by S. C. Megale
François’ eyebrow—a little whisker over his eye—flicked up now. Drool threaded down his mouth, making the blue pen he was holding very unattractive. I turned and took it from his jaw, wiping it on my shirt. Four unaddressed letters lay on the table in front of me, post office clerks scanning Priority Mail barcodes behind the counter across the floor. A few overachieving moms stood in line with gift-wrapped packages. Two-ish weeks before Thanksgiving.
My letters still had jack-o’-lantern stamps on them. I used the pen to fill in the inmate ID numbers of the four prisoners I was writing.
A couple of years ago, I volunteered with this anti-death-penalty coalition, and it rolled into me becoming pen pals with a few prisoners. They’re always thrilled to receive my letters, and I don’t sugarcoat the shit that goes on in my life. I send them pictures of me and François doing various activities. Unlike all the other female volunteers in the coalition, I don’t have the problem of the prisoners wanting more from my friendship. I “inspire” them.
“All done?”
A young postwoman with long lashes stopped next to me and offered to take my letters.
IF SHE WERE A GUY: “Yes, sir. Can you overnight express me to your bed by any chance?”
BECAUSE SHE’S NOT: “I can do it myself, thanks.”
She nodded and walked off. I can never tell how standoffish I sound. But it’s her fault for not being a guy, right?
I dropped the letters in the regular-mail slot, and François perked up as I led him out the automatic door.
Cold wind ripped through us. It lifted François’ floppy ears. He sniffed the air, almost smiling. I checked the time. Mom said she’d be at least another thirty minutes in the bank; the post office took a lot less time than I’d estimated. And it was too frigid to be waiting outside.
Next to us drifted the smell of spicy cinnamon. Hot cider. I groaned and faced the storefront.
It was an ancient home-decorating shop. Dried flowers in the window, little porcelain figures from Germany on a shelf. Ninety-year-old women were practically pitching tents waiting in line to get in.
François and I looked at each other. The wind blew.
The bell tinkled as I went inside with the next passing costumer.
1950s Christmas music played. A toy train circled the entire perimeter of the store on an upper ledge, stuffing nailed to the walls to imitate snow. I guess that was kind of cute. White-haired women, sipping hot cider from paper cups, pushed carts slowly through stands of artificial magnolia wreaths and stained-glass lamps.
I had to squish through a few tables to reach the free-cider dispenser. François crammed behind me. I filled a cup and drank; heat tore through my chest.
What was it about this place that was so comforting? There was barely a man depicted on the men’s bathroom sign in here, let alone a live one. So why did I want to stay? Something nostalgic stirred inside.
I approached a table laden with china. Huge platter with a fat turkey painted on it. Gravy boats edged in gold. Crystalline candle holders.
My weak, shaky hand reached out to graze the edge of the gravy boat.
I realized I wanted this. I wanted … one day … this.
Yeah, I wanted to roll around with carousels of men and yank them dry and live like I’m not already wearing death’s save-the-date. But …
I also wanted to cook Thanksgiving dinner for a man. I wanted to hold the door as he hauled in the Christmas tree. Pass out watermelon to neighbors as he snapped a lighter over fireworks on the Fourth of July. I wanted to hand him a beer as he watched the game and fold his camo sweatshirt he only wore on weekends.
Don’t think of Cole. Don’t think of Cole. Don’t you dare plug him into your domestic fantasies.
Shit, he probably did all those things. His parents were probably the same way. Traditional, Southern Virginia home, a cross over the fireplace. His dad probably had a Republican congressman yard sign in his lawn and a gun to protect the family in his bedside drawer—the side where he slept.
Why did I want this? Why did I want what I just can’t have? How would I open the oven? How would I make the bed for the in-laws? How would I do this?
She replied seconds after I sent her a photo of the dinner set and expressed this in one line.
I paced around the store now with my head hung to my phone.
My mouth twisted.
Ouch. It was true, but Mags’ characteristic bluntness hit hard.
So I let her gush, and she did. She almost made me like Nate. And I mean, I never hated the guy. I’d just never forget all the things he’d said over the years either.
I paused. Was it possible to explain the intimacy, the crazy sexuality of him simply kneeling in front of me and gazing at me while I fixed his nametag?
Whoops, that was a little heavy, even for me. And for damn sure Mags didn’t let it pass.
Mom pulled in at the curb outside the store. She walked out and gave me a thumbs-up, I think as a gesture of approval for my choosing to wait somewhere warm. Lately she’d been doubling down on keeping me out of the cold and pumped with vitamins and doing lame breathing exercises.
François and I headed over there, his leash attached to my wheelchair so my non-joystick hand was free. I used the free one to send a one-handed text to Mags.
“Maeve, come on!” Mom reprimanded when I stopped in the cold to try to type out another fast line. I huffed and bowled onto the ramp and into the van, where I finished the text.
Mom jumped in the front seat and blasted heat from the vents like volcanic geysers. François leapt onto the back seat. I jostled as we took off.
I pursed my lips and looked out the window. I hoped KC would reply, and wondered if maybe I should focus on texting him tonight instead of Cole.
Another text from Mags came in.
I read it twice.
A smile touched the corner of my mouth.
* * *
“Dad, this is stupid.”
“Maeve, I went to three Toys ‘R’ Us stores for this.”
“Toys ‘R’ Us closed.”
“Not the express ones,” said Dad.
“That doesn’t make it less stupid.”
“I’m excited,” said Dad. “Don’t crush my excitement.”
“Can we just admit Mom made you do this?”
Dad ignored me. “So excited.”
I sighed, and Dad shook the bubble wand in front of me. “Colored bubble juice!” he declared. “Come on. See what’s the biggest one you can blow.”
That’s what she said.
I leaned forward and blew into the bubble wand. The rubbery-looking, iridescent bubbles stretched from the wand and quivered into the air. Floating like spherical rainbows until they popped and sprinkled our faces. We both winced.
I practiced blowing the bubbles, exercise for my lungs, for about fifteen minutes and then said I was done. Dad didn’t object and twisted on the bubble juice cap. “Let me know when you’re ready to lie down,” he said, and I retired to my room.
Door closed.
That click of the lock sent my lust buzzing.
I whipped out my phone. It was 10:46 p.m.
Bewitching hour.
I waited with a taut stomach and frozen muscles for the few minutes it took for my phone to vibrate.
Hmm. Hard to gauge his level of interest with that tone. But Mags’ advice came back to me. Try not to automatically flirt.
Wow. That was weird.
Although it wasn’t Beauty and the Beast like I’d hoped, I grinned like mad.
A pause.
The smile faded as I stared at our text thread.
I rolled out my shoulders. I remembered playing truth or dare with my friends and KC in sixth grade. I remembered sitting in a circle and always picking dare because I was afraid of picking truth.
Tonight, I was afraid of dare.
I could think of a million.
Because it took over five minutes, I assumed Cole thought about his answer—or he was playing Call of Dut
y and responded whenever next he died.
The haha made me question his level of sincerity in that answer.
My fingertips tickled as I drummed the phone, waiting for his question.
My brow furrowed. I was happy it at least wasn’t a What’s your favorite food? question. But it was sort of a … self-centered one, albeit a playful one. I was so into him, though, I went with it.
Ugh, I already failed Mags. But it wasn’t a lie.
Oh man. The power. I could dare him to do anything for me. Anything. But Mags was right. I needed to learn about him. Where he comes from, where he wants to go.
He sent over a photo. I opened it and wasn’t disappointed. You know how when you love someone’s parents, you love that person even more? Cole’s dad was a big, burly, grey-bearded man with gentle eyes and a mellow smile. I could see so much of Cole in his face. His bearish arm was around his wife, who wore a red sweater and a necklace with fall leaves on it. They were posing in front of their house, and it seemed recent because it looked cold. No leaves on the trees, Cole’s dad in a dull orange hunting jacket. I swear to God, a Republican congressman yard sign was hammered into the ground next to the front door.
Could I not be creepy for literally a day or was that not possible?
Oh no. Would this scare him away? I already promised myself I would never lie to Cole. I guess it was true that I went on a failed date with the elusive and totally uninterested man codenamed R from my past.
I wanted to move on fast. But I did like the way Cole said man.
That really would be amazing. And that’s getting to know him, right?
He sent another text before I could respond.
I could almost hear the lustful growl in Cole’s voice.
Nerves stole the rhythm of my heart.
Halt the fucking factory. What did he just call me?
Nervous, yes. Uncomfortable? God … I’d be safe in those arms.
So I did.
And his request came in. Exactly what I thought it’d be: a photo. Of exactly where I thought it’d be.
I froze. My stomach knotted and doubt and fear and self-disgust arrested me. I was a damaged, featureless, misshapen, flat-chested anomaly. I couldn’t do this.
Could I?
I watched the time between his text and now stretch from five minutes to ten. My hand shook.
I opened the camera app.
18
By the time I struggled to undo the buttons of my shirt, flipped the camera into selfie mode, and aimed it at myself, several more minutes had passed. No angle made me look full and desirable.
Were there filters for this kind of shit? Could black-and-white retro make me look good? How about that one that turns me into an oil painting?
I fucking needed Annie Leibovitz to come in here and take my breast shots.
My gallery filled with grainy and unusable graphic photos and I wanted to keep trying but instead frustration built up and my eyes started to water and I think I was about to cry.
Buzz.
Now would have been a great time for Cole to tell me he thinks I’m beautiful or that he wants me.
My brain literally imploded trying to figure out if any of that meant that Cole did think those things. Maybe he was just being horny. But my chance to please him, to impress a man like that, was here and slipping fast.
I bit my lip until it bled and sent a few photos fast, so if he didn’t like one, the next would pop in to distract him.
Immediately I closed out of the text thread and pulled up Mags’.
Thank God almighty, Mags was on her phone.
Okay. Okay, I could work with that.
Something was wrong here, though. Instead of having fun, instead of being excited about this, I was scrutinizing and stressing. Cole was just over in his house, in his room, doing what I knew he was doing and probably not worrying about anything else in the world. I needed to be more like Cole.
When his reply came in, I was almost nauseous with nerves. For a full minute, I couldn’t look.
Relief flooded through me. I smiled.
He replied! I texted Mags, but she didn’t respond. Must have fallen asleep. After a few more exchanges with Cole, I would do the same.
Tonight was different. Tonight, I felt normal. Healthy. Not asexual. Tonight, I felt like a person.
So when I called Dad in to take me to bed, I made sure a few pillows covered the BiPAP machine on the floor.
Uh-oh. That’s why I didn’t hear back from Mags—I’d accidentally texted KC that last message yesterday.
It was morning, and I was outside in the backyard giving François a bath before my parents saw him covered in mud. I’d tossed his Frisbee right into a puddle of it, and François smelled like something died in there. He was shaking and streaming and miserable. The dog shampoo bottle was in the mud on the ground, and suds collected at his paws. Cold water pumped from the hose, and I wobbled to keep it steady while it gushed. Seriously, how much more of a euphemism could I make?
“No, no, no!” I shouted, as François poised his haunches like he was going to shake. He refrained, but bellowed out a sigh.
In my other hand, the phone vibrated—I was good at multitasking.
I certainly couldn’t tell him the whole truth.
We were—FLOOOOOOF!
Water exploded all over me as François shook his fur. I dropped the hose and François took off, tossing his head to clear his ears.
“François!” I scolded. He was long gone.
The hose soaked into the ground at my wheels, and I pushed my joystick to move. My wheels turned and burrowed into the mud. The heavy wheelchair sank.
I cursed, then called for Dad.
“Sorry,” I said, when he walked down the backyard ramp moments later. He pressed a button on his Bluetooth and the little light shut off.
“Wow,” said Dad. “You’re pretty in there.”
“Sorry,” I repeated. Dad slogged over to twist off the hose. The spigot squeaked.
“All right, let’s…” He stepped behind me and gripped two bars on either side of my wheelchair. With all his strength he heaved backwards, but the chair wouldn’t budge. He puffed.
“Should I drive it back when you pull?”
Dad still panted. “Maybe on the count of three.”
“Okay,” I said.
We both looked up to a banging on the storm door above the backyard ramp. Mom was there, still in her white pajamas, hugging herself for warmth.
“Put your jacket on her!” Mom yelled at Dad through the door. “It’s too cold!”
Dad actually grumbled. “I got it, Maura.” He waved at her and returned to the chair.
“She’s going to get sick!”
“Count of three,” Dad repeated. His muscles braced.
“Ready,” I said.
“One…”
“Two…”
* * *
“Action!” cried Mr. Billings.
The next day, Mags and I both tried to ignore the weirdness of Mr. Billings aiming a $30,000 RED Epic-W camera at a sixteen-year-old local pop star strutting out of a changing room in sparkly latex nonsense. She twirled and mouthed the lyrics to her song, which I would clip together in post because I was kinda useless on set if I wasn’t directing.
Elliot stood right next to Mr. Billings, arms crossed, studying every twist of the lens. He would make a better Hollywood player than me one day. He looked at every script and location and piece of equipment with a seriousness like his life depended on it. In some ways maybe it did. He was the oldest in a family of eight in a little town house. Goofing off at Laser Tag Planet all day wouldn’t get him where he wanted to go.
Mags leaned on my wheelchair the way Cole did and sucked on a lime-green smoothie. She definitely didn’t hold the same sincerity on set.
“So, what did he reply?” said Mags.
“Cole?”
She slurped on her smoothie in confirmation.
“It was fine,” I said, a lit
tle smile in my voice. But I’d texted him good morning today before bathing François—he hadn’t replied.
“Cut,” said Billings.
Mags crammed in closer to me as KC passed her with a makeup bag. The little boutique clothing store Billings secured for our location was super-tight everywhere but next to the changing booth—racks and cardboard boxes squeezing us in. KC scaled over a pile of accessory boxes with lithe expertise and landed next to the pop star. He seemed unperturbed around all the stuff, unlike Elliot, who kept stumbling over shoe racks. This would not have been a good set for large, clumsy Cole.
“I live-tweeted the new Star Wars movie last night on Netflix and Peter Mayhew retweeted me,” said Mags.
“What?!” I said.
“Yeah.” She was deadpan.
“What did you tweet?”
“Something stupid. Like just how amazing it was.”
Billings stood to coach the young pop star and actually reenacted her strutting out of the changing room with totally enraptured, professional motivation. He really wanted her to strut a certain way, and Mags and I were supposed to be studying his directing techniques.
“Did you, like, take a screenshot and print it out and frame it?” I said.
