This Is Not a Love Scene

by S. C. Megale

“A dog—have you seen—?”

  “Someone took her dog.” Elliot was panting; he leaned against the counter. The clerk, stricken, looked at him instead of me because he was eye level.

  “FRANÇOIS!” Elliot and I both turned to Mags’ voice.

  At a turquoise cinnamon-bun stand, François trotted towards a tall woman. I could hear the jingle of his tags from here. The leash trailed along the floor, and his ears perked at the smell of the bun.

  I raced to him.

  “François!” I scolded. He jolted and looked over, eyes fixed on me with adoration. But I dipped my whole torso over my armrest and swung his leash into my hand. Vertigo swooped through my head. It took a moment to straighten—I grunted with the weight of drawing myself back up. Then I looked at the woman he’d been approaching.

  Sunglasses. Vegan wrap. It was Patricia. Wheelchair Charity Woman. Mags and Elliot stared at her, hands on their knees.

  Flipping up her shades with one hand, Patricia turned and hooted with surprise down at François.

  “Little François!”

  François wagged. I resisted the urge to correct him.

  “Why was my dog with you?” I challenged.

  “I’m sorry?” said Patricia.

  “My dog—why was he with you?”

  Patricia giggled uncomfortably. “I guess he followed the smell of food.”

  “The smell of food is everywhere.”

  Her mouth hung open, and she darted a glance at Elliot and Mags. For a moment, I thought she may have actually been alarmed and confused.

  “What’s going on?” A new voice. Dad veered up behind the woman, a hard note to his tone. Winded. He’d sprinted here.

  Awkward looks were passed, a tense pause, Dad waiting to be told whose face to get into, and finally I let it go. Begrudgingly. “It’s okay,” I said. “Have a good day.”

  Patricia gave a sarcastic hum like thanks and left with her wrap.

  Dad looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

  * * *

  Clang! The metal ramp collapsed onto the blue-painted asphalt, and I stared at it.

  Neither Dad nor I are moms, and we both hate soccer, but we’ve only ever driven soccer-mom vans.

  “What was that about?” Dad stood next to the van ramp and squinted in the setting sun.

  Dad was in his fifties, but I could count on one hand the grey flecks in his brown hair. He was tall, strong, and rough skinned. He wore black-rimmed transitional glasses and a silver Bluetooth in his ear, steel-colored eyes alight. Maybe it’s weird, but I always thought he was exceptionally handsome, and that made me proud. I enjoyed watching his expression grow horrified when I told him the old-lady neighbors agreed with me.

  I shook my head and led François up the ramp, following after. “I’ll tell you as we drive.”

  “Hmm.”

  Dad collected the ramp from the ground and folded it up. I heard him grunt as he rolled closed the van door and in the rearview mirror saw him rub his shoulder as he walked around.

  There are all sorts of slings and machines and robots that drill into the ceiling able to transfer people like me from here to there. To and fro. Nothing makes me feel more dehumanized. So for eighteen years, Dad has carried me into beds, planes, bathrooms, next to a cow, up lighthouses, and one time into an ambulance—but that wasn’t the best day.

  He tells me his bad shoulder and knee and occasionally back are old lacrosse wounds from college.

  I’m sick of watching his body tear apart for me.

  On the way home, I told Dad about Patricia.

  IF SHE WERE A GUY: “Sorry, Dad. It was a total misunderstanding.”

  BECAUSE SHE’S NOT: “Do you still know that lawyer in Alexandria?”

  Dad glanced contemplatively at me in the mirror and kept both hands on the wheel.

  “That was really weird,” he confirmed. “I guess just be careful there next time. Ask Elliot to keep an eye out.” There really wasn’t much more to say. François panted in the back seat and filled the van with his breath.

  I liked that Dad blasted radio. Our soccer-mom van had these little grooves in the floor meant for strapping me in with buckles, but I just tightened my hold on the handle behind the passenger seat. We never did that. In fact, Dad and I were totally rehearsed at nodding and pretending to take vigilant account of the safety steps when we traveled and rented a handicapped van. The renter by law had to go over the buckle procedures. The second the renter left, we’d rip them all off.

  Dad turned up the volume now to a Pink Floyd song, and I poked in my iPod earbuds and looked out the window.

  I loved highways. The camaraderie of cars merging onto freeways, cruising at sixty miles per hour alongside my window, all going the same direction, made me feel like part of the world.

  * * *

  That night, I lay in bed with François bunched into a ball at my feet. Ice tickled my toes. I dared not move or he would jump.

  It was late, and Mom slept on a pullout bed next to me in case I needed to shift or turn. Other nights we’d use a baby monitor, or Mom or Dad would turn their ringers up loud and I’d call them. It just depended on if they felt like walking across the hall several times that night. Lately I’ve preferred the monitor option for privacy, though.

  My phone splashed blue light all over the covers. I flicked through my email feed.

  Mr. Billings sent out an impatient notice to all of us about getting our shit together for the shoot next week. Paraphrased. I still needed to track down matching uniforms for our actors without breaking budget. Honestly, I shouldn’t be complaining. The Intro to Stage kids are slapping together a giant Venus flytrap right now. And then in the summer they’re doing The Little Mermaid, which I’m kind of excited for—Prince Eric can get it from Little Maeve. I mean, or Big Maeve, I don’t even know anymore. Actually, according to Cole’s résumé, he played the guy who shouts STELLAAAA! in Streetcar for them a few years back. From what I remember of his volume, they made a good choice.

  Then I opened another email I hadn’t replied to—in a few more days, I’d be too ashamed of my lateness to even open it and look at the received date again.

  Re: Still Alive?

  Fred Kingfisher Mon, Sep 10, 12:14 AM

  to M. Leeson

  Hey, kiddo. Been a while. Sure glad to hear from you, but I know you’ve got a busy plate. Any more travels coming up? Any guys I need to level my shotgun on?

  —Fred

  I pursed my lips in a sad smile.

  I met Fred when Mom dropped me off at an outdoor market while she hosted a “power lunch” nearby. Mom uses words like power and fierce and aggressive a lot because she’s a total type-A, don’t-need-no-man businesswoman who also happens to wear flannel pajamas.

  Anyway, I was at this lone book stand reading a TOTALLY INNOCENT DEFINITELY NOT EROTIC how-to book when a grey-haired, scruffy-bearded man appeared out of nowhere and started comparing my wheelchair to an electric-propelled Tesla. I’d leapt and stuffed the book back onto the shelf. Not noticing (I think…), he insisted I come with him to the Tesla exhibit a few booths down.

  Don’t try this at home, children, but I followed the strange man, and we ended up spending the rest of the day together, getting ice cream and playing with remote-control drones in the electronics booth. He asked if he could kiss me on the cheek before parting, and I, of course, said, “Just the cheek? Shame…” and he laughed a big gut laugh.

  We’ve emailed for half a year now. My responses have been getting slower. Thing is, Fred is not the only old man I’ve befriended who looks forward to my emails and gets kinda sad when I don’t reply quickly. Fred is not even the second or third. Fred is just the newest.

  I backed out of the email.

  No, Fred, I thought, I wouldn’t waste my money on any shotgun bullets. I’d almost told him about R in my last email, but deleted it at the last minute. I worried that might make him sad too. Silly. I’m sure he would have been thrilled for me. But nothing to be thrilled
about now that R shot me down a week ago.

  At that moment, François heaved a great sigh at my feet and rolled onto his back. Paws folded. Perfect timing.

  I won’t grace R with the honor of a full description. Because he was the grandson of another OMF (Old Man Friend) whom I adored, it made his rejection that much more heartbreaking. To put it simply, he was handsome and foreign, and the thing I hated most about him was the fact that he wasn’t a jerk at all. He was kind. His rejection was kind. He even continued to handwrite letters asking how my life was going. R’s problem with me was the same as every other young, red-blooded guy in the universe. It was the same as my problem with me.

  Just … not attracted. Just … not able to go there.

  Situation normal.

  There was a lot more wrong with the universe than my love life. I tried to remember that. At least I wasn’t the only one who forgot.

  My phone buzzed.

  A contact file with a ten-digit 800-number buzzed in a moment later, and I clicked on it.

  I smirked and decided to lie.

  A second contact buzzed in. This one looked right. I shot back a smiley emoticon to Elliot and opened a new text to Cole. Even though it was past 1 a.m. and I’d never texted the guy in my life, I was sending this tonight.

  I sent it. The auditions had been several weeks ago—I had a vague mental picture of Cole strolling into the open audition five minutes before it ended, and from the maybe ten minutes I spent with him before we cast him due to the mutual instinct my friends and I all had. He was young, ruggedly huge, and bearded. That’s all. So I actually was a little nervous about the audacity of my text. Guess I’d hear in the morning.

  Sighing, I inched my left hand close to my mouth and parted my lips. I bit my finger. Clenching it hard between my teeth, I used the strength of my head to pull my left arm over my chest so I could scratch my right ear. Then I pushed my fingers over the itch, closed my eyes, and tried to invite sleep.

  My phone buzzed. I froze. Shifting took a moment, but I wiggled my shoulder against the mattress and clicked the phone alight with my thumb:

  COLE STONE

  Text Message

  That was fast.

  I stared at the screen. Was that it? I never understood anymore because punctuation went out of style and I’m still trying to adjust.

  Another text came in.

  I resisted rolling my eyes at Cole. Again. Actors.

  Burning that oil, I replied. Ew. Stupid and cliché.

  I waited a couple minutes. He didn’t follow up. Damn, he was really going to make me work for this.

  What was happening? Was I flirting? Oh God, five minutes, no reply. I actually opened Elliot’s text thread to tell him we definitely needed a new Cole Stone when the phone buzzed and Cole’s tab overlapped the top of my phone.

  I was smiling now, eyes glued, waiting for his reply to come in.

  Back to business. Something wilted in my chest. But I gave him a date and time that, miraculously, worked.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. We had our actor again. See, Elliot? All it took was one headstrong text. Confidence. Bam. I thanked Cole and gave the air a weak punch of victory. Now I could call it a night.

  Mom rose to her knees and sleepily flopped me onto my side at my bidding. I nestled into the blankets as she flumped back onto her pillow. The phone glass was still cool in my hand as I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Sank like bait in a pond.

  A minute later, my phone buzzed again.

  Like pinching up a card in poker, I tipped back my phone just enough to see the text. My bleary eyes squinted into the bright light.

  3

  “Dad, can you get a napkin and clean all the Frosted Flakes out of my shirt pocket?”

  I took one last bite and more milk slopped off my spoon and onto my front. I can’t lift the spoon all the way to my mouth without tilting it, so that happens. The spoon clinked back into the bowl, and I looked over. Dad appeared at the breakfast table and stared at me. He sighed, hands on his sides.

  “That sounds really gross.”

  “You have to,” I said. It was wet and sticky in my pocket, where most of the cereal fell. If I’m being totally honest, I probably could have scooped them out of there with a little effort, but I didn’t want to touch the soggy flakes clinging to the inside of my pocket any more than he did.

  “How come I have to?” said Dad, but he pinched my shirt and started wiping.

  “Because I’m physically incapable?” Maybe.

  “So?”

  “So that’s kinda shoddy craftsmanship on your end.”

  “Student projects always are,” said Dad.

  “Ew,” I said. “That sounds like you conceived me in college.”

  Dad smiled slowly.

  “Oh my God,” I said, and pulled away from the table before he was done scrubbing my shirt. He straightened, napkin in hand.

  “Ready to go?” he said.

  I dragged my school folder off the table and lifted it. “Yup.”

  * * *

  Elliot high-fived me as I rolled up next to my Mac in the back row of Video II. I flopped my folder onto the desk and read the updates on the whiteboard. Dates. Nothing I didn’t already know. The shoot in three days. The music video project after.

  But I drummed the keyboard in front of me and clicked a pen out of the leather satchel hanging off my chair. After last night, I was in a good mood.

  KC sat to my right. I smiled warmly at him. He smiled back. He was short, small-framed but muscular, and had a braid in his brown hair. A Thor pendant at his neck. Plaid shirt. We spent Memorial Day at his fire pit at the end of last school year, and since we’d been friends since kindergarten, I dared him to carve our initials into his tree.

  Because the Video II crop came from last year’s Video I, our advanced group was kinda small. We had two students drop in the beginning of the quarter. One person took a desk on day one and twenty-five minutes in said: “I think I’m supposed to be in geometry.” Never saw her again. The other was our cinematographer, One Take Blake. He was basically my work husband on set and then I became polygamous and work-married Elliot too. Blake dropped out because he started getting crazy-good gigs making local insurance commercials look like Oscar bait in usually—you guessed it—one take. I’m assuming they’ll nominate Meryl Streep for supporting actress in his productions and just totally ignore the fact that she wasn’t in them.

  We also had our audio kid, Michael, who never showed up for class, but he’d mysteriously appear for every shoot, hidden in a nest of wires, with a five-foot boom pole and a supposed new encounter with the audio waves of the dead on his transistor radios.

  It was a good class.

  Soon the lights cut, and Mr. Billings put on a YouTube video demonstrating everything we should pack in our supply bag for a film set. The video’s red progress bar was only, like, a third of the way through ten minutes later, so we all snuck out our phones in the back row.

  I texted Mags, of course. She sat one row ahead of me.

  I provided a few selective screenshots and looked up at the boring YouTube video to save face while the grabs took a few extra seconds to go through.

  Ugh. Sometimes I wished Mags would just gush with me. It’s not every day a huge, six-foot-one, bearded, twenty-something-year-old actor says he wants me. I mean, asks if I want him.

  It was kind of a long time until she replied. I was worried she was drafting a lengthy chastisement of my …

  Whatever you want to call it.

  My phone buzzed.

  My mouth twisted down. That was weird.

  Okay, good. I looked back up at the YouTube video which, amazingly, was a fourth finished now. Did Mr. Billings rewind this shit or something?

  My phone buzzed again.

  I laid my head back on my wheelchair’s headrest that I hated and let my phone relax in my lap.

  You know when you’re kind of aware of a flaw, but also kind of hope that maybe you’re t
he only one aware?

  Well. Ha-ha. Well.

  A few years ago, I had this mega-dangerous seventeen-hour operation to correct scoliosis that was crushing my lungs. Because you kind of need lungs. It thinned me out and made me healthier but also misshaped me a little. I always used to think, Nah, maybe that’s just me. Maybe I’m just super self-conscious. It wasn’t, though. I’ve been posed questions about it and suddenly I like the questioner way less and I get much thirstier for whatever drink is in front of me.

  Same goes for my “coming on strong” flaw.

  I know I do. I flirt like I get laid every night and I give dirty comments to way too many older or married men, let alone young, single men, who get it from me like four times as bad.

  Are people really that stupid, though? Do they really think I could survive playing hard to get?

  If I don’t come on hard, if I don’t exterminate absolutely any and all doubt that I’m not asexual, doubt will exterminate me.

  We all groaned as Mr. Billings struck on the lights unexpectedly. The seminar was apparently over.

  “Your shoot is in three days. You’ve had a lot of time to prepare this so Elliot, Maeve, crack that whip. I want to see quality.”

  “Are we still doing that music video thing after?” said Mags.

  Our project after the big shoot was to produce a music video for this local wannabe pop star. She was, like, fourteen, and the song literally was just …

  “Yes,” said Billings. “Did you all have a chance to review the song?”

  “Yeah,” Mags went on seriously, “the file you sent out said ‘more clubby version’—is there a less clubby version we could hear?”

  Elliot pushed out his seat next to me and rose, stretching. “Three days!” he said.