on the weirdest day.
5.
SUNDAY
During the few short hours I did sleep, I dreamed of Libby. Somehow she had slipped her way into a subconscious overflowing with images of James’s mouth, hair, eyes, voice, hands. But the dreams I had of her weren’t just collages and cobwebs of the previous night’s events, and they didn’t seem like premonitions of events to come. They were just echoes of real-life Libby. Me and Libby lying on beach towels by my pool, her in an American flag print two-piece. Libby at Video Journeys, renting a video, asking my opinion of it, but I don’t recognize the title. Libby just floating around places I always am, doing things we always do, with no particular agenda. One final image lingered with me—it was the one swimming beneath my eyelids as I opened them to Naomi’s empty room. In it, Libby’s in front of my house, in the street,dancing like a spirit, or a ghost, a see-through memory. She’s there, but she’s not. I lay on the floor in my sleeping bag for a few minutes, not moving. Somehow I knew Libby wanted to be thought of, she wanted to be remembered, just like she had since we were nine years old. And just like since we were nine, not only in dreams, I gave in to her.
At noon I got up. Upstairs Naomi was sitting by herself at the kitchen counter, reading. “Hey,” she said. “You missed the morning.” She gave me breakfast anyway: a bowl of Kashi with soymilk and a cup of loose-leaf Darjeeling tea with agave nectar. Even the meals here were exotic. I’d never be able to wake up to a Diet Coke and plain rice cake again without feeling deprived.
Later, after breakfast, Naomi walked me to the door to say good-bye.
“Stop by the video store sometime,” I said. “I know someone who works there, and I hear she practically gives videos away.”
Then I waved and walked toward the car, and she leaned against the door frame, waving back.
With her eyes on me, I couldn’t sneak back up those narrow stairs. I felt self-conscious about even glancing up at his room. I got to the Lexus and reached for the door handle, and it opened instantly. I groaned at myirresponsibility: I’d forgotten to double-click the thingy, so the car had sat unlocked all night long. And someone had taken advantage and set a small folded note on the driver’s seat.
Naomi was still at the door watching me, so I just sat on the piece of paper, started the car, and drove away slowly, past the house, the hydrangea bushes, the basil plants, the garage, that tiny white box that sat on top of it.
When I’d driven a couple of blocks and was turning onto the main canyon road, I reached under myself and pulled out the folded page. quinlan , it said on the outside, in the simplest lowercase letters.
quinlan ,
the shirt isn’t a gift, it’s a trade. i want something of yours.
james
I’d read it thirteen times by the time I parked the Lexus in our driveway and turned off the car.
Until this moment my life’s plans had been: graduate from high school, go to Paris, marry Leonardo DiCaprio, die in my sleep. But to have James want me was even better. Take away Leo; burn me alive. My chest hurt.
I didn’t wait outside my house that night for anyone to pick me up for work, because no one was coming.
My walk to Video Journeys was relatively peaceful.I tried to prepare suitable responses to every possible scenario with Morgan, even one that ended in the video store exploding. I tried to expect anger, sadness, sarcasm. Mostly I expected him to ignore me, so as not to incur any anger, sadness, or sarcasm. I didn’t, however, expect him to ask Jerry’s son Alex to cover for him, making me more anxious with anticipation for our next shift together. So I’d forgotten to expect torture.
Alex was fine, but he did everything for me before I could even think to do it. He answered the phone on the first ring, greeted each customer at the first sound of the front bell, and restocked all the videos the moment
5.
SUNDAY
During the few short hours I did sleep, I dreamed of Libby. Somehow she had slipped her way into a subconscious overflowing with images of James’s mouth, hair, eyes, voice, hands. But the dreams I had of her weren’t just collages and cobwebs of the previous night’s events, and they didn’t seem like premonitions of events to come. They were just echoes of real-life Libby. Me and Libby lying on beach towels by my pool, her in an American flag print two-piece. Libby at Video Journeys, renting a video, asking my opinion of it, but I don’t recognize the title. Libby just floating around places I always am, doing things we always do, with no particular agenda. One final image lingered with me—it was the one swimming beneath my eyelids as I opened them to Naomi’s empty room. In it, Libby’s in front of my house, in the street,dancing like a spirit, or a ghost, a see-through memory. She’s there, but she’s not. I lay on the floor in my sleeping bag for a few minutes, not moving. Somehow I knew Libby wanted to be thought of, she wanted to be remembered, just like she had since we were nine years old. And just like since we were nine, not only in dreams, I gave in to her.
At noon I got up. Upstairs Naomi was sitting by herself at the kitchen counter, reading. “Hey,” she said. “You missed the morning.” She gave me breakfast anyway: a bowl of Kashi with soymilk and a cup of loose-leaf Darjeeling tea with agave nectar. Even the meals here were exotic. I’d never be able to wake up to a Diet Coke and plain rice cake again without feeling deprived.
Later, after breakfast, Naomi walked me to the door to say good-bye.
“Stop by the video store sometime,” I said. “I know someone who works there, and I hear she practically gives videos away.”
Then I waved and walked toward the car, and she leaned against the door frame, waving back.
With her eyes on me, I couldn’t sneak back up those narrow stairs. I felt self-conscious about even glancing up at his room. I got to the Lexus and reached for the door handle, and it opened instantly. I groaned at myirresponsibility: I’d forgotten to double-click the thingy, so the car had sat unlocked all night long. And someone had taken advantage and set a small folded note on the driver’s seat.
Naomi was still at the door watching me, so I just sat on the piece of paper, started the car, and drove away slowly, past the house, the hydrangea bushes, the basil plants, the garage, that tiny white box that sat on top of it.
When I’d driven a couple of blocks and was turning onto the main canyon road, I reached under myself and pulled out the folded page. quinlan , it said on the outside, in the simplest lowercase letters.
quinlan ,
the shirt isn’t a gift, it’s a trade. i want something of yours.
james
I’d read it thirteen times by the time I parked the Lexus in our driveway and turned off the car.
Until this moment my life’s plans had been: graduate from high school, go to Paris, marry Leonardo DiCaprio, die in my sleep. But to have James want me was even better. Take away Leo; burn me alive. My chest hurt.
I didn’t wait outside my house that night for anyone to pick me up for work, because no one was coming.
My walk to Video Journeys was relatively peaceful.I tried to prepare suitable responses to every possible scenario with Morgan, even one that ended in the video store exploding. I tried to expect anger, sadness, sarcasm. Mostly I expected him to ignore me, so as not to incur any anger, sadness, or sarcasm. I didn’t, however, expect him to ask Jerry’s son Alex to cover for him, making me more anxious with anticipation for our next shift together. So I’d forgotten to expect torture.
Alex was fine, but he did everything for me before I could even think to do it. He answered the phone on the first ring, greeted each customer at the first sound of the front bell, and restocked all the videos the moment
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