we’d
run into each other. I’d spent the past few nights lying awake in bed, listening to
the sound of Mom’s TV through the thin walls, unable to sleep. Worrying, yes, but
what bothered me almost as much as our dire straits was Josh and how I couldn’t escape
him in the dark. At night I’d lie awake with these crazy fantasies of him showing
up at my window, and I’d wonder if he was awake too, and if he was, was he thinking
about me? Then I’d tell myself he probably wasn’t alone. Josh Mitchell wasn’t known
for sleeping by himself, and I was an idiot, imagining doing things with him that
made me blush when he was probably doing those things to some other girl with absolutely
no thought of me whatsoever. Then I’d get jealous and feel stupid and punch my pillow
and try to push him out of my mind. What was happening to me? I’d become tidal, the
current of my want pushing me toward him, pulling me away from him. Toward him, away
from him.
A crush. I had a silly crush because he’d suddenly become exotic, an enigmatic hero.
He’d been in a land full of mysteriously clothed women and men in long tunics and
turbans. He’d seen the kind of stuff Picasso painted Guernica for. He had stories to tell, unlike anyone else in this town.
But I’d had crushes before, and this … this was no crush. The pact, I reminded myself. I was convinced that the reason Chris and I were the only ones
from our graduating class to get out of Creek View was because of our self-imposed
celibacy. Something about falling in love (or lust) seemed to anchor people to this
place.
I turned my back on the window and stood in front of the box fan to let the cool air
dry some of the sweat that was dripping down my neck. All I wanted to do was sit in
a refrigerator. After a few minutes, I gave up on the fan and went back to the counter.
I ran my hands over the part of Marge’s collage I’d been working on for most of the
morning. The plan was to connect these smaller collages by collaging them into one
big piece. Right now, I was trying to get the angel on the Paradise sign just right.
I’d taken to going out and studying her at night, to make sure I was capturing all
the details, like the way the neon wasn’t working on all the feathers on her wings.
I’d chosen some pretty metallic paper to create the neon glow of the sign. I’d already
fashioned 3-D wings for the angel—pipe cleaners covered with papier-mâché, so now
I grabbed a sheet of shimmering gold sanded pastel paper and began slicing it into
tiny strips with my razor blade—the angel’s hair.
As I worked, the lobby fell away, my world whittled down to the feel of the paper
under my fingers and the creature straining to burst from the collage. My sound track:
the whir of the fan and the soft sounds of cutting and arranging. I wasn’t in Creek
View anymore—or, rather, I was in a Creek View of my own making, where all that mattered
were angles and colors and the steady beat of my heart as the angel slowly came to
life. Nothing—and no one—could touch me here.
The sliding glass door opened, and Marge walked in, fanning her thick face and startling
me from my cocoon. I looked up, dazed. I’d forgotten the heat, the time—everything.
She crushed the can of Diet Dr Pepper in her hand and frowned. “Hey, sweet pea. Still
no Josh?”
I shook my head. “Want me to try calling him again?”
“I think his cell’s off. He was supposed to be here an hour ago.”
She threw the can in the wastebasket next to the candy dispenser and looked over my
notes on the clipboard, muttering to herself. As she got closer to the counter, I
shooed her away.
She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing over there—snorting cocaine?”
“Very funny,” I said. “It’s your collage, and you know it. Don’t think I can’t tell
when you’re trying to be sneaky!”
She huffed in mock offense. “I’ll
run into each other. I’d spent the past few nights lying awake in bed, listening to
the sound of Mom’s TV through the thin walls, unable to sleep. Worrying, yes, but
what bothered me almost as much as our dire straits was Josh and how I couldn’t escape
him in the dark. At night I’d lie awake with these crazy fantasies of him showing
up at my window, and I’d wonder if he was awake too, and if he was, was he thinking
about me? Then I’d tell myself he probably wasn’t alone. Josh Mitchell wasn’t known
for sleeping by himself, and I was an idiot, imagining doing things with him that
made me blush when he was probably doing those things to some other girl with absolutely
no thought of me whatsoever. Then I’d get jealous and feel stupid and punch my pillow
and try to push him out of my mind. What was happening to me? I’d become tidal, the
current of my want pushing me toward him, pulling me away from him. Toward him, away
from him.
A crush. I had a silly crush because he’d suddenly become exotic, an enigmatic hero.
He’d been in a land full of mysteriously clothed women and men in long tunics and
turbans. He’d seen the kind of stuff Picasso painted Guernica for. He had stories to tell, unlike anyone else in this town.
But I’d had crushes before, and this … this was no crush. The pact, I reminded myself. I was convinced that the reason Chris and I were the only ones
from our graduating class to get out of Creek View was because of our self-imposed
celibacy. Something about falling in love (or lust) seemed to anchor people to this
place.
I turned my back on the window and stood in front of the box fan to let the cool air
dry some of the sweat that was dripping down my neck. All I wanted to do was sit in
a refrigerator. After a few minutes, I gave up on the fan and went back to the counter.
I ran my hands over the part of Marge’s collage I’d been working on for most of the
morning. The plan was to connect these smaller collages by collaging them into one
big piece. Right now, I was trying to get the angel on the Paradise sign just right.
I’d taken to going out and studying her at night, to make sure I was capturing all
the details, like the way the neon wasn’t working on all the feathers on her wings.
I’d chosen some pretty metallic paper to create the neon glow of the sign. I’d already
fashioned 3-D wings for the angel—pipe cleaners covered with papier-mâché, so now
I grabbed a sheet of shimmering gold sanded pastel paper and began slicing it into
tiny strips with my razor blade—the angel’s hair.
As I worked, the lobby fell away, my world whittled down to the feel of the paper
under my fingers and the creature straining to burst from the collage. My sound track:
the whir of the fan and the soft sounds of cutting and arranging. I wasn’t in Creek
View anymore—or, rather, I was in a Creek View of my own making, where all that mattered
were angles and colors and the steady beat of my heart as the angel slowly came to
life. Nothing—and no one—could touch me here.
The sliding glass door opened, and Marge walked in, fanning her thick face and startling
me from my cocoon. I looked up, dazed. I’d forgotten the heat, the time—everything.
She crushed the can of Diet Dr Pepper in her hand and frowned. “Hey, sweet pea. Still
no Josh?”
I shook my head. “Want me to try calling him again?”
“I think his cell’s off. He was supposed to be here an hour ago.”
She threw the can in the wastebasket next to the candy dispenser and looked over my
notes on the clipboard, muttering to herself. As she got closer to the counter, I
shooed her away.
She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing over there—snorting cocaine?”
“Very funny,” I said. “It’s your collage, and you know it. Don’t think I can’t tell
when you’re trying to be sneaky!”
She huffed in mock offense. “I’ll
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