The Muse (18 page)

I adored the way she adored me. Or, okay, the way she adored CarefreeJanie. I knew deep in my heart that no one, especially someone as beautiful as Eva, could ever adore the real me in much the same way. The distance and the mystery built an intrigue that reality would smash to smithereens if given the opportunity. I wanted this ride to last forever. Why couldn’t it? If we never met, we could never get to that dull relationship stage known as comfort—that point when lovers stopped fussing over their hair, their makeup, their figure, and just plopped down next to each other and watched the sad news every night and discussed politics and bills and whether they should redo their roof or buy a new car. With this mystery, we’d always be in the discovery stage, learning new things about each other and falling in love over and over again.

I stared at my reflection in the toaster and shook my head in disgust at myself. “Why can’t this ride last forever? I’ll tell you why. Because women like Eva crave human interaction and aren’t afraid of it, like you, you freak.”

I glared at myself for the stupid person I’d let myself become over the years. Fucking Barbara. She caused all of this crap. What would my life be if she would’ve kept her mouth shut, ushered me off to the side of the building and asked me what the hell had gotten into me, instead of running down the hall showing everyone but the school principal what I had written about her? I couldn’t forget Rhonda. If only she hadn’t been so weak. If only she could’ve known that inside of me was a girl just as scared and weak as she, maybe life could’ve taken a different twist, one less lonely and arduous.

I exhaled and locked eyes with myself. I squinted to get a good look at my ruddy complexion; my freckles that connected into blotches now, my pudgy lips, and half-moon chin. I’d erased all of these features from my photo. With a computer mouse, sophisticated editing software, and a critical eye, I turned myself into a beauty queen wearing a baseball hat—into someone who would’ve turned heads in a crowded bar, who would’ve scored lots of fun friends, who would’ve spent her time hanging out in gyms instead of sitting on her rump in front of the television.

I wondered how much different I would’ve been now had I not been pelted with rocks, burned by girls’ cigarettes in the bathroom, slapped across the face as I sat waiting for a teacher to enter the classroom?

Would’ve I been a best-selling novelist by now? Maybe I would’ve worked in New York City at one of the big publishers, sitting in a corner office with wall-to-wall windows so high, the window washers would’ve needed that special extender handle to reach the tip top of them. My office would be decorated with lots of planted flowers and ferns and I would most definitely be sitting at a mahogany desk complete with an ergonomic chair with a head rest so I could lounge back in those moments of deep reverie and reflect upwards to a ceiling painted in swirled plaster and illuminated with accent lighting that would put the museum of fine arts to shame.

I would’ve been prettier for sure. I wouldn’t have let myself go over the years, like I did mainly because I wouldn’t have been sitting around this condo feeling sorry for myself that girls the likes of Barbara ever existed. Maybe Rhonda and I could’ve turned out to be good friends. Maybe instead of wallowing in self-pity and hiding my ugly self, we would be out shopping for bathing suits for the cruise we’d be taking together with our perfect families. Or better yet, maybe Rhonda and I would’ve been out on dates, eating caviar with rich women, dancing the night away at lesbian hotspots, wearing pretty dresses that flowed just above my knee and hung from my shoulders with thin, beaded neck straps. I would’ve pranced around in strappy sandals in summer and stylish, sexy boots in winter, sporting fine Chanel scarfs and dangling earrings. I would’ve treated my hair to better care so it would have sheen, bounce, and a life of its own, admired by other pretty women and even the men on their arms. I’d wear lip glosses that were darker and more plum because my teeth would be pearl white and shiny from all the fruits and veggies and unprocessed food I’d eaten over the years. I would’ve taken greater care of myself because my life would’ve had greater value. Why? Because people would’ve paid attention to the Jane I could’ve become. There would be purpose in getting a good night’s rest, trimming my hair every four to six weeks, seeing a dermatologist about my freckles, and staying in fit condition to add quality and longevity to my valued life.

A sobering thought whacked me over the head just then. Eva was too perfect for me. She belonged with real women who didn’t carry emotional baggage and didn’t hide behind computer screens. Nothing plagued that woman. I certainly didn’t want to be the one to march in and untidy her pristine life. The little I knew about her already, even if I carried a hump on my back and wore pigtails, she’d offer me a warm smile and treat me with dignity. That’s what perfectly nice people did. They never let their true feelings damage others, especially those of us who were already broken.

She would pity me.

Life blew me some hard times, and hardened me to the point that I just couldn’t be melted back down to the girl I used to be pre-Barbara. How could I be expected to dust off old demons of ridicule and shine a light that never fully ignited onto a world that at every chance had tried to blow out the light? Only those with big, beautiful, bright lights like Eva could keep up the shine and weather through the storms of life when people you trusted kicked you when you were most vulnerable, and kept kicking the shit out of you even when the rest of the crowds they were trying to please turned away and went about their lives.

My life played out before me and I accepted it. By no means, however, did that mean a decade and a half later I couldn’t dive into the shallow end of the pool and get my feet wet a little. My feet burned in the scorching sun just like everyone else’s did, right? So, it only stood to reason that I would have to dip them in from time to time to heal them so they could carry me a little further down the road. CarefreeJanie operated as my shallow pool, my break from the blistering pain of years ago, and of a future that only burned hotter, stoked by the fierce intensity of loneliness and humiliation of who the real Jane had allowed herself to become.

For this reason and this reason only, I coveted this special relationship with Eva. Living in this fake world as CarefreeJanie proved safe, moldable, and easy. I didn’t harm anyone this way. I could live with that, even if that meant one day Eva kept me on the side as she embarked on a real deal. I could never give that girl what she needed, for sure. I wasn’t that selfish a person to ever want her to sacrifice a great life out of pity for me, someone who would never be able to be that smiling, doting girlfriend she’d be proud to show off to the world.

I was too dark for someone like her. My nightmares alone would silently freak her out for sure. I woke up too many times screaming, panting, remembering the devastation I caused myself and others. How did you hide something like that? I would never tell her or anyone else what really happened all those years ago. Opening up Pandora’s Box like that would be selfish, and Eva deserved better than selfish.

Life wasn’t fair.

Tears stung my eyes.

I pointed at myself in the toaster, fighting back hate and anger and frustration. “You were just as mean and cruel and evil, and you deserve this. Don’t you think for one minute that you deserve to be loved and caressed and enjoyed. That needs to be earned, and you—” I shook my head, knocking around the insults. “—you’ve never earned that.”

I swiped the tears from my cheek and convulsed into a fit. “Fuck my life.”

Mid choke, Larry entered my condo on a whisper. I didn’t hear him, didn’t smell his cologne, didn’t sense his presence until he scared the crap out of me when he tapped my shoulder and asked me if I was all right.

“Larry.” I jumped off of my stool and whacked his arm. “Knock, will you?”

He cradled my upper arm, and pulled me into a hug. “What’s going on?”

“We are so pathetic you and I.” I cried into his shoulder and pulled at his crew neck shirt. “If you’re not whining over something, I am.”

He cradled me like a good friend would until I calmed down and confessed my short, painful trip down memory lane. And like he did every time I ventured down it and pulled him along, he patted my back and told me everything was going to be alright.

# #

The next morning, just as I gathered my stuff for work, someone knocked on my front door. I looked through my peephole and saw a man with a beard wearing a blue collared shirt with a nametag from Great Fitness.

“I think you have the wrong condo,” I yelled through my door.

“Jane Knoll?”

I peeked again and he swiped his forehead with a bandana, looking straight into the peephole.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got a delivery for you.”

The guy turned around quickly. Then, Larry came into view. “Open up Jane. He’s legit.”

I turned my deadbolt and opened my door to a man who looked like he stepped out of an eighties ZZ Top video. He carried a clipboard and a smile. “Just need you to sign this form and I’ll go get your bike.”

“My bike?” I grabbed the clipboard from him and signed.

Larry stood beside him with a huge grin. “It’s going to be just the thing you need.”

I handed the signed form back to ZZ Top and he skirted around Larry, down the steps and towards his colorful box truck adorned with hot bodies lifting weights and posing, beads of sweat glistening on their well-built biceps and quadriceps.

“You bought me a bike?”

“Exercise will invigorate you. I promise.”

“I hate exercise.” I folded my arms over my chest. I’d been walking and launching into a few modified pushups each day, but I was nowhere ready to wear a bikini or a pair of shorts for that matter.

He unfolded my arms and danced me around in circles. “Did you know that physically fit people enjoy sex more and they carry themselves with more confidence than their counterparts?”

I followed Larry’s silly dance. “That’s your solution? Buy me a bike and turn me into a sex goddess?”

“Absolutely, darling.” He spun me and dipped me and dropped me.

I pulled myself up. “Thank you?”

He walked out of my front door and turned over his shoulder. “Oh you’ll be thanking me alright. I’ve heard the bike is good for more than just exercise.” He winked and then retreated to his condo on a giggle. “Read it in an article the other day.”

Surely this had something to do with sex. He could be so gay at times. I flushed just as the delivery guy entered my condo with my shiny new stationary bike. “Where would you like it, ma’am?”

Ma’am? Fan-fucking-tastic. “Right alongside the couch is fine.”

# #

A vulnerable cloud hung over me, and I spent the entire workday avoiding Twitter and my personal email for two reasons. Firstly, I couldn’t afford to leave in the middle of a workday in a fit of tears anymore. So if Eva didn’t respond to my picture or did and failed to provide at least one exclamation point, then I’d probably suffer a fit of tears and another lost workday. Secondly, I didn’t want to appear too eager in waiting on her response. If she said anything flattering or used that said exclamation point I would not be able to control myself. I’d tweet her right back and appear as desperate for attention as I really was.

Self-control was a beautiful thing. I’d worked my entire life to build up enough to protect me from more ridiculous bullying episodes. I would not arm any living morsel on this Earth with the ammunition to bully me ever again. Self-control was my friend, despite the situation, and I protected it like I would protect laundry night with Larry.

When I returned home later that day, I waited until I opened my mail, paid some bills, ate some noodles, showered, brushed my teeth, and put on my red undies under my pajama bottoms—hey, a girl’s got to feel sexy—before launching a full scale journey into Twitterland. Whatever the outcome, I would survive, as I always did.

I slid right over to the direct messages and Eva’s gorgeous smile greeted me, with that adorable blue dot telling me she had sent me a message.

“You are GORGEOUS,” she wrote.

My heart floated up above my head, to the ceiling, through the roof, and up into where the birds fly. My body spun like a charm below it, twirling round and round, enjoying the dizziness, the lightheaded effect, the tickle of a warm breeze kissing my skin like lovely spring rain. No one in my entire lifespan had ever called me such a thing.