The Myth of You and Me by Leah Stewart Page B

One day in the cafeteria Ronnie came up to me and said Mitch liked me and wanted to go with me. I assumed this was just another plan to humiliate me, so I said no, and Ronnie turned, cupped his hands over his mouth, and shouted, “Mitch, Cameron doesn’t want to go with you.” Only then, when I saw the way Mitch flushed, the way he blinked, as though trying to hold back tears, did I realize my mistake. I wanted to leap from my chair and run to him, but fear and embarrassment kept me in my seat. He pushed back his own chair and took his tray to the conveyor belt. He never spoke to me again. The next year we went to different schools.
    This was the story I told Sonia when she asked why I was so nervous around boys. I assumed they wouldn’t like me, that they’d be intimidated by my height. I assumed that if by some chance they did like me, I’d screw it up somehow. That night, despite my nerves, we planned to cruise Main with the rest of the high-school population, and to meet up with two boys, seniors and football players, who’d told Sonia they’d look for us there.
    Mr. Gray had the radio up loud, on an oldies station. He was still wearing his tie, but he’d loosened it and flung the ends over his shoulder. His light blue shirt was dotted with red from the spitting tomato sauce, but he didn’t notice, or if he noticed he didn’t mind. Every once in a while he sang along to “Second Hand News” or “Stand By Me.” Whenever he did, Sonia would look at him and smile, and once, in the middle of a Simon and Garfunkel song, he turned down the radio and said, “Harmonize with me, Princess,” and Sonia did. Mr. Gray’s voice was low, pleasant, and unremarkable, but Sonia’s was beautiful, clear, and open, with none of the pinched, nasal sound of the school chorus star who always sang at pep rallies. Normally Sonia was self-conscious about singing, critical of her voice the way she was of her drawing, her piano playing, her French and Spanish, which all seemed perfect to me. She had brought these talents to her mother like offerings, but none of them was good enough, and so Sonia dismissed them as well—her French was adequate, her playing and singing so-so, her drawing embarrassingly bad. Not until we got to college and she started to take photographs did she ever admit that she had a skill beyond cheerleading and charm.
    But when her father asked her to, Sonia would sing. Mr. Gray was broad-shouldered and sweet, with a large, comforting mustache and a patient smile. Once, torn between exasperation and gratitude, Sonia said that if she blew up the school her father would find a reason she’d been right to do it. When he was home, and his wife was sequestered in their room, their house could seem like a happy place. It was easy to pretend Madame Gray wasn’t even there. Yet at the same time I went on feeling her presence, just up the stairs in the one room in the house I never entered. She was like the little voice in your head that describes for you, while you’re having the time of your life, all the possibilities for trouble and regret, everything that might go wrong. I often wondered what it was like for Sonia to live with that voice all the time.
    Mr. Gray crossed from the stove to the table to admire Sonia’s handiwork. “That’s excellent, Sonia,” he said.
    She held up the sketch pad, leaning back, and for the first time she looked as if she approved of what she saw.
    “You two should write a book,” I said. “You can write it, Mr. Gray, and Sonia can illustrate it.” Sonia had told me about the bedtime stories her father used to tell her, tales that took weeks to complete. He described castles and moved his hands through the air like he could touch them. In these stories Sonia was always a princess, so beautiful the stars were jealous.
    “You two should write a book,” Mr. Gray said. “Your own fairy tale. The Princess in the Tower.”
    “How about the Princess and the Tower?” I said. My