Authors: Mechelle Morrison
10
BY SATURDAY NIGHT
I’m an emotional wreck. I’ve had weeks to wonder why Kyle has ignored me, weeks to wish for my mother’s comfort and five days more to decide this evening will end like a dystopian novel. I mean, I’m convinced Kyle is about to spend our entire date listing off the things he’s been noticing in me that all point to Don’t Get Involved With This Girl.
So
when he shows up at two minutes to eight I stay out of sight, listening from the top of the stairs as Dad answers the door.
Kyle introduces himself.
Dad says, “Thacker, you say?”
Kyle
asks Dad about work.
Dad
says, “I’m with Greer Environmental. Mineral survey.”
Kyle
tells Dad about AP English and physics.
Dad
says, “Aspen doesn’t talk much about her class schedule.”
Kyle
mentions Monsters Stomp! and how we danced together. I start for the stairs. For all I know he’s about to inform Dad of his intention that we become life-long lovers.
Not that I’d mind that.
The ‘lovers’ part. Not the informing.
As I come into view
Kyle’s blue gaze lands on my cowboy boots then sticks, like a tongue on ice-cold steel, to my tight jeans and tight sweater. Dad coughs. Kyle’s eyes jerk upward, an effort so obvious that it makes me smile. He’s perfect, in worn indigo Levis and a crisp white shirt, the collar poking above the rim of his black down vest. His shirt sleeves are rolled to show off his forearms. He’s holding a black felt hat in his hands, turning it round and round. “Hey Aspen,” he says.
“Hey
.” I smile, and some of my angst about how this night will go slides away.
“Back by midnight,” Dad says. I look at him, from the corners of my eyes. In the past I’ve always stayed out until one.
Kyle nods. “Yes sir.”
As we turn onto a graveled drive the Chevy’s headlights swing like search beacons across the wide, vaguely familiar wrap-around porch of Kyle’s house. I’m still thinking on the porch as Kyle parks near a detached garage. He waits while I jump from the truck, then hand in hand we walk toward his house, our breath like pale white shadows in the night air. Above us, the sky boils with stars. I stop for a minute, staring upward. Kyle tugs me into motion. “Almost there,” he says, pulling me into the soft light shining through the kitchen windows.
The moment we step into
the house a woman I take for Kyle’s mom looks up from peeling apples. A broad, happy smile—Kyle’s smile—spreads across her face. He’s got a version of her blue eyes, but where his hair is dark, hers is almost auburn. I think I’ve seen her at the store or maybe around town. I’m trying to place her when she says, “You must be Aspen.” She wipes her hands on a towel as she moves from behind the counter. Before I can say anything she’s got me in a hug.
The craziest feelings
explode in me: envy, fear, longing, love.
“Hey
there, Mom,” Kyle says softly. His mother releases me and he bends toward her, kissing her cheek. “Meet Aspen Brand. Aspen, meet my mom, Angella Thacker.”
“
Hello,” I say.
Kyle
takes off his down vest and hangs it on a hook near the door. He helps me from my coat. With his hand to the small of my back he says, “We’ll be in the Jam.”
Angella Thacker tucks one fist to her hip.
“You don’t even let me up there.”
Kyle laughs. “
We’ll come down when we smell pie.”
“What’s the Jam?” I ask.
“You’ll see, girl.”
Just outside the kitchen, Kyle stops near
a rope ladder anchored to the wall. I look up, following the rungs to a dark square hole in the ceiling, picking out the faint hint of starlight coming from somewhere beyond. Kyle pulls off his boots and sets them together on the floor. I pull mine off as well, though before I can set them down he takes them from me. “I love how you paint these things,” he says, turning them over and studying the heels.
I don’t know what to say, so I
grin.
He
climbs the ladder first. Out of the darkness he reaches for me, taking my hands when I’m near and pulling me up as though I weigh nothing. In the shadowy gray the Jam seems to be an octagonal room, maybe ten feet wide. The shapes of guitars show all along the walls. The ceiling is a massive, leaded glass skylight, blossoming with stars. There isn’t any furniture, though mountains of pillows cover the floor. I step aside and Kyle shuts a trap door, leaving us in total dark. “So they don’t have to hear me practice,” he says.
“This place is magic
,” I say.
“
When I was a kid it was a playroom. But two years ago, when I got serious about my music, they let me turn it into the Jam.”
“Do
your parents like your posts?”
“On You
Tube? I don’t think they know. You’re the only person I’ve ever told.”
“But—”
“You play, right? Let’s play together.”
Kyle
makes his way across the pillows then flips a switch. A single strand of white Christmas lights glow from where they’re strung around the room. “I like this lighting best,” he says. He lifts a guitar from the wall—the white guitar he plays in his videos—and chooses another for me.
I take the
instrument, testing its weight. “You’re much better at this than I am,” I say. “Your stuff on YouTube is incredible. But I’ve never heard any of it before. Do you write your own songs?”
“
I do. I watched you, too, you know. A lot.” Kyle settles on the floor. He tunes his guitar, then strums a few chords. He nods at me. “You’re welcome to sit, girl.”
It’s warm
in the Jam. I rest my guitar on the pillows, pull off my sweater, and tug my tank top smooth. Then I sit facing him and settle my guitar across my lap. “Do you know ‘Blackbird?’” I ask. I play the opening phrase.
He stares at
my throat, or maybe my clavicles, while he joins in. Then he stops. I do too. From somewhere in the pillows he finds a capo, which he straps across the third fret before he starts the song again. This time, he looks into my eyes and sings.
Mom loved this song.
Kyle plays it faster than I’m used to, but I could match his pace if I tried. I could sing along, but I don’t. His voice is beyond beautiful, tenor and rough and, well,
hot
. I bite at my lower lip and take a deep breath.
Kyle cocks his head to one side, studying me.
Without breaking stride he sings, “What’re you thinkin’ on, girl?” I laugh. I can’t tell him how I’m wondering what it would be like to be his life-long lover.
The second he finishes I say,
“You can’t stop! Not yet. Do you know
‘Dust in the Wind?’”
“
You’ve got classic taste,” he says, removing his capo. “I like knowing that, about you. But if I play ‘Dust,’ will you play it with me? I want you to play along for a while, if you will. I’m thinkin’ I’ll enjoy your music just as much as you’re enjoying mine. After we play together for a bit I’ll sing you something special. A song I wrote, just for you.”
11
WE HAVEN’T BEEN
playing long when I invent a little game by trying to come up with songs Kyle doesn’t know. He wins every round, choosing songs I’ve never heard of. The whole time, he makes me laugh. He plays through something once, acting silly while I follow the basic chords and hum background to his voice. Then he’ll sing for real and I surprise myself, because I join in. I’m welcome in his inner world; I see it in his eyes. Maybe that’s why singing harmony with him comes so easily.
A
s we play together, I realize he can take any song and make it his. He could go on forever, probably. But I can’t. I stretch and rub the ache from my fingers for the third time, and he smiles. “Okay then,” he says. “You can put your guitar away.”
When I’m settled in front of him again
he starts my song, tapping the beat on the body of his guitar as he picks. It’s cool to watch him perform something he wrote. He’s got an awesome style. I’m so into his fingers that I hardly hear him say, “Your song’s not finished.” He grins as my eyes meet his. I grin, too. Then he sings.
Till I met you
Didn’t know what to do
Then your courage made me stronger
Now you’re lovin’ me
You’re all that I see
You’ve taken my soul and heart
upon
your shoulders
What can I do to set aside every trouble
And
walk to where I am with you
If you’ll let me hold you
I know I’d know
just what to do to
K
eep you here girl, in my world
Then no matter what might come my way
Yeah, no matter what
might come your way
we’ll
Be all right oh girl
W
e’ll be all right
He hums, playing a few chords more. I say, “Keep going!” But he lifts his guitar and sets it aside. “Like I said girl, it’s not done.”
“
I wish it was. It’s so good. Swear you’ll find the way to finish it.”
“
That’s, uh, yeah.” His face reddens. “That’s what I’m tryin’ for.”
The meaning behind his words sinks into me, but I can’t find the right thing to say in return.
So I sit, looking from his eyes to his mouth, back and forth, like I’m locked in a ritual. An electric kind of silence builds between us. He smiles. I giggle. He glances at my body. I bite my lip. I want to feel his arms wrapped round me; I want to feel his body close to mine. But he doesn’t move. When I can’t sit still another second I reach for him, thinking to touch his hair.
Kyle flinches.
“Sorry,” I say. My hand drops to the cushions. “I thought—”
H
e takes my hand and squeezes softly. “I’m sorry I did that,” he whispers. Then he begins to unbutton his shirt.
I wonder if
this is another game, one he thinks I started when I took off my sweater. Maybe next we’ll pull off our socks. But after that? I stare at his increasingly bare chest, feeling nervous. Kyle doesn’t seem the forceful type, but we’re shut away in a sound-proof room. I gulp and sort of smile. My lips are dry and catch on my teeth. “Are we playing a game?” I ask.
He
shakes his head.
“Then what—”
“I’ve gotta do this all at once,” he says.
“Do what?”
Kyle shakes his head, again. “You’re brave, Aspen, you know? That day in my truck you were core-honest, and about something that hurts you, deep. I should have told you then, but that day was the first in a long while where I felt good about being alive.”
I
want to ask why, but the look in his eyes says
No
. He pulls one arm free of his shirt, and then the other. For a moment he’s restless, folding and refolding his shirt. Or maybe he’s embarrassed. Finally he tosses the shirt aside. He clasps his fingers together and studies his thumbs.
The body I’ve been
dreaming about for two months is right in front of me, bare and beautiful. He has great biceps and a tight chest and a shadow of hair between his pecs; his smooth skin still hints of a summer tan. But he’s not perfect, like I thought he’d be. Small scars pepper his upper arms. There are more on his stomach and a few on his shoulders, especially his right.
I move
close to him and with my fingertip, trace an angry line of pink near his elbow. “Were you in an accident?”
He
rubs his hand into his hair. “Two years ago last spring, my brother died. I don’t talk about that time much. He killed himself and I found him and it almost killed me, too.”
I
curl my arm around his back. I knew that, about his brother. Gwen told me weeks ago, over lunch. She blurted out Kyle’s story in a laundry-list kind of way, like it was old news and barely worth mentioning. But the tightness in his voice makes me feel awful, like I know something I shouldn’t. “I’m so sorry,” I say.
“Me too.”
Kyle rests his elbows on his knees. “Everybody has quirks, right? Mine is being alone. I don’t like it. I’m not good at it. And I’ve never been as alone as I was after Evan died. My parents, they were too messed up to deal with me. I didn’t know where to turn. I needed someone, and Em. She’s a flirt. I’ve known her from way back, but till Evan died I hadn’t paid her much mind. She’s cute and all, but kinda mean.”
“
Yeah,” I say.
“
Yeah. She took to hovering round me, all sweet and understanding. I went with it. Our first date was okay, we saw a movie with a group of friends. When I took her home she pressed me to ask her solo. So we went out the next Friday. That night she burned me with my truck lighter,” Kyle touches a scar on the back of his left hand.
I feel suddenly numb.
“What?”
“
I called her things I shouldn’t have then jumped out of the truck, feeling guilty at what I’d said and more than shocked by what she’d done. She followed me. She grabbed my arm and dug in so hard she drew blood. She told me the burn marked us as together, and that if I ever stepped from her I’d be sorry.”
“
But that’s crazy! It doesn’t make sense. It’s beyond mean—it’s horrible! It’s sick! What did your parents do?”
“
They don’t know.” Kyle looks at me, his eyes soft with tears. “I don’t know why Em burned me. I don’t know why she cuts me, sometimes. But back then, I didn’t think it fair to tell my parents. Evan had just died. And as far as I was concerned, Em and I were through before we started. She’d corner me somewhere and beg me to take her back. I’d tell her to get lost. It was weird, you know? We’d never even been together. It went on like that, for weeks.”
I rest my head on Kyle’s shoulder.
“Then a stack of chopped wood by our house caught fire. A day later, Dad found the barn door open when he went out to work the horses. One of our saddles ended up in a field, all cut and ruined. I knew it was Em, but I didn’t dare tell. Evan’s death had made my parents fragile. They were paper floating on water. I wanted to protect them and figured the best way to do that was to stay with Em till they got better. That was two years ago.” Kyle presses his fingers and thumb to his eyes. “After that, hell. Life with her just rolled into a habit.”