Painted Boots

by Mechelle Morrison

  “I’m invisible,” I say. “You know. Nothing to draw attention. Get it?”

  “Not really.” Dad drums his fingers across his steering wheel. “How about grabbing a snack after school?” he asks. “Or going out to dinner? I’ve failed miserably at Halloween. I feel bad. We should at least shop for candy and give it away to the massing hordes.”

  “Gillette doesn’t have the population to mass. Let alone horde.”

  “Yeah. You’re right. But we could sit on the porch in rockers with candy bowls in our laps. Let’s get our favorite kind. That way we can eat it when nobody shows.”

  I push my door open.

  “Aspen,” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are things . . . okay?”

  “Things are fine, Dad.”

  “I’ve noticed you don’t talk.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “You were always chatty. Always huggy. Until lately.”

  “Yeah. I’m just . . . busy. Senior year. Homework and stuff.”

  Dad leans across the console between the front seats. He grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. Then he lets me go. “I miss her too,” he says. Something catches in his throat and he coughs. “It’s hard, being without her. She did so much. I don’t know if I know how to be me, now that she’s gone. I don’t know what to do. But you have your whole life, baby, spreading out in front of you. I want to be here for you. I want to help. I’ll figure it out, I will. I just need a little time. I love you, you know.”

  “I know, Dad,” I say, and slide out of the car. But I don’t know anything, anymore. I don’t know anything at all. Maybe that’s why I don’t say ‘I love you’ back.

  9

  I’D SORT OF forgotten, until Gwen loops her arm through mine and says, “Come on divine thin thing,” that the last two hours of school are Monsters Stomp!—the annual Tower County High Halloween dance. I’m not really in the mood to stay but I don’t want to go home, either. Not that I have a way home until three-fifteen, unless I walk.

  My dress is so tight I’m forced to take two steps for every one of Gwen’s. I run alongside her, listening as my boots beat their rhythm above her endless chatter. She steers me through the halls, into the gym, and toward a corner marked ‘The Ghoul’s Lounge.’ There she deposits me with seven other girls, all of us crammed around a card table holding an assortment of sodas. The girls are loudly debating who is dressed as what and who is hot and why.

  My thoughts go straight to Kyle and how I told him he’s hot. I roll my eyes, feeling like an idiot all over again, and lean away from the conversation. No one seems to notice, but it doesn’t bother me. I’m comfortable on the fringe of big groups. I don’t feel out of place. I fiddle with the beads of my mother’s necklace and contemplate the decorations.

  Mom hated how I sometimes hang back. When I went out with friends her parting words were often Get involved. She always told me Just join in. I can almost hear her voice, happy but at the same time impatient, urging me to Find my place.

  “Assssppeeeen.”

  I freeze. I’m not sure if I heard my name for real—it was softly spoken. Whispered, even. Maybe I imagined it, but I don’t know. It isn’t normal for my hair to prickle on the back of my neck. And Gwen’s eyes seem glued to something over my left shoulder. She’s got a goofy expression on her face. I turn slowly round.

  Kyle’s there—or at least I think it’s Kyle. A rubbery axe straddles his skull and gummy stitches streak his face. His hair is dusted white—with flour, probably. Red paint has dried in drips along his temples and neck and formed red trails down his chin. It’s all over the collar of his shirt. He looks hideous. If it wasn’t for his eyes I wouldn’t recognize him at all.

  He pulls a fake set of decayed teeth from his mouth—a definite improvement. “Did you forget to dress up?” he asks.

  “No. I’m invisible.”

  “It isn’t working,” Gwen says.

  “Dance with me, girl.” Kyle shoves the teeth into his pocket, wipes his fingers on his jeans and reaches for me. I think he’s dipped his fingertips in red and black nail polish.

  Everyone at my table crows “Whoo-hooo!” Except me. I’m too busy throwing all my unspoken questions at him—things like, Where have you been? and Why have you avoided me since the morning we spent in your truck? But I have to admit, Kyle’s wheels are turning, too. His words are playful enough, but I don’t see happiness in his eyes. There he’s serious. Careful, even.

  “What are you?” I ask.

  “Axe-murdered zombie,” he says.

  “I should tell you invisible people don’t dance well. Especially with the undead.”

  “I should tell you zombies are worse dancers than invisible girls who think they aren’t good dancers.” Kyle shoves his hand toward me. “I’m the one with everything to worry about,” he says.

  “Really. And why’s that?”

  He pulls the rubber ax from his head and tosses it to the table. A cloud of white dust drifts to his shoulders. “I’m about to look like a goon, dancing with myself.”

  A genuine smile spreads across my face and then—I don’t know how he did it. I mean, Kyle just earned my forgiveness. He made me laugh.

  “You never laugh,” Gwen says.

  Kyle tugs me to my feet. We hold hands all the way to the dance floor, his grip so tight it’s like he’ll never let me go.

  The song is slow, with a lot of country twang. Kyle wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me close enough that I’m aware of the muscles in his legs, feeling them shift as we sway back and forth. He tucks his head next to mine and says, “I can explain.”

  “You’ve been ignoring me.”

  “I had to, girl.”

  “Not an explanation.”

  He asks, “What do you know about Em Harrelson?” and I pull away fast, like he jabbed me with a pin.

  My eyes sting with tears. My face grows hot. I’ve been missing this guy. At the same time, it’s like he broke my heart. I want answers. I want to know what happened. Not talk about Em.

  Kyle steps toward me. He takes my hand in his. He slowly draws me close, again. “I said that wrong,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

  I take a deep breath. “Em is a bad sliver I can’t dig out. Every day she waits until we’re in the most crowded part of the school so she can yell a fake guess about whose clothes I’m wearing. I don’t want to talk about her. And anyway, word is you two broke up.”

  “I broke up with her a month ago. But it’s been rough.”

  “If you still love her, why’d you end it?”

  “Love her?” Kyle shifts. His body stiffens. “I don’t even like her. I haven’t liked her from day one. I wish I’d never met that girl.”

  I glance up, holding his Caribbean gaze. “You know you aren’t making sense, right? I mean, Gwen told me you’ve been with Em for almost two years.”

  He tucks his head next to mine, again. “I’m not denying it’s complicated.”

  My lips brush against the red paint dried into the cotton weave of his shirt. My nose tingles. If I’m not careful, I’ll cry. “All I know is that I spilled my heart to you and you’ve ignored me ever since. Now we’re having our first conversation in a month and it’s about your old girlfriend. I’m not connecting the dots.”

  Kyle’s hold on me tightens, like he thinks I’m a flight risk. The palms of his hands grow sweaty, especially the one holding mine. “I didn’t think it . . . I didn’t think things would be so difficult. I don’t want to ignore you. You have to believe that. I want us to be friends. More than friends. I can explain about the last few weeks. I’m askin’ that you give me the chance.” He straightens his back until he’s looking down into my eyes. “You gotta know, girl. I see us as full-fledged life-long lovers.”

  I bite my lower lip and squeeze Kyle’s hand. I had felt that way too, in his truck. “All right,” I say. “I’m listening.”

  His eyebrows pinch toward the center of his forehead. “Not
here, Aspen. We can’t talk about anything here. Come hang with me. On Saturday. I’ll pick you up at eight. I can make things right between us. I swear.”

  “Are you going to ignore me until then? I mean, it’s only Tuesday.”

  “I have to.”

  “But why?”

  Kyle shakes his head. For the rest of the song all we do is dance. When the music stops he whispers, “I’ll be there, eight o’clock.” Then he walks away.

  10

  BY SATURDAY NIGHT I’m an emotional wreck. I’ve had weeks to wonder why Kyle has ignored me, weeks to wish for my mother’s comfort and five days more to decide this evening will end like a dystopian novel. I mean, I’m convinced Kyle is about to spend our entire date listing off the things he’s been noticing in me that all point to Don’t Get Involved With This Girl.

  So when he shows up at two minutes to eight I stay out of sight, listening from the top of the stairs as Dad answers the door.

  Kyle introduces himself.

  Dad says, “Thacker, you say?”

  Kyle asks Dad about work.

  Dad says, “I’m with Greer Environmental. Mineral survey.”

  Kyle tells Dad about AP English and physics.

  Dad says, “Aspen doesn’t talk much about her class schedule.”

  Kyle mentions Monsters Stomp! and how we danced together. I start for the stairs. For all I know he’s about to inform Dad of his intention that we become life-long lovers.

  Not that I’d mind that. The ‘lovers’ part. Not the informing.

  As I come into view Kyle’s blue gaze lands on my cowboy boots then sticks, like a tongue on ice-cold steel, to my tight jeans and tight sweater. Dad coughs. Kyle’s eyes jerk upward, an effort so obvious that it makes me smile. He’s perfect, in worn indigo Levis and a crisp white shirt, the collar poking above the rim of his black down vest. His shirt sleeves are rolled to show off his forearms. He’s holding a black felt hat in his hands, turning it round and round. “Hey Aspen,” he says.

  “Hey.” I smile, and some of my angst about how this night will go slides away.

  “Back by midnight,” Dad says. I look at him, from the corners of my eyes. In the past I’ve always stayed out until one.

  Kyle nods. “Yes sir.”

  As we turn onto a graveled drive the Chevy’s headlights swing like search beacons across the wide, vaguely familiar wrap-around porch of Kyle’s house. I’m still thinking on the porch as Kyle parks near a detached garage. He waits while I jump from the truck, then hand in hand we walk toward his house, our breath like pale white shadows in the night air. Above us, the sky boils with stars. I stop for a minute, staring upward. Kyle tugs me into motion. “Almost there,” he says, pulling me into the soft light shining through the kitchen windows.

  The moment we step into the house a woman I take for Kyle’s mom looks up from peeling apples. A broad, happy smile—Kyle’s smile—spreads across her face. He’s got a version of her blue eyes, but where his hair is dark, hers is almost auburn. I think I’ve seen her at the store or maybe around town. I’m trying to place her when she says, “You must be Aspen.” She wipes her hands on a towel as she moves from behind the counter. Before I can say anything she’s got me in a hug.

  The craziest feelings explode in me: envy, fear, longing, love.

  “Hey there, Mom,” Kyle says softly. His mother releases me and he bends toward her, kissing her cheek. “Meet Aspen Brand. Aspen, meet my mom, Angella Thacker.”

  “Hello,” I say.

  Kyle takes off his down vest and hangs it on a hook near the door. He helps me from my coat. With his hand to the small of my back he says, “We’ll be in the Jam.”

  Angella Thacker tucks one fist to her hip. “You don’t even let me up there.”

  Kyle laughs. “We’ll come down when we smell pie.”

  “What’s the Jam?” I ask.

  “You’ll see, girl.”

  Just outside the kitchen, Kyle stops near a rope ladder anchored to the wall. I look up, following the rungs to a dark square hole in the ceiling, picking out the faint hint of starlight coming from somewhere beyond. Kyle pulls off his boots and sets them together on the floor. I pull mine off as well, though before I can set them down he takes them from me. “I love how you paint these things,” he says, turning them over and studying the heels.

  I don’t know what to say, so I grin.

  He climbs the ladder first. Out of the darkness he reaches for me, taking my hands when I’m near and pulling me up as though I weigh nothing. In the shadowy gray the Jam seems to be an octagonal room, maybe ten feet wide. The shapes of guitars show all along the walls. The ceiling is a massive, leaded glass skylight, blossoming with stars. There isn’t any furniture, though mountains of pillows cover the floor. I step aside and Kyle shuts a trap door, leaving us in total dark. “So they don’t have to hear me practice,” he says.

  “This place is magic,” I say.

  “When I was a kid it was a playroom. But two years ago, when I got serious about my music, they let me turn it into the Jam.”

  “Do your parents like your posts?”

  “On YouTube? I don’t think they know. You’re the only person I’ve ever told.”

  “But—”

  “You play, right? Let’s play together.”

  Kyle makes his way across the pillows then flips a switch. A single strand of white Christmas lights glow from where they’re strung around the room. “I like this lighting best,” he says. He lifts a guitar from the wall—the white guitar he plays in his videos—and chooses another for me.

  I take the instrument, testing its weight. “You’re much better at this than I am,” I say. “Your stuff on YouTube is incredible. But I’ve never heard any of it before. Do you write your own songs?”

  “I do. I watched you, too, you know. A lot.” Kyle settles on the floor. He tunes his guitar, then strums a few chords. He nods at me. “You’re welcome to sit, girl.”

  It’s warm in the Jam. I rest my guitar on the pillows, pull off my sweater, and tug my tank top smooth. Then I sit facing him and settle my guitar across my lap. “Do you know ‘Blackbird?’” I ask. I play the opening phrase.

  He stares at my throat, or maybe my clavicles, while he joins in. Then he stops. I do too. From somewhere in the pillows he finds a capo, which he straps across the third fret before he starts the song again. This time, he looks into my eyes and sings.

  Mom loved this song. Kyle plays it faster than I’m used to, but I could match his pace if I tried. I could sing along, but I don’t. His voice is beyond beautiful, tenor and rough and, well, hot. I bite at my lower lip and take a deep breath.

  Kyle cocks his head to one side, studying me. Without breaking stride he sings, “What’re you thinkin’ on, girl?” I laugh. I can’t tell him how I’m wondering what it would be like to be his life-long lover.

  The second he finishes I say, “You can’t stop! Not yet. Do you know ‘Dust in the Wind?’”

  “You’ve got classic taste,” he says, removing his capo. “I like knowing that, about you. But if I play ‘Dust,’ will you play it with me? I want you to play along for a while, if you will. I’m thinkin’ I’ll enjoy your music just as much as you’re enjoying mine. After we play together for a bit I’ll sing you something special. A song I wrote, just for you.”

  11

  WE HAVEN’T BEEN playing long when I invent a little game by trying to come up with songs Kyle doesn’t know. He wins every round, choosing songs I’ve never heard of. The whole time, he makes me laugh. He plays through something once, acting silly while I follow the basic chords and hum background to his voice. Then he’ll sing for real and I surprise myself, because I join in. I’m welcome in his inner world; I see it in his eyes. Maybe that’s why singing harmony with him comes so easily.

  As we play together, I realize he can take any song and make it his. He could go on forever, probably. But I can’t. I stretch and rub the ache from my fingers for the third time, and he smiles. �
�Okay then,” he says. “You can put your guitar away.”

  When I’m settled in front of him again he starts my song, tapping the beat on the body of his guitar as he picks. It’s cool to watch him perform something he wrote. He’s got an awesome style. I’m so into his fingers that I hardly hear him say, “Your song’s not finished.” He grins as my eyes meet his. I grin, too. Then he sings.

  Till I met you

  Didn’t know what to do

  Then your courage made me stronger

  Now you’re lovin’ me

  You’re all that I see

  You’ve taken my soul and heart

  upon your shoulders

  What can I do to set aside every trouble

  And walk to where I am with you

  If you’ll let me hold you

  I know I’d know just what to do to

  Keep you here girl, in my world

  Then no matter what might come my way

  Yeah, no matter what

  might come your way

  we’ll

  Be all right oh girl

  We’ll be all right

  He hums, playing a few chords more. I say, “Keep going!” But he lifts his guitar and sets it aside. “Like I said girl, it’s not done.”

  “I wish it was. It’s so good. Swear you’ll find the way to finish it.”

  “That’s, uh, yeah.” His face reddens. “That’s what I’m tryin’ for.”

  The meaning behind his words sinks into me, but I can’t find the right thing to say in return. So I sit, looking from his eyes to his mouth, back and forth, like I’m locked in a ritual. An electric kind of silence builds between us. He smiles. I giggle. He glances at my body. I bite my lip. I want to feel his arms wrapped round me; I want to feel his body close to mine. But he doesn’t move. When I can’t sit still another second I reach for him, thinking to touch his hair.

  Kyle flinches.

  “Sorry,” I say. My hand drops to the cushions. “I thought—”

  He takes my hand and squeezes softly. “I’m sorry I did that,” he whispers. Then he begins to unbutton his shirt.