Perfume

"I'm never gonna know you now But I'm gonna love you anyhow."

You’re sitting backstage; the play is Cinderella. You’re the crew: you’re too afraid to sing in front of people.
      And you don’t remember what her perfume smells like.
     She’s the usher, and there are only about six scene changes. You don’t need to do anything for half the play, and she doesn’t need to do anything to begin with.
     In between scene changes you casually dangle your fingers in such convenient places; her hands were always so warm. Can’t do anything too drastic though.
     She does have a boyfriend, you know.
     But you really don’t care, because you’re pretty sure you’re in love. It doesn’t matter that you met her at your first real dance at the beginning of sixth grade. It doesn’t matter she’s in seventh grade and has a boyfriend. When two people are connected in this way, there’s just no reason to stop it.

    This is a year ago.

     It’s the Wednesday after Valentine’s day; the school musical has started up again. It’s the second rehearsal you’ve been to. You don’t even expect her.
     You’re sitting in the auditorium’s seats, and you see her walk in and you don’t recognize her.
     Black hair?
     Straightened?
     She looks incredible.
     She sits down next to you and starts talking. It starts with a hello, and that flows into sentences that flow into thoughts that flow into stories that are memories and you can tell that this is going to become a memory. A story to tell when it’s all over.
     You start to catch up.
     All you can smell is her perfume.
     You’re shaking more than usual, and you can feel your heart in your chest. You’re afraid she can hear it, but she keeps smiling and keeps talking. You calm down and let your hands relax on your knees. Nothing bad can possibly happen. Right?

     You walk around the mall on the Friday of April vacation. She and her best friend giggle through stores while you smile and pretend you know what they’re talking about.
     Your fingers are callused and you’re afraid they’re too rough to hold. You’re very nervous and all you can smell is her perfume.
     You sit in some store you don’t want to remember the name of. You’re next to her, on a faded brown leather couch in the back. There’s a strange music video on the TV in front of you, but you can’t be bothered with your surroundings when your hands are trembling like they are.
     Her friend is trying on clothes, and she’s taking what seems like forever. But for whatever reason she should have taken longer.
     You put your arm around her after a few minutes and she cuddles against you and whispers that she feels awkward. You tell her its okay and kiss her on the forehead.
     And all you can smell is her perfume.
     And that’s all you need right now.

     You’re standing in the bowling alley, or sitting, you don’t recall. The boys all around you make
jokes and are having a good time. You watch her.    
   And you’re having a good time.
     All you can smell is her perfume, and all you can taste is your bad breath.
     She’s chewing softly on gum, and you feel around in your pockets for a piece, but come up with nothing.
     And all you can taste is your bad breath.
     She’s never been bowling before, and she’s winning.
     Her straightened black hair looks absolutely perfect. It’s the same straightened black hair that she came in with on that Wednesday. You watch her smile and all you can smell is her perfume. All you can think about are the diary entries you have written about her in the last year and how you never talked to her.
All you can think about is how big of a mistake that fight was.

     She has a boyfriend now. She talks about him, and you feel like she wishes you had been faster with your emotional development. You’re sorry. You’re only a seventh grader.

     You’re on the phone with her, and it’s one in the morning.
     She leaves tomorrow for five weeks to some place in Vermont. You write letters to her, saying you miss her. She sits on her bed, on the phone with you. You collect a few books you think she would enjoy and you put the love letters between the pages, left like clues for her to find. You know she won’t be there when you wake up in the morning so you do all you can to stay awake.
     You fall asleep. She leaves at eight in the morning, leaving you a text message saying that she loves you.
     You send out the books and letters all wrapped in brown paper. I love you is written in twenty-eight different languages on the back.
     You check the mail for the next three weeks and get nothing. And all you can think about is her perfume.
     After a few days of knowing she doesn’t love you and that she met some boy at summer camp, a hand colored envelope comes in the mail.
     “This is the fifth letter I’ve written you, but the first I’m actually going to send.”
     And your heart skips a beat or two.
     She materializes in front of you as the letter is read. She makes a heart with her hands and says her name, just as it’s signed, before she vanishes in front of you.
     You write back, and your letter is sent the next day.
     She comes home eight days later, and you don’t talk on the phone anymore.
     You don’t really talk at all.

     You call her and try to get to your point. All she wants to talk about is camp, which is great. You’re happy she had a good time, because her self-esteem was always so low. Things are looking up. You ask her if anything will develop between the two of you, and that it’s been a while since the sixth grade. You’ve wanted to say these words since February and a sudden smile crosses your face. You’ve never felt this way about anyone. It sounds cliché, but it’s true.
     “No.”

     Eighth grade starts and you don’t mind it. It’s not as bad as her grade made it out to be. On the first day of school you write in your calendar, on April 23rd, a question. Do you still love her? You close your eyes and let a teardrop crash onto the flat surface of the desk. Do you still dream? Or is that part of your life over, gone with the summer, gone with her?
     You run through all the memories, all those pretty love songs turned suicide ballads and all these harmonies and melodies turned to cacophony. You start to bleed before you realize you’re biting your tongue.
     A blonde girl you recognize through the water in your eyes walks into class and smiles. A familiar aroma dances around her, and you don’t want to remember anymore.
     But you close your eyes.
     And you count to ten.
     And all you can smell is her perfume.
 

Reviews

[Star]

This was one of those stories that reaches out for your heart.. and you find that you're biting your lip or your fingernails and your eyes are starting to water. You're seriously good~

I can't wait to read all of your other work! ♥

[Lorna Hutchison]

This has some lovely turns of phrase in it. I love the way you have repeated the purfume line all the way through. You're a good writer, thanks for sharing your thoughts.

[CarrieLynn {Chameleon A..]

great write! :)