I'll Give You the Sun

by Jandy Nelson

  “David Bowie has different-color eyes!” She throws up her arms, exasperated. Grandma has a great passion for David Bowie. “It’s good luck when a boy’s mother prophesizes about you.” Her face goes soft. “And he said you give him chills, honey.”

  “I have a feeling his girlfriend gives him chills too.”

  “How can you judge a fella until you picnic with him?” She opens her arms as if to embrace the whole world. “Pack a basket, pick a spot, and go. Simple as that.”

  “So corny,” I say, spotting one of Guillermo’s notepads on a stack of mail. I quickly leaf through it for notes to Dearest. None.

  “Who with a beating heart in her chest scoffs at a picnic?” she exclaims. “You have to see the miracles for there to be miracles, Jude.” She used to say this a lot. It’s the very first passage she wrote in the bible. I’m not a miracle-seer. The very last passage she wrote in the bible was: A broken heart is an open heart. I somehow know she wrote it for me, to help me after she died, but it didn’t help.

  Throw a handful of rice into the air, and the number of kernels

  that land back in your hand are the amount of people

  you will love in your life

  (Grandma would put up the closed sign for my sewing lessons.

  At the table in the back of her shop, I’d sit on her lap and breathe in her flowery scent while learning to cut and drape and stitch. “Everyone gets a one-and-only and you’re mine,” she’d tell me. “Why me?” I’d always ask, and she’d nudge her elbow into my ribs and say something silly like, “Because you have such long toes, of course.”)

  A knot’s forming in my throat. I walk over to the angel and when I’m finished wishing my second wish—you always get three wishes, right?—I join Grandma in front of the painting. Not Grandma. Grandma’s ghost. There’s a difference. Grandma’s ghost only knows things about her life that I know. Questions about Grandpa Sweetwine—he left when Grandma was pregnant with Dad and never came back—go unanswered like they did when she was alive. Lots of questions go unanswered. Mom used to say when you look at art, it’s half seeing, half dreaming. Same with ghosts, maybe.

  “Meanwhile, this is one hell of a kiss,” she says.

  “Sure is.”

  We both sigh into our own thoughts, mine, much to my distress, becoming R-rated, Oscar-rated. I really don’t want to be thinking about him, but I am . . .

  “What’s it like to be kissed like that?” I ask her. Even though I’ve kissed a bunch of boys, it never ever felt like this painting looks.

  Before she can answer me, I hear, “I’d be more than happy to show you. If you’d break the boycott, that is. Give it a go, anyway. Even if you are barking mad.” I pull my hand away from my mouth—when had it crept up to my lips as a substitute for his?—and inch around to see that Oscar has jumped out of my mind and is standing in full flesh form on the landing of the loft. He’s leaning (a sexy lanky front forward one this time) on the railing with his camera focused on me. “Thought it only fair I pipe in before things went any further with that hand of yours.”

  No.

  I flail in place, suddenly finding my skin extremely confining. “I didn’t know anyone was here!”

  “Quite apparent,” he says, trying not to laugh. “Quite, quite apparent.”

  Oh no. How crazy must I have looked chattering away with the air? Heat pours into my face. How much of that conversation did he hear? Well, conversation, so to speak. Oh oh oh. And how long had I been making out with the hand? Does he know I was thinking about him? Kissing him? He continues. “Very fortunate for me. These zoom lenses. They miss nothing. Hell, oranges—who knew? Could’ve saved a bundle on cologne, candlelit dinners, et cetera, et cetera.”

  He knows.

  “You’re assuming I was thinking about you,” I say.

  “Indeed.”

  I roll my eyes at the absurdity.

  He puts both hands on the rail. “Who were you bloody talking to, CJ?”

  “Oh that,” I say. How to respond? I don’t know why, but like with Guillermo yesterday, I go with the truth. “Just Grandma popping in for a spell.”

  He makes a weird choking-coughing sound.

  I have no idea what’s happening on his face because I don’t dare look his way. “Twenty-two percent of the world’s population sees ghosts,” I tell him via the wall. “It’s not unusual. About one in four. And it’s not like I’m some ghost-whisperer. I don’t see ghosts per se. Just my grandmother and my mother, but my mom, she doesn’t talk or appear to me, she just breaks things. Except for the other day when she recited a poem to me.” I exhale. My cheeks are on fire. Probably less was more.

  “What poem?” I hear. Not the response I expected.

  “Just a poem,” I answer. Telling him which poem somehow feels too personal to share even after the admission that I converse with dead relatives.

  There’s a moment of silence during which I listen intently for beeps indicating a 911 call. “I’m very sorry they’re both gone, CJ,” he says, his voice sincere and serious. I peer up at him, expecting to see The Poor Motherless Girl Look, but that’s not what I see on his face.

  I think his mom’s dead after all. I turn away.

  The good news is that he seems to have forgotten I was hooking up with my hand. The bad news is that now I’m running through the conversation that he might’ve overheard. Writing a love letter to him would’ve been less revealing. Nothing to do but cover the eyes with the hands. Desperate times call for ostrich measures. “How much did you hear, Oscar?”

  “Hey, no worries about that,” he says. “I couldn’t make out much. I was sleeping when your voice started trickling into my dream.”

  Is he telling the truth? Or just being kind? I do speak quietly. I fan my fingers. In time for his languid descent down the steps. Why does he move so slowly? Seriously. It’s impossible not to watch him, to hang on his every move, to wait for him to arrive . . .

  He slinks in behind me, close as a shadow.

  Not sure the Oscar case is entirely closed, actually. I didn’t account for proximity. And didn’t he just say he’d be more than happy to kiss me like in the painting? I’m remembering specifically how he said he’d: Give it a go, anyway.

  “So what’d you wish for, then?” he asks. “I saw you communing with the angel as well as your grandmother.” His voice is low and silken and intimate and I don’t trust myself to answer this question.

  He’s looking at me in that way of his that should be illegal or patented, and it’s affecting my ability to remember things like my name and species and all the reasons a girl might go on a boy strike. Why don’t I care one iota about the bad luck that might befall me? All I want is to comb my fingers through his tousled brown hair, to cup my hand around the blue horse on his neck, to press my lips against his like Sophia did.

  Sophia.

  I completely forgot about Sophia. It seems he did too, from the way he’s still looking at me. What a louse. A lousy louse. Such a scalawag rake bounder miscreant scamp playboy player guyslut!

  “I made orange juice out of the oranges you planted in my bag,” I tell him, coming to my senses. “Pulverized them to pulp.”

  “Ouch.”

  “How come you’re doing this?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, this thing, this act. That voice. Looking at me like I’m this . . . this . . . donut. Standing so close. I mean, you don’t even know me. Not to mention your girlfriend, remember her?” I’m talking too loud. I’m barking. What’s gotten into me?

  “But I’m not doing anything.” He holds up his hands like he’s surrendering. “Not acting. This is my voice—just woke up. I don’t think you’re in any way, shape, or form a donut, trust me on that. I’m not chatting you up. I respect the boycott.”

  “Good, because I’m not interested.”

  “
Good, because my intentions are honorable.” He pauses, then says, “Haven’t you read Jane Austen? We English are more uptight than you lot, isn’t that so?”

  I gasp. “I thought you didn’t hear anything!”

  “I was being polite. We English are very polite, you know.” He’s grinning crazily, kind of like he’s brainless. “Heard every word, I believe.”

  “It wasn’t about you—”

  “No? About the other bloke who rides a motorcycle and has two different-colored eyes and leans like James Dean. Thank you, by the way. No one’s ever commented on the lean.”

  I have no idea how else to navigate this moment except to make a run for it. I turn and head toward the jail cell room.

  “What’s more,” he says, laughing his breezy laugh. “You think I’m hot. Too hot, in fact. Way too hot, I believe were the exact words.” I close the door, hear through it, “And I don’t have a girlfriend, CJ.”

  Is he effing kidding me? “Does Sophia know that?” I’m shouting like a maniac.

  “As a matter of fact, she does!” he replies, equally maniacally. “We broke up.”

  “When?” We’re yelling on either side of the door.

  “Oh. Over two years ago.” Two years ago? But that kiss. Was it not as long and lingering as I thought? Anxiety can alter perception; I know that. “Met at a party and I believe we lasted five days.”

  “Was that a record for you?”

  “The record is nine days, actually. And I didn’t realize you were on the Morality Police Force!”

  I lie on the cold cement floor and let all the contaminated dust and microbes and toxic black mold spores do with me what they will. I’m racing inside. If I’m not mistaken, Oscar and I just got into a fight. I haven’t fought with anyone since Mom. It doesn’t feel entirely bad.

  Nine days is his record. OMFCG. He’s that guy.

  I’m trying to get a grip, wondering when Guillermo’s going to return, trying to focus on the reason I’m here, the sculpture I need to make, trying to make myself think about what could possibly be hiding inside my practice rock and not the revelation that Sophia and Oscar are not a couple!—when the door opens and in comes Oscar, waving a clay-covered towel.

  He raises an eyebrow when he sees I’m lying on the floor like a corpse but doesn’t comment. “White flag,” he says, holding the mostly unwhite towel up. “I come in peace.” I hoist myself onto my elbows. “Look, you were right,” he says. “Well, partially. It is an act. I am an act. Totally full of it. About ninety-eight percent of the time anyway. My intentions are rarely honorable. It’s not terrible to be called out for once.” He walks over to the wall. “Watching? Ladies and gents: The Lean.” He presses one shoulder into the wall, crosses his arms, cocks his head, squints his eyes, mugging James Dean better than James Dean. I can’t help but laugh, which was the point. He smiles. “All right then. Moving on.” He breaks the pose and begins pacing the small room, trial lawyer style. “I need to talk to you about those oranges and the red ribbon around your wrist and that unbelievably large onion you’ve been carrying around for days now . . .” He gives me a gotcha look, then reaches into his front jeans pocket and pulls out a chipped conch-shaped shell. “I wanted to let you know I don’t go anywhere without my mum’s magic seashell because if I do I will die, probably within minutes.” This makes me laugh again. It’s alarming how charming he can be. He tosses it to me. “Furthermore, I have conversations in my dreams with my mother, who passed away three years ago. Sometimes,” he says, “I go to sleep in the middle of the afternoon, like I did today, just to see if she’ll talk to me. You’re the only person I’ve ever told this, but I owe you for eavesdropping before.” He walks over, snatches the seashell out of my hands, grinning boyishly, adorably. “I knew you’d want to pinch my shell. Not happening. It’s my most beloved possession.” He slips it back into his pocket, stands over me, his eyes glinting, his smile headlong, anarchic, utterly irresistible.

  Lord. Have. Mercy. On. My. Boycotting. Soul.

  The next thing I know, he’s at eye level and then lying down on the filthy floor next to me. Yes. A sound comes out of me that could only be described as a squeal of delight. He’s crossed his arms over his chest and shut his eyes as mine were when he walked through the door. “Not bad,” he says. “It’s like we’re at the beach.”

  I resume the position beside him. “Or in our coffins.”

  “What I like about you is how you always look on the bright side.”

  Laughing, again. “I do like that you came down on the floor with me,” I say, looking on the bright side, feeling on the bright side, knowing there’s no one in my life who’d lie on the floor with me like this. Or who carries a shell in their pocket so they don’t die. Or who goes to sleep so they can talk to their dead mother.

  A comfortable quiet falls over us. Really comfortable, like we’ve lain on filthy floors corpselike together for several lifetimes now.

  “The poem was by Elizabeth Barrett Browning,” I tell him.

  “‘How do I love thee?’” he croons. “‘Let me count the ways.’”

  “That’s the one,” I say, thinking: He’s the one. And some thoughts once thought are very hard to unthink. “It is kind of like being on the beach,” I say, growing more and more elated. I roll onto my side, cradle my head in my hand, and secretly stare at Oscar’s madhouse face. Until he pops open an eye and catches me admiring him—you are so busted, his smile says. He closes the eye. “Shame you’re not interested.”

  “I’m not!” I cry, falling back down on the sandy beach. “Artistic curiosity is all. You have an unusual face.”

  “And you have a mind-blowingly beautiful one.”

  “You’re such a flirt,” I say, effervescing.

  “It’s been said.”

  “What else has been said?”

  “Hmm. Well, unfortunately, it’s been said very recently I stay away from you or I get castrated.” He sits up and spins his hands in the air like Guillermo. “Castration, Oscore! Understand? You have seen me use the circular saw, yes?” He relaxes into being himself again. “Which is actually why I’ve come in here waving the white flag. I have this way of ruining things and I don’t want to ruin this. You’re the first person besides me who’s made G. laugh in years. That he’s teaching again is a miracle. We’re talking loaves and fishes, CJ. You’ve no idea.” A miracle? “It’s like you’ve cast this spell on him. Around you . . . I don’t know . . . he’s okay again. The guy’s been bloody ferocious for a very long time.” Is it possible I’m Guillermo’s meadow like he’s mine? “Plus we now know you both converse with invisible mates.” He winks. “So”—he presses his hands together—“per your request and his, this is how it’s going to be from now on. When I want to ask you to abandoned buildings or kiss those lips of yours or stare into your otherworldly eyes or imagine what you look like under all those baggy drab clothes you’re always hiding in or ravish you on some grimy floor like I’m desperate to this very minute, I’ll just bugger off on my Hippity Hop. Deal?” He holds out his hand. “Friends. Just friends.”

  Talk about mixed signals; he’s like a roller coaster that talks.

  No deal, no way. “Deal,” I say, and take his hand but only because I want to touch him.

  Moments tick by, our hands clasped, electricity jolting wildly through me. And then he’s pulling me slowly toward him, looking into my eyes even as he just swore he wouldn’t and heat’s bursting in my belly, radiating everywhere. I feel my body opening. Is he going to kiss me? Is he?

  “Oh man,” he says, letting go of my hand. “I should probably go.”

  “No, don’t. Please don’t go.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  “How about I sit over here, then, where it’s safer,” he says, scooting a few feet away from me. “Did I mention I have impulse-control issues?” He smiles. “I’m having a particul
arly strong impulse, CJ.”

  “Let’s just talk,” I say, my heart rate off the charts. “Remember the circular saw?” His laugh cartwheels across the room. “You have this great laugh,” I blurt out. “It’s like wow, it’s—”

  “You’re not helping things. Please keep all compliments to yourself. Oh!” He’s coming toward me again. “I know! An idea.” He pulls my hat down so it covers my entire face and half my neck. “There,” he says. “Perfect. Let’s talk.”

  Except I’m laughing now inside my hat and he’s laughing outside of it and we’re getting carried away, far away, and I don’t think I’ve been this happy maybe ever.

  It’s very hot and steamy to laugh out of control inside a wool hat, so after a time I lift it up and see him there, his face splotchy and eyes watering from truly losing it, and I’m filled with something I can only describe as recognition. Not because he looks familiar on the outside this time, but because he feels familiar on the inside.

  Meeting your soul mate is like walking into a house you’ve been in before—you will recognize the furniture, the pictures on the wall,

  the books on the shelves, the contents of drawers: You could find

  your way around in the dark if you had to

  “So if you’re full of it ninety-eight percent of the time,” I say, collecting myself. “What about the other two percent?”

  The question seems to suck all the residual laughter out of his face and I’m immediately sorry I asked. “Yeah, no one meets that guy,” he says.

  “Why?”

  He shrugs. “Perhaps you’re not the only one in hiding.”

  “How come you think I’m in hiding?”

  “Just do.” He pauses, then says, “Maybe it’s because I’ve spent a fair bit of time with your photos now. They speak volumes.” He looks curiously at me. “But you could tell me why you’re in hiding.”

  I consider it, consider him. “Now that we’re friends, just friends. Are you the friend I call if I find myself in possession of a dead body and a bloody knife in my hand?”