Nobodies Read online

  I leaned forward and kissed her.

  Clouds didn’t part, planets didn’t align, but for three endless seconds words like wet, scent, skin, and breath took on new meaning. I could feel her lips extend into a smile. They didn’t kiss back, nor did they retreat.They simply waited for mine to detach.

  When I finally pulled away, her smile was still intact. She was looking at her feet, and her cheeks were two shades redder.

  “I should probably get going,” she whispered.

  “I’ll call you.” 10

  “That’s okay,” she replied. “I’ll call you.”

  Some people go their whole lives without hearing sweeter sounds than these. She was so beguiled that she couldn’t even muster the patience to wait for my call. I had made romantic history: she was going to call me.

  I ran home, burst through the door, and rushed to the phone.

  Frank was sitting at the kitchen table, eating Cheerios.

  “How’d the date go?” he asked, chewing (as usual) with his mouth open, chomping each grain into submission.

  “Great,” I replied, ignoring his sadistic grin. The screen on the phone displayed its standard message: No missed calls.

  “Did you kiss her?”

  “She kissed me.”

  “Heyyyy,” he said, raising the bowl in salute. “Very nice.” He closed his eyes and tilted it back, slurping the milk. “Did you talk about yourself, like I suggested?”

  “Yeah,” I said, emphatically, feeling no obligation to be honest.

  “Did you pick any fights?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you stare at her tits?”

  “I’m not an idiot.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “It’s a yes, moron.”

  “Three seconds or less?”

  “More.”

  He laughed. “Did you touch them?”

  I looked down at the phone, wrapping the cord around my finger. It felt like a second skin, a kind of rubber armour.

  “That’s okay,” he said, standing up. “You’ll get ’em next time.”

  He walked to the sink. I wanted to knock the bowl out of his hand and strangle him with the phone cord.

  “Who paid?” he asked, rinsing off his spoon. “You or her?”

  I felt my eyes widen and my pulse increase.

  “Oh,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Bad call.”

  He dried his hands and walked out of the kitchen. I could hear his footsteps march up the stairs and move across the ceiling.

  When his bedroom door closed, I resumed my staring contest with the phone.

  Don’t panic, I told myself. He’s just trying to freak you out.

  I started pacing, checking the phone every few seconds to see if a new message—a more uplifting message—had somehow replaced No missed calls. I knew what I would find, yet each time I checked I felt the same flutter of hope, followed by the same punch of disappointment.

  After a while, I decided to rest my feet.

  I waited by the phone for nearly ten minutes before I realized that I hadn’t even given her my number.

  I leapt out of my chair and dialled her digits, only to hear endless ringing. One by one, the rose-coloured scenes in my head shattered. Was her father really the problem, or was her ambivalence truly meant for me?

  Of course not. She loves me. She has to love me. Why else would she laugh at my joke in the car?

  But when I replayed her adorable laugh in my mind, it became shrill and menacing, then faded to a sound worse than the silence we shared so often: the monotonous ringing of her telephone.

  Just as I was about to hang up—and give up on Cindy once and for all—I realized that she’d probably found my number in the phone book and was trying to call me just as I was trying to call her. 11

  I would never doubt Cindy again. Together we would over-come all obstacles, all circumstances. I felt I could take on God, chance, fate—whatever the world could throw at me. There was only one person who could stand in the way of my happiness, and I trusted her completely, as all true lovers should.

  I hung up the phone and sat tall in my chair, waiting for Cindy to call.

  1“The quickest way to a girl’s heart is to let her know as soon and as often as possible how much you care about her. Stare at her long enough, without blinking or moving, and she’ll be yours.” (Frank Killoran, 03/05/2001)

  2“It is a scientific fact that women are attracted to aggressive men. That’s why Emily dumped me: I wasn’t aggressive enough. But I have a feeling her new boyfriend is keeping her satisfied.” (Frank Killoran, 03/05/2001)

  3 After Emily broke up with Frank, he drove by her house, honking and howling her name, every night at the same time for two weeks. On the last night, a police car was waiting for him. Frank’s best friend, Anthony, told me this story. He heard it from his friend Dale, whose locker is next to Emily’s. So it must be true.

  4 If this doesn’t work, Plan B is called The Comedian. “Girls like guys who can make them laugh,” my father always said. But he never made my mother laugh, and she didn’t seem to like him very much, so I never knew whether he was speaking from romanticized memories or theoretical speculations. The Comedian is my contingency plan, because, like my father, I’m not very funny.

  5 Frank and I discussed more general first date skills: how to start fights with anyone, man or woman, who seems attracted to Cindy (“Girls love over-protective guys. It makes them feel safer.”); choosing conversation topics that lead to discussions about yourself (“Girls don’t like talking about themselves. They want to learn about you.”); the appropriate length of time to stare at Cindy’s breasts (“Three seconds is acceptable. Any less and she’ll be insulted.”) and so on.

  6 When I bought the Coke, I had asked for a second straw in case Cindy wanted to share, but I didn’t put it in the cup. Sharing popcorn was innocent, but there was an unspoken intimacy in sharing your Coke. my Coke, but not enough to share my straw?

  7 A man is obsessed with a woman who has no interest in him, but, completely unaware, he pursues her anyway.

  8 We would probably be in the woods for the first week or so, but once the police had given up on their search, we could live more freely in motels and camp sites.

  9 Cindy and I shouldn’t have to live in squalor. She could stay with the family, and when we turned eighteen, we could get married and start our perfect life together.

  10 Every “parting of lovers” scene ended with the man telling the woman he’d call her.

  11 This kind of miscommunication occurred in a half-dozen films I’d seen.

  TICKLE MY EAR

  MAX JR. & MEL

  The bed squeaks. Max grunts. Mel moans.

  “Tickle my ear,” Max whispers.

  “What?”

  “Tickle my ear.”

  She tries to obey.

  “No, don’t flick it,” he says. “Tickle it.”

  She softens her touch, massaging instead of stroking. “Like this?”

  “Yeah.” He closes his eyes and exhales in her face. His coffee breath makes her lightheaded. “Harder.”

  Her nails scrape his skin.

  “Too hard,” he says, pulling away. “You’re scratching.”

  “Sorry.” She makes adjustments, finding the middle-ground between nails and nothing.

  “Ooooooh yeah,” he moans. “That’s it.”

  MAX SR. & RUTH

  Ruth is on the couch in her bathrobe, watching an old home movie of a camping trip.

  The living room is blandly decorated, colourless and bare. Even the furniture looks exhausted. Pale light pours in through the windows, soaking the room in a ghostly glaze.

  Ruth sips her tea without taking her eyes off the screen. A young boy with a slingshot approaches the camera
, running from something.

  Mommy, he says. Daddy’s being mean.

  That’s nice, Sweetie.

  Mommy, he repeats, hiding behind a tree. When I grow up, I wanna be like you.

  That’s nice, Sweetie.

  A key forces its way into the lock on the front door. Ruth sighs and closes her eyes, preparing for something she has faced a thousand times and would rather not face again.

  A balding man in a suit enters the apartment, slamming the door behind him. He throws his coat, briefcase, and keys on the kitchen counter and opens the fridge.

  Ruth does not bother to look. She has looked enough times to know what she will see. Her ears can set the scene, tell the story. She hears the clink of bottles, the crinkle of aluminum foil, the dull thuds of shifting cartons, half-filled with expired milk.

  “Fuck,” the man says, from inside the fridge. He slams the door, then stomps down the hall and enters the bedroom. Ruth hears him scream three times into a pillow and punch something hard.

  “FUUUUUCK!”

  Ruth mutes the TV.

  The man returns, clutching his hand.

  “You’re supposed to punch the pillow, not the wall.”

  He pulls an ice tray out of the freezer, dumps the cubes on the counter, and tries to place them on his knuckles. They scatter as he touches them, sliding off the counter and onto the floor.

  “Godmotherfuckingdammit . . .”

  Ruth watches him, grinning as she sips her tea. More cubes slip off the counter.

  “Sonofacocksuckingdonkey—”

  “Maxy?”

  “WHAT?”

  “Have you considered using a towel?”

  “NO!”

  He grabs a towel from the cabinet and wraps the remaining ice in a bundle. He ties it around his hand and leans on the counter.

  “Feel better?” Ruth asks, wearing a comfortable smile.

  Max hangs his head.

  “You’re home pretty early.”

  Max lets out a sigh.

  “Rough day at work?”

  He tries to stand but slips on the ice and nearly collapses. “GODFUCKSLUT!”

  Ruth raises the cup to her lips. “Mine was okay, thanks.”

  Max recovers and opens a cabinet under the sink. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “We’re out of beer.”

  He slams the cabinet door and opens another above the sink. He takes out a bottle of whiskey, pours a large glass, and drinks half of it in a single gulp. He starts to pace in the living room, walking back and forth in front of the TV, forcing Ruth to tilt her head every few seconds.

  “You won’t believe what that asshole did today. That little shit.You won’t believe what he made me—what he wanted me to do. I didn’t do it, don’t worry. I told the prick I’d never do it. I told him some people still have dignity. Some people can’t be bought. I told him there’s a line I don’t cross.” He takes a drink. “You know what that little shit said? He said, ‘Don’t say anything you can’t take back. Take till the end of the day to decide.’ Can you believe this fucking guy? I told him I didn’t take things back, I mean the things I say, and unlike some other assholes I could mention, I don’t bullshit people.” He finishes his whiskey in one clean chug. “I told that little prick I don’t put up with this shit. Not from him. Not from anyone. Even if it means getting fired, I don’t care. I’d take my dignity over a pay check any day of the fucking week. ‘Fucking fire me,’ I said, ‘or stop wasting my time.’” Max stops pacing and looks at Ruth. “Honey?”

  Ruth continues to stare at the TV. The boy on-screen has wrapped his arms around the person holding the camera. A younger version of Max approaches, one with enough hair to form a respectable combover.

  “Ruth.”

  “What?”

  “Have you been listening?”

  Without meeting his gaze, Ruth waves a dismissive hand and says, “Just do what he wants.”

  “Just do what he wants?” He glares at her, expecting her to glare back. “And you’d be okay with that? You’d be fine living with a man like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Stop fucking around. A man without . . .”

  “Testicles?”

  “Dignity.”

  “Better than living with a man without a job.”

  Before Max can respond, the TV emits a muted burst of laughter. He looks from the screen to his wife, then back to the screen. “Why are you watching . . . Is this the one when you left us in the woods?”

  “I told you I didn’t like camping.”

  “Yes, you did. Over and over.”

  “And yet you dragged me out there. Over and over.”

  “It was good for Junior. He learned a few things.”

  “He certainly did.”

  Max looks down at his empty glass. He turns to the sink, overflowing with dirty plates and cutlery. “Where is he? He’s supposed to do the dishes.”

  “I think he went to Mel’s.”

  “That kid needs to get laid.”

  “Which one?”

  “Which one do you think?”

  MAX JR. & MEL

  As they catch their breath, they hold the covers past their chest, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. For the first time in years, Mel notices the glow-in-the-dark stars looking down at her. They are barely visible, thanks to the flat afternoon light, but their edges cast shadows.

  She wonders if Max notices them too, and, if so, whether she should say something. No, that would probably just make things worse. He probably hasn’t noticed. And even if he has, he probably doesn’t care. He’s probably too distracted by his own shame to detect or acknowledge anyone else’s. (The key word in situations like these is “probably.”)

  Then again, why should she care if he sees them? Who is he to judge her, especially after what just happened? She shouldn’t have to justify her decor—or anything else for that matter. So what if there are pieces of glow-in-the-dark plastic taped to her ceiling? She knows drug dealers who still sleep with their teddy bears.

  Besides, her dad had installed the stars more than eleven years ago, when her main goals in life involved ponies and a trip to Disneyland. Six-Year-Old Mel liked them at first, but their novelty soon wore off, and they became part of the landscape—invisible during the day, invisible at night. Over the years, as her toys were replaced by clothes, the majority of her childhood relics were hidden in boxes and moved to the basement. They’re to be uncovered, she assumes, when they’re old enough to trigger nostalgia instead of shame.

  Without tilting her head, Mel scans the room for embarrassing items. Nothing stands out. Her walls are bare; her desk is tidy; her books are shelved. Even Max pointed out, during a previous visit, that her furniture and decorations seemed somewhat conservative for someone so liberal. The drapes match the dresser. The dresser matches the bed. The bed matches the carpet. (Which also matches the drapes.)

  She feels safe, scandal-free, until she spots her diary on the desk, opened to yesterday’s entry. Shit, shit, shit. Her eyes dart back and forth across the ceiling, bouncing from star to star in search of a solution.

  If Max reads it, she thinks, he’ll never speak to me again. I have to hide it. I have to burn it. I have to get up and throw it out the window.

  Normally, she has enough foresight to put things away, but today they rushed upstairs before she had a chance to hide it in her drawer.

  She knows what it says, word-for-word:

  Monday, April the fucking 10th.

  I can never tell what Max is thinking. What he wants from life. What he wants from me. After all the talks, the texts, and the makeout sessions, I still don’t know where we are or what we are. I wish he could just be honest, for once. I don’t care about his family or his stupid insecurities. I don’t even care about The
Ear Bandage Rumor. (Which is bullshit, anyway. Max is dumb, but he’s not that dumb.) I just want to know if he’s serious, if he wants my mind as well as my body.

  And even if he only wants my body, that’s fine. I just want him to tell me. I swear to God, he’s such a guy sometimes. He thinks that bragging and teasing and hiding his emotions is the only way to get laid.That might work for club girls, for drunk chicks who scream YOLO, but it doesn’t work for me, let alone 90 percent of girls/women. He must have learned this Be A Man thing from his dad. (Not to mention his macho classmates. And patriarchal gender roles. And almost every facet of main-stream culture that reinforces them.)

  But he’s one of the good ones, relatively speaking. He’s no feminist, but at least he’s well-intentioned. At least he gives a shit. When he fucks up, he admits it and tries to do better.That’s more than I can say for most of his male counterparts . . .

  In any case, I think my virgin status freaked him out, and now he’s afraid to make a move. Ever since I told him, he’s been overcompensating, trying to impress me. I thought telling him the truth would help him relax. I’m a beginner too, and I just want my first time to be nice. It doesn’t have to be amazing. Shit, chances are, it’ll suck. But at least I’ll have a nice guy to share it with.

  He better make a move tomorrow. I would if I could, but I can’t. Girls aren’t allowed. It’s like ballroom dancing. Guys still lead; girls still follow. Hopefully, that’ll change someday, but that day ain’t today, or tomorrow, or any day in the foreseeable future.

  You know what? Fuck it. When he comes over tomorrow, I’ll just grab him by the dick and pull him into my room.

  She imagines Max’s face when he reads it. She imagines what he’ll say, how he’ll say it, and what she’ll say after he says it. She imagines a three-act fight that she knows will never take place. Not because she’d stop him, but because Max wouldn’t read her diary if it were opened to a drawing of her breasts and placed on his nose. He respects her right to privacy almost as passionately as he protects his right to ignorance.

  Mel inhales deeply and slowly, trying to mask her moment of panic. Her chest moves, but nothing else. Her breath is soundless, a stream of anxiety flowing out and away.