anonymous

The one and only piece of any length that is even possibly worth the time it would take to read.

 

Looking back, they had never kissed.  But she still haunts him; he can see her sprawled out on the floor every time he walks past her locker, the one with all the posters and flowers on it.  Like she’s dead, instead of just missing. Just missing. He sighs and turns up the volume on the walkman, the annoying whine of Robert Smith filling up his world now that her and her white hair and her bright tights and blue eyes weren’t there to do it anymore.

 

                It had been fun, almost, while it had lasted. Whatever it had been.

 

Cut back to the start of all this drama.  

 

The harsh early morning light breaks through the truck windows and over the form of the boy slouching in the driver’s seat. A deep sigh escapes him and a lone, unwilling hand reaches out and opens the door. He exits the truck and slams the door behind him, leaning against the cold metal with his eyes closed against the sunlight. He’s reaching for the pack of cigarettes in his back pocket when a warm weight slams into his side. He stumbles and opens his eyes and a girl with white blonde hair, pink tights, and big black boots looks up at him with big blue eyes from the concrete. She apologizes, oh my god, I’m so sorry, and laughs softly, standing up. He sneers at her, and she shrugs and walks away. 

She’s like a persistent hallucination today. He sees her down the hallway between classes, biting her lip as she tries to hold up her pile of out-dated books while opening the lock on her locker. At lunch, driving down Main Street, he sees her hugging herself and shivering outside the Mongolian barbeque restaurant. And then, in his last 60 minutes before freedom, she’s sitting in the back of his sculpture class.  He rationalizes that she just can’t be that hard to miss, with her hair bleached white and thick black eyeliner and bright, bright pink tights. That that’s the only reason why she seems to be everywhere all the time.

                She has very blue eyes, he decides, and they haunt him, wide and pale and set in a face flushed from cold and embarrassment.

 

He walks into the hallway before school the next day, his footsteps echoing loudly in the empty linoleum and metal corridor. She’s sitting under her locker, legs sprawled out in front of her. Her hair now has a big purple streak in it, and it matches her eye shadow and tights. She’s drawing on something in her lap, and as her arms move her bracelets jangle. That echoes too. He looks down, ignores her, doesn’t even acknowledge her existence enough to avoid her—he just steps over her legs. She looks up and holds out what she was drawing on. The sudden movement makes him stop.

                “There’s a show tonight, just outside town. At that abandoned ranch.”

                He takes the paper slowly, doesn’t touch her fingers.

                “I think you might enjoy it.”  She doesn’t smile, just looks at him with those big blue eyes. He nods and looks away first, and then walks to his locker slowly.

                They don’t talk in sculpture class, but when he gets home he carefully sets the handmade flyer, with its block letters and marker vines and heavy red flowers and gray tombstones, in between two records so it won’t become mangled.

 

He’s up at the abandoned ranch at ten that night and there’s no sign of a too-skinny girl with mostly-white hair. The music blaring out of the house is loud and slow and the singer is whining about something. Another cigarette gets stamped out under his foot. He curses under his breath as he scans the parking lot one last time. No girl. But there is a beat up red car which has been getting the frequent, too-casual traffic for the last fifteen minutes that he’s used to picking out. He walks over and ten dollars later, the skinny nervous looking guy in the car hands him a small bag. He pulls out of the parking lot, tires screeching, not long after that. At home, he locks his bedroom door and turns his amp all the way up, filling the room with the whine of feedback. Then he pulls out a pipe and a lighter and the small bag, and fills his room with smoke.

 

She looks a little sadder the next day, and she’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday with her makeup smeared and her hair everywhere. He drives up to the old ranch after school and walks over the red car and hands over ten more dollars. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday are repeat episodes. Wednesday the red car isn’t there, and he spends half an hour sitting in his truck, chain smoking with the door open. When a few people, none of whom drive red cars, appear, he gets in his truck, drives home. Plays Metallica so loud he can’t hear anything, not even his own thoughts.

 

He’s only been to the ranch once when there was any real activity, but tonight it’s crowded. He crosses his arms, glaring at the group of girls who walk by. This isn’t really his scene. He didn’t think it was hers either. But she’s sitting there, in the back of some truck, talking to a girl with the bottom half her head shaved and the rest teased up. Goths. Jesus Christ, and he had thought the punk kids were ridiculous. Still, she looks over the shoulder of her black-clad companion and meets his eyes across the parking lot. She smiles, and he turns away, scanning the black asphalt for what’s-his-name’s red car.  Missing in action, as usual. He hasn’t been there the past week. He’d been hoping it was just because of the lack of shows, and that he’d be here tonight, but no such luck. The cigarette drops to the asphalt.  He turns to leave and hears the patter of footsteps behind him over the noise blaring out of the house.

“They’re playing Sisters of Mercy tonight.”

He turns around, looks at her. “What?”

“If you want to stay. It’s Sisters. They’re good.”

“…This is them?” He tilts his head toward the decrepit building.

She nods, smiles. “Lucretia, my reflection.” She sings softly, barely audible over the actual song blaring out of the speakers. “Two worlds and in between, hot metal and methedrine…”

He shakes his head. “I’m cool.” He gets in his truck, and pretends he doesn’t see that smile fade in his rearview mirror, pretends he doesn’t feel at least a little guilty watching her shuffle off in her big black boots.

 

He’s driven up to the hills every night this week.  It’s cold and there aren’t any dealers, but at least there isn’t anything else either.  He always passes that venue on the way, and she’s always outside, either with the Goth kids, or some rockers, and once he caught a glimpse of her getting picked up and spun around by some skinhead punk. Shows all week long. He’s coming home early tonight, around midnight instead of dawn, and he sees her in his headlights. She’s walking on the side of the road, thumb out, in just tights, a skirt, and a t-shirt. He only stops because he figures she’ll freeze to death before she gets back to her house. He pulls over in front of her, maybe a little too close, but she doesn’t seem to care. She just jumps in, murmuring an “Oh my god, thank you so much…”. She smiles when she sees it’s him, happy despite the fact she’s shivering and her lips are blue. Or maybe she’s happy because she’s shivering and her lips are blue, and he’s turning the heat on higher.  They drive in silence, except for her directions on how to get to her house. It’s in a part of town he’s never been to before. 20, 30 minutes later they get to her street, and he turns off the headlights before the house gets in sight. No need to wake anyone up.

                “This is way the hell away from everything,” He comments quietly. “What do you do when you can’t get a ride?”

                She shrugs. “It works out.” She turns her head towards him, biting her lip again. She’s still shivering. “Come on in. My parents are asleep, and I have food and booze.”

                “I should be going.”

                “Who’s waiting for you?”  

                He doesn’t have an answer to that, not even a bullshit one like the ones he gives his mother. She climbs out of the truck as he kills the engine, silence settling quickly and fully. He follows her as she quickly sneaks around the house, passing under an archway covered in almost-luminescent white moonflowers and along a path up to a doorway hidden back behind some trees. She fumbles with keys to open the door until he reaches around her and takes them from her shivering fingers, unlocking the door. She hurries inside, going though another door.  He’s left standing in what is obviously her bedroom, a clean affair with chaotic walls covered in photos, posters, flyers, drawings. The sound of water from a faucet in the other room fills the still air and she comes back in.

                “Come on.” She whispers over the water, beckoning him into what’s obviously a bathroom.

                “Excuse me?”

                 She doesn’t answer, just keeps her eyes locked on his until she retreats back into the bathroom. He follows her slowly, slightly confused. A cold brush of air hits him from the open window, the window with a full, fat moon hanging outside it and a pack of cigarettes with a cheap lighter next to it on the windowsill. The pale moonlight filtering in is pushed aside by the warm glow of candlelight, and when he turns he sees her in the corner, standing on her tiptoes to light a candle on the shelf.

                “Don’t you have electricity?” He murmurs.

                “Yes.” She waves the match out and turns to look at him. “Why?”

                “Why don’t you just turn the lights on?”

                “We have light.” She walks over and reaches behind him, shutting the door. “Close your eyes.”

                He does so without thinking, without questioning. The water is shut off and is replaced by the quiet rustle of cloth, a small splash, the plastic-and-metal clatter of the shower curtain. She makes some noise of consent and he opens his eyes. The curtain is mostly closed, but he can see her feet propped up on the edge of the bathtub, ankles crossed. He grabs the cigarettes and lighter off the windowsill and slumps to the floor under the window. Steam rises from her skin, making delicate little patterns in the candlelight. He lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag, head back and eyes closed. He feels the crackle and burn in his lungs, like he’s inhaling sparks instead of just smoke, and then releases it. The heavy smoke doesn’t make nearly as beautiful patterns in the air as the steam does. A cold burst of wind from the window blows in and wipes them both away, and her toes curl in reflex.

                “What are we doing?” He finally says, breaking the relative silence. His throat burns. He’s been smoking too much lately.

                “Living.” She replies evenly, and then sighs happily. Another small splash. “I’m getting warm. You’re not getting caught by my parents.”

                He nods even though she can’t see him, and takes another ember-and-smoke drag.  They sit that way through half a pack of cigarettes, in the almost strobe-light effect of the flickering candles.  In the pressing warmth of steam broken by the occasional burst of cold air from the window.

                “Close your eyes.”

                “And if I don’t?” he asks without any real challenge in his voice, even as he closes them obediently. A splash, a clatter, the rustle of cloth. She laughs softly, almost too soft to be a real laugh, more like the sound of a smile. The door creaks open, and there is more rustling of cloth.

                “Okay.” She’s standing in the door way in a white dress that can’t possibly be warm enough. She leaves quickly, returning a few minutes later with two glasses filled with ice and a bottle of vodka. He takes a final drag of his cigarette and stands up, following her into the bedroom and inspecting the bottle of vodka. The room is lit with more flickering candles and even though it’s cold inside and the vodka is untouched, he wishes he could open the door and let in some of that sobering wind and moonlight. Music filters out of the record player she’s standing next to, something new-wave.

                “Do you listen to anything that actually has a guitar riff?”  The crackle of the ice as it was covered in vodka provides counterpoint to the question. He can’t stand new wave. 

                    “It’s the Cure. They’re amazing.”  The edge of the bed bends slightly as she sits down and picks her glass up from the tile floor, taking a sip. Quietly, she sings along. “ ‘I think it's dark and it looks like rain’ you said, ‘and the wind is blowing like it's the end of the world’ you said, ‘and it's so cold it's like the cold if you were dead’ and then you smiled for a second.”

                    “That’s rather depressing.” 

                    She nods, takes another drink.  He drinks his own. It’s good vodka, strong and smooth. Better then the stuff he filches out of his mother’s cabinet. The song ends, starts something else depressing, and his glass slowly empties. She sets hers on the ground, leans back on her bed, eyes closed and arms over her head. She really does have the most delicate bone structure.

                    It must be the vodka making him stupid. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

                    She laughs, open her eyes halfway. They contradict each other—her voice is making this a joke but her eyes are completely serious. “We’re in high school. The closest we get to seduction is just not saying no.” 

                    He doesn’t look away from her eyes. He moves closer to her, pushes her knees apart, presses his lips the inside of one pale thigh. Her eyes close. She never says no. 

                    He leaves at the very beginning of the sunrise, leaving a white sky behind him and driving into the last remains of the night. 

She isn’t at school Thursday. Friday her white-and-purple hair is dyed black.  It makes her look sick, too pale, too fragile.  The ankle-length skirt, no bright tights, only emphasizes that. He won’t think about it. They don’t look at each other, not in the hall or outside Mongolian Barbeque and especially not in sculpture class. 

 

He parks in the field across from the venue Friday evening, smoking cigarettes and killing time. He’s almost hoping to see her.  She’s in the parking lot, and when she sees the truck she freezes, then walks to the edge of the road slowly. There’s never much traffic, but she checks before she runs across anyways.  She walks over, her long skirt clutched in one hand to keep it from getting overly caught in the weeds that fill the field.  She’d have been a silhouette against the setting sun half an hour ago, but the sun is below the horizon now, just barely, and so the sky in tinged in gold and there is a luminescence hanging in the air everywhere. Everything is a series of shadows but they aren’t black yet because of that strange luminescence. He takes another drag of his cigarette, watching her.  She jumps onto the tailgate next to him.  They sit there, him watching her out of the corner of his eye, her watching her knees as she swings her legs back and forth. Back and forth to some tempo he can’t hear but she obviously can, and for once that state of events is almost all right.  His chest aches. Too many cigarettes this past month.  He never used to smoke this much. The luminescence fades slowly, like fairy dust settling into the ground, leaving just the chill of September nights. She reaches over and takes the cigarette out of his hand, takes a drag silently, the ember flaring up in the falling darkness.

                “Okay.” She says finally, nodding, even though he isn’t sure exactly what she’s conceding to. She sets a cassette next to him, the case covered in tiny green vines with heavy red flowers and gray tombstones drawn in marker. Jumping down from the tailgate, she laughs as the sudden wind blows her hair everywhere. She spins. He chuckles at her.

“You should laugh more often.” She says in between giggles. And then she walks away.

He wasn’t certain what the opposite of a kiss was. He really wasn’t all that certain, beyond the obvious, what a kiss was. He thought it was a declaration of love, an acceptance of infatuation, a willingness to take a chance. If he was right, then the look she gave him over her shoulder was surely the opposite of a kiss. A declaration of love with no desire to follow through.

 

She isn’t in school on Monday. He reads the newspaper after school, about how her family is offering a reward to her kidnappers. He’s fairly certain she ran away. It seems like something she’d do. Tuesday there are posters and flowers in front of her locker, on the sidewalk in front of school. There are tons of signatures on the posters. He never saw her with that many people at school, but at lunch he sees some of the Goth girls show up and leave some jewelry. Maybe that’s it. There’s even an assembly. People are crying in the halls, talking in low voices. He sits under his locker, headphones on, while they are all in class. The cigarette pack is empty.

He shakes his head, looks at the flowers in the hall, wilting in the last desperate, sudden, surprising burst of summer heat. She’s been gone three days. That’s how long the sun has been out. She was only really there, for him, for three weeks. He turns the walkman up more.

“Sometimes you make me feel like I’m living at the edge of the world, like I’m living at the edge of the world. ‘It’s just the way I smile,’ you said.”