bolts out of his fingers through the ceiling and into me and thatâs why I couldnât sleep. But I was wrong. Itâs just me up here with the fading fathead moon and every screaming seagull from far and wide visiting Lost Cove for a dawn concert. Iâve never been outside this early, didnât realize it was so loud. And so dreary, I think, taking in all the gray huddled-up old men disguised as trees.
I sit down, open my pad to a blank page and try to draw, but I canât concentrate, canât even make a decent line. Itâs the Ouija Board. What if itâs right and Jude gets into CSA and I donât? What if I have to go to Roosevelt with 3,000 toilet-licking Franklyn Fry clones? If I suck at painting? If Mom and Mr. Grady just feel sorry for me? Because Iâm so
embarrassing,
as Jude says. And Dad thinks. I drop my head in my hands, feel the heat of my cheeks on my palms, reliving what happened in the woods with Fry and Zephyr last winter.
(S ELF-PORTRAIT, S E RIES:
Broken Umbrella No. 88
)
I lift my head, look over at the new kidâs roof again. What if he realizes Iâm me? A cold wind blows through me like Iâm an empty room and I suddenly know everythingâs going to be terrible and Iâm doomed; not only me, but the whole gloomy grubby gray world too.
I lie down on my back, stretch out my arms as wide as I can, and whisper, âHelp.â
Some time later, I wake to the sound of a garage opening. I get up on my elbows. The skyâs gone blue: azure, the ocean bluer: cerulean, the trees are swirls of every hella freaking green on earth and bright thick eggy yellow is spilling over everything. Awesome. Doomsdayâs most definitely been cancelled.
(L ANDSCAPE:
When God Paints Outside the Lines
)
I sit up, noticing then which garage it was that openedâ
his
.
Several seconds that feel like several years later, he cruises down the driveway. Across his chest is a duffel-like black sack. The meteorite bag? He has a bag for
meteorites
. He carries pieces of the galaxy around in a bag. Oh man. I try to prick the balloon thatâs lifting me into the air by telling myself I shouldnât be this excited to see a guy I only met a day ago. Even if that guy carries the galaxy around in a bag!
(S ELF-PORTRAIT:
Last Sighting of Boy and
Balloon Blowing West Over Pacific
)
He crosses the street to the trailhead, then stops where we had our laughing fit, hesitating for a moment there before he turns around and looks right at me, like heâs known Iâve been here all along, like he knows Iâve been waiting for him since dawn. Our eyes lock and electricity rides up my spine. Iâm pretty sure heâs telepathically telling me to follow him. After a minute of the kind of mind-meld Iâve only ever had with Jude, he turns and heads into the grove.
Iâd like to follow him. A lot, very much, so much, except I canât, because my feet are cemented to the roof. But why? Whatâs the big deal? He followed me all the way to CSA yesterday! People make friends. Everyone does it. I can too. I mean, we already areâwe laughed together like hyenas. Okay. Iâm going. I slide my sketchpad into my backpack, climb down the ladder, and take off for the trailhead.
Heâs nowhere on the trail. I listen for footsteps, hear nothing but my pulse hammering in my ears. I continue down the path, clearing the first bend to find him on his knees, hunched over the ground. Heâs examining something in his hand with a magnifying glass. What a toilet-licking idea this is. I wonât know what to say to him. I wonât know what to do with my hands. I need to get home. Immediately. Iâm edging backward when he turns his head and looks up at me.
âOh, hey,â he says casually, standing and dropping whatever was in his hand to the ground. Most of the time people look less like you remember when you see them again. Not him. Heâs
I sit down, open my pad to a blank page and try to draw, but I canât concentrate, canât even make a decent line. Itâs the Ouija Board. What if itâs right and Jude gets into CSA and I donât? What if I have to go to Roosevelt with 3,000 toilet-licking Franklyn Fry clones? If I suck at painting? If Mom and Mr. Grady just feel sorry for me? Because Iâm so
embarrassing,
as Jude says. And Dad thinks. I drop my head in my hands, feel the heat of my cheeks on my palms, reliving what happened in the woods with Fry and Zephyr last winter.
(S ELF-PORTRAIT, S E RIES:
Broken Umbrella No. 88
)
I lift my head, look over at the new kidâs roof again. What if he realizes Iâm me? A cold wind blows through me like Iâm an empty room and I suddenly know everythingâs going to be terrible and Iâm doomed; not only me, but the whole gloomy grubby gray world too.
I lie down on my back, stretch out my arms as wide as I can, and whisper, âHelp.â
Some time later, I wake to the sound of a garage opening. I get up on my elbows. The skyâs gone blue: azure, the ocean bluer: cerulean, the trees are swirls of every hella freaking green on earth and bright thick eggy yellow is spilling over everything. Awesome. Doomsdayâs most definitely been cancelled.
(L ANDSCAPE:
When God Paints Outside the Lines
)
I sit up, noticing then which garage it was that openedâ
his
.
Several seconds that feel like several years later, he cruises down the driveway. Across his chest is a duffel-like black sack. The meteorite bag? He has a bag for
meteorites
. He carries pieces of the galaxy around in a bag. Oh man. I try to prick the balloon thatâs lifting me into the air by telling myself I shouldnât be this excited to see a guy I only met a day ago. Even if that guy carries the galaxy around in a bag!
(S ELF-PORTRAIT:
Last Sighting of Boy and
Balloon Blowing West Over Pacific
)
He crosses the street to the trailhead, then stops where we had our laughing fit, hesitating for a moment there before he turns around and looks right at me, like heâs known Iâve been here all along, like he knows Iâve been waiting for him since dawn. Our eyes lock and electricity rides up my spine. Iâm pretty sure heâs telepathically telling me to follow him. After a minute of the kind of mind-meld Iâve only ever had with Jude, he turns and heads into the grove.
Iâd like to follow him. A lot, very much, so much, except I canât, because my feet are cemented to the roof. But why? Whatâs the big deal? He followed me all the way to CSA yesterday! People make friends. Everyone does it. I can too. I mean, we already areâwe laughed together like hyenas. Okay. Iâm going. I slide my sketchpad into my backpack, climb down the ladder, and take off for the trailhead.
Heâs nowhere on the trail. I listen for footsteps, hear nothing but my pulse hammering in my ears. I continue down the path, clearing the first bend to find him on his knees, hunched over the ground. Heâs examining something in his hand with a magnifying glass. What a toilet-licking idea this is. I wonât know what to say to him. I wonât know what to do with my hands. I need to get home. Immediately. Iâm edging backward when he turns his head and looks up at me.
âOh, hey,â he says casually, standing and dropping whatever was in his hand to the ground. Most of the time people look less like you remember when you see them again. Not him. Heâs
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