by Lindy Zart
Framed pictures take over the remaining wall space. Riley and Rivers' smiling faces stare back at me and I turn away. With her fresh-faced good looks and his dark handsomeness, they were breathtaking to watch together. Their relationship is legend throughout the Prairie du Chien school walls. They started dating freshman year and have regularly been on and off since then. In fact, I think they may have been in an off stage at the time of his accident.
I wonder if Rivers, instead of Riley, is going to be the one to tear down whatever bridge of shared history is between them, allowing Riley to fall down and away into the past. She's supposed to be the heartless one—the one that snips the ties that bind one being to another, but when it comes to him, it seems like her heart is an overachiever, and his is nowhere to be seen. The thought doesn't really brighten my day like I thought it would.
Rumors of cheating, physical violence on Riley's part, and Rivers' insensitivity have been whispered in their wake. Riley supposedly cheated, who knows why—insecurites, revenge, to make him jealous?
I saw her slap him once, in the dark corner of a hallway after school had let out. I'd forgotten a homework assignment in my locker and was walking down the dimly lit hallway when I saw it, the sound of it like a piece of something beautiful being ripped away in a bandage of vileness, the sight of it enough to make the air freeze in my lungs. And what did Rivers do? He walked away; a perfect display of indifference.
I guess if no one ever cares about what you do, you keep doing more and more bad things in the hope that something will matter to them. At least, I think that's how Riley's mind works. If someone doesn't care about anything you do, then they don't really care about you. So maybe Rivers was the worse of the two—acting like he cared, not caring enough, and yet stringing her along.
They were in a bubble of implied perfection, and that bubble popped—or maybe it exploded. The majority of the kids in school acted like they were something special. I knew they weren't, but then, I didn't exactly have people running up to me asking my opinion on the subject of them either. Determination straightens my spine as I pick up a shirt from the floor and toss it into the laundry basket by the door. It probably hurts Rivers to sit in this room and see what his world used to be like. I don't even like seeing it all, and I have never been a fan of his. In fact, the first thing I would do is take down all of their pictures, which my fingers itch to do anyway. I hate looking at them, particularly her.
I go about straightening the room, careful not to look at anything for too long. I feel like I am spying on a life I have not been invited to see. For the duration of my employment here, I have spoken nil to Rivers and that's okay with me. Although, had I immediately known it was his house I would be cleaning over summer break, I would have hesitated to accept the job.
I still would have taken the job, but I would have pondered it for a brief moment. I'd already had plans that, strangely enough, coincided with him. Funny how that stuff tends to work out. The despair and hopelessness in Monica Young pulled at my heart and I wanted to help her. I can't stand to see others in pain. Not her, and not even Rivers. I blow out a noisy breath, wishing my stinking inclination to heal everything wasn't so profound. Life would be so much easier if I didn't want to fix every broken thing I come across.
When I was a kid, I found an injured dove in the park near my home. It was in the grass beside a tree, just lying there. I knew something was wrong when it didn't try to fly away as I approached. It was pale gray with white—so exquisitely beautiful. It lay on its side, its eyes blinking, one of its wings broken. I couldn't leave it there, all alone.
With tears running down my face, I gathered grass and leaves, placing them in a notched out part in the base of a tree. I gently picked up the dove. It was still, quiet, and so trusting of me. I knew it was dying and my heart was beating so fast, it was as if it was trying to pump enough life force for me as well as the bird. I held it close to me, wanting to heal it and knowing I couldn't.
I sat against the tree, keeping it warm, waiting. The sky darkened, its chest barely moving with its breathing. "I'm sorry," I whispered. When dusk fell and I knew my mom would be worried about me if I didn't get home soon, I placed it in the bed of green foliage, giving it back to the earth as the earth once gave to it. I turned to go, not wanting to leave it and knowing I had to. Looking back once to see its chest no longer rising and falling, and with grief heavy in my steps, I walked home.
The next day, I went back and the bird was gone. At the time, I told myself it was lifted into the sky by the hands of God, taken back home to live in a dream-like world full of endless blue skies. Now I know it was probably eaten by an animal, but at the time, thinking what I did gave me peace.
Not that I can compare Rivers to a bird, but even so, my impulse to help him comes from the same part of me that wanted to protect that dying creature. In his case, he makes it simple to keep my distance with his silent glares and dismissive nature. His muteness is almost less welcome than his arrogant personality had once been, but at the same time it is a relief to not have to interact with him. I've always been a little nervous in his presence, which aggravated me in school and yet continued all four years anyway. He was just so much—his presence took up the school.
I tug the charcoal-toned sheets from the bed and find clean ones in the closet, remaking the bed as quickly and efficiently as I can. Even though he is not here, I can feel his dark eyes watching me from this room that embodies him. The pictures that line the walls, the awards that boast his talents, even in the framed painting of an ocean above his bed—they all remind me of eyes that are dark and layered in ice, as though winter has encompassed his whole being. I hurriedly finish up like the very air is singeing me the longer I am in the vicinity.
I leave my final touch on the room by opening the curtains and allowing sunshine in. It coats the room in streaks of gold, its fire glittering on the frozen banks of a barren climate. I know the curtains will be closed again tomorrow. They always are.
THE STARS FILL THE SKY with their light as I stare up at them, feeling small and insignificant. I lie on an old itchy blanket I found in the garage, ignoring how the rough fabric abrades my sensitive skin. This is what most of my nights consist of, but I like to do this. My mom has asked me repeatedly why I so often lie on the ground and watch the sky. I never have a real answer. It's peaceful, in a way, but it also reminds me of how majestic the world truly is, and how what happens to me and those around me doesn't alter anything in the sky. One day we will all be gone from this world, but the stars will still be here, no matter what. They are imperishable, even while we are not.
The tree limbs overhead sway with a gentle breeze, and around me are innumerable flowers in every shade imaginable. I love our backyard. It's my haven from the rest of the world. True, there are houses on either side of it, and even one farther behind it, but in the middle of it is a little piece of floral perfection. The uneven lines of trees and flowering bushes form a semblance of a natural gate around the yard, offering seclusion.
Not that I need it—the neighbors are used to my oddities and barely pay attention to me anymore. I don't think I could surprise them, with any of what they most likely perceive as shenanigans, if I tried. We live in an older community. I think the youngest neighbor we have is Mrs. Hendrickson, and she just turned sixty last week. I know because my mom had us take her a potted plant as a birthday present.
I close my eyes as a smile captures my lips. Focusing on my breathing, I draw air in and out of my lungs as my body melts into the lumpy ground beneath the blanket. Memories come to me in the sound of laughter, a feeling of contentment, and the scent of flowers on the breeze. That is what my childhood consisted of, and I miss it.
I may keep my distance from others, but I am in no way shy. I keep my distance because I've found that I am a better person when I have no one looking at me, making me feel like I need to prove something to them, like I need to show them I have worth. I know my worth and the only person I
need to prove anything to is myself. I like to dance. I like to sing. I like to talk to birds and squirrels. And I don't care who sees it. I'm not saying I never cared, because when I was younger, yes, I cared. I cared too much and I was hurt because of it, but not anymore. In recent years, I embrace me, exactly as I am, and the rest of the world can screw off.
And isn't it weird that no one wants to change who they are, yet they aren't even trying to be themselves? Just a thought. We're all so focused on being somebody, and it's usually never the real us.
On the wind comes the crisp scent of growing vegetables. If green had a smell to describe it, that's what it would be—a garden of fruits and vegetables coming to life. It amazes me that a seed or a little piece of root can turn into something that keeps us alive. My mom likes that even vegetables and fruits produce flowers. Every summer we plant a garden. I watch it grow, nursing it, caring for it, and am reminded again and again how even something tiny can be needed to live. It's never about how much you have—it's about how much what you have means to you.
I suppose in answer to my mother's question about why I find myself lying under the stars whenever I am able to, surrounded by earthy beauty, my response would be simple. I fist my hands around silky strands of grass and close my eyes. It's so obvious, to me at least. Only within the arms of nature, am I truly free.
ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER SET OF closed curtains to open. Monica is out on errands, Thomas is wherever Thomas works, I'm assuming, and Rivers is glaring at me from the doorway of his bedroom. It's not as much fun opening his curtains when he's watching me do it. I do it anyway, revealing the fiery light, the green of the trees that brag of life, and the calming, motionless blue sky. Why would he want to keep all of that beauty out of his room?
I pretend I don't notice him, humming to myself as I grab the laundry basket of clean clothes by the dresser. It's not my job to fold and put his clothes away, nor would I feel comfortable doing it if it were. The thought of touching Rivers' boxer briefs—I only know he wears those because there's a pair of white and black striped ones staring at me from the top of the basket—makes my face warm and my breaths come a little faster. Weird.
I set the basket on the chest next to the dresser so he doesn't have to lean down so far to get the clothes out of it. Not that he'll appreciate it or anything. Maybe his mom will just do it for him anyway. I think everything he's ever had was either handed to him or came effortlessly to him—good grades, sports, good looks, girlfriends—he never had to work really hard at any of those things and yet he always excelled.
Or so it seemed.
The hand that clutches the door frame is white and there is stiffness to his body from the strain of trying to stand straight with uncooperative limbs. He wants so badly to be normal. I can tell. I see it every time he struggles to walk a short distance. I see it every time his eyes look through me and into the person he used to be. That's all he's seeing—his past he can never get back to. There is so much pain in his face, a lot of it physical, a lot of it mental.
I open my mouth to say something—I don't know what—but the look he slices my way halts any words from coming out. It was dismissive, cold, and vague at the same time. It was sort of eerie, and the chill that sweeps over my spine supports that assessment. Rivers is lost. I walk by him, my face forward, my eyes on the stairs in the foyer beyond, and I wonder how someone as lost as he is, can ever get back to themselves. And then I think, maybe it isn't about getting back to himself, but about moving forward and finding a new version of himself. I wonder who is going to help him out with that and then I get a mental image of me raising my hand.
Muttering to myself, I grab my tote bag and walk out the front door. I think it was settled the first time I saw him after his accident, actually. Me, the girl with no friends, yet who has the heart that wants to save everyone. Makes a lot of sense. The sunshine targets my pale skin and the hot air heats me as I hook a leg over my bike and pedal away. A warm breeze, scented with lilacs, caresses my face, and the strong brown limbs of trees sway with it. I smile, taking it all in. Some compulsion has me turn my head to see if the curtains of Rivers' room will once again be closed like I figure they will be, and my breath hiccups when I find they are not only open, but also that Rivers is standing on the other side of the window. It's creepy how intensely he's watching me, or something near me anyway. What has finally caught his attention enough to give him a small tug back into this world?
ICE CREAM SHOPPE IS THE place to be for ice cream lovers in the summer. I may have an addiction, but I am not admitting it to anyone. All flavors appeal to me, but as peanut butter is my first love—above ice cream even—I usually get a 'Peanut Butter and Chocolate Chunk Frozen Avalanche'. I fight the sunshine as I inhale my large melting cup of euphoria, eyes trained on the railroad tracks across the road. I could watch trains all day and night.
Although faint and faraway, I can even hear them from my house and they lull me to sleep at night. It has been ten minutes since the last one blared its way across the tracks. Most towns no longer use them as a prominent source of transporting goods, but Prairie du Chien seems to cling to that bit of the country's past. I find the town all the more appealing because of it.
The umbrella hovering over the table I am sitting at offers minimal shade and I am melting along with my ice cream. Perpetually pale-skinned, I have to lather myself in a layer of sunscreen every time I'm outside, or I burn. It gets to be quite tedious slathering the lotion on whenever I have the urge to go outside—which is often. I carry a bottle with me at all times 'cause I'm cool like that.
Chunks of choppy red hair have fallen out of my short ponytail and frame my face. The white tank top I'm wearing is damp with perspiration and my legs are sticking to the bench in an uncomfortably intimate way. “You love summer,” I remind myself.
“Look, she's talking to herself. Probably because she doesn't have any friends.”
I roll my eyes at the familiar voice and turn to face the Evil Duo. “You're exactly right. The selection around here is pretty poor.”
Avery is a shorter, curvier clone of Riley. They both have wavy brown hair, blue eyes, small features, and dress in clothes at prices unavailable in Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin. I don't understand why they would want to pay more for clothes, but then, I was never part of their crowd, so I don't know these things. Today Avery is dressed in a red sundress and Riley is in a white one. Whereas Riley looks slim and ethereal in hers, Avery looks plump and doll-like.
Eyes narrowing, she starts to say something else when Riley interrupts in a soft voice, “Leave her alone, Av.”
Confusion pulls her mouth down, and I have to think I have a similar look on my face.
“Come on, let's go,” Riley says, giving her friend's arm a tug.
I take a deep breath once they are speeding off in Riley's black Jeep with their hair floating behind them in ripples of silky brown. Something cold drips onto my knee and I realize it's my ice cream, forgotten in my raised spoon. I do not understand what just happened and that bothers me. The lines are supposed to be clear: Riley is a cruel bitch and I dislike her in a thoroughly therapeutic way. What does she think she's doing, melding black and white together like she is? And why? Maybe the whole Rivers scenario has softened her.
Right. No one ever really changes, do they? Not if they don't want to and not if they can help it. I'm no different. I like me. I like that I voice my opinions and I like that I am honest. I like that I know who I am and I am confident with that person. I like my funky hair and my mismatched clothes. I don't care what others think and I don't care if people like me or not. I will not change, not for anyone. I suppose that makes me as bullheaded as the rest of the world, and an easy target for ridicule. So be it.
At least I'm not a heartless wench.
I drop my empty cup in a garbage can, wipe my sticky hands on a napkin, and pop my ear buds in, beginning my mile-long trek home. 'Love Don't Die' by The Fray thumps through the wires. I have determined th
at music makes everything better, even this walk through air so humid that each time I breathe in it feels like I am inhaling steam. My feet criss-cross and I slide to the right, a smile on my face as I dance my way home. Vehicles speed by on the highway and I only hope I make someone else smile as I bust a move.
I feel the ground vibrate before I hear or see it, and I pause on the sidewalk beside the massive locomotive. It shoots by in greens and oranges, graffiti and logos flashing by. The horn is loud and vibrates through my teeth. I whoop and pump my fist in the air, grinning as the monster machine roars by. It's impossibly strong, and looks indestructible. I wonder if I could be sucked under it if I stood too close, the wind pulling at me even as I gaze at it. An image of Rivers being sucked under his dad's boat clouds my brain and I frown, shaking the mental picture away. It follows me, though, and I keep thinking about how scared he must have been, and how much it had to have hurt. I rub the chilled flesh of my arms and hurry my pace.
Something tugs at me as I pass by the road that leads to the Young house—probably that stupid bleeding heart of mine that makes me care about others, even if they don't deserve it. The list is long and includes everyone, really, that has ever had something bad happen to them. Whether I like them or not, I empathize with them. One word: Riley. It's ridiculous.
As I am thinking it's too bad I can't just listen to my brain instead of the beating organ inside my chest, I veer to the right and head down Winne Court. Most of the houses are large and newer on this street; a collage of whites, reds, browns, and blues. Everyone knows just by looking at them that the owners have money. The exteriors are pristine and the lawns are well-kept—no patches of dirt are allowed in these yards. Each tree and shrub is strategically placed for optimal visual enhancement. It's sterile, unnatural. I prefer a disorganized lawn of flowers, trees, and bushes to add character. I'm all about character.
