by Kat Spears
“What the fu-uck?”
“Yeah, my dad told me that.”
“How does … did … he know that?”
“I have no idea. Anyway, as far as the world knows, I’m just recovering from a skating accident. At least I think there’s no way my mom would tell anyone the truth. It’s too embarrassing for her. It’s just … you know, in combination with my little freak-out at the club, and maybe that one time I tried to commit suicide … it gave my mom and the therapist the impression that I’m totally gone, mentally.”
“Well, you know,” Joe says, warming up to what he’s got to say, “your mom called me. She asked me about what you’ve been into lately, like she was feeling me out to see if we’re into meth or something.”
“That’s all she said to you?”
“She asked me if I knew anything about a coyote. The whole conversation was kind of crazy.”
“I’m not crazy,” I say, feeling like I can say this truthfully now.
“Uh-huh,” Joe says. He rubs the length of his index finger along the line of his lower lip as he thoughtfully watches the traffic light where we’re stopped.
“What?”
“I didn’t say nothing, bro.”
“But you thought it. You think I’m crazy.”
“There’s lots of people crazier than you are.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“I think it’s supposed to make me feel better,” Joe says after considering the question for a minute. “So, where are we going now?”
“The Wall. I want to skate.”
“You just got a concussion, like, four days ago.”
“I don’t care. I want to go.”
“Maybe you are crazy.”
* * *
That night, as I’m plugging in my phone I hear a noise outside on the roof, just outside my window. It’s a noise too substantial to be a twig falling from a nearby tree or the scuffle of squirrel feet. In my mind the noise is big enough to be a monster, or a garden-variety serial killer.
I have left my room via my window a thousand times to sneak out late at night, or just to leave without having the hassle of interacting with my mom. Before this moment it had never occurred to me that some psycho could use the easy access of the porch roof to break into my room.
When I finally work up the courage to peer out the window, Ophelia is crouched only a few feet away and I scream. Holy shit.
I open the window to stick my head out.
“What the hell?” I say. “How did you get up here?”
“I climbed the tree,” she says, as if it’s a totally normal thing for her to be sneaking into my room. “Isn’t that how you do it?”
“I usually only sneak out. I just walk in the front door when I come back.”
“Well, are you going to let me in?”
“I guess so.”
I don’t even have time to worry about whether I have dirty underwear on the floor or some other cripplingly embarrassing evidence of my humanity.
Ophelia clambers in through the open window and makes a lot of noise rattling the blinds and stomping.
There’s a knock at my bedroom door followed by Mom’s voice, saying my name with a note of concern.
“What?” I ask.
“I thought I heard a scream,” Mom says.
“Probably the TV,” I say. Ophelia nods, her eyebrows raised and lower lip pooched out, clearly impressed with how easily the lie has come.
“You sure you’re okay?” Mom asks.
“I’m fine,” I say, my voice raised so she can hear me through the door.
“For goodness’ sake, Dane,” Mom says, “open the door.”
I hold up my finger to my lips, indicating Ophelia should remain quiet. She twists her fingers, turning an imaginary key at her lips, as I walk over and open the bedroom door, just enough to stick my head out.
“What?” I ask her.
“Don’t what me, Dane. I feel like I have every right to be concerned.”
“Fair enough,” I say, hoping that if I’m agreeable she’ll drop it and leave me alone. “It’s been a long week, Mom.”
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I am. I’m fine. Okay?”
“I’m going to go to bed. You should try to get some sleep, too.”
“Okay.”
“I love you, Dane.”
“Thanks.” All I can think is that if this is going to end in a rare hug, how am I going to angle my body so Mom can’t see Ophelia? I don’t think Mom would be all that upset. She would probably be grateful I am doing something as normal as sneaking a girl into my room. But it would have been a lot better if Ophelia had come to the door like a normal girl.
Mom leans in to give me the hug but I hug her with just one arm and pat her gently on the back. “Good night, Mom,” I say, hoping it will get her out of there.
“Good night,” she says, and she’s smiling.
“That was really sweet,” Ophelia says after Mom is gone.
“I guess.”
“Where have you been? Why haven’t you been in school?”
“Oh, I was in the hospital,” I say. “Skating accident.”
“Really?” Ophelia’s eyes widen with surprise. As proof, I pull up my shirt to reveal the purple bruise on my chest that has faded to a gruesome blend of greens and blues.
“Ouch,” she says, and, without any warning, puts out her hand to touch the bruise. Her fingertips are cool and only rest on my chest for a second, but they brand my skin. I am looking at her hand as she touches my chest but when our eyes meet again, her cheeks are flushed pink. I can feel heat in my own face and know my cheeks are redder than hers.
“I had a concussion. My head got the worst of it,” I say, my voice breaking like I’m still in middle school.
“Oh,” she says. “I guess that’s good. If it was just your head it wasn’t too serious, then.” Her expression is almost apologetic. “Sorry. You set up the pitch. I had to swing.”
“No worries. I’d have been disappointed if you didn’t.”
This is a bald-faced lie. I was enjoying her sympathy, the closest thing I have gotten to real affection in a long time. Her joke hurts me. More than it should.
“There were firetrucks in front of your house the other day when my dad and I got home from my field hockey game. What happened?”
“Oh, that,” I say, dismissing it casually. “Chuck was burning some brush and it got out of hand.”
“I messaged you to see if everything was okay. You never messaged me back.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t have my phone while I was in the hospital.” This isn’t a lie. I was in a hospital and didn’t have my phone. Ophelia waits for me to say more, but I’m not volunteering anything.
“So, this is your room,” Ophelia says as she bounces into a seat at the end of my bed. “I’ve always wondered. Man, you get your own television. My dad won’t even get cable. If I asked for a TV in my room he’d tell me to go to hell.”
“I hardly ever watch it,” I lie. I’m not sure why I feel compelled to lie about how much time I spend watching. Somehow, I just sense that it would make me seem boring and uninteresting to Ophelia. “You want to watch a movie or something?” I ask. The television could give us both something to look at other than my obvious infatuation.
I sit on the desk chair because she is sitting on the bed and I don’t want to make her uncomfortable.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Just … sitting.”
“Why don’t you sit over here?”
“I didn’t want you to think I was trying to put the moves on you or something. Just because you’re in my room, you know?”
“I’m pretty sure if you had any moves, you would have used them on me by now,” she says, and if I didn’t know any better, I would say she sounds kind of disappointed I don’t have any moves.
We end up sitting side by side at the end of the bed, me rigid wi
th anxiety and Ophelia with one leg tucked under her, the other bouncing idly against the end of the mattress.
I surf the channels for a while until I finally give up, and land on a reality show about some guy who has multiple wives. The guy already has three wives and he’s brought out this new woman he’s dating to introduce her to the other three wives, see if it would be a good fit.
“We’re going to watch this entire show,” says Ophelia. “That’s how they suck you in. We’ll sit through thirty minutes of commercials just in case we get to find out about their sex lives.”
“They’re not going to talk about it,” I say with confidence, though not enough confidence to use the word “sex” in front of Ophelia.
“But it’s the only thing we want to know. How can they not mention it?”
“How do you think they met?” I ask. “They’re Mormon so it’s not like he’s picking them up in a bar or something.”
“Tinder,” Ophelia says without hesitation.
“No way. I don’t think they’re allowed to use Tinder.”
“How can a religion that started two hundred years ago have Tinder restrictions? Have you ever used Tinder?”
“I go on it sometimes out of curiosity. I wouldn’t say that I use it.”
In truth I have never swiped right on a girl because I am too afraid that if I did, I would never get a match. And then I would have confirmation that every girl on Tinder and, by extension, the world, has taken a pass on me.
“What about you?” I ask.
“No way,” she says. As she’s speaking she stands and circles to the head of the bed, then flops down to recline on my pillows. “My dad says that dating apps are how serial killers look for victims.”
It’s too awkward for me to turn all the way around in my seat to talk to her so I get up and go to sit against the headboard with her. I grab a pillow and put it on my lap, a way to hide myself, to be safe in her presence.
“That sounds like something your dad would say,” I say. “I suppose you don’t really need a dating app.”
“Why? Because I’m not a serial killer?” she asks, her brow wrinkling in confusion. “How do you know I’m not?”
“I guess I don’t. Are you going to sneak in here some night and kill me in my sleep?”
“No,” she says, and then smiles. “If I kill you, you’ll definitely be awake for it.”
There doesn’t seem to be anything to say to that, so we go back to watching the show in silence for a while. Ophelia is the one to break the silence. She usually has a lot more to say than I do.
“Why did you say I don’t need a dating app?” she asks.
Because the answer is obvious, I speak without thinking. “Because pretty girls attract all kinds of unwanted attention. You don’t need a dating app for guys to make your life uncomfortable.”
“You think I’m pretty?” she asks.
“I know you’re pretty. Though sometimes I forget because you’re mean to me.”
“Mean to you?” Her voice rises as her eyes widen with surprise. “I’m not mean.”
“I didn’t say you were mean, just mean to me sometimes,” I correct her. “Don’t worry. I get it. A pretty girl like you, if you’re too nice, guys get the wrong idea. You have to keep everybody at a distance.”
“You’re the first person to ever tell me I was pretty,” she says. “Well, other than my dad or my grandma or somebody. But they’re supposed to say that. It’s not like I would believe it coming from them.”
“Give me a break. You can look in a mirror. You can see that you’re pretty.”
“Is that so?” she asks. “So, when you look in the mirror, do you see a hottie?”
I laugh and put up a hand to cover my face. “You’re making fun of me now.”
“I should go,” Ophelia says with a sigh.
“You don’t have to.”
“No,” she says. “I do. My dad wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes.”
“I’ll walk you,” I say.
We walk downstairs and Ophelia is being careful not to make any sound to avoid alerting Mom, though I’m not worried about it. At the edge of the driveway we stop, lingering, like neither one of us really wants our time together to end. I start looking around the yard, like I always do, hoping to see the coyote, and then I remember that he’s gone and isn’t coming back.
She says good night then and I say, “I’d walk you home, but I only have on socks.”
“I’m fine on my own,” she says.
And I think, Yeah, she really is fine on her own. She doesn’t need me. And that makes me sadder than ever.
I take out my phone and text Dad while I’m waiting to see if a scream pierces the night during Ophelia’s walk home.
I’m in love with this girl, I type to Dad.
I put the phone back in the pocket of my hoodie, waiting another minute to make sure she’s made it home.
My phone buzzes with a reply from Dad. Tell me about her.
I would have told my dad all about Ophelia. I could talk to him like that. He always said I could come to him to talk about anything—man to man. So, I take the time now to tell him all about her, probably the longest text I’ve ever sent anyone.
ACT IV
THERE IS NOTHING EITHER GOOD OR BAD, BUT THINKING MAKES IT SO
In boarding school skipping class was an impossibility, but it’s easy to ditch class in a regular public high school. So easy that it surprises me anyone goes to class at all. But whenever I show up for school, there they all are.
The whole concept of excused versus unexcused absences is completely flawed anyway. I’m seventeen, for Christ’s sake. In many cultures that would render me fully human. I could own cattle or fight in wars. At the very least I’m capable of determining when I need a break from school, which is almost universally considered a failed system anyway.
I have always looked forward to English class, though not because I like reading, or even particularly my English teacher, Ms. Guinn. I’m in AP English, which is kind of a joke and I’m not really sure why I’m here. I look forward to it because it’s the only class I share with Ophelia. Not only that, but I have a seat at the back of the room, with a perfectly unobstructed view of her where she sits two seats over and one seat up from me.
When I arrive at English that day Ophelia is already in her seat and Ms. Guinn is talking. I figure our relationship, if you can call it that, has moved to a different level since she snuck into my room the night before, but now that I am in Ophelia’s presence around other people, I’m unsure what to do with my expression or my eyes, so I don’t look at her as I make my way to my seat.
Ophelia always comes prepared and has something to contribute to class discussions. I like it when she speaks up in class so that I can watch her without it seeming weird.
I am lost as the class discusses The Great Gatsby. I haven’t done the assigned reading. Usually I just learn enough about a book by reading a summary online and from the class discussions to pass the tests. When the reading was first assigned I had opened the book, but just kept reading the same page over and over. The words didn’t really come together in a way that made sense to me.
During class discussion I watch Ophelia’s lips moving as she speaks, her head tilting thoughtfully to one side as she listens to other people’s comments, and the crease at the corner of her perfectly almond-shaped eyes. Her black curls seem to have life of their own, quivering with emotion, or tumbling across her shoulders when she turns her head.
When the bell rings, releasing us to our next class, I am still watching her. I watch as she puts her books in her backpack and leans over the flat of her desk to say something to the girl who sits in front of her. I watch as she bends over to pick up the hair tie that has fallen from her desk. Her hair falls to one side in a current of dark waves, the fluorescent bulbs above sparking blue fire in her curls.
“Dane,” Ophelia says, like she’s already said my name more than once to get my att
ention.
I realize I have been looking at her hair, staring at it, obsessing about it, and I quickly check in with my facial expression to see if I’ve been revealing my innermost thoughts.
“What?” I ask, then say, “Sorry,” because it is my instinct to apologize for who I am and what I think.
“I was just asking if you’re feeling better.”
“Yeah,” I say, eager to conceal my embarrassment about being caught watching her. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
As we are walking out of the classroom Ophelia falls into step beside me and is just turning to say something else to me when Ms. Guinn stops me by calling out my name above the din.
“Dane,” Ms. Guinn says again, though I am trying to ignore her.
Seriously?
Ophelia stops and gives me a questioning look. I shrug in response to her silent question. “What did you do?” Ophelia asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, which is an honest answer. I have a feeling whatever Ms. Guinn is going to say to me, I don’t want anyone to overhear.
“Catch you later,” Ophelia says, and, I can’t tell for sure, but maybe she is disappointed to be leaving me behind.
Ms. Guinn gestures for me to approach her desk and I go to stand before her.
Everything about Ms. Guinn is medium. She isn’t fat and she isn’t thin. She isn’t tall and she isn’t short. Her hair has started to show streaks of light gray but her natural hair color is a mousy shade of khaki so it’s as if she has had gray hair for her entire adult life. She doesn’t have a defining feature. Today she looks tired.
“We’ve missed you this week.”
“I seriously doubt that, but it’s nice of you to say.”
“Is everything okay with you?” Ms. Guinn asks. The question surprises me. Teachers don’t usually go out of their way to ask how a student is doing. Other than how we did on a test or an assignment, I don’t think they are obligated to care. At Brandywine Academy the teachers didn’t show concern for the personal feelings of students, either. After all, we could afford better therapists than they could.
“Yeah. Sure. I just had a concussion from a skating accident.” The more I repeat this explanation, the truer it sounds. It is true that I had a brain injury, just maybe as much from grief and sadness as a skating accident.
