Read Online Now I See You by Nicole C. Kear - Free Book Online
Authors: Nicole C. Kear
Tags: Netgalley
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something in the realm of, maybe, love.
It was a distinct possibility—just not one I was willing to entertain.
Screw David and his earnestness, I thought, I am on the cusp of beginning my adult life and it is going to be blow-your-mind, not-intended-for-all-audiences, fucking fabulous.
I mean, who wanted to piss away precious time staring at the same mug across from you at the same restaurant where you ordered the same dish every Friday night? Let David wither in the boredom of monogamy. I was crossing shit off my bucket list—mainly the same item over and over and over again, but still, all the same, making indelible memories, feeling alive! I was about to train as a circus artist in San Francisco!
“It’s going to look great on my resume, in the special skills section,” I assured my mother as I packed my California-bound suitcases after graduation. “How many people have trapeze experience?”
“I’m developing an ulcer,” my mother replied from my bed, folding a pile of T-shirts I’d tossed there. “An ulcer!”
I knew that the ulcer wasn’t really about me choosing circus school over medical school; the real source of anxiety for my parents stemmed from the fact that their tunnel-sighted, night-blind daughter was headed three thousand miles away. But to my relief, they didn’t mention my visual impairment, choosing to fixate instead on the fact that Berkeley was where all the “crazies” lived and did I pack my pepper spray? In fact, since the summer of my diagnosis, no one had said anything much about my disease. My parents and grandmother could tell I didn’t want to talk about it—or maybe it was me who could tell they didn’t want to talk about it. Either way, it made us all feel better to pretend the diagnosis had never happened.
At circus school, I was trained by a bona fide Shanghai Circus veteran. Master Liao. Every morning, the tiny, smiley man with an unbending will had me holding handstands, knocking out push-ups, and shaking on chin-up bars. By the summer’s end, I was in total command of my body, with every muscle boasting a perfect attendance record. “Here!” chirped my abs. “Present!” went the glutes. I could touch my toes to my head while in a handstand. Won’t get you a job but it is a pretty cool trick at parties. It was exhilarating to feel like I was so in control of my body.
I paid for my training by teaching clowning to the little kids enrolled in the circus school summer camp. The endorphin rush from my morning workout was matched by the high I felt in the afternoon when I was with the kids—sweet, preschool-aged, hippie offspring. There was a little Russian girl I babysat for sometimes; we’d sit on a blanket in Golden Gate Park and I’d French braid her long blond hair while she taught me how to say stuff like, “My name is Nicole and I love porridge” in Russian. The gig afforded me disposable income, and more importantly, the confidence to believe I might make a competent mother one day, even with my failing vision.
At night and on the weekends, I worked at a fair-trade coffee shop in Berkeley and rehearsed for an off-the-wall comedy whose leading man, Ollie, was my sorta-kinda boyfriend.
Ours wasn’t a sweet romance like I’d shared with Frog Legs, or a tender union like the one I’d enjoyed, briefly, with David. This was a rocky, lopsided love. Meaning, I craved him with every ounce of my being and he … dug me to some extent. It was hard to tell where he stood on the spectrum of amorous feeling—somewhere beyond “like” for sure, but before “love,” which would have required that he stop banging his ex whenever the opportunity presented itself. I didn’t care much what terms I had him on though, because when I was with him, I felt alive, awake. The drama was consuming and the sex made me feel like I was in a romance novel, a real bodice-ripper. Lamps were knocked over. Roommates squirmed at the banging on the wall. It wasn’t quite the
It was a distinct possibility—just not one I was willing to entertain.
Screw David and his earnestness, I thought, I am on the cusp of beginning my adult life and it is going to be blow-your-mind, not-intended-for-all-audiences, fucking fabulous.
I mean, who wanted to piss away precious time staring at the same mug across from you at the same restaurant where you ordered the same dish every Friday night? Let David wither in the boredom of monogamy. I was crossing shit off my bucket list—mainly the same item over and over and over again, but still, all the same, making indelible memories, feeling alive! I was about to train as a circus artist in San Francisco!
“It’s going to look great on my resume, in the special skills section,” I assured my mother as I packed my California-bound suitcases after graduation. “How many people have trapeze experience?”
“I’m developing an ulcer,” my mother replied from my bed, folding a pile of T-shirts I’d tossed there. “An ulcer!”
I knew that the ulcer wasn’t really about me choosing circus school over medical school; the real source of anxiety for my parents stemmed from the fact that their tunnel-sighted, night-blind daughter was headed three thousand miles away. But to my relief, they didn’t mention my visual impairment, choosing to fixate instead on the fact that Berkeley was where all the “crazies” lived and did I pack my pepper spray? In fact, since the summer of my diagnosis, no one had said anything much about my disease. My parents and grandmother could tell I didn’t want to talk about it—or maybe it was me who could tell they didn’t want to talk about it. Either way, it made us all feel better to pretend the diagnosis had never happened.
At circus school, I was trained by a bona fide Shanghai Circus veteran. Master Liao. Every morning, the tiny, smiley man with an unbending will had me holding handstands, knocking out push-ups, and shaking on chin-up bars. By the summer’s end, I was in total command of my body, with every muscle boasting a perfect attendance record. “Here!” chirped my abs. “Present!” went the glutes. I could touch my toes to my head while in a handstand. Won’t get you a job but it is a pretty cool trick at parties. It was exhilarating to feel like I was so in control of my body.
I paid for my training by teaching clowning to the little kids enrolled in the circus school summer camp. The endorphin rush from my morning workout was matched by the high I felt in the afternoon when I was with the kids—sweet, preschool-aged, hippie offspring. There was a little Russian girl I babysat for sometimes; we’d sit on a blanket in Golden Gate Park and I’d French braid her long blond hair while she taught me how to say stuff like, “My name is Nicole and I love porridge” in Russian. The gig afforded me disposable income, and more importantly, the confidence to believe I might make a competent mother one day, even with my failing vision.
At night and on the weekends, I worked at a fair-trade coffee shop in Berkeley and rehearsed for an off-the-wall comedy whose leading man, Ollie, was my sorta-kinda boyfriend.
Ours wasn’t a sweet romance like I’d shared with Frog Legs, or a tender union like the one I’d enjoyed, briefly, with David. This was a rocky, lopsided love. Meaning, I craved him with every ounce of my being and he … dug me to some extent. It was hard to tell where he stood on the spectrum of amorous feeling—somewhere beyond “like” for sure, but before “love,” which would have required that he stop banging his ex whenever the opportunity presented itself. I didn’t care much what terms I had him on though, because when I was with him, I felt alive, awake. The drama was consuming and the sex made me feel like I was in a romance novel, a real bodice-ripper. Lamps were knocked over. Roommates squirmed at the banging on the wall. It wasn’t quite the
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