Nothing but Your Skin (2 page)

That memory makes me jump up inside, in my bed. I don't care what other people say. I just remember us, us, us.

I'm going to play back my memory. I'll rewind to the beginning, because that's how stories are told, from the beginning. They took away my right to play a part, so I'm going to take it back. I know that wherever you are, you're doing the same thing, too, every night.

The first time… I really like those words,
the first time
… The first time I saw you…see, my heart is already starting to beat again. The first time, you never know it's the first time. You only realize it after, a little later on. The first time I saw you was in the evening, when the bus was taking me home, just like every day of the week when I go to the place I call the school for retards. I had on my mauve jacket and black pants, and my beige hat with two maroon stripes around the edge. You were getting off the bus. I hadn't seen you get on, and normally, I'm the only one who gets off at that stop. I have to walk from the bus stop down a path that winds through the forest to our farm in the valley. Normally, it's just me on the path.

Actually, the first time I saw you, I didn't see you right away—I just heard you. You were getting off the bus, behind me. I had said good night to the driver, and then I heard another voice say good night, and that's how I knew there were two of us getting off the bus. I didn't turn around. I put my backpack on my shoulders and I adjusted the straps because I don't like it when the straps are too loose. I checked that my shoelaces were tied well, because it's hard to retie them when it's dark and you can't see much. And I took the path, like I do every night, but this time, you were behind me. There was some hard snow and our shoes crunched on it. I heard you walking with big, sure strides,
crack, crack
, and I thought you would pass me. But you stayed behind me. I knew you were a man, and young, because I had heard your voice when you said good night to the bus driver. I've never liked people following me, so I turned around. You were walking a dozen steps behind me and you stopped, you looked at me, and then you looked at your feet, as if you didn't know where to put your eyes. I started walking again, and you started walking, and we went another twenty steps like that. I stopped again because I really didn't like a man I didn't know, a young and tall and strong man, following me at night on the path going to the valley.

Then you said, very quietly, “I'm not following you. If you like, I'll go ahead.” I nodded yes. You passed in front of me, without lifting your head. You looked annoyed. We started walking again, you in front and me behind. But it wasn't working, and you stopped.

I said, “What is it now?”

You answered, very quietly, “I don't like being followed either.”

I listened to what you said, I thought for a moment—probably for too long but you didn't seem to notice—and I said, “Then walk beside me.”

I was standing on one side of the path and you came over to the other side, and we started walking again. I could see that you were shy. I didn't know what to say either. I'm not good at talking to people, it always takes me time, and this was happening too fast, so I didn't say anything and neither did you. You were walking at the same pace as me. Once in a while, you kicked a half-eaten pine cone that had fallen out of a tree. I didn't dare to, even though I like kicking pine cones for fun, too. Ten minutes later, we got to the spot where I turn off the path to get to our farm. You kept walking straight. You didn't say goodbye and I didn't either. I heard your steps on the snow getting farther away,
crack,
crack
, quieter and quieter.

I tapped my feet against the wall of the house to get the snow off my shoes and I went into the kitchen. I heard the dogs moving around in the garage. I was the first one home, just like every night. I turned on all the lights, I put two logs in the fireplace, because I like the smell and the color of the flames, and I sat in front of it. Then my mother came home, then my father, and they started talking, both of them at the same time, just like every night. The same words, the same routine—work, the animals, the people at the hospital—my mother is a nurse, my father is a farmer. There were two little sick calves and an old cow that died when it tried to get up to go home, you know, the old ones always want to die at home. My dad shook his head, and I stared at my bowl, watching the butter melt in my vegetable soup, until my dad said to me, “Good Christ, can't you just eat your soup instead of daydreaming? Do you like it better cold?” My mother probably said, like she did every night, “Leave her alone, you know Louella's slow.” And I probably winced, because I hate that name, even though it's been mine for almost seventeen years now. After, there was the sound of dishes in the kitchen sink when I washed them, banging them together a little too much, which always annoys my dad when he's watching TV, so he grouches, and then I probably make a bit more noise because of it.

That night, under my covers, I dreamed about the path that goes to the farm. There was a shadow on the other side of the path. Whenever I turned my head to look at it, the shadow would disappear under the snow. I kept dreaming the same thing until the grandfather clock sounding three o'clock in the morning…
bong,
bong, bong…
woke me up. And then I fell asleep again. So that was it—the first time we met. The next evening, when I left the school for retards, I went straight to the back of the bus. But the driver called back, “Did you lose something?” so I told him no, then I went to my usual spot and looked straight ahead, at the driver's back, because I always sit just behind him. When we got to the village, I got up, I said good night to the driver, and I waited a few seconds. I didn't hear you say good night so I thought I must be alone, as usual, and I walked home, shuffling my feet. The next day, it was the same thing. After that, I lost count—well, I didn't count the days, you know I'm not good at math, but I think there was a weekend, and then a Monday, and a Tuesday…and then one night, when I was getting off the bus, after I said good night, I heard someone saying good night behind me, and I knew you had come back.

From that moment, my life started to change, slowly. So slowly that at first, I didn't even notice it was changing.

One night, you got off the bus, you said good night to the driver, and you came up and walked beside me without asking. It was cold; it was only September and everyone was already saying that winter this year would be longer and colder than usual. That's always what people say when it snows like that in September. But, twenty-four hours later, the snow melts and it starts raining, and they always forget what they said before.

We live in the mountains. Sometimes it's really cold in the fall, sometimes really mild, sometimes really warm, and sometimes even really hot. I like the fall because of the color of the trees and because it's so close to winter. I don't like it because of the dogs that get all excited by the hunting and the gunshots in the forest. I don't know anymore how many days we walked along the path together without saying anything but good night. Or sometimes not even that. It's like you were scared of me. And I was a bit scared of you, too. So we each stayed on our own side of the path, kicking our pine cones. Sometimes, one of yours came over to my side and I kicked it back to you. Once, the pine cone that you kicked over to me bounced and did a little spin. I started laughing, and you started laughing. And something moved in my stomach. I didn't really understand what was happening. I wondered if it was my period, but it wasn't anywhere near the full moon, only the first quarter. Later, I figured out that it was your laugh that made something move in my stomach, and little by little I got used to that nice, gentle feeling. So you walked closer beside me, and after that, we didn't need to talk using pine cones anymore.

You said, “My name is Matt.”

I said, “I like that.” But I didn't tell you right away what my name was, because I hate my name. I thought about it, probably for too long, and then I murmured, “Call me Lou.”

It came to me just like that. Lou. Because it sounds like Louella. And it sounds like “lupine,” which a teacher at school told me means like a wolf. I thought that since we were talking, maybe I should tell you that I was the one who howled sometimes in the valley. But I kept quiet.

“Lou? That's not very common,” you answered. And I don't think we said anything else that night. On another night, I apologized. “I don't talk much, Matt. People say I'm stupid. But if you talk, I'll listen.” You seemed surprised. You stayed silent for a moment, then you just mumbled that you didn't talk much either… But actually, you can be a chatterbox. I've noticed it. It's just that you were shy. And that, I understood.

How do people talk to each other? And what do they talk about? I didn't know anything about you, or you about me. I didn't know where you had come from or where you were going. I didn't ask you those questions. But the night you stopped on the path, when you made a sign to me to stop walking and be quiet, and you pointed at a tree where a robin was singing, I understood. I understood that you liked birds, that you liked the forest, that you weren't one of those guys who go chasing after animals on the weekends with a rifle. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. I hadn't known, until then, that any other kind of guy existed! I remember that day really well because that afternoon, at school, I had a “traumatic incident” or, at least, something really horrible happened. I got trapped in the hallway by a boy who wanted to kiss me. A big boy, with hands like tennis rackets. He pushed me up against the lockers where we keep our gym clothes. He managed to force his tongue into my mouth. I struggled, I freed myself, and as soon as I got far enough away, I slapped him.

He whined, “I'm going to tell the supervisor.”

I said, “Go ahead and I'll tell him what you did to me.” I grabbed my things and I went outside to wait for the bus, not saying anything to anyone. I was amazed that I had reacted so quickly.

Because they always say to me, “Hurry up, hurry up.”

My dad says, “Make up your mind, you're driving me nuts dithering like that.”

My mom says, “It doesn't matter if you wear the blue one or the red one. Just decide which color sweater you want to wear today and stick with it, I've got other things to do.”

My grandmother says, “Good lord, that girl is indecisive! She'll never be able to pick someone to marry.”

My mom says, “Well, she'll have lots of time to think about
that
.”

I don't like it when my family talks about me. It always ends with my dad yelling, “It's not my fault I have an idiot for a daughter!” And my mom replying, “Oh, are you saying that for my benefit? You know very well that we don't know if…” She doesn't finish her sentence, and I don't know if she wants to say “if she's an idiot” or “if it's my fault.” One day, I told you the whole story, Matt. When my mom was pregnant, the cat scratched her arm and she got a little sick from it. When they told her I wouldn't be very normal when I was born, my dad was sure it was because of the cat, and he kicked the cat and he killed it. My mom never forgave him. And now, when they fight, they always talk about that—the cat, and how I'm an idiot, or slow, it's the same thing. Matt, you're the only one who says it's not the same thing, that just because I can't do things quickly doesn't mean I'm an idiot. It's true, Matt. You've never yelled at me to hurry up, except for the night on the lake, because we heard them walking on the shore and they were going to come and surprise us.

The night I told you about my family, I was wearing my black pants and a pale green T-shirt under my dark-green sweater. I wasn't very happy because I thought my blue gloves didn't match the green. But then you showed me the tree and the bird singing in the tree, and I wanted that bird to sing for a long time, just for us. Later, you told me that you used to dream of studying birds—an ornithologist is what you called it. And later, I understood why it could only be a dream.

But you weren't just watching the robin. You were watching me, too. And I thought it was nice to be looked at that way. So I started taking even longer than usual to pick out my clothes, and that made my mother mad. “Louella, are you ready?” No. “Well, what the heck are you doing in there?” She'd come into my room. “What? You're still in your underwear? What difference does it make if your T-shirt is red or white? You're putting a sweater on top. No one will even see it!” Yes, but I don't like it when one color doesn't go with another. All day I would feel like I was forcing the blue to live with the red…and how would that red get along with this pink—so pale, so delicate? It would hurt it, it would snuff it out. I have a complicated relationship with colors, it's true. The more I struggle to decide, the more I think I shouldn't, that it isn't normal to take this long. So I lose my train of thought, I get confused, and then I don't even want to get dressed anymore. It always ends the same way: my mom is in a hurry, she's worried that I'll miss the bus and she'll have to drive me to school, and she chooses my outfit for me. “This is what you're wearing and that's it! Louella, you're worse than a baby!” So she thinks, like everyone else does, that I can't make a decision.

One night I told you about that, Matt. You said, “Colors, for me…” At first, you just told me that you didn't see them exactly the way I did and that's why you liked winter, when there was snow everywhere, because white was a “sure” color. That's what you said to me, “a sure color,” and I was too shy to ask you what you meant. Then you explained it to me. You're colorblind. There are colors that you don't see the way I see them. Which ones? Red and green. They look kind of the same to you. Ripe strawberries look the same color as the leaves on the strawberry plant. I thought that was strange. I asked you if it was hard to live like that, and you stopped a moment before saying, “Hard? No, it's not usually hard. I ask my brother when I'm not sure about the color of clothes. But for certain jobs, it is hard. When you have to work with precise colors, when you have to know if something is red or green, for example. When you want to describe a…” You stopped there. I looked at you and I thought you were going to cry. But maybe it was just that it was so cold and the north wind was blowing into our eyes. But your mouth was sad, too, and I couldn't explain that away. I thought about the last thing you said: “When you want to describe a…” Describe a bird? Describe the color of its feathers? Is that what you wanted to say, Matt? Because you're colorblind, you can never be an ornithologist? You told me that you were doing a certificate in carpentry. That your uncle had just moved near here and you were staying with him, but that you were going to leave to do your apprenticeship soon, before the end of the year.