Stay (10 page)

ferent from Dylan or from any other guys I knew, even my father,

with his spilled spaghetti on his shirts, or the back of his car, so

messy with books and empty coffee cups.

12 Even if, weirdly, he could never seem to throw anything away. In his room he kept

piles of papers—old tests, schoolwork, cards, photos—and stacks of old clothes folded

in his closet. Obviously, he couldn’t part with things easily. Maybe this should have

been a warning sign.

* 72 *

Stay

“You’ll like this song,” Christian said. “I hear it and I think

of you.”

“The Way She Moves”, by Slow Change. I’d never really liked

them—Hunter Eden seemed like a dick, but that didn’t matter

now. I couldn’t wait to go home and really listen to the lyrics. “I

hear the neighbor’s TV and I think of you,” I said.

He didn’t quite know what I meant. He looked at me side-

ways. “I mean,
anything
will do it,” I said.

“Right,” he said. “Exactly.”

He took my hand. His skin on mine—it sent a zip line of

energy through me. A physical hum. I rubbed the underside of

his arm with my fingertips until we hit a stoplight and he had to

shift gears. I squeezed his forearm—I just kept wanting to touch

him. He smelled so good, even from there, that I kept sniffing the

air like a dog in the back of a pickup.

We stood in the ticket line. He put his arms around me from

behind and I leaned in tight. “We’re stuck,” I said.

“Good,” he said. We inched forward in our stuck way. “It’s

going to make it hard to see the movie,” he said.

“It’s going to make it hard to drive home,” I said.

“We’ll have to decide whose home to live in. Which school.

You’ll have to tie our shoes since you’re in front.”

I laughed.

“You Americans laugh so loud,” he said.

I had a prickle of hurt feelings, but I didn’t say anything.

“Us Americans like funny boyfriends,” I said. The word was out

before I could think. My thought-brakes were a minute too slow.

It was all right, though. He kissed my neck.

* 73 *

Deb Caletti

“I like the sound of that. Does that mean you’re mine?”

I stuck our hands in my jacket pockets. I pretended to think

about it. “Yes . . .” His. I liked the sound of that too. It’s strange,

isn’t it, how that idea of
belonging
to someone can sound so great?

It can be comforting, the way it makes things decided. We like the

thought of being held, until it’s too tight. We like that certainty,

until it means there is no way out. And we like being his, until we

realize we’re not
ours
anymore.

It was the first time we’d been out in public together, and the

sense of
his
and
mine
, the sense of
us,
was something we were

trying on, showing other people to see how it felt. It felt good.

Great. It felt like a statement, though the two guys in front of us

who smelled like pot couldn’t have cared less, and neither did the

ticket seller, with his straight, raven-black hair who didn’t even

look at us when he took Christian’s money. Christian insisted on

paying, he always would, and that felt good, too. He was taking

care of me. You take care of the people you love, but it’s true, too,

that you take care of the things you own.

I wasn’t paying attention to the movie. I was seeing how

Christian looked in the seat beside me, as the lights of the film

flickered, as they went from bright to dark. He looked so good in

profile. He would notice me watching him and squeeze my hand

but go back to watching the action. The way he looked made me

want to get out of there. I couldn’t wait for us to be alone. The

date stuff was fine, going to the movies, whatever. But what I

really wanted was to be back in that land we ended up in when

we were kissing. That place we disappeared in (and it felt like an

actual place, a physical space) where no one else could ever enter.

* 74 *

Stay

It was finally over. I couldn’t tell you what that movie was

about for anything. Two spies, that’s all. I can’t even remember

the name of the film now, though if I tried hard enough, I might.

It’s not important. What’s important was how urgent it all felt.

This is the thing I want to say: It wasn’t just him. I wanted to be

with him just as much as he wanted to be with me, maybe more,

a lot of the time.

We held hands as we walked out of the theater. The night was

cool and welcome, the busy parking lot, cars coming and going,

it was welcome, too. Things were happening and shifting, which

was so much better than sitting in that seat, waiting. The night

was alive again. He unlocked my door for me, and I put my hands

on either side of him.

“Kiss,” I said. He did, but he seemed in a hurry to be done.

“Let’s go,” he said.

He drove me back home. He didn’t do what Dylan used

to—park a few blocks away to have a few minutes alone before

going back. He pulled up to my street and actually got right

out. I wondered if something was wrong. We walked up to my

doorstep. I knew Dad would be asleep, so I didn’t even think

about it—when Christian leaned in to me, I pulled the back of

his head so his mouth was hard on mine, maybe because that’s

what I wanted from him. Maybe because I was trying to be that

sexy girl he couldn’t resist. But he could resist. He seemed to be

somewhere else. His body felt away from me, and then it didn’t.

He was there again, we both were, and his hands were on me,

untucking my shirt, his hands up my sides. It got a little out of

control. A lot.

* 75 *

Deb Caletti

“See what you do?” he said. His lips were shiny in the

streetlight.

“Good night,” I said. I was teasing. It was fun. Christian was

grinning.

“Shit,” he said. “Shit.”

“I guess you could say I like you. Really like you,” I said.

“Yeah? I guess
you
could say I feel too much.”

I didn’t know what
that
meant. I wanted to ask; I felt the

asking rise up with some sort of desperation, and so I kept it

down. Just went on smiling. It seemed dangerous to pursue

it. If I did, I thought I might uncover some doubts of his that

would grow uncontrollably when exposed to light and air. I

pretended everything was fine, that I missed the undercur-

rent. He kissed my forehead. Kissed my
forehead,
as if pro-

tecting my innocence. He headed back to the car, waved over

his shoulder.

I went inside. I felt anxious, confused. I wanted to call him

right then, that minute, but I didn’t. I felt some ugly rush of

clinging-begging-panic. I was being stupid, I told myself. This

had become too important too fast.

I was wrong about Dad being asleep. He was actually in our

family room, his feet up on the trunk we used as a coffee table,

the remote control in his hand. He never watched TV.

I walked past the doorway, and he looked up. He looked at my

untucked shirt. I’m sure my hair was a mess.

“TV?” I asked.

“Got some surfing moving at Total Vid, but I finished it.

Now, ‘Fifty-seven channels and nothing on.’ ” He was using his

* 76 *

Stay

quoting voice, though I wasn’t sure what it was he was quoting.13*

He was wearing his plaid PJ bottoms, some T-shirt from a con-

cert a million years ago. “Have fun?”

“Yep,” I said. “You waiting up for me?” He never waited up

before.

“Making sure you’re home safe. My fatherly duty.”

“Why wouldn’t I be safe?” I suddenly felt testy. It was the

night spilling out, sure, but now here was Dad just sitting there,

and everything felt weird, but it was Dad that I could get mad at.

“Driving in cars, earthquakes, boys, a million reasons. Food

poisoning. Choking on a popcorn kernel.”

“You didn’t like him.”

“I never said that.” But I could tell I was right. His voice

tipped up at the end.

“What? He’s a great guy. Great. He treats me so well.”

“Terrific. I’m glad.”

“What?”

“Clara.”

“What was it?”

He turned off the TV. Set the remote control down. “He

seemed a little . . .”

“What?”

“Rigid.”

“Rigid. Great.” I was furious. “He’s not some loose, loud

American guy, so what? What’s wrong with it anyway? He was

13 “57 Channels (And ’Nothin On),” Bruce Springsteen. From the Human Touch album,

released in 1992. I just looked it up.

* 77 *

Deb Caletti

being polite. Polite is a good thing. You’re the only parent I

know who wouldn’t love polite. No one would be good enough

in your mind.”

Which was a lie, I knew. He wasn’t all that protective about

guys, not really. Not even with Dylan, when he should have been.

“Untrue,” he said. “Look, C. P. Rigid can be . . . controlling.

Sometimes controlling. Hell, a lot of times. After the last guy,

Pea, something to look out for.”

“He’s nothing like Dylan. All you have to do is spend five

minutes with him to see that.” They
were
different. Christian was

courteous and mannered and got good grades and had life goals.

Dylan barely passed classes and even got into it with teachers. “
Nice

is the difference,” I said to Dad. Nice was protection enough.

“Nice can have an edge.”

“That’s ridiculous! That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

“You got your garden variety nice, C. P., where they’re just

regular, fine people, and you got your goody-two-shoes nice.

Underlying hostility. Self-righteousness without the balls to show

its true colors.”

“Jesus.” I spun around to leave.

“C. P., I’m sorry. But did you not tell me to be honest after

last time?”

I stopped. Actually, I’d made him promise. Shakti, too. It had

been one of those situations where after you break up, everyone

tells you how they knew he was a creep all along. You’re mad

they didn’t tell you, but how could they? You wanted their honest

opinion, but you wanted their support, too, and there is no such

thing as a truthful lie.

* 78 *

Stay

“You saw him for
five minutes
,” I said.

“Okay,” my father said.

“I’m going to bed.”

“I don’t even know the guy,” he said.

I went to my room. The phone rang, and it was Christian.

I let it go. I had to calm down a minute. I sat on my bed until

the pissed-off-ness rode away. The confusion was still there.

The clawing anxiety of things maybe going wrong, possible loss.

I dialed.

“Hi,” I said. Oh, I sounded cheerful.

“Hi,” he said.

I waited. Watched the landscape for oncoming trucks bar-

reling my way. But Christian just started talking about some-

thing Mr. Hooper had done that day that he had forgotten to

tell me. Everything was normal again, and the thought that I

might lose him turned down to some dim light, a distant hum;

still, it was a bad, panicked feeling I would remember. I would

have avoided it in any way I could. His voice turned breathy

in my ear.

“You make me so crazy,” he said. 14*

I was worried I would lose him. Him, which was not just

him
, but some sort of new life, some hopeful excitement, a

14 A guy, Dr. Frank Tallis, wrote this book called Love Sick: Love as a Mental Illness. He

talked about how falling in love made you go through many of the same things as los-

ing your mind. Not sleeping and eating, thinking obsessively about the person, deluded

thoughts . . . I read it. He’s right. Think of the words: I’m crazy about you. You make me

crazy. Crazy in love. Let’s just say that maybe it’s always a thin line.

* 79 *

Deb Caletti

new me, full of spells and the ability to hypnotize. That power.

And the idea of that loss—the ugly rush of clinging-begging-

panic . . . I had felt it,
I
had. It’s important to be honest about

that. I had danced there, too.

After we hung up, I found that song, “The Way She

Moves”, and I listened to every word carefully, looking for

meaning.
Your eyes are on her and you want her. Your eyes have

her. She’s yours . . .
I decided I would put it on a CD for him,

with a bunch of other songs I felt summed us up perfectly.

All kinds of music suddenly seemed to make sense. All of the

lyrics and movies and fuss about love . . . This was what it was

about.
This
.

I met his parents. His mom and his stepfather. Sandy was sweet,

small and blond, kind. Elliot was a little cynical and sharp, I

thought, the thoughtless kind of cruel. Where your own humor-

ous jab meant more than someone else’s feelings. But I couldn’t

see what the problem was with his mom. I really couldn’t. She’d