Folie à Deux (7 page)

I know I’m doing something wrong but don’t know what and don’t know if it’s even my fault. It seems like I’m watching my story unfold from a great seat in the mezzanine. All the places I hope for the protagonist to act differently go awry. The good vibes I send never have the effect for which I hope. Now all I can do is watch as the surrounding action leads him further down the spiral.

In the days leading up to Christmas I feel gradually worse but at any decent time when I ask to go to sleep Carla says, “Oh, ok, just one more thing.”

That one thing, inevitably turns into some conversation about how mature I am and how she can’t believe I’m fifteen. She marvels at how she never has to dumb anything down for
me. That becomes how I’m so different from anyone else my age and consequently, our tremendous bond. It concludes with a list of the reasons she loves me like she does. I already feel feverish and achy but it’s the gravity of these conversations that makes me dizzy.

Christmas Eve I cannot sit up without feeling like I’m going to faint. I regret every night that I stayed up late on the phone talking about things that seem unimportant now. I wish I had eaten healthier and not been so concerned with my weight. I’ve come down with nasty, flu-like symptoms that leave me without energy to even answer the constantly ringing phone. I hear the incessant noise but have no energy to pick up. When I finally give in, thinking that it could be an emergency, it’s Carla. She doesn’t even say, “Hello.” Instead, leading with, “What’s wrong? Why haven’t you answered?”

There is concern in her voice but she sounds scolding, like when my mom doesn’t hear from me in what she considers too long. I try to talk but cough instead. After composing myself I explain my symptoms and she softens her tone, “Oh, I’m so sorry you’re sick. I wish I could take care of you.”

Her sincerity sounds believable and comforts me slightly. I drift in and out of sleep as she tells me what I should eat and how often I should go stand in the shower to unclog my sinuses. “Uh-huh,” is all I mumble.

“Ok, sweetheart, feel better and I’ll call you tomorrow ok?” I don’t realize that I miss the cradle when I drop the phone until I hear the obnoxious beeping from being off the hook.

Christmas morning I try to open presents but can barely stand. I make the effort so my mom can take pictures. As soon as I open the last stick of lip balm from my stocking my dad tells me, “Go upstairs and lay down,” without a word, I do. I lay in bed
all day feeling the full brunt of not having gotten more than three consecutive hours of sleep for the last two weeks. I drift all day, in and out of consciousness teetering on the edge of what was my childhood and whatever lies on the other side of the precipice.

The big present I opened this morning was a stereo system with my first compact disc player. My parents also bought me the Led Zeppelin boxed set I’ve begged for since its release last year. I put all four CD’s in the machine with what feels like the last bit of energy I will ever have and press, “Play,” and, “Shuffle,” and the CD player does exactly what my head is doing. It randomizes the songs like my mind is trundling through the memories of the last few weeks. As I focus on the events that have taken place over the last month it feels like a year. The panic is indescribable that so much emotional and mental energy has been crammed into such a short stretch of my life.

I finally drift despite the aching that prevents me from finding a comfortable position. I hear the music in the background and the only way that I know how long I’ve slept is that I hear “Tangerine” play for the second time, “Living reflection from a dream.” That means all four CD’s have played through once. It’s the background music to the same fever-dream that I remember having every illness since pre-school, nightmarish but consoling in its familiarity.

A few moments of clarity reveal the sounds of the new toys that my brother and sister are playing with downstairs. I hear my mom using the new KitchenAid mixer my dad bought her and I think I smell fresh baked cookies that christen it. I hear the faint din of dinner conversation and the sound of forks and knives clanging against plates, and I know that I have missed the whole day. I have sacrificed my entire Christmas for the sake of staying up late to talk about many things that all add up to nothing.

What I don’t hear for a change, is my phone. I turned it off before I went to bed last night and I haven’t thought about Carla since. In a rare moment of lucidity, it occurs to me that, not only have I avoided speaking to her but she hasn’t crossed my mind in hours. I wouldn’t characterize my days as thinking about Carla so much as being consumed by her presence, making today a welcome respite. I’m left alone in complete darkness, in near silence except for the barely audible boxed set playing underneath. I will remember this day as the first time in my life that I want to be alone but am terrified of the loneliness simultaneously.

As I start to feel better the next day, I long to be sick again. There was a certain protection in being ill, a built-in excuse for avoiding my phone, a reason not to face my parents with my giant secret looming. Both apices of my triangular life were content to know I was convalescing on my own time but neither knew that I was starting to spiral further downward. I’m scared to ask my parents about Christmas Caroling because I know what my father has already said, plus I asked him to go out to dinner with Carla at a time when even I thought it was innocent. Will they become suspicious that I’m asking for another out of school meeting? Will they ask me questions about her involvement in my life? They know I’ll be at wrestling practice every day during Christmas break and I’ll be gone all day at the tournament on the December 28
^th
but I’m still scared to be caught.

I lose my first match of the tournament at 8:30 in the morning, my head down and hands shaking. I tell myself I lost because I’m recovering from a nasty flu and try to convince myself that since I’m an underclassman, it’s also inexperience. It helps to think that I haven’t been sleeping, I still can’t breathe well and I missed two days of practice. I clutch for anything to soothe the disappointment I feel for putting my wishes so far behind hers.

I decided to give this half-hearted effort because I had something else on my mind. As I walk off the mat and see the disappointment on my coach’s face, over his shoulder I see Carla in the bleachers clapping. It could be the applause of a supporter lauding my effort or it could be the overspill of arousal for watching me star in six minutes of soft-core porn. Most likely, it’s that I can be showered and with her in minutes. The instant that I’m in the locker room alone I realize with full force the finality of indecision that controls my life.

I didn’t lose purposely but I also didn’t try to win. My ambiguity to neither displease her nor act on my behalf has left me at the mercy of unknown factors. I may have won had I tried, but I’ll never know. My fate was decided for me and the feeling is terrible.

I take a long shower and a longer, lonely walk to her classroom where she is anxiously waiting. The first thing I think when I walk into her classroom is that she looks pretty. A long black sweater worn over leggings that have vertical black and white stripes and she smells good. She sees the dejection on my face and hugs me, “You did well. That was close.”

Bullshit. I did horribly and should have won.

She can barely hide her excitement that I’m free to leave, “Are you ready? I’ll cook you a delicious breakfast to cheer you up.” I don’t know how I feel about today. I’m excited but nervous. Want to stay but want to go with her, ambiguity again dictating my life.

We walk to her car as though engaging in the most normal, mutually enjoyable activity. She talks non-stop the entire ride, “I’m so excited to give you your present. Do you like cranberry juice or orange because I have both? How do you like your eggs? Do you prefer wheat toast or white? I’m so sorry you were sick for Christmas.” Her forced conversation interspersed with, “Cheer up, I know you’re sad you lost but there’s always next year,” which makes me feel even worse.

The ride is fifteen minutes and I’m only fifteen years old so by the time we arrive I feel better thanks to disassociation more than coping skills. I enter her apartment to see the table is already set for breakfast with nice china. The pans are on the stove
and the coffee pot set up so all she has to do is press start. When I see the little box on the table wrapped in contemporary paper I release the last vestiges of my bitterness. Even though I still want to be a kid, I push through and present my best version of what I think a grown-up is.

She says, “I’ll do the eggs and you can be in charge of juice and toast but first can I give you your gift? I’m so excited to see if you like it.” She walks to the table and holds out the small, carefully wrapped box with a tiny silver bow offset on the lid.

Before I take it from her I explain, “Listen, I couldn’t get a ride to pick something up for you and I feel bad.”

She tilts her head and gives a wounded puppy dog expression, “Oh, Jimi, that’s so sweet of you. I didn’t get you this so that you would buy me a gift. I bought it because I want you to have it.”

She sounds genuine but I think I should still have a present and am obsessing that I don’t. She pulls me by the hand to the loveseat, I pull the bow and begin to unwrap what looks like a jewelry box. I move slowly, trying to avoid participation in whatever ritual this is. I feel the tether on me tighten as I realize it’s probably a talisman that marks me as her property or a piece of jewelry that I will not wear, causing hurt feelings. Before laborious turns into ridiculous I open the box to find a single diamond stud earring.

As I’m creating a response she asks through a barely audible panting, “Do you like it? Will you wear it?”

“I like it a lot” I answer truthfully, as the light reflects from the facets of the jewel.

My first thought is what I will tell my parents when they notice I’m wearing a real diamond. She cleans that up quickly, “Just tell them it’s fake. It’s an imitation that was a gift from a friend.”
I remove the silver ball earring I put in after my match. She is sitting on my right side so after I feel the earring back slide over the lock I turn my head so she can see.

She puts her hand on my chin and says, “Wow, I like it. It looks very nice.” Sitting this close, with her hand on my chin, I start to tremble. It could be from exertion, but I don’t think so. She leans in and her grip tightens on my chin as she pulls me gently to her lips.

This kiss is different than our first. I’m slightly driven back by the force of her mouth, hungry for me. Her left hand remains cupped on my chin, her right on the armrest, pinning me into the corner. Her tongue is deep in my throat and before long the hand holding my chin moves to my chest.

I feel the beginning of an erection I want to hide. I can’t imagine she would put her hand there. Not now, not today but she did talk of our next step and we have all day. Anxiety battles arousal for the forefront of my mind. It seems instantaneous that as her left hand is on my chest her right is on the back of my head moving down to the nape of my neck. It moves down the collar of my shirt and when it returns to the center of my head she plunges her tongue more deeply inside. She prevents me from pulling back. My penis is as rigid from excitement as my back is from tension. My hands remain clutching the partially wrapped jewelry box providing purchase on something safe.

She moves her hands around my upper body as if frisking me. When her hands reach the bottom of my wrists she tosses the paper on the floor. My hands lock on my lap partially because I don’t know an appropriate place for them and I’m still embarrassed by my body’s response. When I realize that her hands are now so well acquainted with my entire upper body, front and back I think it offensive that we are both touching me. After
another few moments of deliberation I put my right arm around her and my other on her thigh. I keep my right hand immobile on her back and my left rubs her thigh from knee to just short of what might suggest an interest in more than kissing. In reality, I have no idea where any boundary line is anymore. I can’t say how long we kiss because the velocity of my thoughts makes time hard to track. Maybe ten minutes? It could be an hour.

When my stomach growls audibly she slows the kiss at an unnoticeable pace, “I guess you’re hungry and I did promise you breakfast didn’t I?” She giggles as though embarrassed but only because my physical hunger was louder than her sexual.

I open my eyes when the kiss slows to see a satisfied smile on her face. She opens hers slowly and draws near to join our lips once more, this time ending with the sound of a smooch. “You are a very good kisser, I must say,” she whispers and stands up before I can respond. With no further debriefing she walks into the kitchen and begins breakfast. “You got the drinks and toast, right Hon?” she calls to me.

I have not yet moved and am not ready to join her. I’m conscious not to give the appearance of something wrong so I rise and walk into the kitchen trying to deemphasize my bulging crotch.

Her tiny apartment is the ground floor of a converted bungalow. I walked from the dining room to the living room in three steps. It seems as though the bed barely fits in the bedroom but I avoided looking to not seem curious. I pour the juice and drop the bread in their slots attempting to be present but really, I feel catatonic. More engulfing than what has happened is what still could the rest of this day. Every time one of the channels in my mind becomes too heavy I switch to the other. I think about what my mom is doing. I imagine playing a video game with my sister,
or taking a walk with my brother. Eventually those thoughts join in the overwhelming static clouding my ability to function also.