before he resurfaces in his living room, carrying his honey-colored, acoustic guitar.
He sits on his couch and balances the guitar on his right knee.
I watch, mouth open and soul draining out. How can he be here? Why isn't he a hundred miles away, on fraternity row, asleep in his frat house? Dead as I am, why can't I look away and bury the feelings that come along with the memories I have of him?
Instead, I wish for my life as a girl again. A girl, balanced in his lap.
He cracks his knuckles and cradles the neck of his instrument in his palm so tenderly that I can nearly feel his fingers on the bones of my neck. His fingertips brush the cords and I rise up my wings, desperate to absorb his familiar sound through his opened windows.
His music pours from the sill like a smooth drink. I lean closer to the edge, trying to scoop up every note before it drops to the street below. The Boy presses, thrums, and loses consciousness of how his bottom lip moves with the deep cords and how his hair falls over his ear and how his low-hanging jeans brush the arches of his feet. He is no longer in the room with himself as he caresses the strings and pats the flat wood waist of the guitar with his eyes closed. His head sways and nods, agreeing with the melody as he plays it. He draws the music up gently from the hole beneath the strings and then he opens his mouth to it and lays his voice down beside it.
His symphony spills into my wings all at once, running down the sharp points, like beads of acoustic mercury. My ribs are tuning forks. My stomach vibrates with his sound. I am paralyzed. The memory of the first time I saw The Boy comes rushing back.
He had his guitar then too.
What had happened was that my father had made one of his rare visits home and he'd brought a woman. A tall one, with long brown hair. Her hair was what made her look like my mother, but the woman smiled at me like she was stoned, too many teeth showing as she called me Sweet pea in her southern drawl. Every time my father said anything to her, she'd giggle. Anything.
“Do you wanna watch TV?” Giggle
“How about a little something to eat?” Giggle
“This is my daughter, Madeline.” Giggle...How are ya, sweet pea?
The whole thing made me sick. I heard my father, behind the closed kitchen door, scuffling closer to her, liking her. I heard the slurpy lip noises, the little moans.
*Giggle*
I left. I tiptoed away, so my father wouldn't stop me. I locked the door behind me and once I got just past my mother's pear tree, I ran. The rotted lawn-pears mashed under my shoes and I slipped, slid, fell, got up again, and ran.
I ran all the way to the coffee shop, where the doors always seemed open, and where the kids from school hung out. It was the only place to go since we were caught in our awkward age, too old for the mall and too young for bars. There were always voices swirling through the shop and it made me feel like I was part of the conversation, even if I never said one word.
That night, I sat in a corner, with my heels on the seat and my knees on my chest. All the high schoolers had cleared out- it was a school night- and the college kids had taken over. There were three boys sitting on the couch and chairs in the middle of the room. One had a backwards baseball cap, one had a tee shirt that said, this is not my first rodeo , and one had a guitar.
The one with the guitar was the least attractive. He was a string bean with acne scars and an awkward laugh, but the guitar tilted in his lap made me feel like I could trust him.
"So what if you're flunking out?” I heard Backwards Baseball tell him. "You've got a car. You could live in it and be the boy version of Jewel...if you weren't so damned ugly. You got to get rid of all the zits, man."
"Don't know if that'd be enough," Rodeo agreed, swinging his coffee cup in The Boy's direction as he
He sits on his couch and balances the guitar on his right knee.
I watch, mouth open and soul draining out. How can he be here? Why isn't he a hundred miles away, on fraternity row, asleep in his frat house? Dead as I am, why can't I look away and bury the feelings that come along with the memories I have of him?
Instead, I wish for my life as a girl again. A girl, balanced in his lap.
He cracks his knuckles and cradles the neck of his instrument in his palm so tenderly that I can nearly feel his fingers on the bones of my neck. His fingertips brush the cords and I rise up my wings, desperate to absorb his familiar sound through his opened windows.
His music pours from the sill like a smooth drink. I lean closer to the edge, trying to scoop up every note before it drops to the street below. The Boy presses, thrums, and loses consciousness of how his bottom lip moves with the deep cords and how his hair falls over his ear and how his low-hanging jeans brush the arches of his feet. He is no longer in the room with himself as he caresses the strings and pats the flat wood waist of the guitar with his eyes closed. His head sways and nods, agreeing with the melody as he plays it. He draws the music up gently from the hole beneath the strings and then he opens his mouth to it and lays his voice down beside it.
His symphony spills into my wings all at once, running down the sharp points, like beads of acoustic mercury. My ribs are tuning forks. My stomach vibrates with his sound. I am paralyzed. The memory of the first time I saw The Boy comes rushing back.
He had his guitar then too.
What had happened was that my father had made one of his rare visits home and he'd brought a woman. A tall one, with long brown hair. Her hair was what made her look like my mother, but the woman smiled at me like she was stoned, too many teeth showing as she called me Sweet pea in her southern drawl. Every time my father said anything to her, she'd giggle. Anything.
“Do you wanna watch TV?” Giggle
“How about a little something to eat?” Giggle
“This is my daughter, Madeline.” Giggle...How are ya, sweet pea?
The whole thing made me sick. I heard my father, behind the closed kitchen door, scuffling closer to her, liking her. I heard the slurpy lip noises, the little moans.
*Giggle*
I left. I tiptoed away, so my father wouldn't stop me. I locked the door behind me and once I got just past my mother's pear tree, I ran. The rotted lawn-pears mashed under my shoes and I slipped, slid, fell, got up again, and ran.
I ran all the way to the coffee shop, where the doors always seemed open, and where the kids from school hung out. It was the only place to go since we were caught in our awkward age, too old for the mall and too young for bars. There were always voices swirling through the shop and it made me feel like I was part of the conversation, even if I never said one word.
That night, I sat in a corner, with my heels on the seat and my knees on my chest. All the high schoolers had cleared out- it was a school night- and the college kids had taken over. There were three boys sitting on the couch and chairs in the middle of the room. One had a backwards baseball cap, one had a tee shirt that said, this is not my first rodeo , and one had a guitar.
The one with the guitar was the least attractive. He was a string bean with acne scars and an awkward laugh, but the guitar tilted in his lap made me feel like I could trust him.
"So what if you're flunking out?” I heard Backwards Baseball tell him. "You've got a car. You could live in it and be the boy version of Jewel...if you weren't so damned ugly. You got to get rid of all the zits, man."
"Don't know if that'd be enough," Rodeo agreed, swinging his coffee cup in The Boy's direction as he
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