by Leah Konen
I laugh, his sheepishness—his nervousness—delighting me. “Tea is great.”
He takes out two glasses and points down the hall. “Oh yeah, and the bathroom’s the first door on the right if you want to change.”
I nod and head there quickly, eager to get back into my real clothes, to not feel so exposed. It’s one of the few things I hate about horror movies, how the girl will get stuck in some stupid skimpy outfit during the beginning and will conveniently be in said outfit throughout the movie, pieces of clothing tearing away with each new scene. They never do it with dudes, of course. “The male gaze,” as my mom is always going on about.
The bathroom is normal, not that I expected something different from a horror movie director—fake blood on the shower curtain in a nod to Psycho? A monster peeking out from under the claw-footed tub?—and I change into my regular clothes, hanging my swimsuit on the hooks, then finger-comb my hair. I steal a glance in the mirror—I don’t look perfect. Far from it. But right now, I don’t even care.
Back in the kitchen, Jake pushes a glass of iced tea into my hand, our fingers brushing ever so slightly, sending a shock to my nerves. “Let me just change real quick, too.”
I lean against the counter, guzzling tea and trying to calm my staccato heart. My eyes land on his aunt’s equipment. Lenses and black boxes, all the different mechanisms designed to capture something even half as good as what the eye can see.
Jake returns to the kitchen in fresh clothes, dark-washed jeans and a black T-shirt, plus the glasses I recognize from the photo he sent me.
“Nice glasses,” I say.
He nods. “I don’t like to wear them zip-lining. Too easy to fall off.” He grabs his tea and leans against the counter, wiggles a hand through his hair, messing it around, then shoves it deep in his pocket, as if he doesn’t know quite what to do with that part of his body.
“So, Brooklyn . . .” he says, his voice trailing off, and I imagine him filling in the gaps.
I have a friend who lives in Brooklyn.
An online friend, actually.
She kind of reminds me of you.
(Yeah, right.)
“I know you said it was crowded and stuff, but do you ever get to be on your own?” he asks finally. “Or are there always people around?”
I smile. “I like to walk down to Shore Road on the bay. I’m not totally alone there, I guess—you’re never really totally alone—but it feels different. More open. More like this.”
He grins, sipping at his iced tea, a tiny bit dripping down his chin. He wipes it off quickly with the back of his hand. “Do you ever kayak there?”
“No,” I say with a laugh. “You saw me that first day on the zip line. I’m not exactly the definition of outdoorsy.”
The corner of his mouth turns up, just the slightest. “It’s okay. You’re good the way you are.”
I feel myself go bright red, and I practically drown myself in my tea. “Some people kayak, but even if it were more my style, I’d be afraid to have the water splashing on me. There are literally signs that say pregnant women or anyone of childbearing age shouldn’t eat fish caught in the East River, which feeds right into the bay.”
He raises an eyebrow. “No shit, really? My aunt says the water is super clean up here.”
“Yes, up north, before it gets corrupted by the endless filth of New York City.”
Jake laughs. “Wow, no one even of childbearing age, huh?”
I shake my head. “No joke. Although, who wants to eat radioactive fish anyway? Childbearing age or not.”
He nods in agreement, his free hand pressing against the counter behind him. “Radioactive fish. It would make a good . . .” His voice trails off, but mentally I finish the words for him. It would make a good horror movie. If we were online, I’d agree. We’d half plot it out together, tossing banter back and forth. Elm and Carrie thrive on banter. It’s why I don’t know half as much about him as you’d think I would. Our conversations live in another world, the one of movies. I never in a million years would have guessed he was the oldest of four kids, or the fact that escapism has led to his love of movies. If we were on Reddit right now, I’d suggest that—to really draw an audience—we should blend the radioactive fish with some sort of natural disaster, in the vein of Sharknado. Fishnado, if you will. Only tornadoes have nothing to do with New York City. Fishquake? Fishiccane? Fish Bomb Cyclone? I chuckle to myself.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing important,” I say, because I’m glad we’re not on Reddit right now. I’m glad it’s just us, face-to-face, and that I’m learning things about him I never would have known before. I’m glad Jake is more than his online persona. For a blissful second, it almost feels as if it can all work out. I glance to the film equipment propped in the corner. “It’s so cool your aunt’s a horror director,” I say.
He freezes. “How did you know she directs horror?”
My heart practically stops, but not from excitement this time, from fear. I scramble at the words. “Oh, sorry, I mean, does she do something else?”
He shakes his head. “No, definitely horror, but I haven’t been mentioning it to anyone, because the collective doesn’t really take it as seriously, and she only just got in. How did you know?”
It’s me, Elm. Me, Carrie. That’s how I know.
I shrug my shoulders and force a smile. “Because you’re so into horror movies—and the fact that we’re watching one tonight. I guess I made an assumption.”
He pauses, his eyebrows knitting up, but then his confusion seems to dissipate; he smiles back. “Oh yeah. Duh.” He drains his tea, then puts both hands on the counter, avoiding my eyes for a moment. He looks at me. “Should we start the movie now? Does that sound good to you?”
I nod.
“It’s super good, even if you’re not a horror fan.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, finishing my tea.
He grins. “It’s called The Haunting of Sophia Blaine.”
The Haunting of Sophia Blaine: Part Two
The truth?
I have never sat alone on a couch with a boy before. I have never kissed one, either. Despite many a crush, I’ve hardly even flirted. Not really. Not successfully, at least, given my dating history.
Maybe that makes me a weirdo, just like having a full-on separate Reddit identity does—but it’s the reality of the situation.
It doesn’t matter that we’re sitting about as far apart from each other as possible, Jake on one end, me on the other—it’s still clear to me that there’s something here, more than I’ve ever had with a boy before. Something charged about the energy, about our mutual nervousness. Something thrilling and dynamic and just . . . sweet.
I know another thing, too. I have 100 percent seen this movie before—last night. But I can’t let him know that.
“Oh my god!” I gasp, my hand grasping the cushion. A jump scare I knew was coming. Shit. Am I laying it on too thick? Did I gasp just a second too soon? Am I totally obvious?
Okay, Jake, I imagine the documentary producer saying. How did you know that your coworker was leading a double life? That the friend you thought you’d made online had played you?
Well, producer, Jake would say. It was when she jumped half a second too quickly at a movie she swore she hadn’t seen. That’s when I knew for sure. She is not who she says she is. At least, she is not only who she says she is.
Jake turns to me, his face only half illuminated from the light coming off the screen. He scoots a little closer, giving himself a few inches of space from the arm of the sofa, then sinks back into the cushions. “Wow, it’s really freaking you out, huh?”
All right, I’m definitely laying it on too thick. I don’t want to be one of those people who can’t stand even the slightest jump scare. That’s not me at all. “No, I like it,” I say, moving a little closer as well, resting my hand on the cushion between us. “Really.”
Even in the dim light, I can see his eyes widen, his b
ody lean toward mine ever so slightly. “It’s good, right? I’m glad you like it. I mean, if it can win a non–horror lover over even the tiniest bit, I think it’s a good thing.”
That’s not me, I want to say. I love this stuff.
The movie continues, and I feign surprise with each new development, my gasps getting less obvious each time, but my hand, my body, creeping a little closer—his, too.
Sophia Blaine is asking her husband how they got into this position when our hands are so close I’m sure they’re going to touch. They’re like magnets coming together, his rough and cracked from tying ropes all day, mine sunburnt, lightly freckled. His hand inches toward mine, and I can feel heat emanating from his skin, and then—
There’s a sudden flash of a ghost on the screen and a crash of the movie soundtrack. Another jump scare, but this one actually does catch me off guard. My shoulders hunch up, and almost on instinct, Jake whips his hand away.
I sigh. The nerves of what almost happened are too much.
“Er, do you want some popcorn or something? You must be hungry.”
I realize I am hungry; I haven’t eaten much more than a handful of almonds since lunch, but until now, I hadn’t even thought of it. “Sure,” I say. “I’d love some.”
“Great,” Jake says, and leaps off the couch, pausing the movie.
I pick at my nails as I wait, listening to the pop-pop-pop coming from the microwave. My heart beats quickly, too, at the thought of Jake returning to the couch. I like him, I realize again. I really, really like him. Every side of him. But what would he think of me if I opened up about it all? What would he do if I told him everything as soon as he came back? The lies, the photo, everything?
Would he forgive me, laugh it off, understand that it’s easy to get a little self-conscious sometimes, widen his eyes at the ridiculous coincidence that made this whole thing a possibility? Or would he narrow them instead, take two steps back. Are you kidding me? You’ve been lying to me this whole time?
An explosion of pops and then the dinging of the timer. I listen as Jake takes the bag out of the microwave and empties it into a bowl. What would his aunt think of me? And Steinway? And Marianne? And everyone I’ve grown surprisingly fond of?
Jake returns holding a metal bowl, kernels of corn shimmering with grease. I expect him to sit where he was, but instead, he sits much closer, so we’re only inches apart. “You know, so we can share,” he says.
I nod. “Totally.”
He sets the bowl between us, balancing it on both of our legs, and I have wild fantasies of grabbing it, tossing it aside, creating greasy popcorn snowfall, turning to him and leaning in, never breaking away.
Instead, we eat and we watch, and I savor every brush of our hands as we reach for the bowl at the same time—it’s more delicious, even, than the salty, buttery popcorn. My body thrums where it almost touches his, our thighs so close but still so far, and the movie, so recently watched, takes on a new meaning. Sure, I saw it last night, but I’ve never seen it sitting so close on a couch with a cute boy. I’ve never seen it wondering if I turned my head just so, if he would . . .
I turn my head just so, catch his profile, illuminated by the lights of the screen. The glare on his glasses, the slope of his nose, a pimple on the bottom of his chin. He’s imperfect, too, and yet, looking at him now, all I see is perfection.
He catches my eyes, and I look away, embarrassed.
“What?” he asks.
I turn back, try to still my racing pulse. “Nothing.”
He doesn’t drop my gaze, and his hand reaches for mine on the edge of the bowl, his fingers resting, not intertwining, just there. It’s suddenly scarier than anything in any horror movie in the history of time, because I don’t know what is going to happen, and I’ve never felt this way before . . .
A sudden screech; the front door practically crashes open.
Jake jumps and scoots back about three feet on the couch, and a woman walks in, wearing jeans and a faded Carrie T-shirt. Jake’s aunt. I love her already.
She takes me in but doesn’t say a word about us, about my being here, and I wonder—is this something he does all the time, brings girls over to watch a movie?
But then I realize, it can’t be. He’s only been here a few weeks.
She sets down more equipment, and I catch the tattoos running up and down her left arm—I bet she’s just too cool to say anything like that, like Chrissy.
“This is Olivia,” Jake says, quickly getting up off the couch and helping his aunt with her things.
I stand up, too, and she gives me a wave. “Mona.” Her hair is short, pixie-like, and dyed charcoal black. She looks about my mother’s age, only she couldn’t be further from my mother in every single way. She isn’t wearing any makeup, or maybe it all washed off—her face practically swims in sweat. “I’d shake your hand,” she says. “Only I’m sweating out to here. I swear to god we weren’t supposed to be shooting until eleven.”
Eleven.
“Shit,” I say. “I mean . . .” I glance to Mona, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care. “I was supposed to be home by eleven.”
My phone is still in my bag. I dig it out. There are three texts from my mom.
Where are you?
It’s 11:15
I’m worried
I shoot a quick text back.
So sorry lost track of time, coming home now
“I’ll drive you,” Jake says, before I even have a chance to ask.
“Come back again when I’m not a sweaty mess,” Mona says with a smile.
In minutes, I’ve retrieved my swimsuit from the bathroom, and we’re back in Jake’s car. Only it’s different this time, it’s dark and it’s nearly midnight, and we almost kissed back on that couch. Even thinking about it now, the way his eyes held mine, the way our hands came together, I feel myself blush; luckily, it’s too dark in the car for him to see it.
It’s not just the car; it’s everything. The winding roads, illuminated just barely by headlights. A darkness that surrounds you and presses on you, the kind of darkness that opens the door to all kinds of possibilities. It’s that time of night, and that time in movies, when the monsters come out.
If we were just Elm and Carrie, it would be easy. I’d be cracking jokes left and right. About how we really better watch out for deer, because every movie that wants to up the creep factor always has the driver hitting an animal of some sort—even Get Out did it, and Get Out wasn’t much for clichés. Or, I’d talk about how these winding, unraveling roads remind me of David Lynch movies, of early Twin Peaks.
I can’t say any of that, so I don’t say anything at all.
“I’m sorry I made you miss curfew,” he says finally. “I had no idea it had gotten so late. I was distracted, I guess . . .by the movie, I mean.”
“No, it’s my fault,” I say, forcing a laugh. “I should have been checking the time.” Then: “You can turn up here. Next right.”
He slows down, making the turn carefully, and as he does, the headlights illuminate a deer. He comes to a full stop, and she looks at us, then she prances off, back into the woods.
Screw it, I’m saying it. Having a loose knowledge of horror is not going to give me away.
“This is like the perfect complementary setting to the movie,” I say.
He grins. “Right? This whole area is.”
Of course the horror movie setting isn’t horrible at all, I think. It’s completely lovely, having him here with me.
But that, I’m definitely not brave enough to say.
I point ahead. “It’s that green house right there.”
He pulls into the gravel drive.
“Thanks for driving me.” I reach for the handle.
Jake practically spits the words out: “We should do this again sometime.”
I turn back, nodding eagerly. “I’d like that.”
“Should we trade numbers?”
I have to stop my hands from shaking with excitem
ent, but I pull out my phone and hand it to him. He punches his in. “Just text me, and I’ll have yours,” he says.
I nod. “I guess I should get inside, then. My parents are probably having a conniption.”
He stares at me, and I feel myself blush.
“I mean, they’re probably freaking out, you know.”
Jake nods, but his gaze doesn’t break mine, and I want, so badly, to lean in, to take that step off the cliff, just like I did, with his encouragement, before . . .
Finally, he looks away, breaking the silence: “Er, thanks for watching a movie with me—or part of a movie with me, at least—we can do something not-horror next time, promise. Or we can finish this one. Whatever you want.”
I nod. “No problem. Thanks for having me.”
He adjusts himself in his seat, then twists his body, leaning forward—
An awful beep. I laugh as he whips back his arm from where his elbow laid on the horn. Some timing the two of us have.
He looks away, embarrassed. “Sorry. I’ll see you Monday.”
I smile, reaching for the door. “See you.”
My mom is reading in the living room when I walk in. She narrows her eyes at me. “Have fun?”
I nod. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t do it again,” she says, but she smiles, like she knows more than she’s letting on. Then she turns back to her book like nothing’s even happened. My mom might be completely different from Aunt Chrissy or Jake’s aunt Mona—but times like this, she’s pretty cool all the same.
Back in my room, I toss my bag onto the bed and pull out my phone, type out a message.
Hi, Jake, it’s Olivia
As soon as it’s sent, I feel the heat rise to my cheeks, and I sink into the bed, stare at the ceiling, feel my whole body coming alive.
I really thought this was going to be the worst summer ever.
