Copyright © 2012 by Katie Kacvinsky
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www.katiekacvinsky.com
Cover art: heart image credited to CarbonNYC via www.flickr.com
Dedicated to:
Adam Duritz
Your song lyrics inspired me to become a writer.
Is gray really your favorite color, too?
I hope we have that in common.
Second Chance
by
Katie Kacvinsky
Gray
I can’t sleep tonight because memories are pooling in my mind like a lake and I’m floating face-down on the surface, trying to see the bottom.
Mostly, I’m thinking about a girl.
Which brings me to my latest theory:
I think falling in love should come with a warning label: CAUTION—side effects may include breaking up, accompanied by heartache, severe mood swings, withdrawal from people and life itself, wasted hours obsessing over bitter reflections, a need to destroy something (preferably something expensive that shatters), uncontrollable tear ducts, stress, a loss of appetite (Cheetos and Dr. Pepper exempt), a bleak and narrow outlook on the future, and an overall hatred of everyone and everything (especially all the happy couples you see strolling hand-in-hand, placed on your path only to exacerbate your isolation and misery). All above reactions will be intensified with the consumption of one or more alcoholic beverages.
What, me, bitter? Not at all. Just honest.
I turn the music up on my stereo and take a long drag off my joint. The smoke fills my lungs and I hold it in until I feel a soothing burn. I count the months it has been since I’ve heard from Dylan. I haven’t seen her since she surprised me in Phoenix over Christmas, and I was naïve enough to think a long distance relationship could work. Now she’s overseas gallivanting around Europe like a bird migrating from one scenic landscape to the next. She’s slowly becoming my past, something like a dream and reality mixed. I forget where one ends and the other begins because the lines of memories are always a blur.
She flew to England with a family who hired her to chaperone their thirteen-year-old daughter for two months. They covered all of Dylan’s traveling expenses and paid her a daily stipend. Only Dylan would fall into such a perfect situation, like fate for her is a waterfall that rushes her from one exciting adventure to the next with torrid speed because she never seems to slow down.
After her job commitment, Dylan stayed in Europe to backpack by herself. She sent me two postcards in the last four months. How thoughtful. It’s comforting to know she spent about six minutes thinking of me in Melk, Austria and Munich, Germany. I’ve only spent about six hundred hours obsessing over her.
I’m assuming she met some hot Italian named Francisco or Alfredo. He probably has haunting dark eyes and chestnut brown hair that flows in the wine-infused wind. He seduced her with lines like, “I want to make love to you on the stars.” And he can get away with sounding like an ass-clown just because he has an accent. How am I supposed to compete with that?
I take another hit from the inch of joint I have left and suck until the warmth of the burning paper teases my lips. I miss that heat. It feels like a kiss.
Francisco or Alfredo is probably kissing Dylan right now on a piazza that overlooks his forty acre family vineyard or his private beach front property along the Aegean Sea. I can see their future as plain as a European honeymoon brochure: He proposes to her on top of the Spanish Steps in Rome. They marry on a yacht while the sun sets below the Mediterranean. Something incredibly lame and romantic like that. Lamesauce, as Amanda and I used to call it. All I know is the European-love-affair would explain how Dylan has so easily forgotten to call her boring old American boyfriend. No sexy accent. No exotic past. I love to grill out, play baseball, and quote Ron Burgundy. That’s my idea of culture.
Angry would be one word to describe my current state of mind. It’s part of the getting-over-your-ex grieving process. It begins with heartbreak, followed closely by denial. Then comes a little resentment. Loathing. Mega-loathing. At last, anger sets in, and it fuels you to do what I’ve finally done: Throw yourself a pity party, get stoned for four months and move the hell on. It’s healthy, organic rehab for only $99 a month, brought to you by Mexico. Pot has become my new best friend. It’s a natural sleep aid and a much appreciated brain-numbing supplement that helps turn my life into a joke instead of something I have to try and make sense out of.
Dylan used to be my drug. When I was with her I was funnier, crazier, smarter and more creative—this person it felt so effortless to be. Meeting her last summer was like pulling on a favorite sweatshirt, worn and smooth and familiar, like she was sewn for me. The seams of her personality aligned perfectly with mine. We meshed.
Then why, in her absence, do I change? Why do I go back to being the old me? The one that judges everything, that sees the world through cynical eyes? Was I just faking my way through that whole summer with Dylan?
Maybe it was never me all along.
Or, maybe, when you meet the right person, it’s like meeting a piece of yourself that you never knew existed because somebody had to open it up for you. Pull it out of you. Point it out to you. Is it true you need another person to be complete?
Well, I know one thing for sure. I won’t fall in love that easily again. The next time around I’m going to be careful. I’m going to take it slow and wait until the timing is perfect.
No more heartache.
It’s time to stop mulling over the past. I need to focus on the present. I’m going to
put one hundred percent of my energy into my friends, roommates, baseball, school, parents—my life. Dylan gets zero percent.
That story is over.
Finished.
The end.
DYLAN
I stretch out on the leather train seat and sip the thick, rich coffee Europe’s famous for. I open my journal to a blank, white page. The paper looks like a canvas spread out, waiting for me to create a painting with words. Lately I’ve been thinking about love because it charges me and surrounds me and I crave it, follow it, live for it. Love is the only drug that’s healthy to overdose on.
Which brings me to my random thought for the day:
I think falling in love should come with a warning label: CAUTION—side effects may include sporadic singing in public (specifically Celine Dion covers), emotional intoxication, constant fool grinning, stomach flipping, eye twinkling, heart palpitations, sweaty hands, jittery feet, lack of sleep, giddiness, deep sighs of contentment, sexual fantasizing, uncontrollable bouts of happiness, and the need to help everyone else around you fall in love so they can experience this blissful state. Do not attempt to operate heavy machinery under the influence of love, due to lightheadedness and daydreaming.
I close my journal and take a bite of a chocolate bar that’s cold from sitting next to the drafty train window. Chocolate has become my new best friend. It’s sweeter and creamier than chocolate in the U.S. Each bite is like dressing your mouth in sugary velvet. It’s almost as good as kiss. Maybe that’s why I crave it—it’s a dietary supplement for when I’m away from Gray.
I peer out the window into a dark landscape dusted with lights in the distance, the city of Prague hovering in front of my fingers. I press my hand against the cold glass and try to connect the dots of the city skyline. Traveling gives me this natural high, like all my senses are height
ened down to the end of my fingertips. I crave it like food, as if it’s what propels me forward, what nourishes my body. Traveling is like leaving one world that’s black and white and walking into another one drenched in color because everything is so new it becomes enchanting.
The train starts to slow down as it approaches Prague’s station, and my feet tap anxiously on the ground. I can’t sit still. Maybe it’s the air—cold and dense and rich with mystery and texture. Maybe it’s the sense of this new city I’m about to meet, like a stranger I want to get to know. Maybe it’s the third cup of coffee I’ve had in the last hour.
It’s amazing to think where adventure can lead when you trust your crazy ideas, when you’re bold enough to look at only what lies ahead of you. I don’t want the normal life. I don’t want to go to college because it’s the next practical step, just to join the pack, just to follow a leader. I don’t want to sit inside a room under fluorescent lights and study and read and memorize other people’s ideas about the world. I want to form my own ideas. I want to experience the world with my own eyes.
I’m not going to follow my old friends to avoid the effort of making new ones. I don’t want to settle for any job just to get a paycheck, just to pay rent, just to need furniture and cable and more bills and be tied down with routine and monotony. I don’t want to own things because they’ll eventually start to own me.
Most importantly, I don’t want to be told who I am or who I should be. I want to find myself—the bits and pieces that are scattered in places and in people waiting to meet me. If I fall down, I’ll learn how to pick myself up again. You need to fall apart once in a while before you understand how you best fit together.
Few people understand what to make of me.
Except for one.
The more people I meet, the more I’m realizing how rare it is to find someone who lets you be yourself. Who never tries to hold you back, but watches you ride out the wave of intensity and see where it takes you. Gray never held me back. He was like a drug. He lit me up like a catalyst, and I can’t go a day without thinking about him. Half of my journal entries are addressed to him. I take most of my pictures just so I can show him the places I’ve been. I’ve never missed anyone before. I try not to dwell on past memories; instead I focus on making new ones. But now I realize that distance is like a test. If you miss someone, it means you love him. It’s that simple.
I can’t wait to see him again and tell him our story is just beginning.
Growing.
Destined for happily ever after.
I lean my forehead against the cool train window and watch the city lights blink
past me in the dark sky. My shoulders rock forward as the train grinds and brakes to a stop.
I stretch my sore legs and roll my luggage into a filthy train station, but I’m filthy too, so I can’t complain. I grin at the atmosphere around me, the clattering sounds of languages I can’t understand, the bustle of passengers, people moving along with me like we’re all just cells, pushing our way together through a giant artery. I love meeting a city for the first time at night and seeing it dressed up with lights. It gives me time to imagine the rest of it before it greets me in daylight.
I head towards the street entrance, hail a cab, and find myself on a cobblestone street in front of the Czech Inn Hostel. Even though we meet for the first time and I’m thousands of miles from anyone I know, I feel like I’m home.
GRAY
I wake up the next morning to the sound of birds that have unfortunately chosen the balcony outside my door for music rehearsal. Their soprano voices perform a song I imagine is titled, “Let’s Annoy the Shit out of Gray.” While they chirp and sing and whistle to the world, I roll over on my back and let out a long sigh. I’ve officially decided fish are my favorite animal because they’re quiet and don’t arouse me from a rare sleep.
The sun peers through the window blinds and paints narrow streaks of yellow light across my bed. I stare up at the ceiling, rub my eyes and wish I could fast forward through today. Since my twin sister Amanda passed away two years ago, my birthday is just a reminder that some parts of me are only half here. Death has a way of breaking you into pieces. You manage to put yourself back together, but in an odd alignment. Something will always feel off-center.
My roommates don’t know today is my birthday. I haven’t told anyone because I don’t want to be congratulated. It’s my second birthday without her. And I’m supposed to celebrate?
I kick off my covers and grab the nearest T-shirt lying next to my bed. I pull it over my head and throw on a pair of jeans. I run my fingers through my dark, curly hair but it’s a lost cause to try and tame my morning afro, so I slide a UNM baseball hat on backwards. I brush my teeth and meet my reflection in the mirror to see streaks of dark purple under my eyes from the lack of sleep.
I head downstairs, and Miles is sitting in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal and studying. His shoulders lean over a pile of notes spread out on the table. He looks up when I walk in, and there’s an edge to his eyes. I open up the cupboard and grab some Pop Tarts.
Miles clears his throat. “Gray, do you mind not smoking pot in the house?” he asks. “I could smell it in my room last night.”
I glance at him over my shoulder and apologize as I slip the Pop Tarts into the toaster. He exhales a long breath and I turn to face him, waiting for the lecture. Miles has a huge heart and he’s become a good friend, but sometimes his need to be the paternal voice of the team is a buzz kill. Miles admits he’s clueless about a lot of things, most of all women, but one area where you can’t doubt his knowledge and dedication is baseball. Our household abides by one rule: baseball comes first. Those words should hang over our front door, just to warn people. Baseball comes before sleep and school and friends and girlfriends. Bubba and Todd, my other roommates, are happy to oblige, but I’ve become the black sheep of the team for daring to have interests outside the baseball field.
Miles frowns. He’s clearly disappointed in me, and I can understand why. We’re supposed to stay clean during the season. No drinking, no smoking. We’re not supposed to show up at house parties or be out at the bars. On game nights we have a curfew.
“When are you going to give that up?” he asks me.
I shrug. “It helps me sleep,” I say.
“It’s Saturday. We have a game in a few hours,” he tells me, as if I forgot.
“I’m not pitching this game,” I remind him. Coach Clark rotates the starting pitchers, so I only throw every third game.
“That’s not the point,” Miles says. “We signed an athletic agreement.”
“No one actually follows it,” I argue. I point out Bubba still chews all the time.
Miles ignores this. “We sign it for a reason. Somebody wrote those rules.”
“Somebody who doesn’t understand moderation,” I argue.
He shakes his head and eats another spoonful of cereal. I tell him I’ve cut way back, which isn’t exactly true. I still smoke every night. And most mornings.
“You’re supposed to be one of the best pitchers in the conference this year,” he reminds me. “I don’t want you to throw it all away because you’re depressed.”
I stare back at him. “I’m not depressed.”
“Gray, you’ve perfected the art of sulking. If you need to talk about it, I’m here. But there are other ways you can deal with it.”
I pull my Pop Tarts out of the toaster and burn the tips of my fingers. I throw them on a napkin. “Thanks a lot,” I say.
“Look how far you’ve come since you’ve been here,” he reminds me. “Coach was going to red-shirt you this year, but you’re throwing better than any pitcher on the team.”
Miles is right. I became the team’s number one starting pitcher by the time we hit conference games this spring. Coaches and reporters predict I’ll only get better. In interviews, everybody asks me my secret for success. Is it my die-hard dedication? My rigorous training schedule? My dream of pla
ying pro?
In all honesty, I don’t really think about it. Baseball’s just a game. It isn’t my life. It doesn’t define me. At the end of the day, it’s just a sport I love to play. It was the perfect excuse to get out of Phoenix, to go to college, to be part of a team, and most importantly, to move on with my life. I think the fact that I don’t consider baseball the meaning of life and death and everything in between, like most of the guys on my team, gives me an advantage. I never get nervous before games. I never feel pressure or tense up. I throw technically perfect because pitching is one of the only parts of my life where I have complete control. I stand on top of the mound and for those sacred few hours, my life is fenced off. I can finally stop thinking and just be entirely in the moment.
“It’s just a game, Miles,” I say. I walk out of the kitchen, and let the screen door slam behind me. The morning air is cool, but the sun’s warm on my skin. I put my headphones on and head down the block towards the the Brew House, a neighborhood café overrun with college students. It’s also home to one of my best friends.
I walk up the front steps and pass a few girls on their way out the door that say hi to me and I nod back. I’m used to strangers recognizing me all over campus, calling me by my first name, even though I’ve never seen them before. Lenny’s working behind the counter. She looks up from her newspaper crossword puzzle and welcomes me with a bored grin. Her real name is Linda (she confided this to me in trusted secrecy). It might be the biggest misfire in all of naming history. Linda is someone who coordinates food drives and charity events. Linda marries Sherman, and they have two kids. Linda works out at Curves and chairs the neighborhood garden club. Linda swaps recipes online, cuts coupons from the Sunday paper, and bargain shops at garage sales.
Lenny, meanwhile, sticks to a wardrobe of T-shirts featuring rock bands from the late seventies, rides her skateboard to work, and has a loop pierced through her plump bottom lip. Makeup would probably jump off of her face in fear if she ever tried to apply it. The only thing feminine about her is her long, thick black hair which she keeps tied back in a messy clip to restrain all the “stupid ass curls” that she argues is her genetic betrayal. Lenny is no nonsense, hates small talk, loves an argument and plays the insult game very well, so we’ve become fast friends.
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