These Dreams Which Cannot Last

by Matt Flickinger

  Zain smiles. She is making him forget again, forget that some things matter too much “My dad,” he says.

  She looks over at him, tired, but in a good way, “your dad?” she asks.

  “He used to say, ‘Always treat your lady with respect. Speak to her like the most important person you’ll ever meet.’ I just wanted to make sure I spoke that way, with respect.”

  And she doesn’t laugh at that, just smiles, shaking her head. “You’ve definitely got it down. You’re kind of charming,” she says, “totally.” She cocks her head and rolls her eyes. It is the hottest expression Zain has ever seen in his life. Heat floods his face and body. How can you feel horny and sad and embarrassed all at the same time? he thinks.

  “It sucks you have to move now,” Charlotte says. “We just started…” She stops, watching a little white car grinding over the loose gravel of the parking lot. Zain can just make out the bald head of the driver silhouetted by the rising sun as he parks. The driver opens his door and steps out. He is chubby and hunched over. Not like a medical condition, more like a tired parent condition. He gives Zain and Charlotte a calculating look before he opens the back door. Two little pink sneakered feet peek out beneath the open door. Then, in a blur, the little girl is out, princess dress crooked on her shoulders, sprinting towards the playscape.

  “You make me happy,” Zain says. “The way you make me forget. Not forget important stuff, just forget to feel so much. Not that I don’t feel things with you—”

  “Relax,” Charlotte says, smiling, “I get it.” She rubs her thighs, shaking a bit. They should go, Zain thinks, even if he doesn’t want to. She is cold. Charlotte pushes her feet into the wood chips and walks her swing over to him. Zain turns his hips, twisting in his swing. Charlotte sets her fingers on Zain’s cheeks, “I like you, too,” she says, coming closer. And, before he closes his eyes, Zain can’t help appreciate the sadness in her smile. Another smile for the list. Not for the top, not his favorite of her faces. But definitely one he’ll never forget. She is still here, he thinks. She didn’t walk away, just laughed and kissed him with her salty, soft lips. They are still here, together. And he never saw it coming.

  38

  What Next

  It is lucky the little kid and her dad showed up (and unlucky). Kissing Zain brings back a more physically-centered memory of what she has missed. A reminder she feels in her body more than her brain. Feeling his face in her fingers, his lips on hers, brings it all back. Kissing Zain is knowing him, Charlotte thinks. So much of what the boy is can be felt in his kiss. His strength and persistence and vulnerability. Around the patches of pimples on his cheeks (which she really doesn’t mind) his face feels soft. His lips and tongue, insistent and desperate, but strong.

  When Zain pulls away, Charlotte feels eyes on them. At the base of the slide, the fat dad looks away, but not before she catches the look on his face. It is a strange mix of annoyance and interest. Charlotte shudders.

  “You cold?” Zain asks.

  “Ya. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s cool. I should probably get back home. I didn’t leave a note or anything.”

  “Do you ever?”

  Zain laughs and shakes his head, “no, but I really don’t want to get grounded again.”

  “Why not?”

  All of a sudden, Zain looks worried. “Well,” he says, “I’m hoping to spend as much time with you—if you still want?”

  “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

  “You suck,” he says, his face relaxing.

  “Walk me home?” she says, standing and offering him her hands to help him up.

  “How about run you home?” he says, taking her hands, “gotta break in the new kicks.”

  Chloe is on the porch when Zain and Charlotte walk up the sidewalk toward the door. Zain wonders if he should let go of Charlotte’s hand, but she keeps holding on, so he does too. So much of the time they’ve spent together around other people, Zain has been unsure how to act, what to do. Holding her hand makes him less nervous, though. He wishes they could hold hands all the time. It makes him feel powerful. Any time this beautiful and totally wonderful older girl holds onto his hand, Zain feels like he could punch a shark, or climb a mountain, or just live every day without being scared. And now, in front of her sister, Charlotte holds on and leans a bit against him. Zain walks a little taller up the front walk.

  Chloe suppresses a smile, “Didn’t know you were up, sister.” She says sister like there are extra e’s where the i should be.

  “Went for a run,” Charlotte says, shortly. “You remember Zain.”

  “Sure,” Chloe says. She doesn’t seem to notice Charlotte’s accusatory tone, even if it makes Zain feel a bit awkward. “How are the shoes? Better than your dead ass Chucks?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte says. “Thank you. Even if they are a bit pink.”

  “Looking cute isn’t a crime, seester.” There it is again. Charlotte shakes her head. “Zain, they look good, right?” Chloe says.

  “She looks great,” Zain says, looking at Charlotte. She lets go of his hand, “traitor,” she says.

  “Okay, lovers,” Chloe says, “I’m off. Mom is making breakfast.” She and Charlotte share a look before Chloe jogs down the stairs and past them down the front walk. When her sister is a couple houses away, Charlotte looks up at the front door.

  “Text me later?” she says, looking back at Zain.

  “I’ll have to check my schedule,” he says.

  “Clever.”

  “I’ll call you,” he says with a wink. Charlotte rolls her eyes, but smiles before she opens the front door. Zain watches until she is inside, then jogs down the sidewalk.

  Her mom is headed up the stairs when Charlotte walks in. Halfway up, she turns around as Charlotte closes the door, a look of surprise on her face. “I was just coming up to see if you wanted to join us for breakfast,” she says. “You’re already up, though, I see.”

  “Ya. I got up early.”

  “Oh. Well, good for you,” she says, walking back down the stairs to stand with Charlotte in the foyer. She gives her daughter a quick look down and back up again, forcing a fake smile when her eyes are back on Charlotte’s face. This, Charlotte thinks, is exactly why she didn’t invite Zain in. This look of quick and complete judgment. “Why?” she says.

  “Why what?” Her mother says.

  “Why were you coming up to wake me?”

  “I thought a family breakfast would be nice.”

  “Chloe just left,” Charlotte says, settling her face into a cold stare.

  Her mother’s smile falters only momentarily, “would you like to join us or not?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Okay. Well, when you are, there is frittatas.”

  Charlotte is halfway up the stairs before it dawns on her. Her parents must have asked Chloe what Charlotte said on their run the other day. Of course they did. And her sister had found a way around the seester talk code. Didn’t give them any details, as she promised. But she did give a suggestion, be nice to Charlotte, or some such shit. It isn’t exactly against the code, but it still feels like cheating. It still sucks. On the run home, following her sister, Charlotte wondered if she should have shared. Now she knows she shouldn’t have said anything. She doesn’t need anything from her mother, definitely not pity frittatas, or that dutiful look of caring that her mom couldn’t even keep on her face through a thirty second conversation. Before she turns on the shower, Charlotte grabs the baggie from under the sink. She shakes the last dry scraps from the sack into her pipe. First, Zain tells her he’s leaving forever in two weeks and now her mom trying to play mother of the year. What next? she thinks.

  Charlotte’s words run through his head the whole run home. Zain didn’t think about it when she said it, but it was the nicest thing, “We just started.” So sweet, he thinks. Sweeter than anything she’s ever said to him. Like she feels as regretful as he does.
And now she wants him to text, to call, to keep going. And that is so nice, too. But then what? None of the scenarios he played through his head on the way to the park led here, he thinks. Charlotte is still there, still here. But what comes after this morning, after next week, after the next and after that?

  39

  Listening

  By the time Zain walks into the art room on Wednesday morning, to hand in his contest piece, everything has pretty much gotten back to normal. From not knowing if he and Charlotte are history, to (surprise!) we’re moving away for forever, to getting Charlotte back (for now?), to back to school, to catching up on homework he should have done over the break, to putting the finishing touches on his art contest piece. With all the good and bad news and excitement of the last week, Zain is surprised at how fast everything can return to ordinary. Almost ordinary. Everything feels normal, except for the crushing reminders that press down on him with every ringing of the bell, every run on the track, reminding him that it will all be different soon. New school, new house, new team, new teachers, new people, new hallways. It’s too much to think about, but he can’t seem to escape it.

  Ms. Feeney is the only one in the room when Zain walks in. She raises her head from her desk as the door closes. She looks confused, probably at why her door is being opened before the bell, Zain guesses. When her big eyes focus on him, Ms. Feeney gives a big toothy smile. As Zain opens his backpack, she moves paper piles to the reserve desk behind her. “Ready for the big reveal,” she says. Zain pulls the piece from his portfolio and lays it gently on the desk. She stands upright, looking it over. She is quiet for so long, Zain thinks it must suck. The changes in this latest version must have messed it all up, the grittiness of the original sketch has been lost, the coupon sky and billboards are weird. Finally, Feeney raises her hands to her cheeks, pinching them in a weird prayer-like squeeze. “This is marvelous,” she says into her hands. When she looks up at Zain there are tears in her eyes. She raises a tense hand, inches from Zain’s face. It takes him a moment to realize she is offering a high five. Zain slaps her hand and she lets out a squeal, like a little girl. She is so awkward, he thinks.

  “You really have something here. I love the mixed media approach. It works on so many levels and it is perfect for this contest,” she says, looking over the paper again. Her eyes stop on the little boy, lifeless in the street. She seems to want to say something but doesn’t. Just opens her mouth and closes it again, like a fish caught in a net made of mismatched necklaces.

  “Thank you,” Zain says, before she can say anything else.

  “Thank you! I will pack it up and take it over today with the other entries. No matter what happens, you should be proud of this.”

  Zain doesn’t know what to say. Ms. Feeney is so strange, but also nice. He adds this weird woman to the mental list he started over the weekend of things he will miss.

  “What is the title?” she asks.

  “Oh. I don’t know.”

  “An untitled piece, then. No problem. They will announce the winners in January,” she says, carefully sliding the picture into a rack behind her desk.

  “January?” Zain says.

  “Yes. It’s usually mid-month or so, but maybe earlier.”

  “Oh.”

  “I know it’s hard to wait, but…” she looks at Zain. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m moving,” he says. It is out before he can think about his promise to himself not to tell anyone. A clean break is easier. Plus, he doubts that anyone who doesn’t know yet will care all that much either way. No need to cause a scene, or not cause one.

  “Moving?” Ms. Feeney says.

  “We’re moving to El Paso at the beginning of Christmas break.”

  “Oh. Well. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Can I still enter the contest? Should I not now?”

  “No. Yes, of course. I was just hoping to have you in my class a little longer.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  Ms. Feeney nods, her pearls clicking as she looks around the room. “Well,” she says, finally, “I can notify you when the results are in. You have email, right?”

  “That sounds good.”

  “Good,” she says, raising her eyebrows at Zain. The bell rings.

  “I have to get going,” Zain says.

  “Yes. Don’t want to be late for the day. Well done again, sir.”

  Zain nods and heads for the door. Before he walks out, he turns back. Ms. Feeney is frantically piling the main desk again with piles of projects and papers, like the start of day bell was unexpected. “Have a good day, Ms. Feeney,” Zain says. She looks up from her desk surprised at the sound of a voice. Zain smiles at her and walks out.

  Charlotte watches Zain pull Ziploc bags and plastic Tupperware containers from his lunch bag one by one until the picnic table looks like the last hour of a bake sale. He unzips one of the sandwich bags and tears half a PB and J sandwich into his mouth with a single bite. He chews voraciously, looking around the courtyard, cheeks stuffed like a scrawny chipmunk. Charlotte opens the lunch she bought at a vending machine on the way out to meet him, a single small package of hot fries. A week of eating together and Zain’s lunch routine is still fascinating, and a little gross. Where the hell, she thinks, does he put it all? Zain is looking at her. He finishes chewing. “Are you sure you don’t want anything?” he asks, for the fifth time this week.

  “I’m good,” she says.

  “Ok,” he says. He looks a little relieved as he opens a bag of baby carrots. “This is so great,” he says for at least the tenth time this week. And, even though the weather has been unusually warm all week, perfect for eating outside, she knows this is not what he means. He smiles, a bit of peanut butter tucked into a corner of his mouth. Boys are gross, she thinks, even the cute ones.

  “What time should I come over tonight?” Zain asks.

  “Seven,” Charlotte says. “My parents should be gone by six thirty for their date.” She groans at the word, date. Ever since Chloe left, her parents have been so lovey with each other. Home all week, they’ve turned down offers for dinner parties and whatever else the bored-ass upper crust do in this shit town. It won’t last, she knows, but it’s still gross. At least she gets the house to herself for tonight.

  “I could come over earlier, if you want,” Zain says.

  “Why?”

  Zain takes a gulp from his water bottle, scrunching up his face in concentration. “I’ve been told I’m quite charming when I want to be,” he says, smiling, bread stuck in his teeth.

  “I don’t know if that is such a great idea,” Charlotte says.

  “I can be polite—”

  “Oh. No. It’s just that you’re…”

  “What?” Zain says. He looks sad.

  “It’s just not necessary—”

  Zain takes another carrot from the bag, “‘cause I’m leaving.”

  Charlotte shrugs.

  “I just didn’t want you to get in trouble, like if they came home early,” he says, biting into the carrot.

  “That’s really sweet. They won’t, though.”

  “Ok. I was just trying to help,” he says, chomping down the rest of his carrot.

  If she cared about their opinion, she might introduce Zain to her parents. If he was staying. She’d have to, she thinks, want to, maybe. What’s not to like? Bringing home a polite, smart, white jock would thrill her mother. Young and well-mannered, he’s kind of perfect. But it just isn’t the case now, not this life. Not now. Not for the first time, Charlotte thinks about Zain’s future. Someday (probably sooner than she wants to admit), some girl will open up her front door and proudly present this impressive boy (who doesn’t yet see what he is) as her boyfriend. Zain pictures the introduction day too, she knows. Just with a different girl. It will happen for him. But now is not the time and she is not that girl. All of it is too much to explain right now, though, so Charlotte just grabs his hand. And, in
the shade of the courtyard mesquite trees, even if people might be looking, she kisses him.

  His lips tighten, at first, then relax. She tastes carrot and peanut butter, then feels his hand on her cheek. She pulls back. Before she can look around or catch her breath he comes in again, laying a quick peck on her nose. Smiling, he pops another carrot into his mouth and looks away. Charlotte scans the courtyard. No whispering, no sideways glances. Just people laughing, eating, scribbling last-minute work before the bell. Zain is still smiling while he chews, sunburnt face taking in the courtyard scene proudly. A week and a half is too short, Charlotte thinks.

  Everything is ready by 6:45. Charlotte’s Christmas gift speakers from Chloe are plugged into her laptop’s headphone port, playlist (meticulously organized) on the screen, room somewhat clean, dirty clothes stuffed into a corner of her closet. Charlotte feels giddy. It’s a stupid word, she thinks, but it is true. Maybe she wouldn’t have done this for anyone else, but maybe no one else would’ve cared. Maybe it wasn’t worth sharing such a fantastic thing with any of the other boys before Zain.

  She’s spent all afternoon on the list. From what Charlotte has gathered, Zain’s musical tastes are confined to three categories. First, his local favorite: The Debutaunts. Then, the modern (and terrible): Maroon 5. And, finally, the nostalgic: his father’s favorites, Queen and Duran Duran (not terrible). Once, he mentioned Michael Jackson, but it didn’t seem like he knew much beyond what he’d heard on the radio. This will not do. The early songs on the list should feel familiar. A few favorites to pique his interest. She has loaded he beginning of the list with a couple of Michael Jackson’s less lame hits (Billy Jean kind of sucks if you think about it, but The Way You Make Me Feel is a stone cold jam), some Queen, and a few of the less sucky stuff from the radio they both like. From there it is uncharted territory for Zain, New wave: Modern English, The Cure, and Blondie. By then he’ll hopefully be ready for her favorite decade, the 90s, the music that changed everything. She’ll start with Nirvana (heroine daddies of grunge), then the Deftones (angry and impulsive), and Counting Crows (Adam Duritz, the 90s Dylan), then the Flaming Lips (weird but wild), and Weezer (bright and poppy). After that she has thrown in some female power with No Doubt (even if she sold out into high fashion, at one point Gwen was a sweaty badass), and 4 Non Blondes (because nothing is better than What’s Up). Then, finally, Radiohead (because how else can you cap off a decade of stubborn creatives?). The backside of her list is modern faves. The 1975, Sleeping with Sirens (virginal sound and perfectly named), PVRIS (new obsession), and 5SOS (pop punk perfection) rounding out the playlist.