Lovers and Dreamers

I was terrified while walking with her for that less than half mile distance between the school and the store and then back again. However, the more she held onto my hand and talked to me the less trauma and drama I felt. I would have to admit that I still felt that something was up, that at the end of the trip I’d find my jacket, which she still had on, torn to pieces in front of a circle of students laughing and pointing their fingers at me.

I wanted to accuse her of something but continued asking me questions and then talking about herself.
“I circular breathe, at least that’s what I’m been told.”
“You what?”
“I talk too much, well I used to, before I came here. Sometimes I feel like everyone wants me to just shut up and play basketball or volleyball. ‘We don’t care about you during the day, just bring your body to practice.’ But you don’t., you let me talk up a storm.”
“It’s nice to hear your voice, if that’s okay to say.”
“Of course, she replied as she took a drink of her Dr. Pepper. I held onto a bag of stuff in my other hand. “It feels relaxing to not have someone roll their eyes at me. Like, God, Emma, stop, like, talking.”
She could recite the ingredients from a can of soup, and I’d probably hold onto every word. But, this was probably still some part of a devious plan that I couldn’t see through.

In ninth grade I went to a dance with a girl because she demanded it. Yes, she demanded, as in she might as well stuck a switchblade in my face and threatened my life. I was younger then and had a sliver of faith in humanity and that maybe that was just how she was and that her negativity was just how she handled the slings and arrows that life threw at her.

Not quite.

Her vindictive streak was actually at me and as much as she said she cared about me, I never saw that she was using me; up to the point where she one day told me that I should just give and die, that I was a failure as a boyfriend AND a boy—which was not something I was expecting—because I refused to do anything with her or allow her to do anything with me.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to.
Oh, oh yes, I really did, but not after less than two weeks.
She also said that she would never say she loved me, because “we’re not old enough to know what that is”—something that she said as she tried to unbutton my jeans. I fought her hands and my libido, and I won, or lost, if we were talking about this in a locker room kind of environment.

And it did reach the locker room. I am not sure how, as I didn’t say a word, and no one was else was around us at the time. A few whispers about how “he couldn’t score with the school slut” were devastating in more ways than one. I felt bad about what they said about her and felt that—in some circles—I should have been held in high esteem: I didn’t give in to just throwing everything to the wind.

Do I have regrets?
That’s debatable.
Did I ever try to talk to her again?
No, even though Reardan was a small school, I managed to never see her and had no desire to ask her how she was doing.
She was pregnant later that year.
At least I didn’t get dragged into that rumor mill.

I didn’t think Emily was going to use the same tactics. Her’s were obviously the “kill him with kindness” kind.
“Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Your arms.”
“I don’t know,” I answered without any emotion.
“I thought about it once. It was after I grew, like, into giant girl. I thought about drowning myself in the tub, but I could never stay down long enough.”
“Been there.”
“Toaster?”
“Can cause a fire to the rest of the house.”
“Car?”
“Hurts innocence people,” I said with a shrug.
“So, knives?” Emily asked as she there her empty soda can into a thrash car that was on the side of the road.
“X-acto knives.”
“Same blade or two?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Do you remember why you did it?”
“Not while you’re here.”

Which was true. I turned to her, focused on her green eyes and couldn’t remember why I sliced my wrists or why I took all of those pills and for another moment, all of the pain in my life ceased to exist. It was like the 800-pound weights around my neck were floating around like Mylar balloons.

And I loved that feeling.

—signed,
Kyle Jovankah