Folie à Deux (6 page)

She picks up the dropped shopping bag and says with a smirk, “Wow, that was nice. I don’t want you to miss your bus.”

I step aside unable to move anywhere else and watch her walk down the last four steps. She reaches the bottom of the stairs before I’m able to move and when I finally take a step my right leg buckles underneath me.

We walk down the hall together in silence. When we reach the crowd of students waiting to take the same bus as me she says, “Ok Jimi, goodnight and have a nice Christmas. I’ll see you after the break.”

Something in the tone feels cold and hurts me. She says goodbye as if I were any one of those other kids, as if we didn’t just kiss. I think I understand this to be a show but I’m suspicious. Was I not a good kisser? Did I do something wrong? Does she regret having kissed? I’m distraught.

My bigger problem though is facing my parents. I don’t know how to speak to them with the same tongue that was in her mouth. I think I’ve done a good job of keeping things close to my chest but I don’t know about this. I’m looking at the other kids around me to gauge their reaction. No one is looking like they suspect anything but I’m not certain that my face isn’t screaming my astonishment.

Aren’t most life altering events visible on one’s face? I can’t imagine this isn’t written all over mine. If the speed with which my mind is racing is indicative of the rest of my body then it must be obvious. What if my parents notice? Confusion prevents any clear thought. I spend the bus ride home systematically analyzing each boy riding with me to figure out what makes me stand apart. What makes me desirable? Despite my best effort
to denigrate myself and improve their adolescent traits I come up with nothing. I surrender and escape by thinking about anything but my new twist on reality.

I come home, put my books in my room and come down for dinner. I don’t eat a thing which is not abnormal during wrestling season but has nothing to do with making weight and everything to do with the weight on my mind. I hear the usual speech from my parents about being healthy, complete with the threat that if I don’t eat well they’ll pull me from the team. I say nothing, just nod in agreement. Apparently there is no suspicion, so as my life depressurizes the kiss seeps into consciousness

I try to occupy myself until a reasonable time to call Carla, but it doesn’t work. I am baffled how she could say goodbye as if we had not shared the same experience. Maybe that was just a kiss for her but it was a big deal for me, impossible to just leave on the stairs. I finally succumb and call. As soon as I say, “Hello,” I hear, “Wow, that was the most amazing kiss of my life, let alone our first.” I can’t agree because I haven’t allowed myself to process. I am, however, immediately washed over with relief. I was hurt by how we parted, absent any emotion but my fear disappears when her voice soothes me.

Once over that confusion I begin to fathom that we even kissed. Relief leads to reality. I don’t have a notion of what romance is but I’m fairly certain standing in a high school stairwell that reeks of a mystery cleaning product basking in the fluorescent glow of hallway lights is not true love’s first kiss. I replay my memory now and the feeling is dirty. I tasted coffee and I hate coffee. Something tried, unsuccessfully to hide coffee breath, like a fruit flavored “Certs”.

“What did you think of our kiss?” she says.

I’m silent for those few seconds while she waits for my reciprocation of how great it was. “Oh,” I say to buy myself time.

“You’re absolutely right, it was pretty amazing,” I lie.

My life since I called her the first time feels like being lost on a highway. Instead of exiting to recalculate, I keep driving. I pass exit after exit having absolutely no idea why I have yet to stop. It’s as though every chance where I could speak up and express the thoughts in my head about coffee breath, age and love I ignore. And with each missed exit the car picks up speed, heading toward an unknown destination.

She talks incessantly, asking an endless stream of questions. It seems our kiss was a stimulant. She asks, “Have you asked your parents about Christmas Caroling?”

She asks, “Have your parents said anything about the exchange trip to France because I have so many ideas.”

She tells me, “I am a little bit nervous about Christmas break because I don’t want to go that long without seeing you.” Carefully peppered among the real questions is bait. I have no responses, unable to think that quickly. She concludes, “So, I’ve been thinking a lot about what our next step should be since we’ve kissed,” the thought left hanging endlessly between us. I no longer want to be me. And in the true spirit of the season, she wraps everything up in a nice package by saying, “I know what I’m going to get you for Christmas by the way.”

This comes in rapid fire succession with neither solicitation nor opportunity to respond. My inventory is as follows and I try to express it in the prioritized order with which it was delivered: I’ve asked my father about Christmas Caroling. He will get back to me. France has not come up again, but I have a feeling I’ll be able to go. I forget the rest of what she says because my heart races like I’m struggling on a final exam. She gladly
and boisterously repeats in the same order, with the same verbiage, her questions. I’m only able to ask with ignorant innocence, “How would it be possible for us to get together during break if there’s no school?”

She responds quickly, clearly after preliminary planning, “Well I know that there is the holiday wrestling tournament on the 28
^th
of December.”

Her silence again leaves the issue looming over my head to clarify. All I can say is, “Um, yeah I know. I’m wrestling in it.”

“I know but since the tournament is all day whenever you are done, we could see one another,” she responds again without pause. “Plus your parents wouldn’t be expecting you until later in the evening so we’d have a lot of time together.” She doesn’t ask me if I have plans that day, or if, very specifically, I had plans on possibly winning the tournament which would then keep me at school until the finals.

“Well okay, I guess that could work, since I’m not expected home until later.”

She continues, “I mean I would love for you to do well but the consolation prize if you happen to lose in the first round is that we could spend all day together.”

Her words hurt. I feel pressure to lose, a painfully foreign feeling. Immediately my mind is clouded by the guilt of imagining her waiting for me so that we can spend time together because she, “misses,” me.

A compromise occurs to me. If I do well at the tournament I can still see her between matches. The thought excites me because that would provide a place to get away from the commotion in the gymnasium. When I mention the possibility she sighs, a familiar exhalation.

“Well, I thought that we could go to my apartment for the day. It’s only about fifteen minutes from school,” she says unassumingly.

I don’t know where her apartment is, what it looks like, who lives nearby or much else about her outside of school but when she proposes this idea my palms become sweaty. A low grade ringing develops in my ears. I try to imagine her apartment and how it’s decorated. What does she do there in the evenings? I visualize her sitting on a couch I’ve never seen in an apartment located in a town I’ve never been through talking on the phone, telling me she loves me. I see her crying over my age and trying to cope with the obstacle of my parents’ skepticism.

My daydream is broken by, “I can give you your Christmas present that day too unless that’d make you uncomfortable.”

I answer quickly, “No, that’s fine.”

The whole idea makes me very uncomfortable although I don’t know why. I simply take the path of least resistance.

I think I can interpret her invitation but it’s hazy around the edges and I’m scared to imagine too much. I know what it meant when my last girlfriend told me to come over because her mom was working late. We kissed and made out and I even went up her shirt but we were both uncomfortable and regretful for being in that situation. The difference was that our remorse was softened by shared inexperience.

Carla and I stay on the phone until three o’clock in the morning and just as late the next four nights. We talk about ideas that two people in our circumstances should not. She asks, “Are you a virgin?” quite abruptly. I don’t want to lie but want to give the answer that will most please her. However, I don’t know what that is. I think I should be because if I’m not then that means that I have been living pretty fast for my age.

“I am,” I say almost too quick to be intelligible.

Her response is cold in its simplicity, “I thought you were. Well, that’s a good thing.” I’m neither sure what led her to believe that I’ve never had sex nor why that’s appealing. I only know a few people in my grade that have had sex and they’re trashy. I shudder to think what their parents must think if they have been so lax as to let their high school sophomore have sex.

I’m severely ill-prepared for what comes next. She says, very naturally, with a bounce in her voice as if she is concurring with a preference of ice cream flavors, “Oh, me too.”

“You too what?” I ask, unable to make the connection.

“I’m a virgin too.”

I sense that she doesn’t like the implication of my reply, “How can that be?” I don’t mean to be offensive but am taken off guard. I was sure that she had boyfriends and lovers before especially considering how attractive she is.

“What do you mean how could I be a virgin?” she snaps. I feel bad for having a natural reaction.

I tell her immediately, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just figured by the time I am your age I would have had sex.”

With a tone that makes me instantly regretful for not keeping a tighter harness on my thoughts she says, “Well maybe I haven’t had sex because I haven’t found the right person and that’s why I’m talking about it with you.”

I remain silent because if I didn’t have the right response the first time, I’m definitely not going to now. I remain motionless so she only hears silence on the phone, hoping her anger will soften.

She explains, “I’ve had boyfriends and most, have tried to convince me to have sex but I wanted to wait until I was married. I was even engaged once but before we were married, I found
out that my fiancé, John, wanted to have an open marriage and I ended it immediately.”

I ask nervously, “What’s an open marriage?”

She describes, with what seems like misdirected anger, “An open relationship is where the people involved can sleep with whoever they want, whenever they want. And because of that, I called it off immediately.”

Now I’m dying to know what makes me different. I can’t ask because she is already upset and that may only exacerbate her. Although a logical question, I know I would convey a distinct hint of disbelief.

She drops the topic saying with renewed candor, “Let’s not worry because we’ll know when the time is right.” I remember that platitude from the discussion about kissing and I had no say when that time was right.

We end our call early in the morning and once again she says, “I love you, Jimi.” I know the only response is, “I love you too,” so I comply. I speak from the same place that I recite everything else, void of emotion. The same voice I use to pledge allegiance every morning.

As usual, after I hang up I play back the conversation and figure out what was decided. I think I’m going to lose my first match of the wrestling tournament. I think we’re going to have sex but not on that day. I have to ask my parents again regarding Christmas Caroling and I need to pin them down about the exchange trip. I think that covers the bigger issues but I know there are smaller matters requiring more attention than I can spare.

A chaotic noise resonates in my head. I feel it from the time that I wake up until I close my eyes early in the morning to sleep. Matters arise that I have to remember whether it’s something
that Carla has asked, my responsibilities at home, a request from a friend, or what should be most important, school.

Kevin is still having great difficulty and I want to be strong for him but simply cannot. I’m overwhelmed and feel panicky most of the time, like I’m drowning in something viscous I can’t scrape off. I have this feeling most predominantly after speaking with Carla because she is counting on me to come through on so many issues. Some of them are tangible and require an answer, and some are too nebulous to mold into any comprehensible form. As I finally fall asleep I feel like I’m coming down with a cold. I’m worn down and there’s a tickle in my throat. I’m undoubtedly exhausted and with the obscure things that have been coming out of my mouth I have no doubt that my throat has suffered some ill effects.

I walk through my life as if in a dense fog. Certain things catch my attention and I can focus for a moment. Schoolwork suffers tremendously in just a few weeks. I have no energy for wrestling practice and find it difficult to participate in phys-ed class. The people I call friends treat me a little bit differently I think, but that might just be my own refracted self-perception. I feel tainted. I think people know what is behind my eyes even though I’m not sure myself. I’m jumpy and frightened by everyday things, often feeling like someone is going to grab me on the shoulder and say, “Mr. Cunneely, please come with us.”