The Sky Is Everywhere (4 page)

I gather my things quickly to avoid her, which is going to be easy because Luke Jacobus has cornered her, and as I do, the day she mentioned comes racing back. It was the beginning of fresh-man year and we had both made honor band. Mr. James, particularly frustrated with everyone, had jumped on a chair and shouted, “What’s wrong with you people? You think you’re musicians? You have to stick your asses in the wind!” Then he said, “C’mon, follow me. Those of you who can, bring your instruments.”

We filed out of the room, down the path into the forest where the river rushed and roared. We all stood on the banks, while he climbed up onto a rock to address us.

“Now, listen, learn, and then play, just
play.
Make
noise.
Make
something.
Make
muuuuuuuuusic.”
Then he began conducting the river, the wind, the birds in the trees like a total loon. After we got over our hysterics and piped down, one by one, those of us who had our instruments started to play. Unbelievably, I was one of the first to go, and after a while, the river and wind and birds and clarinets and flutes and oboes mixed all together in a glorious cacophonous mess and Mr. James turned his attention from the forest back to us, his body swaying, his arms flailing left and right, saying, “That’s it, that’s it.
That’s it!”

And it was.

When we got back to the classroom, Mr. James came over to me and handed me Marguerite St. Denis’s card. “Call her,” he said. “Right away.”

I think about Joe’s virtuoso performance today, can feel it in my fingers. I ball them into fists. Whatever it was, whatever that thing is Mr. James took us in the woods that day to find, whether it’s abandon, or passion, whether it’s innovation, or simply courage, Joe has it.

His ass is in the wind. Mine is in second chair.

I KNOW IT’S him, and wish I didn’t. I wish my first thought was of anyone in the world but Toby when I hear the ping of a pebble on the window. I’m sitting in Bailey’s closet, writing a poem on the wall, trying to curb the panic that hurls around inside my body like a trapped comet.

I take off the shirt of Bailey’s I’d put on over mine, grab the doorknob, and hoist myself back into The Sanctum. Crossing to the window, my bare feet press into the three flattened blue rugs that scatter the room, pieces of bright sky that Bailey and I pounded down with years of cut-throat dance competitions to out-goofball the other without cracking up. I always lost because Bailey had in her arsenal The Ferret Face, which when combined with her masterful Monkey Moves, was certifiably deadly; if she pulled the combo (which took more unselfconsciousness than I could ever muster), I was a goner, reduced to a helpless heap of hysterics, every time.

I lean over the sill, see Toby, as I knew I would, under a near full moon. I’ve had no luck squelching the mutiny inside me. I take a deep breath, then go downstairs and open the door.

“Hey, what’s up?” I say. “Everyone’s sleeping.” My voice sounds creaky, unused, like bats might fly out of my mouth. I take a good look at him under the porch light. His face is wild with sorrow. It’s like looking in a mirror.

“I thought maybe we could hang out,” he says. This is what I hear in my mind:
boner, boner, erection, hard-on, woody, boner, boner, boner
—“I have something to tell you, Len, don’t know who else to tell.” The need in his voice sends a shudder right through me. Over his head, the red warning light could not be flashing brighter, but still I can’t seem to say no, don’t want to. “C’mon in, sir.”

He touches my arm in a friendly, brotherly way as he passes, which sets me at ease, maybe guys get hard-ons all the time, for no reason—I have zero knowledge of boner basics. I’ve only ever kissed three guys, so I’m totally inexperienced with real-life boys, though quite an expert at the kind in books, especially Heathcliff, who doesn’t get erections—wait, now that I’m thinking about it, he must get them
all the time
with Cathy on the moors. Heathcliff must be a total freaking boner boy.

I close the door behind him and motion for him to be quiet as he follows me up the steps to The Sanctum, which is sound-proofed so as to protect the rest of the house against years of barky bleating clarinet notes. Gram would have a coronary that he’s here visiting me at almost two a.m. on a school night.
On any night, Lennie.
This is most definitely not what she had in mind by reaching out to him.

Once the door of The Sanctum is closed, I put on some of the indie-kill-yourself music I’ve been listening to lately, and sit down next to Toby on the floor, our backs to the wall, legs outstretched. We sit in silence like two stone slabs. Several centuries pass.

When I can’t handle it anymore, I joke, “It’s possible you’ve taken this whole strong silent type thing to an extreme.”

“Oh, sorry.” He shakes his head, embarrassed. “Don’t even realize I’m doing it.”

“Doing it?”

“Not talking ... ”

“Really? What is it you think you’re doing?”

He tilts his head, smiling squintily, adorably. “I was going for the oak tree in the yard.”

I laugh. “Very good then, you do a perfect oak impersonation.”

“Thank you ... think it drove Bails mad, my silent streak.”

“Nah, she liked it, she told me, less chance of disagreements ... plus more stage time for her.”

“True.” He’s quiet for a minute, then in a voice ragged with emotion, says, “We were so different.”

“Yeah,” I say softly. Quintessential opposites, Toby always serene and still (when not on horse or board) while Bailey did everything: walk, talk, think, laugh, party, at the speed of light, and with its gleam.

“You
remind me of her ...” he says.

I want to blurt out:
What!? You’ve always acted like I was a baked potato!
but instead I say, “No way, don’t have the wattage.”

“You have plenty... it’s me that has the serious shortage,” he says, sounding surprisingly like a spud.

“Not to her,” I say. His eyes warm at that—it kills me. What are we going to do with all this love?

He shakes his head in disbelief. “I got lucky. That chocolate book...”

The image assaults me: Bailey leaping off the rock the day they met when Toby returned on his board. “I knew you’d come back,” she’d exclaimed, throwing the book in the air. “Just like in this story. I knew it!”

I have a feeling the same day is playing out in Toby’s mind, because our polite levity has screeched to a halt—all the past tense in our words suddenly stacking up as if to crush us.

I can see the despair inching across his face as it must be across mine.

I look around our bedroom, at the singing orange paint we’d slathered over the dozy blue we’d had for years. Bailey had said, “If this doesn’t change our lives, I don’t know what will—this, Lennie, is
the color of extraordinary.”
I remember thinking I didn’t want our lives to change and didn’t understand why she did. I remember thinking I’d always liked the blue.

I sigh. “I’m really glad you showed up, Toby. I’d been hiding in Bailey’s closet freaking out for hours.”

“Good. That you’re glad, I mean, didn’t know if I should bug you, but couldn’t sleep either ... did some stupid-ass skating that could’ve killed me, then ended up here, sat under the plum tree for an hour trying to decide ...”

The rich timbre of Toby’s voice suddenly makes me aware of the other voice in the room, the singer blaring from the speakers who sounds like he’s being strangled at best. I get up to put on something more melodic, then when I sit back down, I confide, “No one gets it at school, not really, not even Sarah.”

He tips his head back against the wall. “Don’t know if it’s possible to get it until you’re in it like we are. I had no idea ...”

“Me neither,” I say, and suddenly, I want to hug Toby because I’m just so relieved to not have to be in it by myself anymore tonight.

He’s looking down at his hands, his brow furrowed, like he’s struggling with how to say something. I wait.

And wait.

Still waiting here. How did Bailey brave the radio silence?

When he looks up, his face is all compassion, all cub. The words spill out of him, one on top of the next. “I’ve never known sisters so close. I feel so bad for you, Lennie, I’m just so sorry. I keep thinking about you without her.”

“Thanks,” I whisper, meaning it, and all of a sudden wanting to touch him, to run my hand over his, which rests on his thigh just inches from mine.

I glance at him sitting there so close to me that I can smell his shampoo, and I am stuck with a startling, horrifying thought: He is really good-looking, alarmingly so. How is it I never noticed before?

I’ll answer that: He’s Bailey’s boyfriend, Lennie. What’s wrong with you?

Dear Mind,
I write on my jeans with my finger, Behave.

I’m sorry, I whisper to Bailey inside my head, I don’t mean to think about Toby this way. I assure her it won’t happen again.

It’s just that he’s the only one who understands, I add.
Oh brother.

After a wordless while, he pulls a pint of tequila out of his jacket pocket, uncaps it.

“Want some?” he asks. Great, that’ll help.

“Sure.” I hardly ever drink, but maybe it will help, maybe it’ll knock this madness out of me. I reach for the pint and our fingers graze a moment too long as I take it—I decide I imagined it, put the bottle to my lips, take a healthy sip, and then very daintily spit it out all over us. “Yuck, that’s disgusting.” I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. “Whoa.”

He laughs, holds out his arms to show what a mess I’ve made of him. “It takes time to get used to it.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Had no idea it was so nasty.”

He cheers the bottle to the air in response and takes a swig. I’m determined to try again and not projectile spew. I reach for the bottle, bring it to my lips, and let the liquid burn down my throat, then take another sip, bigger.

“Easy,” Toby says, taking the pint from me. “I need to tell you something, Len.”

“Okay.” I’m enjoying the warmth that has settled over me.

“I asked Bailey to marry me ...” He says it so quickly it doesn’t register at first. He’s looking at me, trying to gauge my reaction. It’s stark, raving WTF!

“Marry you? Are you kidding?” Not the response he wants, I’m sure, but I’m totally blindsided; he could have just as easily told me she’d been secretly planning a career in fire-eating. Both of them were just nineteen, and Bailey a marriage-o-phobe to boot.

“What’d she say?” I’m afraid to hear the answer.

“She said yes.” He says it with as much hope as hopeless-ness, the promise of it still alive in him.
She said yes.
I take the tequila, swig, don’t even taste it or feel the burn. I’m stunned that Bailey wanted this, hurt that she wanted it, really hurt that she never told me. I have to know what she’d been thinking. I can’t believe I can’t ask her. Ever. I look at Toby, see the earnestness in his eyes; it’s like a soft, small animal.

“I’m sorry, Toby,” I say, trying to bottle my incredulity and hurt feelings, but then I can’t help myself. “I don’t know why she didn’t tell me.”

“We were going to tell you guys that very next week. I’d just asked...” His use of
we
jars me; the big
we
has always been Bailey and me, not Bailey and Toby. I suddenly feel left out of a future that isn’t even going to happen.

“But what about her acting?” I say instead of: What about me?

“She was acting . . .”

“Yeah, but ...” I look at him. “You know what I mean.” And then I see by his expression that he doesn’t know what I mean at all. Sure some girls dream of weddings, but Bailey dreamt of Juilliard: the Juilliard School in New York City. I once looked up their mission statement on the Web:
To provide the highest caliber of artistic education for gifted musicians, dancers, and actors from around the world, so that they may achieve their fullest potential as artists, leaders, and global
citizens. It’s true after the rejection she enrolled last fall at Clover State, the only other college she applied to, but I’d been certain she’d reapply. I mean, how could she not? It was her dream.

We don’t talk about it anymore. The wind’s picked up and has begun rattling its way into the house. I feel a chill run through me, grab a throw blanket off the rocker, pull it over my legs. The tequila makes me feel like I’m melting into nothing, I want to, want to disappear. I have an impulse to write all over the orange walls—I need an alphabet of endings ripped out of books, of hands pulled off of clocks, of cold stones, of shoes filled with nothing but wind. I drop my head on Toby’s shoulder. “We’re the saddest people in the world.”

“Yup,” he says, squeezing my knee for a moment. I ignore the shivers his touch sends through me.
They were getting married.

“How will we do this?” I say under my breath. “Day after day after day without her...”

“Oh, Len.” He turns to me, smoothes the hair around my face with his hand.

I keep waiting for him to move his hand away, to turn back around, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t take his hand or gaze off of me. Time slows. Something shifts in the room, between us. I look into his sorrowful eyes and he into mine, and I think,
He misses her as much as I do,
and that’s when he kisses me—his mouth: soft, hot, so alive, it makes me moan. I wish I could say I pull away, but I don’t. I kiss him back and don’t want to stop because in that moment I feel like Toby and I together have, somehow, in some way, reached across time, and pulled Bailey back.