of my dad,” he added, his tone a little serious. “But, come on, give me something hard,” he challenged before I could ask more about his dad.
“What was Marcel Duchamp’s alter ego?”
“Rrose Sélavy. With two
R
s.”
“And why?”
“Phonetically, it says,
‘Eros, c’est la vie.’
Or ‘Love, that’s life.’ ”
“Impressive,” I said, downplaying the fact I was dying inside. Brain exploding like a Pollock. Heart melting like one of Dalí’s clocks.
I could see a lone boat in the distance, far, far out in the middle of the expansive, glassy lake.
“You like paddling?” I asked.
He smiled. “We call it rowing. And, yeah, I don’t mind it as much as some of the other stuff. It’s peaceful out there. The repetition calms my mind.”
“Calms it from what?”
“Thinking too much. Worrying about my future.”
“Drawing does that for me sometimes.”
We were silent for a moment, and I suddenly became hyperaware of the fact that we were touching. My shoulder and hip and thigh started to warm up, burning where we were connected. My eyes wandered, looking for anything to distract me from the fact that half my body was melting into lava, and I noticed a carving on a tree next to us: someone-plus-someone in a heart. I wondered if it meant this was the Wicky make-out spot. Maybe that was why Malcolm had brought me here.
Then, as if on cue, he said, “There’s something I want to do.” My stomach knotted up immediately. I wasn’t a good maker-outer. And I didn’t know if I was ready for it because I still couldn’t really believe any of this was happening.But—he did
not
kiss me. He stood up, took my hand, and walked me to the edge of the cliff.
“You swim, right?”
“Yes, I swim,” I said, acting bent out of shape by the question.
“Well, you never know. I’m not a very good swimmer, and I spend about half my life in a boat.”
He stepped us right up to the edge of the cliff. I looked out.
“Do you want to?” he asked.
I nodded. “But wait.” I took off his iPod and put it on the ground at our feet. Then we jumped.
I’d always been afraid of heights, but Malcolm was so sure, I forgot to waver or worry—or even wonder—before I jumped with him. We continued to hold hands as we fell. Or flew. It felt like we were flying more than falling. Like we were weightless, a single airborne object. It’s true that when you do something like that time slows down. I could see us from the distance, our jump forming an arched line down the landscape—a trickle of red paint dripping into the glassy water.
Hitting the lake felt like a slap in the face, much colder than I expected. But when I surfaced, I was laughing. I couldn’t help it. It just happened. Malcolm started laughing along with me. He swam over to me and took my hand again. I shivered and shook out my hair. We swam to where the water was about four feet deep and stood in it, close to each other, both still wearing our shoes. Our clothes stuck to our shoulders and chests. My feet sunk into the soft sludge.
“I knew you’d do that with me.”
“That’s funny, because I didn’t.”
“But you didn’t hesitate.”
“It’s like you have this idea of me, and I become it,” I heard myself say. But I didn’t regret it. “I’m not the girl who gets up and dances in front of the entire school or jumps off cliffs.”
“Yes, you are.”
He was right. I suppose I was—or at least was starting to be.
He reached up to my neck, touching my locket. “I like this.”
“Thanks,” I said, looking down, opting not to tell him where it came from, why I never took it off.
We stood there so close to each other. The water made us sway ever so slightly, as if we were dancing again. I felt he was going to kiss me, and I quickly swished onto my back in the water. There’s nothing I wanted to do more than kiss him, but it scared me that I wanted this person so much. This person I still hardly knew.
He moved onto his back
“What was Marcel Duchamp’s alter ego?”
“Rrose Sélavy. With two
R
s.”
“And why?”
“Phonetically, it says,
‘Eros, c’est la vie.’
Or ‘Love, that’s life.’ ”
“Impressive,” I said, downplaying the fact I was dying inside. Brain exploding like a Pollock. Heart melting like one of Dalí’s clocks.
I could see a lone boat in the distance, far, far out in the middle of the expansive, glassy lake.
“You like paddling?” I asked.
He smiled. “We call it rowing. And, yeah, I don’t mind it as much as some of the other stuff. It’s peaceful out there. The repetition calms my mind.”
“Calms it from what?”
“Thinking too much. Worrying about my future.”
“Drawing does that for me sometimes.”
We were silent for a moment, and I suddenly became hyperaware of the fact that we were touching. My shoulder and hip and thigh started to warm up, burning where we were connected. My eyes wandered, looking for anything to distract me from the fact that half my body was melting into lava, and I noticed a carving on a tree next to us: someone-plus-someone in a heart. I wondered if it meant this was the Wicky make-out spot. Maybe that was why Malcolm had brought me here.
Then, as if on cue, he said, “There’s something I want to do.” My stomach knotted up immediately. I wasn’t a good maker-outer. And I didn’t know if I was ready for it because I still couldn’t really believe any of this was happening.But—he did
not
kiss me. He stood up, took my hand, and walked me to the edge of the cliff.
“You swim, right?”
“Yes, I swim,” I said, acting bent out of shape by the question.
“Well, you never know. I’m not a very good swimmer, and I spend about half my life in a boat.”
He stepped us right up to the edge of the cliff. I looked out.
“Do you want to?” he asked.
I nodded. “But wait.” I took off his iPod and put it on the ground at our feet. Then we jumped.
I’d always been afraid of heights, but Malcolm was so sure, I forgot to waver or worry—or even wonder—before I jumped with him. We continued to hold hands as we fell. Or flew. It felt like we were flying more than falling. Like we were weightless, a single airborne object. It’s true that when you do something like that time slows down. I could see us from the distance, our jump forming an arched line down the landscape—a trickle of red paint dripping into the glassy water.
Hitting the lake felt like a slap in the face, much colder than I expected. But when I surfaced, I was laughing. I couldn’t help it. It just happened. Malcolm started laughing along with me. He swam over to me and took my hand again. I shivered and shook out my hair. We swam to where the water was about four feet deep and stood in it, close to each other, both still wearing our shoes. Our clothes stuck to our shoulders and chests. My feet sunk into the soft sludge.
“I knew you’d do that with me.”
“That’s funny, because I didn’t.”
“But you didn’t hesitate.”
“It’s like you have this idea of me, and I become it,” I heard myself say. But I didn’t regret it. “I’m not the girl who gets up and dances in front of the entire school or jumps off cliffs.”
“Yes, you are.”
He was right. I suppose I was—or at least was starting to be.
He reached up to my neck, touching my locket. “I like this.”
“Thanks,” I said, looking down, opting not to tell him where it came from, why I never took it off.
We stood there so close to each other. The water made us sway ever so slightly, as if we were dancing again. I felt he was going to kiss me, and I quickly swished onto my back in the water. There’s nothing I wanted to do more than kiss him, but it scared me that I wanted this person so much. This person I still hardly knew.
He moved onto his back
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