Being Kalli

by Rebecca Berto

  The look in his eyes is real. Hot cheeks, a nervous lick of his lips, and the giveaway when he tries to cover his shifting in case I can see what he’s hiding.

  I leave and come back in a bra underneath, boobs restrained.

  Getting into things, he says, “Well, it’s pretty simple. I’ll explain it quickly, but you read the terms and sign the model release form.”

  “What?” What on earth are you talking about? Because that doesn’t at all have to do with cock, or nipples.

  “Sorry. I’ll start from the beginning about how it all started and payments for the photo and such. Well, photos, plural. They want to purchase the rights to use a few, in case they want to do a larger spread, or for a different look on their website version.”

  The photo shoot. Release form. Okay.

  “Ah, cool. Come sit here and we’ll get it sorted,” I say, turning my chair and leaving to bring back another for him.

  “Wait, we’ll just lie on the bed. Do you have a hardback or something?”

  I know I’d be much safer doing it at the desk. I can handle the possibility of rubbing shoulders or fingers when swapping a pen, but I am highly likely to snuggle into Nate or straight-out hook a leg over his thigh if he’s lying parallel to me.

  “Cool,” I say instead, again.

  Don’t I have better control over sounding stupid? I’m nineteen, not sixteen and smitten.

  We start off by discussing how he was approached after he featured the photos on his tumblr page. Everything sounds incredible, working his way up in exposure until he got offered $700 for the three photos. He wants to go 50/50 with me but I did nothing but cause trouble, and the fact he wants to pay me $350 for that is embarrassing, so we just spend the next amount of time fighting over it.

  I get why he wants to pay me, but he doesn’t owe me anything in the general sense of our relationship, whatever that is. We aren’t close now, and he doesn’t have to pay me to get me to sign, which I’ve already done, stating nil payment to me.

  “Just shut up and take it, Kall Bell,” he finally shouts.

  We’re lying on our tummies, angled toward each other at our heads, resting on our arms. I’m sure my arms, and the fact my boobs are resting against the bed mean they’re pushed together, and way past the exposure level for whatever type of friends we are.

  “Did you call me Kall Bell?”

  He looks around as if he missed the punch line. “Yeah …?”

  I could say that he hasn’t called me that in so long, and we could both go back to being distant strangers, or I could say this, “Oh, that’s okay, thought I heard something else,” and silently love it.

  Deep down, my chest feels like it’s tingling, knowing I’m good enough for my nickname still.

  “You just diverted the subject. I swear …” He reaches out and holds my shoulders still so I’m conveniently stuck looking directly at him. “You couldn’t be photographed without me as much as I couldn’t get that shot without having you in it. You. Deserve. It.”

  “No, I don’t,” I mumble.

  “What?” Nate looks down at me.

  He’s testing my control. I could lean up a few inches and taste those lips. Plunge my tongue inside his mouth and get lost in him like I’ve wanted and wanted.

  He gulps, and I follow his jaw, his Adam’s apple bobbing. It feels incredibly more intimate than the simple action it is.

  “You deserve this,” he says, staring at my lips in a way that makes me think kiss and nothing to do with whatever he means.

  In fact, what where we talking about? I can’t focus on anything but his hair flopped over his forehead, and the way the sunlight streaming through the curtains filters through his eyelashes and brightens the flecks in his eyes. I can’t even picture the rest of the room, but knowing our bodies are lying in touching distance, his lips in kissing distance is too much for me to handle.

  I reach out to his stubble and graze his jawline. The rough hairs bring back a stream of emotions, memories that I can’t box away. Tonight will be a bitch when he’s gone. It’s more sexy than I can handle from down here below his face with him stretched out and lying on my bed.

  “Are you …” His eyelids flutter closed, and for several seconds he regains control to steady his breathing. “Are you scared with me right now, here?”

  I don’t look around my empty room, door shut. And I think it for no more than that tiny moment. “No.”

  Lowering his eyes, he combs his fingers through the back of my hair. He wets his lips and takes my mouth. We melt into each other with that first touch, and since everything’s awkward and tricky, we both settle for a war to suck on each other’s bottom lips.

  My insides are definitely goo.

  As we part and move into our second kiss, we shuffle and peck at each other’s lips, him daring a tongue in my mouth, me plunging mine in, and both of us finding ourselves together. When we move our tongues together in sync, he starts shifting closer and up, moving against me.

  It must be a second later that I feel it.

  Do I acknowledge the hardness against my thigh?

  Do I turn so that it’ll find its way to mould against where he fits me so perfectly?

  My body knows what it wants, turning to give him the option to access me. It’s probably way too fast, but my heart is beating in my throat and I’m moments away from panting into his mouth.

  He pulls away, leaving my lips to remember what it’s like being kissed.

  “I’m trying to hate you right now,” he says, his voice raspy and totally not hating me. I’ve affected him big time, in both his physical response and mental.

  “Don’t, I miss you.”

  He stares at my lips, licking his, and I wonder if he’s remembering tasting me. He doesn’t look up when he says, “I’m also trying like hell not to miss the fuck out of you, Kall Bell.”

  I feel ashamed again, remembering letting Donovan own me with his tongue, the public hurt for Nate. It’s too much and I curl in, effectively making a human ball.

  “It doesn’t help that I spend every night writing texts to you and deleting them, then opening your photo book and remembering every amazing memory of us.”

  My eyes snap up, hearing the hope.

  “It doesn’t help that I’ve turned down three girls since we’ve been speaking normally because my body misses holding you, touching you, kissing you. Doesn’t help that I’m imagining being you that day, and how you only knew what you’d always done when faced with anything more than a kiss or a hook up.”

  “Then channel your hate. We’ll have a movie marathon and you can hate the villains trying to kill spectacular Mr Bond.”

  So, Nate and I watch and survive two-Bond films, and watch just over four hours of TV without more than cuddles. I’m finally seeing all the emotions that sex was blocking, like the simple want to bury my head in Nate’s chest and feel enveloped by the warmth his body gives me, instead of focusing on if the door’s locked, if I can escape quick enough to jump out the window.

  And when he leaves, my thoughts are all dreamy and happy. The air is fresher, my step has more bounce, and I feel like cleaning the house and having a meal ready for everyone when they’re back.

  Then Aunty Nicole rings me and agrees to come over sometime soon, and I feel like maybe I can do all this.

  21

  Sometimes, when the rain beats against the windows like rat-tat-taps in a continuous stream, it’s just as perfect an environment to practice my violin as when summer sun is a bright yellow, lighting my room like I’m situated under a giant globe. It’s all about the mood, which is why anything that takes me away is fine.

  It’s Saturday, concert day. T minus nine hours until it all begins. This traditional piece is slow and tragic, a sweeping story told through music. I’m hoping it will get the audience’s attention for all the students coming up after me, since it’s my job to warm the crowd.

  Nervous, I swipe way too much resin on the bow. I put the block down a
fter I realise this, but any movement—dusting off my hands, picking up the bow too quickly, my first long note—produces clouds of white to fluff everywhere like it’s really a bag of exploded flour.

  “That’s—” I start to cry out.

  But Mum is at my door. She rests on one side of the frame, arms crossed over her chest, and a proud smile lit on her face. Seeing her watching me makes me pack up my violin and music. She’s glowing, as any proud mother would be, so I’m not sure why I felt I had to pack it away. Maybe because it seems like she’s here to deliver bad news.

  I look at her further, see the sad turn to her eyes. Yes, something like that. Please don’t be that.

  “No, you don’t have to stop,” she says. Mum steps into the room, fingers trailing along the wall to the edge of my closet. “You’re great.”

  “Thanks.”

  I sit on the edge of the bed, hands in my lap, then think better of it and crawl to the headboard and lounge out, resting on the pillows. “Come,” I say to her, fluffing a pillow next to me.

  She crawls from the back of the bed to the vacant spot and crosses her legs. We both wait, unsure. For a long time in the past, Mum’s done her own thing and I’ve done mine. Sitting here now, I haven’t a clue to describe one thing that kept us as close as strangers in the same house. We both had the opportunities but just consciously or unconsciously wasted them. And now, all my anger and frustration at her weekends partying or being crazy stupid seem like dust in the wind—unable to grasp or gather together.

  Sitting here with my violin freshly packed away, I should be jittery as I usually am. Violin calms me, no matter how nervous I am when I practise. I didn’t get to practise for long today as I like to before concerts, but seeing Mum and putting it away so quickly makes me realise I must have not really wanted to, anyway. Practise overload too close to a performance is exactly the same as in high school when I knew the stuff before a test, yet revised and revised until I’d memorised what I thought I should know, stressing my brain past rational thought.

  I just needed to do something in anticipation for the show, though over-practising shouldn’t have been it. Turns out that sitting here with my mum is oddly peaceful. Next to me, she turns and smiles, and like a contagious cough, I catch on and can’t help but smile back.

  For the first time in my life, it feels right talking to her, which just loops back to make me wary, creating a vicious cycle. It’s odd being here, on the cusp of feeling like I can spill my secrets to her.

  I spread my hands near my thighs, just to do something with them, but rather than feel the wrinkles iron out from the cover, I notice that my thoughts aren’t here at all, but on memories of my transformation to who I’ve become.

  I’d slip away at the dinner table. Mum would be draining the pasta, and Chester was stirring a pan with the Bolognese sauce. Chester would dash off to the pantry to grab more oil or herbs, and Mum would stir both pot and pan, working like a seasoned mother cooking. Or she’d leave and Chester would stir both, dipping the spoon into his mouth, closing his eyes and tasting, then either moaning or making an “ick” face, adjusting the meal as was necessary.

  I’d just wait and watch at the table or hidden on the couch in the next room, visible through a narrow passage of sight.

  They’d only stop cooking as a team to kiss or play-fight with the food, as if they were kids. Everything … everything at that stage was so perfect, and I had no idea how to fit.

  At ten, I lost my chance to tell her what He did to me. I’d fallen into a pattern of “It’s just been too much homework” or “Just a stupid boy” and I could make an excuse out of everything to satisfy people.

  Course, I’d feel too sick to eat because of how dirty and broken he made me. When I did eat, I’d throw it up sometimes. Over the next few years, it became habit.

  In the same way someone wakes up one morning and wonders how they’ve worked nine to five at a job they’ve always hated, I became that type of person. I’d caged myself in without any effort at all. I’d been protecting myself, only realising later when I coped and coped and coped, and had no one at all.

  As I glide my hands over the comforter this time, it eases me back to me, on my bed, and Mum relaxing next to me. I don’t know how long I’ve been gone in my memories and thoughts, but Mum’s been busy doing some thinking of her own, because she doesn’t seem to be concerned.

  “Hey,” I begin, then change my mind and end with, “oh, don’t worry.”

  She chuckles. “To others, I say, ‘Yeah what?’ out of habit, but you’re different from others. You never say anything you don’t mean.”

  “Well,” I say, “I wanted to ask why you liked him so much.”

  There. Partly the truth. I’ve needed to know this and so many other questions about that for nine years. In the aftermath of my words, I dip my head and watch my hands smooth out the already wrinkle-free cover, and watch the patterns on the spread disappear and reappear under my fingers.

  I’m not sure I’m here anymore. My head is a mass of thoughts. I just hope I don’t look like the nervous wreck I feel like inside.

  “Who’s him?”

  At that, I sink. I just want to say “Forgheddaboudit!” and run away and never return, leaving my stupidity behind. Despite not saying anything stupid, I feel idiotic for thinking it mattered I tell her what he did after all this time. It doesn’t really matter now, anyway.

  “No one. Just one of your boyfriends.” I sit up. As I tuck my knees up to stand, I hear her voice.

  “Chester?”

  “God, no!”

  I probably should have kept that thought to myself. Habits die hard.

  “Phew. He was a great husband, and still is a good father to Seth and Tristan when he has time to see them.”

  “I agree.”

  “Anyway, who did I like so much?”

  I gulp and paste on a smile to mask my shame. She really loved him. He did nothing wrong to her, I think. I blink and stick my finger in the corner of my eye to buy me time while I pretend to scoop out dirt.

  That moment’s break from the intensity of staring at Mum makes a voice ask me. Ask me do I realise how screwed up that sounds? He did things to me I can’t think about. Of course he hurt her, by hurting me. Even now, I know I’m safe because the memories are tucked away in that compartment I don’t remember too well. In my nightmares? Holy shit, yeah, I remember there.

  Okay, I think in a geed up voice, spurring me on like a sports coach, you can do this.

  Spill it. Spill!

  “Another boyfriend,” I mutter.

  “Hey, baby,” Mum says.

  Her hand touches my shoulder and before I can shrug her off she draws me to her, enveloping me in a hug that turns me into a scared kid again. She may have been high a bit then too, but as a kid I screamed for attention from her.

  What worries me is that when I stopped trying to get love from her, I craved boys. Kissing, touching, fucking. That feeling of forgetting everything but the euphoric high I could only get when a hot guy with no real brains, was mine for just that moment.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  I nod, don’t speak.

  “Did you want me to marry one of them? Back when you were a kid? I know Chester didn’t last but maybe if I settled earlier, I could have formed a life with someone when I was still young, given you brothers or sisters who were closer to your age. If I had to pick, I know which boyfriend I would have said yes to.”

  “Fuck, Mary,” I cry out. I push back from her arms. Overcome by rage, my vision is rocking for some reason and it feels like the ends of hammers are knocking at the sides of my temples. Could I explode from anger? Now, I could see it escalating until it was possible. “Why the fuck is it always back to him?”

  Mum is taken aback. Her fingers come up to touch her chest, her face frozen in shock. So, so quietly, she whispers, “I didn’t even say his name.”

  “You didn’t have to.” I crawl back and step off the bed. “
You never have to. I swear to God you see fucking rays of sunshine radiating out of every orifice of that idiot. Even his fucking asshole. It’s like he’s made of fucking sunshine.”

  Hating my outburst, I walk to the closet and back. I realise I’m pacing. It’s too late to just stand here like a stricken idiot, though, so I shake my head, grinding my teeth and expelling pent up air through my nostrils. I stop at the closet again, feel depleted and relieve my neck of the pressure, letting the top of my head rest against the door.

  “He was an asshole to you, wasn’t he? God, was I that dumb I didn’t see him picking on you?” In a surer, lower tone, she adds, “He offered you weed or something, didn’t he?”

  I turn and focus on keeping my hands unclenched, although the rage within me begs to smash something. Glaring at her, I reply, “No, Mary. He was a fucking saint. He was cleaner around me than you were. He packed my lunchboxes. He even tucked me into bed.”

  My eyes go wide. I just blew it. She picked up on that intone for sure. My chin trembles. I don’t trust my voice to sound still enough to cover my tracks; instead, like the guilty victim I am, I bite my lip and look away.

  I don’t think I can do anything other than stand in this spot and hope to become invisible. No matter if Mum tried to console me. Even if I sensed movement, saw her feet come into view first, felt her put her arms around me, and trapped me stiffly against her.

  “Would you tell me the truth?”

  Good question. When she came and sat on that bed, I felt power release through me, like how an orgasm touches every fibre of your being, except this was with happiness instead of sexual release. Then, I was so sure I could finally tell her. Her sober. Me wanting to work on my issues. Us together, alone.

  What a fucking fool I am. Someone could hold a knife to my throat and demand the answer and I’d still stand mute. Those words are so dirty, so full of shame I absolutely cannot even mouth them.

  I shake my head, as her answer, “no”.

  “Was I there?”

  With every word she speaks, my strength unribbons, like the lining of a frayed hem. Weakened, I prop my chin on her shoulder. I whisper, “What are you talking about ‘there’?”