house, on this night, with all these people, with Joe Fabulous Fontaine, who is no longer acting like my brother, right beside me, I still feel this invisible rope pulling me across the room toward Toby and there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it.
I turn to Joe, who looks like I’ve never seen him: unhappy, his body stiff with confusion, his gaze shifting from Toby to me and back again. It’s as if all the moments between Toby and me that never should have happened are spilling out of us in front of Joe.
“Who’s that guy?” Joe asks, with none of his usual equanimity.
“Toby.” It comes out oddly robotic.
Joe looks at me like: Well, who’s Toby, retard?
“I’ll introduce you,” I say, because I have no choice and cannot just keep standing here like I’ve had a stroke.
There’s no other way to put it: THIS BLOWS.
And on top of everything, the flamenco has begun to crescendo all around us, whipping fire and sex and passion every which way. Perfect. Couldn’t they have chosen some sleepy sonata? Waltzes are lovely too, boys. With me on his heels, Joe crosses the room toward Toby: the sun on a collision course with the moon.
The dusky sky pours through the window, framing Toby. Joe and I stop a few paces in front of him, all of us now caught in the uncertainty between day and night. The music continues its fiery revolution all around us and there is a girl inside of me that wants to give in to the fanatical beat—she wants to dance wild and free all around the thumping room, but unfortunately, that girl’s in me, not me. Me would like an invisibility cloak to get the hell out of this mess.
I look over at Joe and am relieved to see that the fevered chords have momentarily hijacked his attention. His one hand plays his thigh, his foot drums the ground, and his head bobs around, which flops his hair into his eyes. He can’t stop smiling at his brothers, who are pounding their guitars into notes so ferocious they probably could overthrow the government. I realize I’m smiling like a Fontaine as I watch the music riot through Joe. I can feel how intensely he wants his guitar, just as, all of a sudden, I can feel how intensely Toby wants me. I steal a glance at him, and as I suspected, he’s watching me watch Joe, his eyes clamped on me. How did we get ourselves into this? It doesn’t feel like solace in this moment at all, but something else. I look down, write help on my jeans with my finger, and when I look back up I see that Toby’s and Joe’s eyes have locked. Something passes silently between them that has everything to do with me, because as if on cue they look from each other to me, both saying with their eyes: What’s going on, Lennie?
Every organ in my body switches places.
Joe puts his hand gently on my arm as if it will remind me to open my mouth and form words. At the contact, Toby’s eyes flare. What’s going on with him tonight? He’s acting like my boyfriend, not my sister’s, not someone I made out with twice under very extenuating circumstances. And what about me and this inexplicable and seemingly inescapable pull to him despite everything?
I say, “Joe just moved to town.” Toby nods civilly and I sound human, a good start. I’m about to say “Toby was Bailey’s boyfriend,” which I loathe saying for the was and for how it will make me feel like the traitorous person that I am.
But then Toby looks right at me and says, “Your hair, it’s down.” Hello? This is not the right thing to say. The right thing to say is “Oh, where’d you move from, dude?” or “Clover’s pretty cool.” Or “Do you skate?” Or basically anything but “Your hair, it’s down.”
Joe seems unperturbed by the comment. He’s smiling at me like he’s proud that he was the one that let my hair out of its bondage.
Just then, I notice Gram in the doorway, looking at us. She blows over, holding her burning stick of sage like a magic wand. She gives me a quick once-over,
I turn to Joe, who looks like I’ve never seen him: unhappy, his body stiff with confusion, his gaze shifting from Toby to me and back again. It’s as if all the moments between Toby and me that never should have happened are spilling out of us in front of Joe.
“Who’s that guy?” Joe asks, with none of his usual equanimity.
“Toby.” It comes out oddly robotic.
Joe looks at me like: Well, who’s Toby, retard?
“I’ll introduce you,” I say, because I have no choice and cannot just keep standing here like I’ve had a stroke.
There’s no other way to put it: THIS BLOWS.
And on top of everything, the flamenco has begun to crescendo all around us, whipping fire and sex and passion every which way. Perfect. Couldn’t they have chosen some sleepy sonata? Waltzes are lovely too, boys. With me on his heels, Joe crosses the room toward Toby: the sun on a collision course with the moon.
The dusky sky pours through the window, framing Toby. Joe and I stop a few paces in front of him, all of us now caught in the uncertainty between day and night. The music continues its fiery revolution all around us and there is a girl inside of me that wants to give in to the fanatical beat—she wants to dance wild and free all around the thumping room, but unfortunately, that girl’s in me, not me. Me would like an invisibility cloak to get the hell out of this mess.
I look over at Joe and am relieved to see that the fevered chords have momentarily hijacked his attention. His one hand plays his thigh, his foot drums the ground, and his head bobs around, which flops his hair into his eyes. He can’t stop smiling at his brothers, who are pounding their guitars into notes so ferocious they probably could overthrow the government. I realize I’m smiling like a Fontaine as I watch the music riot through Joe. I can feel how intensely he wants his guitar, just as, all of a sudden, I can feel how intensely Toby wants me. I steal a glance at him, and as I suspected, he’s watching me watch Joe, his eyes clamped on me. How did we get ourselves into this? It doesn’t feel like solace in this moment at all, but something else. I look down, write help on my jeans with my finger, and when I look back up I see that Toby’s and Joe’s eyes have locked. Something passes silently between them that has everything to do with me, because as if on cue they look from each other to me, both saying with their eyes: What’s going on, Lennie?
Every organ in my body switches places.
Joe puts his hand gently on my arm as if it will remind me to open my mouth and form words. At the contact, Toby’s eyes flare. What’s going on with him tonight? He’s acting like my boyfriend, not my sister’s, not someone I made out with twice under very extenuating circumstances. And what about me and this inexplicable and seemingly inescapable pull to him despite everything?
I say, “Joe just moved to town.” Toby nods civilly and I sound human, a good start. I’m about to say “Toby was Bailey’s boyfriend,” which I loathe saying for the was and for how it will make me feel like the traitorous person that I am.
But then Toby looks right at me and says, “Your hair, it’s down.” Hello? This is not the right thing to say. The right thing to say is “Oh, where’d you move from, dude?” or “Clover’s pretty cool.” Or “Do you skate?” Or basically anything but “Your hair, it’s down.”
Joe seems unperturbed by the comment. He’s smiling at me like he’s proud that he was the one that let my hair out of its bondage.
Just then, I notice Gram in the doorway, looking at us. She blows over, holding her burning stick of sage like a magic wand. She gives me a quick once-over,
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