Riot teams in the main hallway. A bunch more dogs. Running past me. Storming the school. Guns in arms. Yelling codewords. Clearing rooms. Them quickly going in. Me slowly going out. Without my bag for once. I feel weightless. Like surgery has removed part of me. Left behind with the people in 109.
I’m the only one walking out of the school. Everyone else is coming in. Firemen. Random students. Police trying to coordinate, but there’s not enough of them. As I go by the main office there’s Mrs. Reece in a chair in the waiting area, wiping her mouth on her shirtsleeve, shaking her head. A cop is standing behind the main desk making a call on the office telephone. He’s probably calling his girlfriend. And that’s probably the best use of his time given the situation. “Yeah. Honey. I’m gonna swing by the grocery store on the way home. Maybe get Boboli crust, some green peppers, and a couple of rice bowls. Does that sound alright?” He makes eye contact with me as I go past the main office. Through the glass. Why don’t you just go home now? I ask him this with my eyes, telepathically. He answers me back with his eyes. I can see what he’s thinking. You’re right. The damage is done. I might as well go spend a quiet evening with my girlfriend. I approve. He probably has a pretty girlfriend. They can spend the night watching TV, or try to make a baby. The guy doesn’t look half bad for a police officer. I mean his eyes aren’t dumbed-over or anything. My steps, my movement, my thoughts—they are at half. Speed. Of all. That is. Around me. Even a quarter speed. I am between it all. Everyone around me is in scenes. I am in frames. They are operating at twenty-four frames per second. I am operating at six.
Front entrance. I step over remnants of metal detectors. Push open the double doors. Flash of sunlight fading. Eyes adjust. Down the stairs. Courtyard empty except for emergency crews going past me. Going into the school. And there’s a police line. Yellow tape dangling in the wind. Stretching out above the grass like a kite that’s about to land. A barricade of cars. Throngs of people behind it. Parents.
The sky is cool and blue. Nothing in it.
This is my world. This is the courtyard I wait in every morning. This is the mud puddle I took a picture of yesterday. This bench? This is where Molly and BJ sit. This beam? That’s what Molly leans against to read her playbook. You people. You crowds. You worried, worried people. Where were you yesterday? Where was your focus yesterday? On something else that made the news?
As I go through the barricade, people are staring at me like I’m the last native in North America.
Someone screams at me. “Have you seen Ashley?! Is she in there?” My world bounces. This woman is shaking me. Do I know you? Who’s Ashley? I shake her arms off, shoving past. Clear of all these people there’s a street with no one on it. It’s much calmer back there. The woman screams at me again. “Do you know Ashley Palmer?!”
I stop and turn around and say. “No.”
This is how it usually is. This is my world. Except today it has the sound turned down.
It’s so sunny I have to squint my eyes. Been warm all day. One of those winter days when it feels like spring. I walk away. I just walk away. I walk past the school and I walk down Wayne Avenue and I walk downtown and I walk over the bridge and I walk through courthouse square. This is longer than the walk I took when Elizabeth Young died. How old was I then? That must have been three years ago now. I don’t really need a coat today. And I left my bag in 109. It feels weird to walk without it. I’m adjusted to it, adjusted to carrying textbooks and notebooks and binders on my back. Without it I don’t know how to stand. I feel like something’s missing. But it feels better this way. Strange, but better. I pick the stitches out of my arm. And it’s so bright I have to cover my face when I look at the sky.
Open the door. Empty porch. Where is Mom? Doesn’t she know we have things to do? Get out the Wii. Bust up some Mario Tennis, something. “Mom! Mom?!” The door was open. No one home? Mom? You won’t believe what happened at school today. Go upstairs. “Hello?” Where’d you go you freak? I’m in my room. We had quite a ride today didn’t we? Sit on the bed. Untie my boot. Untie my other boot. Feet up. Keep my boots on. I like the feel of them. I should masturbate. Think about closing the door. Not hungry. A little achy. I should watch the news. I’m probably on it.
Oh. That’s right. Mom and Theresa are at Mini racers tonight.
I hear the front door open. “Mom?” No answer.
I sit up. “William?” Is that you?
I go to the stairs.
Boots unlaced. Be careful not to trip. The TV comes on. Channels flipping. Lean down to see. There is a boy standing in my living room. William. Boy. There you are. You were supposed to meet me here. And here you are. Few more steps—ah! Almost tripped. I said be careful not to trip. I’m at the bottom step.
“Well, hi.”
You brush the hair from your eyes. “Hi.” Tall boy standing. Looking at me.
TV squawking about the school.
I hand you Kayla’s note.
You turn it in your hand. “What’s this?”
Front door’s open. I go to close it. “It’s from your special friend. She asked me to deliver it.”
“What’s it say?”
I close the door. “I don’t know.”
“It’s a love note.” You’re staring at the TV. Kayla’s note unfolded, your hand at your side.
Go over to you. Go over. Walking toward you. Going now. Boot, boot, shoulder, shoulder. Take the note from your hand. Set it on the table. Pull you to the couch. Sit you down. Push. Push your shoulders down. Sit you down. Step over your leg. Put one of mine on either side. Touch you. You’re looking me straight in the eye. I’m not gonna kiss you. Instinct says to kiss you but I’m not gonna be able to. Am I gonna be able to kiss you ever again? You’re looking at the TV. Look at me. Don’t look at the TV. There’s nothing there that’s gonna help you. There’s nothing on it really. They’re saying they don’t have a full list of who’s dead at the school. Just go in and look around you dummies.
You’ve got a serious look on your face. There’s doubt in your eyes. You touch my arm where the openings are. “Please don’t do this anymore.”
I laugh.
You subtly shake your head.
I’m staring at you.
You’re staring back.
You open your mouth. “I—”
“Shh.” Just look at me.
Look at me.
There are things I want to do to you.
Unbutton me from my neck to my stomach.
There are things I want to say.
Pull me so I’m riding you. You’re my saddle.
I’ve been planning things for us, and I need to tell them to your skin.
My shoulder strap comes off. Leave it. Let it dangle. Adjust my balance over you. Feel lightheaded. My other strap comes off. Some creaking sound from the couch.
Leather cured in oil and blood. Baked for days in the sun.
You’re cushioning my ear and head, neck cradled in your hand.
I pull you in, press down.
I’ve been planning things with you, William. Things I could not say to you in the presence of others. Things that are private. Sometimes I have trouble talking about these things, even in the dark. Some things are better whispered. Some I must spell with my fingers on your back. Then there is no record of it, except maybe in your mind. And maybe when I spell things on your skin you do not even know what I say. Only your skin knows it. Fortunately for me skin has no memory. When I say something on your skin I only say it then. It is said for a moment, between our skins, understood only by skin, and forgotten by skin. It’s a surface that is constantly being erased. It constantly goes away.
“Do you like that?”
Your gentle eyes. “It’s perfect.” You say. “Today at school—”
“Don’t say anything—”
“You have to know—”
“No.”
“They will find me. That stuff is beyond illegal.” You look me in the eye.
“I want you to know, I didn’t tell them that you had it.”
“I know you didn’t. But they’re gonna find me anyway.”
“Leave. Take the bug. I’ll come with you.”
“They’ll find me eventually.”
“We just won’t say anything—”
“What are you gonna do when they ask you?”
“I would never—”
“I don’t expect you to lie for me.”
“I will though, I will. It’s the best thing I can think of to lie about.” Release. Exhale. “I was worried you’d kill yourself, William. You’re not gonna kill yourself?”
“I don’t think so. Are you mad at me?”
“No! Of course not! Of course not! I’m just glad you’re ok!” I’m feeling red in the face. You brush my hair back for me. I’m holding your cheeks. “You’re lovely, you do know that.” I turn your head with my fingers. How many more times am I gonna get to do this?
And then you say. “Jenna didn’t come home today.”
I keep your gaze. There is crushing in my chest.
You keep talking. “She might still be at the school. She might still be in one of the rooms. They said they’re keeping people there.”
I look away from you. My face toward the TV, but not looking at it. “They’re not keeping people there.” I say.
“I heard they were holding people in some of the rooms.”
“They’re not.” I say. I smooth your hair. “They’re not.”
You look down at my lap. I’m sitting on you. You’re sort-of barely shaking your head. “Did you see her today?” You’re asking me.
Oh boy. I’m not gonna cry. I already did my crying.
I’m holding your face in my hands. Did I see Jenna today? “Yes.” I say. “I did.”
Every minute that I spend with you is one grain in an hourglass. I can wonder what to say, I can search for the words, I can try to fill each moment with the perfect things. In truth it’s the other way, My Love. Every grain is falling out of time, falling away from me. I never need to try to use them. They’re falling all the time. They slip away without my help. It’s not a matter of what to paint on a blank canvas. You’re gonna paint whether you like it or not. Your arm is moving the brush at a constant flow, the paint is spilling onto the canvas no matter what you do. What you do is not stop it flowing, or start it flowing, but shape it while it flows. Every time I see you, every word I say, it’s falling out of me like sand. It’s not that I’m picking it from some endless pile so that I can paint my life. It’s that it’s going away, falling out of me, constantly. Your glimpses are happening. They’re running out regardless. Pay attention while the sand falls through the glass. That’s all you can do. That really is all you can do.
I’m not sure what the relationship is between the you I talk to in my head and the you I know in waking life. I don’t know if one of you is your spirit and the other one your body? Or maybe I’m just talking to myself and have chosen you as the one I direct my words to because I know that in real life you’d listen. I think you’re mostly non-judgmental, which is why I talk to you. I think you do it on purpose. I don’t think I like the reason you do it. Which I’m pretty sure after some observation of you is just because you like to hear people’s secrets. But you don’t hurt us after we tell you. And even if you want to, deep down, the fact that you never actually do counts for something. It counts for a lot actually. But I don’t know sometimes if you really care or if we’re just your lessons. Your subject matter. Some endless catalogue of people with potentially interesting lives that you collect to make yourself smarter. I’m pretty sure if there is a god that she would do the same thing. Just create us so she could sit around listening to our stories.
If I was god I would have a movie theater with an empty floor and one cushy seat in it. Like a big puffy chair. I’d have popcorn without butter and I’d sit there in my piglet socks. And the only thing that would play on the screen would be people’s dreams. I’d watch people’s dreams. It would be a giant movie where I could be awake all the time and connected to the minds of everyone who was asleep in the whole world at that time. And I’d just listen to their dreams. You find yourself my angel. And everything I say, I say because I have the comfort of knowing that you are listening. Even though you can never speak back. I know you’re there. And I know you hear me. And knowing that makes me feel like talking. But if I were god I would do things a little bit differently than you, my angel. I would make my movie theater and sit in my piglet socks and eat popcorn without butter and sometimes I’d put my head down and forget about the pictures and just listen to your sound. And sometimes I’d mute the sound and watch the pictures in silence. And the only sound I’d hear would be the sound of my own breathing. Feel the beat of my heart and the pulse of blood in my veins. And it would be rapid-fire. Flickering in the light. My only interest. My obsession. I would love you so much that I would never let you know I’m here. Not because I didn’t want us to interact. Because I didn’t want to interrupt you. I would never interrupt you. I would never make you self-conscious by letting you know I’m here. I would never blink. I would never close my eyes. I would watch my screen forever. And everything that came across would be the providence of your dreams.
We’re still kissing when I feel Lincoln brushing against my leg. I pet him.
You see my worried look.
I’m running my hands over Lincoln’s back and I can feel his spine. Bones sticking up almost through the fur. His haunches separate from his body, knocked apart weirdly. Like a dinosaur skeleton. Fur greasy, clumpy. He stopped cleaning himself. Check his butt. Still that piece of shit on him. That was from weeks ago. I can hardly pet him now. He doesn’t really pet anymore. You have to be soft in order to pet. Lincoln’s so bony. I put my hand on his head anyway. Rub on the base of his ears. He’s not really responding. Not really turning his head. Not rubbing up next to the thing you’re petting him with. Just sitting there. Holding his head close to the ground. Below his shoulders. Neck touching the rug. His eyes are still open. But he doesn’t really move anymore. Kind of like he’s sleeping.
I get up from the couch.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
I leave you there, my boots striking the floor, hitting loose boards, squeaking. Living room. Dining room. Kitchen. Cabinet. Open the drawer. Can opener. Peeling the lid off, turning the handle. Ragged edges of the metal. Drop the lid in the recycling. Some tuna spills on the counter. Wipe it up with the ball of my hand. Lick it. If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do this right. Clean up the counter. Top cabinet. Get a plate out. Red border on the white plastic. The one I made for Mom in kindergarten. Fork. Forking chunks of tuna onto the plate. Arranging it. Making it nice. Get a little air in there. Separate the pieces. Gonna make this nice for you, kitty. Gonna make this nice.