by Alex Flinn
“That’s weird.”
“That’s how I feel sometimes, like that tiger.”
I nodded, watching him. Adrian has the grace of a tiger, and the power. I get the feeling he could really hurt someone if he wanted, but with me, he’s like a kitten. I said,
Me too. All my life, I felt exactly the same way. I like being here with you. I only wish we could go someplace, not be inside this house all the time.”
“I’d like that too. I know it’s not fair of me . . .” He stared out at the flowers in the greenhouse. “I keep you here, like one of my roses. You should be able to go out places.”
“Not just that. I wish you could go out too, go to the park, enjoy the fall leaves.”
“I wish. It’s just . . .”
“I know. You’re worried someone will see you.”
He shook his head. “Not that. Mostly, I’m afraid you’ll leave.”
“I won’t.”
“How can you say that? I’d leave if I were you.”
“You’re not me. I could leave if I wanted to, Adrian. You think I couldn’t find a way out if I wanted?”
He looked doubtful, but then he glanced around. He must have realized I was right. There were no bars on the windows. When I’d first come, I’d assumed I was locked inside, but now, I realized the only things standing between me and the door at night were a blind man, an old woman, and Adrian himself. I knew none of them would ever hurt me. I knew I could leave. It was my own decision to stay.
“So why do you stay?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I guess . . . I’ve never had a friend like you. Maybe I’ve never had a friend, a good friend. I’m happy here, happier than I’ve ever been. I feel safe for the first time in my life.”
I knew my words—the word friend—were crushing him. He didn’t think of me as a friend. I knew from the many times I’d seen him gazing at me. I knew it from the times our arms brushed over our books and I felt electricity in the air. I knew he thought of me as much more than a friend. Adrian loves me, and I know it.
And I know it because I feel the same way about him.
I love him.
It’s crazy, right? I love him. I love that he cares about poetry. I love how funny he is. I love that I feel safe with him. Yet, I can’t be in love with him.
Anyone might think it’s his looks that are standing in the way. But I got past his looks long ago, in a few days. I can see into his soul, and it is beautiful. The real problem is, Adrian needs me too much. And I can’t be with someone who needs me, not anymore. I mean, I know he doesn’t want me to be a nursemaid or anything, but if I was with him, I’d be trapped in this house, unable to have a normal life . . . just like I’m trapped with my father.
If this were a fairy tale, there would be a curse on him, and I’d have to kiss him or marry him or say I love you to break the curse. But this is reality, and there’s no such thing as magic, and no matter what happens, he will be him, and I will be me. And the world will be the world. Am I using his neediness as an excuse not to love him, because I really am icked out by his looks, really don’t want to love a freak? No, that’s not it. I do love him, despite or maybe because of his looks, but I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t spend my whole childhood saddled with my father, then spend my whole adult life saddled with someone else needy. I know it’s not his fault. He just wants someone to be with. It just can’t be me.
So I love him, but I’ll never tell him.
I said, “Maybe, one day, we’ll be able to go, to play in the leaves.”
October 25
This morning, when I went out to the greenhouse to study, I found a surprise.
Leaves. Hundreds, thousands, maybe millions of them, brown and yellow and red and orange, in bright piles on the concrete floor. Some were so high they almost covered the rosebushes.
I stood, openmouthed, until I heard footsteps, then turned to see Adrian standing there.
“How did you do this?” I asked him.
“It wasn’t easy. I was up half the night, in the street, with a flashlight and a rake, gathering them. I couldn’t even see which ones were pretty. I just took them all. Then, I brought them in here and sorted out the best ones for you.”
I looked back at them. They were even more vivid than the leaves on the trees.
“They’re perfect,” I said.
“You were right before. I don’t want to go outside. I don’t . . . I can’t let people see me. It would be too embarrassing.”
I said, “You’re not that bad.”
He shook his head. “I can’t take the chance. What if someone took pictures, posted them online . . . made fun of me? What if everyone came to stare at the freak?”
I nodded, understanding. I wanted to say the world wasn’t like that, but I knew the world. I lived here too.
“But I would do anything for you, Lindy, anything else, at least. If you want leaves or flowers or . . . diamonds, I’ll get them for you.”
He seemed so earnest, and it made me sad because I knew I couldn’t make him happy the way he wanted, so I changed the subject. I ran through the leaves, then stooped to pick some up and threw them at him. Then, I collapsed in one of the piles.
He followed and lay down next to me, but gently, so as not to hurt me. Adrian is always a gentleman.
“I think we should take the day off from school,” he said, “to play in the leaves.”
“Like a snow day,” I agreed.
So we did. We ran and jumped in the piles and threw the leaves at each other (and at Will when he came down, suggesting we start with geometry), then raked them all back up and started over again.
It may have been the most fun I’ve ever had.
November 29
It’s November, after Thanksgiving. Christmas season.
When I was a little girl, when my mother was still alive, Christmas was a lot of fun. We did all the usual corny stuff, baking cookies and skating at Rockefeller Center, got pictures on Santa’s lap.
Then, she died, suddenly, the day after Thanksgiving. Christmas died with her.
Since then, what I do for Christmas is read.
When I was little, my sisters used to read me The Night Before Christmas and How the Grinch Stole Christmas! Then, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, followed by all Laura Ingalls Wilder’s books. I loved reading what the Ingalls girls got for Christmas, even if it was only a stick of candy. My favorite was On the Banks of Plum Creek, when Laura and her sisters got the presents off the tree at church.
When I was ten, my teacher gave me Little Women, and two years later, I found Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. Laura and the March girls and Ebeneezer Scrooge, that’s who I spent Christmas with.
I asked Adrian if he could get me these books. “We could read them aloud together,” I said, “get in the holiday spirit.”
“That’s all you want to do for Christmas? READ?”
“I like reading, and we’re stuck in the house anyway.” I was sorry I’d said that. “And I LIKE READING. Don’t you have any holiday traditions?”
“Sure,” he said. “I like watching It’s a Wonderful Life as much as the next person.”
“I do that, too,” I said. “Let’s definitely watch that.”
He nodded. “Definitely. But isn’t there ANYTHING else you want to do? I have sort of an unlimited budget, thanks to my dad’s guilty conscience. And I really want to make Christmas nice for you, for us.”
I thought about it, all the things other people had done that I wished I could do. Riding in a one-horse open sleigh sounded like a bit much to ask, so I said, “We could make cookies, maybe even a gingerbread house. I bet Magda could help us with that. And . . . we could get a tree.”
It probably would sound stupid to most people, but I really wanted a tree. We hadn’t had one since I was little, but I always saw them in people’s windows, especially near school, all decorated and with lights and stars on top. Every year, I went to Rockefeller Center and the department stores
and just gazed at the beautiful decorated trees. I knew exactly the kind I wanted, with lots of different little ornaments, each with special meaning. I hoped to have a tree like that someday, with my family.
Adrian smiled then. “We have a winner. I’m way ahead of you.”
He gestured me out toward the greenhouse. When I got there, I saw a tree, a live pine tree in a pot. It was so tall it almost scraped the ceiling.
“I wanted a real one,” he said, “a live one that wouldn’t have to die ever. If you want it up in the living room, we could probably move it out. I thought the light was better here.”
“It’s beautiful.” I inhaled the scent of pine, now mixing with the roses. “Did you get decorations too?” I hoped he hadn’t. I wanted to choose them myself.
He shook his head. “I wanted you to pick. White lights or colored? Glass balls or little toys and stuff? A star at the top or an angel?”
“Oh, an angel,” I said, “with blond hair, like my mother.” Then, I realized I should ask what he liked too. “What did you used to have, with your father?”
He said, “We haven’t had a tree since my mother left.”
Of course he hadn’t. It was like we were two halves of an oyster shell, and when you put us together, it hid the gray gunk inside.
So we decided to choose together. We spent the af
ternoon on Macy’s website, choosing each ornament, garland, and string of lights, including a yellow-haired angel for the top.
And then, today, Magda went and got it all. The four of us decorated the tree together (Will helped with the lights), like a real family, maybe better than most real families, singing Christmas carols and having hot chocolate. Magda made a special soup she said they ate at Christmas in her country.
We chose white lights because we both agreed we wanted them to look like the stars. Adrian got them to blink and twinkle. When we finished everything, we all stared up at the tree, silhouetted against the sky.
Well, all except Will. He said, “It’s beautiful. The beauty, it brings tears to my eyes,” and he gave a big, fake sniff.
We all laughed, and that’s when I noticed the snow was falling outside. The first snow of the year settled on top of the greenhouse windows while we stayed in, warm and dry, watching it.
It was beautiful. In fact, I’m looking at the tree now, as I write this.
It still is.
December 15
Adrian suggested that, since it was winter break for New York schools, we too should take a break from studying and do holiday stuff. Here are some of the things we did.
Made a gingerbread house: I found instructions on the internet. Adrian wanted to make a gingerbread brownstone, but I thought that might be too hard. I told him we should make a regular house this year. Then, next year, we could do something more advanced.
He looked at me, surprised. “Will you still be here next year?”
I remembered then what Will had said when I first came. “Live here a year.” It had implied I could, or would, leave after that. But I hadn’t thought of it since then. Still, maybe they hadn’t planned on my staying any longer.
“Do you want me to be here next year?” I asked.
He met my eyes with an intensity I’d never seen before, then looked down. “I want you to stay forever, Lindy, but I want you to be happy.”
“I am happy,” I told him, and I meant it. But would I always be happy? Can I be happy here alone with Adrian, no school, no college, no life? Was it enough for me forever? No. Of course not. But he was smiling, and it’s Christmas, so I didn’t say it. I was happy, am happy now, and I want Adrian to be happy too. There would be enough time for sadness and separation later.
I changed the subject. “So, a regular gingerbread house, but we need to get a lot of candy.”
Adrian agreed. “In fact,” he said, “I was thinking you could do most of the baking, and I could actually be in charge of candy.”
“You think so?” I asked.
“I do,” he said. “You’re sweet enough.”
Watched a bunch of hokey Christmas movies: Specifically, we’ve watched Elf, A Christmas Story, Home Alone, A Christmas Carol, Scrooged, and of course, It’s a Wonderful Life.
“Wow,” he said when It’s a Wonderful Life was over. “That was great.”
“You act like you’ve never seen it before,” I said.
“Well, I might have exaggerated how many times I’ve seen it. I saw it once, when I was twelve, but I get it more now. It makes me wonder how the world would be different if I’d never been born.”
I thought about that. I knew my father would be dead many times over without me, which gave me more than a twinge of guilt over the fun I was having without him right now. I wondered where he was, if he was okay. Stupid, right?
“Makes me want to do something nice for someone,” Adrian said.
“Me too,” I said.
I told him how, last year, I bought some toys and things for these kids in my building, the Lesters, because I knew their mom couldn’t afford presents.
He was impressed. “Could you afford presents?” he asked.
“Not really. But I saved up and bought them some cars and teddy bears and left them on the doorstep.”
“That was really nice of you,” Adrian said. “Maybe we should do it again.”
Truth be told, I’d mentioned it hoping he’d suggest it. Last year, I’d only been able to get small toys with money squirreled away from my paycheck. Maybe together, we could do more this year.
So I told him about them, the boy, Kenneth, and the girl, Kiana, funny and creative, how their mom was sort of a friend of mine when we had time for it. Adrian and I spent the rest of the afternoon talking about what type of gifts to buy. Adrian thought we should get them things to play with together, but I pointed out that, when you’re poor, sometimes it’s really important to have something all your own. Finally, we decided to do both: art supplies and LEGOs they could share, and then a baby doll for Kiana and Tonka trucks for Kenneth.
“Should we sneak in and deliver them?” Adrian asked.
“Um, t
hat’s a good way to get shot in my old neighborhood,” I said.
So we ordered the toys and arranged for them to be delivered to their apartment. I wish I could see their faces when the presents come, but I can imagine.
I told Adrian I loved that we were doing this, and he said, “And I love . . .”
But then he stopped. I knew what he was going to say. He loves me. I think I love him too. But I can’t tell him that. I can’t. This has been a wonderful, sweet fantasy, but it can’t be anything more than that, I know.
“Do you want to send anything to your father?” he asked. “Christmas dinner, maybe?”
I frowned. “He probably doesn’t even live in the same place anymore.” Eviction loomed large in our lives, and it would be even more likely now that I wasn’t there to manage things.
“I’ll find out where he is, and we’ll send something,” Adrian said. “I’ll make sure he’s safe. Lindy, I would do anything for you.”
The thing is, he’s said that to me before. And no one else ever has.
December 16
I’ve decided I’m just going to have fun. It’s Christmas. I’m young. I’m not going to worry about the future, about hurting Adrian’s feelings, about leaving him. I’m not going to think about my father, either. I’m just going to enjoy this time. I deserve it. If it can’t last forever, at least I’ll have it now.
December 24
Tonight is Christmas Eve. I wish I could say it was weird, not spending it with my father, but that’s happened before. More than once. Some years, he showed up stoned or late. Other years, he didn’t show up.
But this year, I’m not alone. Adrian asked me if I usually went to church Christmas Eve. I haven’t, not since my mother died, but suddenly, I really wanted to, so I said I did. “Will you go with me?” I asked.
And then I regretted it, because he frow
ned and shook his head. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable in a crowd like that, but maybe Magda could . . . you wouldn’t leave, would you? Not on Christmas Eve?”
His eyes, wide and bright blue, seemed so concerned and his strange face so sweet. Of course, I said, “Leave? No, I won’t leave. I’ll never leave. In fact, I don’t want to go at all without you. We’ll just stay home and watch a service on TV.”
Of course, leaving was the last thing I’d do. I was where I wanted to be.
That was when he mentioned that there was a church down the street holding a live nativity, where they acted out the Christmas story. “I could take you to that,” he said. “It’s outside. I could stand in the shadows.”
Much as I wanted to tell him he didn’t have to stay in the darkness, I knew he wouldn’t believe me. And I knew he was right, too. I agreed to go.
So tonight was the first time I’ve been outside, out anywhere with Adrian. He wore a coat with a big hood, and gloves. He held my hand as we walked down the street. It was sweet. I knew his hands were ugly underneath the gloves, but it didn’t matter. I squeezed his hand.
He squeezed mine back.
As planned, we stood in back, in the shadows, and even so, whenever anyone turned around, Adrian cringed and hid. This is how it would be, I knew, if we were together. Always hiding, always concealed.
He started to say something, but that was when the music started, and the performance began. It was just kids our own age, dressed as angels and wise men. They had a real donkey and some sheep. At one point, I noticed a shepherd’s Nike sneakers, but still, it was beautiful. After all, it was the story of two outsiders with nowhere to go. I so related, and for a while, we were just silent, in the cold night air and under the stars together.
And then we came back and drank hot chocolate, and Will insisted we hang up stockings even though we told him we weren’t kids anymore. “You never know what will happen in the dark,” he said, and somehow, I just know those stockings will be filled by morning.
