by Julia Hoban
“So what did you say to Laurie anyway? Somehow I can’t imagine you ever doing anything very stupid.”
“Try me.” Willow sighs deeply. “It’s a long story, I just . . . Well, something I said about kittens.”
“Kittens?” Guy starts to laugh. “That isn’t at all what I was expecting. Is this because Laurie’s sister works in some pet shelter or something?”
“I’m not going to go through it again!” Willow swats Guy with her hand, but she’s laughing too.
“I’m just wondering because you don’t look like the cat type to me.”
“Yeah well, I’m not. But what do you mean anyway?” Willow says curiously.
“Well, you know . . . There’s the kind of people who like cats . . .” Guy pauses and gives her a look. Willow shakes her head vehemently. “And then there are people like you. And me. People who like dogs.”
“I got it.” Willow nods. “You mean like there are the chocolate ice cream types, and the vanilla ice cream types . . . Of course, there are some people who like Day-Glo Popsicles.” She studies him closely. “Coffee, right?”
“Good call.” Guy laces his hands behind his head. “But too easy.”
“Get out of here! How could I know?”
“Yeah, yeah, I gave you the heads-up when I invited you for cappuccino.”
“Fine.” Willow rolls her eyes. “But if you’re going to divide the world into two types, can’t you come up with some more interesting categories?”
“Odyssey or Iliad,” he says promptly.
“Please! The Iliad !”
“Totally.” Guy is approving.
“Okay, look, like you said, I was raised on this stuff, but what’s yourexcuse?”
“You have a leaf in your hair.” Guy reaches out and brushes it away. They are silent for a moment.
“C’mon.” Willow pulls on his sleeve. “Tell me.”
“All right.” Guy drops his hand. He sits up and stretches his legs out in front of him. “My parents aren’t profs. My dad’s a banker and we traveled a lot when I was a kid. I mean to some really far-flung places.” He pauses.
“Go on.” Willow nods encouragement. She shifts around. Her leg has fallen asleep and she’s uncomfortable. After a second she lies down again with her face pillowed on Guy’s sweatshirt and looks at him sideways.
“Two things happened,” Guy continues. “One, there wasn’t any good television, but I could always order books. And two, just so I’d be ahead of the game, ’cause the schools weren’t always fabulous, my parents set me up with this really old-world tutor. I mean, we’re talking a waistcoat and a gold watch on a chain, right? He had to be about a hundred and fifty. He was from England, I think he’d been a banker too, but he’d been retired for years. He’d been to Oxford and Cambridge . . .”
“People don’t usually go to both!” Willow protests with a laugh.
“Yeah, trust me, he did. Or maybe he went to one and taught at the other. Who knows. Anyway, he got me into books.”
“What did you read?” Willow is intrigued.
“Anything. Everything. He could just as easily give me science fiction as Milton.”
“Science fiction?” Willow makes a face.
“What’s wrong with science fiction?”
“Try everything. And Milton? Why not Shakespeare?”
“Read him too. Now that’s a good category.” Guy looks thoughtful. “People who like Shakespeare and people who like Milton.”
“Except people who like Milton more than Shakespeare are crazy!” Willow is indignant.
“That’s true—well, my tutor liked Milton better, actually.”
“Yeah, and he also gave you science fiction! What’s your favorite Shakespeare?” Willow wonders if it’s the same as hers.
“Umm, probably Macbeth.”
“Oh, please! That’s just because you’re a guy!”
“You don’t like it?” Guy looks at her like she’s crazy.
“Well, sure, but it’s got nothing on something like The Tempest. Who needs some drafty old castle in Scotland when you could be stranded on an enchanted island?”
“Never read it.”
“Oh, but it’s the best one! It’s got this great relationship between Ferdinand and Miranda! It’s so much more romantic than Romeo and Juliet—” Willow stops abruptly. She can’t help blushing a little.
“I’m guessing this enchanted island is one of those imaginary places that you like so much?”
“That’s right.” Willow nods. “So, anyway, talking about different places, where were you living when you were doing all this reading?”
“The Far East. Singapore. Kuala Lumpur.”
“Do you speak any . . .” Willow searches for the right word. “Kuala Lumpurish?”
“Malay.” Guy laughs. “No. I wish I did.”
“Look good on your transcript, huh?” Willow nudges him.
“Exactly! I guess I speak it well enough to ask for coffee ice cream. But seriously, everyone there speaks English.”
“Do you have any brothers and sisters?”
“What is this? Twenty questions? Yes, a sister. Rebecca, six years younger. Okay? C’mon, you come up with a category now.”
“Ummm.” Willow thinks for a minute. “Let’s see. . . .” How about people who’d rather live in the city, and people who’d rather live in the country. . . . Talk about boring. People who umm. . . . vote Republican and . . . Forget that one. . . . People who are like Andy and people who are like Guy. Yeah right, who else is like Guy? People who kill their parents and people who don’t. . . . People who cut and people who cover for them. . . .
But Willow doesn’t want to dwell on that right now. She’s having—can it possibly be—a good time, so she racks her brain to come up with an interesting category.
“I’ve got it.” She looks at him triumphantly. “People who like Sherlock Holmes stories . . .”
“Yeah.” Guy leans forward.
“With Watson—and people who like them without.”
“Nobody likes the stories without Watson!” Guy is incredulous.
“How do you know?” Willow sits up on her knees.
“Okay, have you ever met anyone who did?” Guy asks.
“No, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist! Besides, I don’t even know that many people who’ve read them to begin with!”
“Yeah, well, anyone who likes the stories without Watson . . .” Guy makes a face. “Wait a second, you aren’t one of—”
“No!” Willow exclaims. “Total Watson fan. I can’t even read the other ones.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Guy collapses back on his elbows.
“Okay, now tell me more about Kuala Lumpur.”
“Ummm, the weather’s really bad.”
“Is that the only thing you can come up with?” Willow laughs. “Okay, tell me more about your sister then. Are you guys close?”
“Well, we can be. We have been. But right now? She’s twelve, so you know, we have different stuff going on.”
“I get it completely.” Willow nods. “David and I used to be like that, but when I got older things got better. Only now they’re worse. Much worse.”
“I’m sorry,” Guy says, and he sounds it too.
“I . . . I was sitting at this cafe with him when I saw you and Laurie go by.” Willow is talking very quickly and the words come out in a rush. “And, well, I just couldn’t sit with him anymore, it was just too hard. So I told him I was meeting you. I hope you don’t mind. That I joined you, I mean.” Willow looks away from him.
“Hmm. Well, let’s think for a sec.” Guy makes a show of considering the problem. “What’s more fun to talk about? Rowing? Nail polish? Or Sherlock Holmes? Tough call, right?”
“Okay.” Willow smiles a little.
“What was going on with you two anyway?”
“We weren’t talking.” Willow pauses. “We were sitting across from each other and saying things, but we weren’t talking. It
’s just like everything else now.” She lies back down on her side and faces Guy. “Things don’t work.”
“Like what exactly?”
“He was at school today. He had one of those guidance counselor meetings, you know where you discuss your whole life plan or something.”
“Sure, I know the drill. My parents were there today too. I had to go with them.” Guy stops suddenly. “Go on,” he says quietly.
“He pretended like he never went.” Willow is unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. “He couldn’t talk to me about it. Why can’t he just tell me what a pain in the ass it is for him to have to deal with stuff like that?”
“Maybe he didn’t tell you for some other reason. Maybe he feels bad for you. If it were me with Rebecca ten years from now, I’d just feel sorry for her. I’d be sad that my parents were around to help me grow up, but not her.”
“Maybe.” Willow is unconvinced. “But that’s not the only thing. What about this one? I give David, well, David and Cathy, most of the money I make. It’s not as if it’s even that much, it probably only pays for the light bill and one package of diapers or something. I don’t think Isabelle—my niece—was planned.” She blushes once again. “And having me live with them for sure wasn’t planned. I mean, it’s just that there are all these extra expenses suddenly, and until my parents’ life insurance comes through I really need to help out. But David is always so angry when he takes my money. Why can’t he just tell me that it’s not enough?”
“I think you’re totally off base with that one.” Guy shakes his head. “I bet it’s something completely different, like that he feels guilty that he has to take your money.”
“He feels guilty?” Willow is incredulous. “He’s not the one who should be feeling guilty!”
“Is that what it’s all about? I mean why you cut?” Guy looks at her. “Because you feel guilty?”
“That’s not what it’s about at all,” Willow says. She doesn’t like the direction the conversation has taken. She’d thought that they’d moved beyond his trying to analyze her.
“Is it—”
“Can I have my blades back?”
“Sure. Fine. Anything you say.” Guy sits up abruptly. He reaches in his backpack for her things.
“I’m sorry, but it’s not so easy to talk about. I can’t just explain it to you, and I don’t even—”
“Forget it,” Guy interrupts. “I can’t believethat I’m giving these back to you. Here!” He throws the boxes of razor blades at her.
Willow doesn’t quite make the catch. She feels humiliated as she watches the boxes fall to the ground, breaking open as they hit, littering the grass with bright metal blades. But her desire for the razors is stronger than any embarrassment she could ever feel, so she scrabbles around in the dirt on her hands and knees until every last razor is safely in her hands.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Guy says. “It’s just—I don’t get it, all right? I don’t get it at all.”
“I don’t always get it either.” Willow looks him straight in the face for a long moment. Then she turns away and busies herself with putting the blades into her bag, noting as she does so that she’ll have to clean them off before she uses them.
“You didn’t do it since I saw you in the library, did you? Well, what stopped you? Maybe you should try and figure out what sets you off. How did you manage to control yourself then?”
“How do you know what I have or haven’t done?” Willow snaps. “And what makes you think that you can figure me out so easily?”
“Oh, I see.” Guy’s voice is even more biting. “I guess I was stupid. I just thought that since I gave you my word and didn’t tell your brother, you’d keep your end of the bargain.”
“I never promised you anything,” Willow says angrily.
“Fine. You’re right. No, really.” Guy holds his hands up in front of him. “You think I was hanging out by the phone waiting to hear from you? Sorry, that isn’t the way things are with me. I just figured that you were the type to keep your word, and I was really happy that you hadn’t hurt yourself again.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “Look, this stuff is way beyond me. I can try and be your friend, but you’re on your own with the rest of it.”
“I haven’t cut myself since I saw you.” Willow is suddenly desperate to convince him of that fact, win his good opinion, have him smile at her again. She doesn’t know how the conversation turned, but she knows that she doesn’t like it at all.
“Good.” But he sounds as if he really doesn’t care. He stands up and starts gathering his things.
“Please don’t go,” Willow bursts out.
“Why?” He looks at her unflinchingly.
Why?
He has a point, doesn’t he? Doesn’t she want to be alone? Wasn’t her first impulse on meeting him to push him away? Wasn’t she bound and determined not to feel anything?
Except the only times that she’s laughed in the past seven months have been in his company. When he’s with her she’s able to forget the lure of the razor for more than five minutes at a time. And when she talks to him, she actually feels like she’s connecting, not just exchanging words like she does with everyone else.
But Willow isn’t sure that she can tell him any of that. She casts about for some reason she can give him. Something that might convince him to stay, but her mind’s a blank. He’s moving away from her, a few more seconds and it will be too late.
“Wait a sec!” She grabs on to his leg. “Don’t go, okay? Because, because . . .”
“Because what?” He still doesn’t sound very friendly, but at least he’s not going anywhere.
“Um, because, you know what? You never told me, um, well, which Sherlock Holmes story is your favorite,” she stammers.
Willow closes her eyes. She cannot believe how stupidshe sounds, how inane. God forbid that he thinks she’s trying to be cuteor something. Why did she have to drive her only ally away? She squeezes one of the blades that she picked up off the grass.
“Are you serious?” Guy says. Willow opens her eyes and looks up at him. She can see that he’s starting to laugh.
“Kind of,” she says in a small voice.
“You’re just . . .”
Crazy, pathetic, strange.
“You’re just so different from anyone else, aren’t you?” He’s really laughing now, but in a nice way.
“That was your first clue?!”
“Okay.” Guy sits down again. “Since you ask, ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles.’”
“What?”
“My favorite Sherlock.”
“Oh! Oh, right!”
“Willow?”
“Hmm?”
“I meant what I said about . . .”
“About me not keeping my end of things? About this all being way beyond you? Don’t worry, I know what a—”
“No,” Guy interrupts her. He picks up her hand, the one that’s gripping the razor. He doesn’t try to take away her blade, he just closes his own hand over hers.
“Then what about?” Willow is confused. “Because I—”
“About being really happy that you hadn’t hurt yourself.”
“Oh,” Willow says after a few seconds. She doesn’t let go of the razor, she barely even loosens her grip on it, but she does place her other hand over his.
CHAPTER EIGHT
God that hurts!
Willow grimaces as she tears Guy’s bandage off in one smooth motion. It never ceases to amaze her that even after all her sessions with the razor, little things still have the power to cause her pain.
Of course, the sting of the Band-Aid is nothing compared to the bite of the blade. It’s only a minor irritation, not enough to give her what she really needs.
Willow examines the wound critically. She’s impressed by how innocent this cut looks compared to some of her other lacerations. This one looks like something that anyone might pick up in the course of the day. The other marks that dot her arms a
ren’t nearly so wholesome in appearance.
Obviously Guy knows a thing or two about bandages. “Willow,” Cathy calls from downstairs. “You’d better hurry, or you’ll be late for school.”
Yeah, yeah.
Willow picks up her backpack and starts down the stairs. She can hear David puttering around the kitchen and the sweet little noises that Isabelle makes as Cathy feeds her. She stops and sits down on the third stair in order to listen more carefully.
Everything sounds normal, everything sounds good. This is the way things are supposed to be—they’re just a young family getting ready to meet the day.
Willow hates to join them, because she knows that as soon as she steps into the kitchen the illusion will instantly be destroyed. Her presence reminds everyone that there’s something desperately wrong, that this isn’t just an ordinary family going about its business. This family is different. This is a fractured family.
She sits on the stairs, delaying the moment as long as possible.
“Willow!” Now Cathy sounds irritated.
Willow jumps to her feet. She knows that Cathy has a thousand things to do—feed Isabelle, get ready for work—the last thing Willow wants is to make life more difficult for her.
“Good morning.” David looks up as she walks into the kitchen.
“Morning,” Willow mumbles. She busies herself with milk and cereal, her eyes on her brother as she does so. As usual he’s surrounded by a mountain of books. She wonders what he’s reading and briefly considers asking him, but yesterday’s experience is still too raw. Clearly talking about books with David is no longer on the menu.
“How’s this new thing you’re working on going?” Cathy turns to ask him as she wipes Isabelle’s face with a napkin.
Obviously Cathy has no such problems talking to David.
“Is it turning out the way you hoped?” she continues between sips of coffee.
“Hmm, hard to tell.” David closes the book he’s reading with a sigh. “I need to take a look at some other source material before I can go on. Unfortunately, finding some of the books I want is proving just about impossible, given how long they’ve been out of print.”
