While the girls were off rolling around in the saw grass with their much older, heavy petting partners I'd sit on a little embankment with a huge rock I could lean against to read. Clearwater beach was anything but clear. The minuscule Gulf waves conducive mostly to watching the dorsal fins of dolphins (and the occasional bull shark) bob to the surface. Florida beaches in the summer double as meat markets, in the physical and in the metaphorical sense, so I had to travel a ways down the shore for any semblance of solitude.
While engrossed in Jane Eyre, a Frisbee hit me square in my knuckles and I dropped my book. There was a sharp throbbing in my entire hand and I almost cried it smarted so badly. When I finally got myself together my book was gone. Gone. Rolled down the embankment and was being carried by the wind. It was rolling end over end toward the surf. I went chasing after it like a moron, but I didn't have anything else. Problem was my wardrobe. In an effort to cover up my knobby knees and protruding ribcage I was dressed in what I call the How Can I Show As Little Skin As Possible And Still Be Beach Appropriate look. At the time, I had a huge, and I mean HUGE floppy hat I'd wear that I picked up at a thrift store. I thought it was cute -who knows maybe it was, but it also protected my hair which would fall out in clumps if I was hit with a stiff wind. Added bonus it pretty much hid my face from the world. I wore a jet black one piece which exposed the smallest amount of skin, and a very long navy blue and black sarong around my waist. So imagine: me, running, crouched over into the wind holding my hat on with one hand and my sarong with the other, chasing a book. I bent to get the book and the wind took my hat. I got my hat and then I dropped my sarong, I wrapped my sarong back around my waist and the book went floating out to sea. Soaked. Completely soaked. It was a hardcover but that didn't save it - actually made it look worse. I tried to resuscitate it but it was no use. The salt water disintegrated the pages immediately. It was trash and I was devastated. You know how I am with books, they're precious things, and some douche with a Frisbee just committed literary murder.
Full of righteous indignation I marched, literally, like the petulant little girl I was, toward the Frisbee throwing ruffians. (I did actually call them ruffians.) There were four or five. All shirtless, skin glistening in the mid afternoon sun. "Don't get distracted Charley," I thought. "What would Jane Eyre do?" So I started yelling at them.
"Oy! Oy! Which one of you is going to pay for this?" I held the now warped and exposed cardboard cover so it fell open and a number of pages came spilling out in a soggy heap on the sand. None of them would fess up, but they'd obviously seen me chasing it down the beach because they were suppressing their cowardly laughter. I shot the gigglers an icy stare and decided it wasn't worth my time.
"That's what I thought. Thanks a lot you creeps! Move your Frisbee circle jerk down the beach, will ya!" I hurled the corpse of my book in their general direction and stomped away in a huff. Back at my embankment I watched the offending fraternity, five shirtless backs, saunter down the beach away from me, and felt tears prick my eyes. Without a book, without my iPod (I had no charger so the thing was worthless), without a friend, it was utterly lonely sitting listening to the sound of the waves lap onto the shore.
The next day, when The Sisters Slut dropped me off on the beach to go do unspeakable things with their boyfriends or friends with benefits or whatever, I made my way to spot. Making sure to avoid focusing on the rumbling of my empty stomach by looking out for any Frisbee throwing douche bags. About thirty yards out, I saw someone on my rock. I was totally peeved and was about to turn around when he, yes a “he”, saw me coming. He stood and waved, holding up, what seemed to be, a book.
It was against my instinct but I had to know. Is this guy for real?
The trip to my spot felt like a reverse walk of shame. Not that I'd ever had a regular walk of shame, but I could use my imagination, and I felt like a spectacle. It wasn't the lovely walk toward someone you know; laden with air kisses and smiling pleasantries. I tried to keep eye contact so as not to appear weak, but it was too awkward and I ended up keeping my eyes cast down toward the sand. The mystery boy didn't ease the awkwardness by courteously meeting me half-way like a friend would, he waited, albeit patiently, for me to make the trek to him. Carefully eying me the entire time so I could feel my skin tingle under his gaze.
"Hi! I brought you a new one. Sorry about yesterday. Totally my bad." I nodded and took the three-hundred page peace offering. It was Jane Austen Pride and Prejudice. Gag me with his presumptuousness.
"Thanks, but this isn't what I was reading." and I tried politely, but firmly, to hand it back to him.
"Oh?" and some kind of, what was it, passed over his face. Shock? Embarrassment? It didn't last long. With a flourish of his hand he casually said, “Well, all I saw was small print. Gold leaf and the name Jane." He looked up at me expectantly, smiling brightly. What does he want? A medal for invading my space and bringing me not the book I was reading? Though secretly, I thought it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me. "Anyway," he cleared his throat and continued, "All girls like Austen. The only thing I can figure is you already have this one, yellowed and spine creased, on your shelf chocked full of romantic classics at home." Oh please, I wanted to say, you don't know me. Though, he was right. I did.
"I despise Jane Austen,” which wasn’t entirely true. I just figured the faster I shot this guy down, the faster I could get back to reading Jane Eyre. Alone.
"Oh?" He seemed genuinely nonplussed as if it never occurred to him that a woman would not like Jane Austen. Or maybe no girl had ever given him the brush off. Either way, I almost felt bad for him.
"Perhaps despise is a bit strong. Indifferent? Ambivalent, maybe? I mean, don't get me wrong, I have respect for her as a woman ahead of her time, but it's the stories that bore me. It's unrealistic for characters, despite all odds, to get everything they've ever wanted every time." Again, all of this was a load of crap. I was probably going to read it as soon as he went away.
"You don't believe in happily ever after?"
"It's not real life." The way he was staring at me was making me feel uneasy so in a show of nonchalance to hide my discomfort, I crossed my arms over my chest. Big mistake. His eyes unexpectedly and unabashedly flicked over my chest. A crooked, lazy grin played on his face and, I’ll say it, his attractive lips.
"May I point out, oh cynical one, that Austen was an author of fiction." He said when his clear blue eyes finally made their way back to my face.
"I'm certainly aware of that, however in life there are very few, if any, happy endings and art, as the saying goes, is a reflection of life."
"Why should it?" I certainly had not pictured the conversation going on that way. I didn't even know the guy's name and there he was baiting me into a philosophical discussion.
"Why should art imitate life?” He repeated. “Life pretty much sucks. Works of fiction are a way to escape for a little while. Don't you think in that sense Austen got it right?"
"Why would someone miserable want to read about someone who, miraculously, got everything they ever desired? It's like going on a diet and watching someone eat a pint of ice cream.”
“It’s entertainment.”
“But entertainment for entertainment’s sake is silly and does more harm than good."
"Well, I'm with Oscar Wilde; I think Life should imitate art."
"Ha. You would be an Oscar Wilde fan." My high-brow dig at his sexuality didn’t really seem to take, or maybe it did. Either way his crooked grin morphed into a heartbreakingly beautiful smile. I continued to scowl hoping he’d take the hint and leave, but instead he sat down cross legged against my rock.
"What are you doing?" It almost came out as a shriek.
"Reading." Smart ass.
"Why?"
"Because reading is fundamental...?"
"No, I mean, why here?" Why haven’t you run away screaming, yet!?
"Oh, I didn't realize this spot had your name on it. I can go if you want." He l
ooked at me for a real answer. That's sweet, I thought before my brain could stop me. No, it isn't sweet he's going to try and torture you some more. If I was being honest with myself, which I wasn't, I didn't want him to go, and he seemed content to stay, so I acquiesced.
Flustered I said: "Fine. Just. You know. Don't make a lot of noise.Or whatever." I took out my book, another copy of Jane Eyre, and plopped down in the sand next to him. Though I was sure not to touch him in any way, we were close enough that I could feel the heat from his body dance on my skin making me insane. The floppy hat could not cover the hives that were creeping over my chest. I had to check myself several times because I could feel my breathing working itself into a pant. He’s taunting you, Charley. Do not give him the satisfaction. I played and replayed that mantra on a loop in my head throughout the afternoon which helped me to relax, marginally. I was able to enjoy what was left of my book, though it took me a ridiculous amount of time because I took every opportunity to steal glances at this boy who made no move to leave my side.
He alternated between reading some kind of sci-fi garbage, to tilting his head back to drink in the sun. On his back, his upper body propped up on his elbows, legs crossed at the ankle; I reveled in his features and realized he was my opposite in every way. His tall to my short: he had the body of a swimmer; lean muscle, taut flesh. Not a single freckle on his pale skin turning a pinky-gold in the sun; my dark skin turning browner. His hair: straight, amber-blonde and stick straight to my unruly, thick, brown and curly. He was the picture of health while I looked like I could be on the cover of one of those cancer booklets asking for donations for kids with leukemia.
He looked serene lying in the sun. His perfect profile almost angelic - like an Italian fresco, right down to the blond hair on his arms and legs, around his temples, and that little seductive patch below his navel all glistening in the sun making him look like he was bathing in stardust. It was divine looking. Other worldly, even. The thought made me blush then mentally stab myself in the eye for my hopelessness.
I finally finished Jane Eyre and had to take slow breaths to keep myself from crying. I was not giving this guy the satisfaction of seeing me cry. He looked up anyway when I’d shut the book finally and with a sideways glance said: "Art imitating life, eh? He smirked something seductive and infuriating. I just wanted to slap that smirk right off his beautiful, angelic face. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as far back into my head as they could because I wasn’t going to give this guy any ammunition, I was simply going to stare him into submission. Then, he kept smiling, so I had to break the silence between us which was heavy with something else. Something that was churning up all the mush behind my hardened exterior.
"I doubt it." He looked at me quizzically so I continued.
"Men like Mr. Rochester and Mr. Darcy, though a beautiful fantasy, simply do not exist. Handsome, conveniently wealthy men do not pine for and woo some poor old, no pun intended, plain Jane, because she's smart and wholesome. It doesn't work like that. Men are attracted to what they see before all else. And this is essentially why there's so much wrong with girls. We're raised up on this "knight in shining armor" narrative which is completely and totally bogus. There is no hero to save a damsel in distress. There are only bastards and decent guys. You just need to get one of the decent guys and know when you have him or you're in for a lifetime of pain. Even with a decent guy, life isn't like the movies. He's going to hurt you too, but if he's decent he'll at least be sorry for it."
"So you're saying that a woman isn't attracted to a man based on what she sees?"
"I didn't say that, but it is more complicated with a woman. It's a mixture of physical attraction, intellectual, spiritual. How much does he remind her of other male figures? How much does he remind her of authority figures? If he's young, who will he be or could he be? Is a go-getter? A hustler? We think of all this consciously and subconsciously with the first few minutes of meeting you. Whereas all a man thinks is: 'is she fuck-worthy'."
"How do you know so much? Experience? Observation?" I was too embarrassed to say I had nil in the way of experience, but something in the way he looked at me; or rather undressed me told me he knew that already. Thankfully, he glossed over the question to another.
"So what did you think of me?" The hives flared on my chest and my throat constricted.
"Not fair!"
"Listen you can't give me all this garbage without giving me a reliable case study. Share! It's the only way I'll learn." He was laughing at me now, not out loud, but mocking me. He'd trapped me with my own ego and somehow he knew I'd share because my pride wouldn't let me accept defeat. I needed to beat him at his own game.
"You share too, then." I knew it was stupid the moment it came out of my mouth. I didn't want to know. Whatever the answer would spoil the illusion I'd built up in my mind and that fantasy could carry me through for months, if not years of solitude. There was no way he was going to shatter it before I even got to use it. For the status quo to remain, he need not know that I was attracted to him. At all. "On second thought, I don't want to know."
"No, I think it's only fair. I'll show you mine if you show me yours kind of thing," he wiggled his eyebrows in a mock suggestive way which, any other time, would have been corny and wrong, but in this instance was sexy and I was run through. He had reeled me in with a disarming charm, the likes of which I’d never encountered.
"No, really. I don't want to know. I don't need to know."
"Fine. But you're still going to tell me."
"No."
"Yes. Yes you are because you're dying to. I can read it all over your face.” Damn him. How can he read me so well? Though, looking back, it couldn’t have been all that difficult, you know, with the drool pooling and running out of my mouth.
The afternoon persisted this way. Every few seconds or so he'd nudge me either with his words or in the arm with his elbow. Sometimes both. When he got more impatient he turned up the heat. He rolled onto his side so his nose was level with my shoulder. I could feel him breathing on my neck and there were goose bumps rising all over my arms. "Get out of my bubble, please."’
"C'mon. If you don't answer I'm just going to assume that you're madly in love with me and I'll kiss you right here.” He, ever so gently, touched the tip of his finger to my shoulder and I shuddered. Without looking, I knew he was grinning from ear to ear. My discomfort was palpable and he was exploiting it. Damn sexy bastard!
He was inching toward me and in the back of my mind I suspected he would never touch me. Not that I thought he was the perfect gentleman, but I knew I wasn’t really this guy’s type. Still, I really didn't want him to think it was funny, and his breath in my ear was making me feel faint, so I relented.
"Fine!" and he rolled back over looking triumphant with that damned smirk.
"Okay. Yes. I am attracted. Only on a purely visceral level. But yes."
"He was looking so proud of himself that I had to get rid of that smirk and since throttling him and burying him on the beach would be too much trouble, I went for the next best thing.
"Your strengths are your weaknesses, though. You're confident to the point of arrogance. You can take charge in a no-nonsense way but you won't take criticism or help. You're smart but you want people to know and so you come off as condescending. You're good looking, but so painfully aware of it that you come off vain, and pretentious. You have nice eyes."
The last part tumbled out of my mouth without a thought and I'd hoped he missed it. It was true. They were a pale blue with a ring of dark blue around the outside. I'd never seen eyes that striking before. It struck me that, except for the good looking part, I could've been describing myself and I was horrified but also bemused. This stranger and I have quite a bit in common. I was so deep in thought that I almost missed him say: "I like your eyes, too." Almost.
I was suddenly painfully aware of my appearance and I pulled my cover up high over my concave belly and chicken legs. It was at this point people sta
rted to wonder about me. I remembered the whispers at school. Why is she wearing a sweatshirt when it’s ninety degrees? I’d been called into the guidance office more than once and given countless eating disorder pamphlets. Each time they’d call home and I’d suffer the consequences. I never had friends because I pushed them away. Because of this secret. I’d soon enough scare this boy away. The embarrassment was setting in white hot. My collar bone itching from hives and I restlessly shifted my weight from hip to hip. His compliment; a real compliment, hung in the air between us and I couldn't think of any witty remark or snarky comeback. Flight. I had to go before he noticed that I was ugly and ran away screaming. I stood abruptly, possibly startling him but I didn’t care. Escape was all I could think about.
"Well, it's been real, but I've got to go." and I turned to run away but he stopped me with his words.
"Same time tomorrow, then." He said as if it was a given and the presumption startled me. I didn’t know that I would be back tomorrow and neither did he.
"Maybe", I murmured somewhat dumbfounded, but he flashed me his smoldering half-smile laced with double-meaning that I'd yet to understand. I didn't want to stand like an idiot working it out so I turned on my heel and nearly sprinted back to the Beetle kicking up sand as I went. Please don't be watching me walk away. Please. Please. I couldn't help but turn around to get a glimpse of the angelic looking boy and when I did, curse it all, he was watching me. We were twenty yards away or more but his gaze was penetrating and felt, almost, illicit. He doesn't even know my name.
What Brings Me to You Page 2
