, all I could do was let Shann Collins know that I would be there for her if she ever needed a friend or a favor. I do not believe I had any ulterior motives in telling her such a thing. Well, to be honest, I probably did.

  I’d leave notes for Shann tucked inside her schoolbooks; I would compliment her on her outfit. She laughed at such things. Shann knew it was a ridiculous thing to write, since all the girls at Curtis Crane Lutheran Academy dressed exactly the same way. Still, history will show that patient boys with a sense of humor, who can also dance, tend to have more opportunities to participate in the evolution of the species than boys who give up and mope quietly on the sidelines.

  But I began to worry. Rumors were spreading around Curtis Crane Lutheran Academy about me and Robby, even though I never heard anything directly.

  Then, in the second semester of eighth grade, I was called into the headmaster’s office for something I wrote in a book report. Even though the book I read was in Curtis Crane’s library, as well as the Ealing Public Library, apparently nobody other than kids had bothered to read the book until I wrote my report on it.

  The book was called The Chocolate War, and the copy I read belonged to my brother, Eric. Mrs Edith Mitchell, who was the eighth-grade English teacher, assumed the book was about a candy kingdom or something. She probably thought there were magical talking peacocks in the book that shot gumballs and Sugar Babies out of their asses.