Story Girl (9 page)

“I am not.”

“Stop judging.”

“I’m not,” I said.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“So now you can see my thoughts?” I asked.

“Your energy. Your heart.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Yes.”

“Well, could I at least get a massage now?”

“You also spoiled.”

“I’ll have you know I was just in a car accident.”

“Not surprised,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you daydream.”

“I am a writer.”

“Then write something.”

“How can you know all this?”

“Easy,” she said.

“I’m easy to read?”

“Your generation is restless – too much stuff, too many choices of stuff. You become bored and selfish – listless, even. Listless – that my new word. Even I lazy sometimes now.”

“It all sounds terrible, Tan.”

“Am I wrong?” she asked.

“No.”

She started to rub oil into her hands and I was hopeful I’d finally get my massage. I wondered if I should tell her about the hives – maybe she could cure them somehow.

“You should be massaging
me
,” she said. “That could be your life lesson.”

“What?”

“To be of service. Make you happy.”

“I broke out in hives the other day – I thought I was going to die.”

She busted out a big grin, “Of course you do.”

“How do I fix it?” I asked.

“In your chest.”

“What?”

“All answers there,” she said, poking a sharp finger between my breasts.

“But?”

“All answers in your chest.”

I wanted to press for more information until I felt her oily hands begin their work – her skin was soft but the pressure she exerted made me cringe. We never spoke another word but I left her a triple digit tip and by the time I walked out of Spa-tastic, I was sure the car accident had been rubbed right out of my neck.

chapter
12

A
NOTHER CAB DROPPED
me off at my room.

My muscles felt brand new, but I’d been thoroughly laid bare. I’d always thought I carried myself with a touch more subtlety – even a dash of mystery. But Tan was right – I was as obvious as garlic breath in a phone booth.

James was waiting for me at the front entrance. He was messy in wrinkled clothes and I reluctantly invited him up with a cranky sigh, even though I was secretly elated that he had come. It felt good beyond measure to know that I mattered to him.

We sat on the floor in front of the window and ate through a bulk package of mini raisin boxes.

“You’re glowing,” he said. “And you smell like mint.”

“I’ve just been debunked.”

“Pardon?”

“At the spa.”

“Of course, the mint.”

“Forget the mint. Tan told me I was selfish. And stuck. She said I knew things but didn’t act on them.”

I didn’t dare mention the fact that she also accused me of being in love.

“Tan?”

“The old lady at the spa.”

“Oh.”

We sat quite comfortably in silence, watching a gorgeous couple move furniture into a nearby building.

“I still think I’m confused, no matter what she says.”

“She doesn’t think you’re confused?” he asked.

“She thinks I’m stuck.”

“What’s the difference?”

I ignored him.

“How would she know? She doesn’t even know me. The audacity – telling me I know more than I think I do.”

“I would say that’s a compliment,” he said.

“It’s not.”

“Okay.”

“If I do know more than I think I do – I don’t know that I know it.”

“Was it expensive?”

“What?”

“The spa?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just making conversation – maybe I’d like a debunking or whatever the hell it was you had.”

“The money gives me some squirm room, James.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I’m just telling you. It helps me breathe.”

“Just make sure you don’t choke on it.”

“I’m not you,” I said.

“You’re just like me.”

“How’s that?”

“You don’t know what you want
only
when what you know to be true involves any smidgeon of struggle.”

“You’re giving me a migraine.”

“So let’s change the subject.”

“Good idea.”

“What’s your space script about?”

I shrugged, “It’s a metaphor.”

“For?”

“Escape.”

“From what?” he asked.

“I’m still trying to figure that out. I thought it was escape from the known. Escape from conditioning, escape from the well-laid path – but now I’m really not so sure. Maybe it’s really about an escape from any sort of ambition.”

He looked at me with his usual sad intensity. His blue eyes were dancing with all the light they’d caught from the window.

“Actually, that’s not true,” I reconsidered. “I do know what I mean. Escape from anything that would deny
freedom
– even the freedom to be stuck. Even the freedom to be an absolute nothing.”

He smiled at me like I might be a genius, and I was amazed that we hadn’t kissed yet.

“Yes,” he said. “You should continue with it.”

“It’s too hard,” I said, surprised that I could so readily admit the truth about such a painful subject. “I let the gap get too big. And besides, what does the freedom to be a nothing have to do with space?”

“Everything.”

“But I can’t stay focused.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“I bet you do.”

“Maybe because I’m running. I’ve been running away for a very long time. So it’s too hard to go back. And I haven’t even escaped yet – I still care what everybody thinks. I can’t write about something I haven’t yet experienced.”

He nodded intently as if I made some really profound sense rather than just rambling on in my nut-hound sort of way.

“So write about the process of trying to escape,” he said.

“What?”

“The process.”

“Right.”

“Maybe you’re a blocked creative – Julia Cameron writes about them.”

“Maybe it’s just not meant to be.”

“I think you’re blocked.”

“I don’t know.”

James pulled up his socks and then rolled them back down.

“And I break out in hives. My parents called the other day, on my thirtieth birthday. They’re worried that I have no family, no direction, no nothing.”

“Is that how you feel?”

“I don’t know. I think maybe I do agree with them and then I feel like maybe I’m just supposed to
think
I feel that way. And I’m going home for their anniversary.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

“Take the script with you.”

“No.”

“Hash it out for fun, turn it into something else.”

“That’s like saying, stick a poker up your nose – for laughs.”

He shook his head at me like I was a bad puppy, and I could feel the squiggles in my solar plexus.

“Just let me be lost, James. Will you?”

He didn’t answer.

“Will you just let me be lost?”

“Get lost, Tracy. If that’s what you really want.”

“It is.”

“Okay then, but you’ll be wandering for a while.”

“That’s fine – that’s what I want. Just let me wander. Please don’t project your shit onto me. If you wanna write, go and write.”

“That’s all we do, Tracy – project shit onto each other. So why stop now?”

I didn’t answer.

“I just don’t want to see you give up.”

I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and admit that I hadn’t given up – that despite dredging up my soul time and again to a chorus of boos, giving up was the one thing I just couldn’t get right. I wanted to tell him all this, but I couldn’t. It was easier to let him think that my failure was something I still had some control over.

I let out a huge sigh, “I’m gonna go make us some tea – take an intermission from the intellectual jacking off. Is vanilla herbal okay?”

“Yes.”

I stood up and walked across the room to the kitchen.

“Are you still mad about Spago?” he asked.

“No.”

“Good. Because my parents are coming into town tomorrow and I want you to have dinner with us.”

“Why are they coming into town?” I asked. “Is it about the money?”

“Of course not – forget about the money.”

“Thank God.”

“I think they just miss me.”

“This is all very last minute.”

“There’s no need to be nervous, Tracy.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Or defensive.”

“I am not defensive.”

“You don’t have to come – it was just an idea.”

I studied him to see if he was practicing reverse psychology on me.

“I want to come.”

“Good.”

I made us our tea and we sat in silence.

“I have to pee all of a sudden.”

Lucy and I went to the bathroom. She scratched around in her litter box, and I peed a gallon only to discover that I was out of toilet paper.

“James!”

“What?”

“Could you bring me some coffee filters? They’re right beside the pot.”

He obliged me, no questions asked. I was aware that a big part of what attracted me to him was how comfortable I still felt in my own skin. He didn’t activate my walls, and even better, I didn’t have to turn myself into any sort of feminine caricature.

“Are you hungry?” I hollered.

“Famished.”

We ordered Thai food, and filled the kitchen corner of the room with pineapple-fried rice, red curry chicken, garlic prawns, and pad thai noodles. We also sipped the wine that my friend had sent for my birthday.

“So why do you think you get hives?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m allergic to the choices I’ve made.”

“Your choices aren’t so bad.”

“Look around, James. I live in a big litter box and I’m unemployed. I have no clue what I should do or where I want to be.”

“And that’s bad
why
?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m allergic to the choices I’m supposed to make.”

“That might be more like it.”

I twirled a huge heap of noodles around my fork.

“But I mean, what do I have?” I asked. “What have I done?”

“You’re also free, a blank canvas. You are free to wander, remember? You’re not anchored to anything but this moment.”

Yes, that ever-reliable moment had now become excruciating. It was time to touch him. I placed my hand over his and gently rubbed his knuckles with my thumb. His hands were exquisite, and
for a long time I just stared down at them – at the thick veins and bits of hangnail that he’d chewed.

Finally, I felt his other hand on my chin, lifting my eyes to meet his own. He gently pulled my face into his, where our mouths and teeth and tongues met, searching and exploring, but mostly eager to consume. Even the bits of pineapple rice in our teeth couldn’t hold us back.

chapter
13

J
AMES TOLD A
big fat fib.

He’d assured me that the dinner with his parents would be casual, but I showed up at the restaurant completely underdressed. I’d insisted on taking a cab and meeting them – just in case things got awkward and I needed to bolt. And now I found myself sitting in bell-bottom jeans in a well-known Beverly Hills eatery famous for their salads.

“What’s wrong?” James whispered – even though his parents had excused themselves to go admire a painting on a far wall… although I’m sure it was just an excuse to go compare notes on the hopeless new gal in their son’s life.

“Your parents look like they’re ready for the Golden Globes.”

“They always dress like that.”

“I have a patch in the shape of a raspberry stitched into my ass.”

“They’re just happy you’re here.”

“And what cologne are you wearing?”

“Some expensive thing my mother handed me at the airport.”

“I feel like a bit of a hobo – you could have prepared me.”

“Huh?”

“I’m wearing a thrift-store blouse. I thought we were going for pizza or something.”

“My parents don’t do pizza. Just be yourself.”

“A neurotic pile of nerves?”

He tilted his head at me as though I were still the cutest, most aggravating thing he’d ever had to put up with.