“Loving
Cooper Finnegan”
June
How
can four days be this damn long?
I
feel like Conor Broekhart after he was thrown into prison on Little Saltee.
Hopeless. Lost.
I’m
so used to seeing him every day, you see. So used to having that nice little human
to bounce those ideas off of. So used to saying, “So, let’s go do something
insane…let’s go dye the water in the pool bright purple!” and hearing an
enthusiastic voice respond, “Sure, why not?”
Now
when I say out loud, “Let’s do something insane,” my mother replies, “Let’s
don’t and say we did.”
It
finally sinks in. Four days without him and I’m a mess. I don’t want to see
myself four weeks, or four months, after I’ve been without him for that long.
It’s not possible. It’s just not freaking possible.
It
must be possible, because it’s real, it’s here, and I have to accept that there
is a very, very high probability that I will never see him again.
October
I
don’t know him, but something tells me I should.
He
is nondescript, but he’s wearing green. I love green, I love people who wear
green. Make all the Irish jokes you like, but people who truly know how to wear
green are a rare breed, indeed. This one wears dark-green, and it matches his
dark-red hair and pale—but not too
pale; he’s not Dracula for God’s sake—skin so perfectly.
I
don’t know him, but I know that we are going to be friends.
He
is not ordinary. He has an aura that seems to scream, “I am not an ordinary
person.” He reminds me of Artemis Fowl. He has the look of someone who hasn’t
slept in weeks, of someone who stays up late into the night writing—or reading,
perhaps; I hope so, I love boys who read—I can tell from the dark circles under
his green eyes.
More green.
On
either side of me, my friends make inappropriate jokes and discuss the latest
Blogging Twilight post. I listen, but I don’t join in. I’m too busy looking at
the boy in green.
June
Two
weeks since graduation.
Cooper
wrote to me yesterday, but it was a short, barely-there email.
Hi Nori—
I went to the library again
today. I’m halfway through Future
Eden, and you’re right, it’s amazing.
Strange, but amazing.
My parents and I are going on a
picnic tomorrow. I don’t know exactly where. If it’s pretty, I’ll take a
picture for you.
Love,
Cooper
I
remember when Cooper and I first met and I introduced myself as “Eleanor—but
call me Nori, everyone does.”
And
he smiled and said, “Nori. Like the dwarf in The Hobbit?” And when I blushed he said quickly, “It’s a perfect
name for you. No one else could be named after a dwarf. You could, without
losing a single shred of dignity.”
I
liked his name too. Cooper Finnegan. I knew name meanings. Finnegan meant fair. It was an Irish name. Why didn’t that surprise
me—all that thick red hair? Cooper.
Barrel maker. What did that even mean? Did it even matter?
Now
I wonder if “barrel maker” meant something. And this is just what I do, when I
don’t understand something—I analyze the living hell out of it. Does “barrel”
mean “barrel of a gun?” Because if it does, I’m scared, far too scared to think
about what that could symbolize.
If
it means what I think it might…
BAM—straight through my heart.
November
Cooper
Finnegan. That’s his name. Cooper Finnegan, senior, transfer from Detroit.
“Someone
set my school on fire,” he explains to me, over burned coffee and chalky,
white-flour pound cake. “My parents thought it wasn’t safe, so they sent me up
here.”
Sentenced
to a boarding school in the middle of fucking nowhere because your parents
wanted to protect you? My God, and he’s so calm
about it. I can’t imagine not coming here by choice. “Why didn’t you stop
them?” I ask.
He
looks at me, shocked. “They’re my parents.”
“But
they’re not you,” I point out. “You
should have a say in what happens to you.”
Cooper
looks at me for a long moment. Then he shrugs and says bluntly, “Well, I trust
them.”
I
trust my parents too, but not blindly. I don’t trust anyone blindly. But I
trust him, even though I have literally no reason to. I trust him, I don’t know
why.
Maybe
it’s the sparkling green eyes that remind me of Harry Potter. Maybe it’s the
thick, straight tufts of red hair that fall just barely to his shoulders and
give him the appearance of having permanent bed-head. Maybe it’s his voice, so
soft and sweet that he makes Michael Jackson sound like Al Pacino.
Maybe
it’s just fate.
July
The
sky is beautiful. The clouds are a dark, almost sinister shade of orchid,
roughly the texture of cotton batting, against a background of deep plum. When
the fireworks begin, around nine-thirty or so, the bursts of red and yellow and
blue sparks explode against this background, creating an image so breathtaking
that it almost hurts. I desperately want to save this image, but even my fancy
T2i can’t capture the beauty, and it makes me sad.
He would have loved
this.
I
try calling him again, but his phone is off. He’s probably meeting the
president. Oh no, wait, the president lives in D.C.—like me—and he lives in
Boston. Never mind. Scratch that. He’s probably off writing the next Odyssey or inventing the cure for some
rare disease.
And
what am I doing? Sitting here watching fireworks. In a few moments my mother
will call out the back door, and she will have me come inside and help her ice
the lemon pound cake that she just took out of the oven. I will eat the pound
cake after we ice it, along with a generous helping of fresh strawberries and a
mug of hot, black coffee. We will watch a Harry Potter movie, probably the
first one, because that is her favorite as well as mine.
Meanwhile,
the boy I love is somewhere in a museum or a science center or a library, getting
smarter for Vassar. Lucky bastard. If Vassar hadn’t rejected me I could be
there in two months with him. Instead, come August twenty-fifth I’ll be off to
the strict, evangelical Christian Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Ironic, considering that I just escaped
from a strict school in Michigan.
But
this is my life, and I have to accept that, and I have to accept that I will
never be good enough for Vassar, just like I am not good enough for him.
December
Snow
covers the ground. It’s as cold here in the winter as it is hot in D.C. in the
summer. Sam and Maggie and I grab each other’s hands and run and slide, run and
slide, until we collapse in a heap on the thin layer of ice that has formed on
the ground.
We
find Cooper near the auditorium and bring him in with us. We run around the
auditorium and shout lines from our favorite movies, and sing songs from RENT and Hairspray and Sweeney Todd
that we only know half the words to, and we skip and play and dance until a
security guard kicks us out.
On
the way back, Maggie comes up with the idea of naming our favorite
constellations. The night is clear, and we look up and see every star through
the tops of the trees. “Mine is Seven Sisters,” Maggie tells us, reaching up to
point out the shape in the sky.
Sam
thinks about it for awhile. “I think Orion is mine.”
I
stop and look up, staring around until I find my favorite—the Big Dipper. “Such
a cliché,” Sam teases me when I voice this opinion.
But
Cooper takes my hand, and points up to the very same constellation I just
named. His breath makes a perfect little cloud in the crisp night air as he
says, “My favorite is the Big Dipper, too.”
July
North
Carolina is a six-and-a-half-hour drive from D.C., and I want to go there about
as much as I want to stick hot needles under my nails. If I stay in D.C., I
reason, there is a possibility that Cooper will come for me. If I go, he might
come for me and then leave, disappointed, when he discovers that I’m not here.
I
try to pack, but it feels like I’m preparing for the apocalypse. I pack nothing
but short skirts and shorts and sundresses, and only one pair of jeans and one
cardigan. I bring as many books as I can fit in my suitcase. Assuming that we
actually don’t stay in the hotel the
entire time, I figure I can at least be prepared for the ride to the hotel and
the ride back.
I
charge my iPod the night before. I also sync it, adding my new playlist of
songs that remind me of Cooper, starting with the song we danced to at our
senior prom and ending with the song that makes me cry every time I hear it
because I miss him so much.
The
stuffed white tiger that he won for me at Great Wolf Lodge sits in plain view
on my shelf. I’ve taken that thing to bed with me every night. I want to take
it with me—but if I’m seen cuddling with a damn stuffed tiger my parents will know that something is up. And I don’t
want them to see that I’ve completely gone off the deep end.
Through
the six-hour drive, I spend about one-third of my time sleeping, one-third of
my time reading Fight Club, and
one-third of my time staring moodily out the window as I listen to my iPod. Dad
tries to engage me in conversation. I ignore it. I drink iced tea out of an
insulated bottle and eat McDonald’s fries and cheese puffs from rest-stop
vending machines, and I block the world out when the car begins to move again.
January
The
bell has just begun to ring. A handful of kids from our school run to the playscape,
shrieking in excitement, knowing they’re about to get drenched. I hang back,
Cooper and Sam by my side. Sam—skinny, lily-white Sam, with about as much hair
on his chest as a Chihuahua—has absolutely no reservations about whipping off
his clothes and exploring the busy waterpark in his daisy-duke swimsuit. I, on
the other hand, refuse to take off the t-shirt covering my one-piece. It’s not
that I don’t want to swim, I do; I’ve been water-fight deprived for the last
four months…but I have a good reason to not take off my shirt.
“Come
on, Nori,” Sam coaxes me. “No one is going to notice your boobs in here.”
I
am five-six, 119 pounds, and I wear a size 34E bra. I hate, hate, hate my breasts. As soon as I’m old
enough (and I can afford it), I am going to get my breasts surgically reduced
as small as the plastic surgeon can manage. And I swear, if one more girl looks
enviously at my chest, I will hit her. If she wants them so badly, she can have
them.
I
fold my arms across my chest. “Damn right they’re not.”
Sam
sighs exasperatedly. “For God’s sake, this is Great Wolf Lodge, not a beauty
pageant. Now please take off your clothes and come on.”
Sam
just wants to get wet. But Cooper understands. This is when I realize that his
swim trunks are about three times longer than Sam’s, and he hasn’t taken off
his t-shirt, either. “I’ll stay with you,” he promises, and Sam rolls his eyes
and heads off, leaving me with Cooper.
“You
don’t have to swim,” Cooper says once Sam leaves.
“What
else is there to do?” I say stupidly, forgetting that the waterpark is not the
only entertainment option in Great Wolf Lodge.
Cooper
looks off in the other direction. “Come on,” he says, taking my hand almost
absently. “Let’s go the arcade.”
July
We
drive through West Virginia at five o’clock in the afternoon. It has been
pouring rain all day, but now the sun is just coming out. The landscape looks
washed-out, like the work of an amateur watercolor artist—dreamlike and pale
and hazy. I close my eyes and turn up the volume on my iPod, and hug my tiger
tightly.
Bethan.
That’s the tiger’s name. I don’t remember exactly why. I just remember that I
started calling her that, and it stuck. I remember that Cooper hit it big on
one of those game-token slot machines, and it put out about a hundred and fifty
tickets. Grinning like an idiot, he marched me up to the counter and asked me
what I wanted.
Slightly
dazed, more than a little surprised, I pointed to the tiger. The white tiger,
the endangered white tiger, my
favorite animal. The man working the counter handed it over, and Cooper handed
it over to me. I remember nuzzling the soft, plush toy and saying something
stupid about how I owed him. He said I didn’t.
Bethan
sits in my lap, brown eyes staring blankly ahead. I think if I look closely
enough, I can imagine that she’s real. If I look closely enough, I can almost
pretend that she will get me through this.
And
I wonder, as I look into her empty plastic eyes, How did it come to this, Cooper? How did it come to me relying on a
stuffed animal to keep from missing you? But it doesn’t work, I don’t miss
him any less. If anything, I just miss him more.
Bethan,
it seems, is falling down on the job.
February
February
in Northern Michigan. God forbid.
Everything
is encased in a thin casing of jewel-like ice, making the entire world look
like a huge, pristine diamond. Light layers of dusty white snow skirt across
every flat surface. Icicles the size of broom handles hang from every rooftop.
The world is a frozen wonderland. All emphasis on frozen. When I was a freshman I damn near died every time I went
outside from December to April.
And
yet it’s absolutely beautiful. I want to take a thousand pictures of it. I want
to take a piece of it with me back to D.C. and re-create this wintery beauty on
some hot, stifling July day, long after I’ve left this place for good.
Cooper
and I walk to the library together, our gloved hands interlaced. He suggests we
stop for hot chocolate in the café. We do. Once inside, he takes off his glove
to draw on the inside of the frosty window. A heart. My name, my initials—his
initials—together. He turns to me, self-conscious. He smiles.
I
am speechless.
He
goes to get us hot chocolate and gives me time to process what he has just
done, what he’s just told me. I can’t think straight. Imagine, if you will,
being handed everything you’ve ever coveted, carefully packaged inside one frosted
heart. It’s frightening—sweet, yes, but frightening.
But
he comes back, and puts his hand over mine when he sits down. His hand is so
warm from holding the hot chocolate, I can feel it through my glove. He’s
protective. It’s nice.
He
looks at me, and I’m not afraid. I crack the frosted heart wide open and accept
that he is handing me the world, and when he finally asks, outright, if I will
be with him, I say yes without hesitation.
July
North
Carolina is hot. Much, much hotter
than D.C.; I don’t know why I ever would’ve suspected otherwise. I lie in the
air-conditioned hotel room wearing short-shorts and the loosest tank top that I
own. So not classy—Maggie really would not approve—but I don’t care. The news
stations all call this a heat wave. I call it a heat apocalypse. I’d take a
northern winter a hundred times over right now.
I
check my phone every fifteen minutes. Cooper has not called. His parents have
kidnapped him for a family outing, I think, or maybe he’s just busy getting
ready for Vassar.
Vassar
really should be grateful. He could have gone to Princeton, Yale, Stamford,
Harvard, Notre Dame, USC, University of Chicago—but he chose Vassar. That
school should feel honored. They should give him a damn award for existing.
Sometimes I think that’s what our high school did—give him awards just for his
existence.
Meanwhile
I was the overlooked one. I was the wannabe Gus Van Sant who could never get
into a film festival. I was the girl who never got any recognition for breaking
a barrier that had been in place since the film department was formed. I did
not win a single award or get into a single film festival the entire time I was
at that school.
But
Cooper did. Cooper was successful enough for the both of us.
Cooper Finnegan, we
give you this award simply for being born. You are a miracle.
He
is a miracle, he is, and he is mine,
he said he was, and he will call me because he loves me. He loves me, he told
me so.
March
Three
days before Spring Break, Cooper comes rushing up to me mid-dinner. I’ve just
escaped from the Film Shoot From Hell and hope that he has good news; as long
as someone is happy I can put up with
just about anything. “Nori, you have to go check your mail!” he says, gasping
for breath, as he waves a huge white envelope in front of me. “I got in,
Nor—Vassar just sent me the letter this morning! Go check! I bet your letter is
waiting there!”
We
run back to my dorm together, my bad mood evaporating like dry ice. So far I’ve
gotten into all three of my safety schools—Calvin, DePaul, and Emerson—and two
of my target schools, Columbia Chicago and University of North Carolina. This
leaves Vassar, USC, University of Maryland, and Michigan State to reply.
My
mailbox is stuffed. There are two big white envelopes and four skinny,
pathetic-looking envelopes. Two of the skinny ones hold letters from my
cousins, one from Maya, who lives in New York, and one from Krystal, who goes
to University of Maryland—I put those aside; I’ll open them later. The two big
white ones are from University of Maryland and Michigan State. I don’t like
this, I don’t like this at all.
The
first non-letter skinny envelope is from USC. No surprises there. I hated the
idea of going to California for school anyway.
But
the second skinny envelope is from Vassar.
We regret to inform
you…thousands of qualified applicants…invite you to reapply…don’t be discouraged…qualities
that Vassar admires, however…cannot accept at the present time.
I
think Cooper’s hand is on my shoulder, but I am crying too hard to hear what
he’s saying.
July
I’m
not sure why I chose Calvin. Wait, strike that, I do: It’s because of my dad.
You
see, my father is a graduate of Calvin College, and he swears by their film
program. Never mind that after he left Calvin, he went into graduate school for
computer sciences and wound up as a project manager for a tiny computer company
that no one has ever heard of.
I
got a full scholarship to Calvin, thanks to my dad’s alumnus status. I only got
a half scholarship to Columbia Chicago, which is where I actually want to go.
My parents said, Don’t be silly, go
wherever you want to go. You can get a job next summer. We can help you apply
for outside scholarships. We can get money somehow. Don’t tie yourself down for
our sake.
But
I had to, I couldn’t just take their money again, they’ve done so much for me,
putting me through Great Lakes Art Academy and paying the fees for all my film
festival submissions. It wouldn’t be fair to make them pay for art school when
I don’t deserve it.
If
I am not good enough for Vassar, I reason, then I am not good enough to force
my parents to pay for Columbia.
“You
were good enough to get in, idiot,” Maggie has scolded me multiple times. “Your
parents want to see you happy. Go to Columbia, and for God’s sake stop worrying
so much!”
I
can’t stop worrying, because I am afraid that if I choose wrong—if I don’t make
exactly the right move, right now, today—I will end up flipping burgers and
begging people for money to make five-minute mumblecore shorts, while Maggie
publishes her novels and Sam releases chart-topping records and Cooper finds
the cure for cancer or writes the next Great American Novel or invents a new
musical instrument.
April
As
the rain melts away the last of the winter snow, Cooper and I run around in
every possible thunderstorm and drink the rainwater from our cupped hands. One
precious afternoon, we snag Sam and Maggie from their respective dorms and the
four of us run around in the rain together, splashing and singing and shrieking
like owls.
I
think it is Maggie who asks me to take pictures. I’m afraid for my camera, but she
reminds me that, like any good wannabe photographer, I carry clear plastic
shower caps as makeshift camera covers for precisely this situation. So I cover
my camera and start snapping photo after photo of Cooper, Sam, and Maggie
dancing in the rain, and somewhere between shots I begin to cry. Not because I’m
sad, not because I know that these moments will soon evaporate into memories,
but because I’m so happy that mere laughing and smiling just isn’t enough; I
need some other outlet for my emotions.
Cooper
notices my tears, despite the rain. He rushes over to me and takes my hands. “Are
you okay?” he asks, concerned.
The
late-afternoon choir practice has just let out and the underclassmen begin to
stream out of the covered amphitheater as he speaks, ending our solitude and
reminding us that we are, after all, on a campus and not in an enchanted fairy
glade. I look around, momentarily distracted. While I stare at the intruding
choral singers, Cooper gently takes my camera and puts it back in my waterproof
backpack. “No, don’t,” I protest, but he grabs my hands again.
I
hear Maggie say, “Come on, Sam…we’re in the way.” I don’t know what she means
by this; it’s not like they’re between us.
But
Cooper persists: “Why are you crying?” he asks, reaching up and gently brushing
tears and rainwater from my cheeks.
It’s
the most intimate touch he’s ever bestowed upon me and it sends more tears
streaming from my eyes. “Because I’m so happy,” I explain, and laugh even as
another river of tears escapes.
Cooper
leans down, his face inches from mine. My breath freezes in my throat; I’ve
never been kissed and he’s never shown any indication of wanting to kiss me. I’ve
never questioned that—it’s just who we are—but now, it seems, he’s changed his
mind. We agreed to go slow, that much I understand. This, I can’t get my head
around. If he wants a kiss he can have it, but oh, God, I have no idea what I’m
doing…
“I
prefer to see you smile,” he whispers, and gently plants his lips on my cheek,
kissing my tears away.
August
I
pack for college much the same way I packed for North Carolina: like I’m
preparing for certain doom. Once again, I have that feeling that I can’t leave D.C. because if I do, Cooper
won’t find me if—no, when—he comes
for me.
Mom
drags me through the mall, shopping for clothes. I have no problem finding
pants. Forever 21 has a sale, and I get what I think must be enough jeans to
make wall-to-wall tapestries for my bedroom. But tops? Forget it. My breasts
have specific requirements for tops. I end up getting unisex size-L and female
size-XL t-shirts to accommodate what I’ve begun to refer to as the Twin Planets…not
that I’m allowed to get many t-shirts anyway.
“Michigan
will be cold,” Mom reminds me—as if I could forget, after spending four years
in that Godforsaken boarding school.
Time
moves so slowly when you want to throw yourself into the nearest fire pit.
(Though D.C. being what it is in summertime, that’s not too far from reality.)
Dad hosts barbecue after barbecue, offers multiple times to throw me a
graduation party, offers to take me to the carnivals. I used to love carnivals.
Now I can’t remember for the life of me why I ever thought it was fun to be
whipped around on a huge metal structure that had in all probability been built
about twenty years before I was born.
“No,
thank you,” I say over and over.
Cooper
has written me exactly one time since I’ve gotten back from North Carolina—a
short, tense letter that made me wonder if he was okay.
Nori—I won’t be able to talk for
a bit. Going to New York for the week to check out Vassar with my parents.
—Cooper.
No
“love” this time.
Still
no calls.
May
Cooper
laughs as he watches me dance—or should I say, attempt to dance—in a black-and-white ballgown and black pumps. I’m
laughing too—at his hat—the most ridiculous thing, it looks like a graduation
cap had a love child with a patterned ski cap. Ke$ha—the one song of hers that
I can stand—blares out of the speakers, out-of-step with our “Phantom of the
Opera” prom theme.
Cooper
finds this song hilarious, especially the line “We make the hipsters fall in
love.” “Can I call you something tonight?” he shouts over the music.
“What?”
I ask.
“Hipster!” he replies, grinning like the
Cheshire Cat.
“And
damn proud of it!” I scream, and he shrieks back—a high, girlish sound—and
begins to dance with me.
We
dance like we are the stars of a music video. He grabs me by the hand and
twirls me around. I can’t stop laughing—not the delicate, girly kind of
laughing that most females do when trying to flirt, but real, honest,
exhilarated laughing. The kind of laughing you do when you are having the time
of your life.
Lights
flash, colored spotlights swinging freely around the fake-wood dance floor.
Around me is a mass of multicolored taffeta and satin and chiffon and lace,
some of it iridescent, some of it matte. I am a black-and-white dot in the
center of a giant kaleidoscope.
The
music pounds through my body like a drug. Dizzy, almost high, I grab Cooper by
his tie and pull him close. His hands come to rest on my hips. We are close, so
close, and I’m still laughing, laughing hysterically, and I’m so happy I can’t
breathe, and when we kiss I’m still laughing and I can feel his body trembling
against mine because he’s laughing too, even as his mouth clumsily, shakily
connects to mine.
Cooper’s
first kiss. My first kiss. A moment
to cherish.
August
Last
time I was at the dentist, they must have dosed me too heavily with Novocain.
That must be it. That must explain the cold numbness that has taken up
permanent residence in my body. Either that, or I just lost my virginity to a
Dementor.
I
stare at the clouds through the plane window. The man next to me seems a little
too interested in showing me pictures of his two-year-old daughter. His wife, a
gentle, scolding, motherly young woman roughly five years older than me,
continually tells him to “leave that poor girl alone, can’t you see she doesn’t
want to talk right now?”
I
turn up my iPod, blocking both of them out.
He
finally called.
I’m sorry, Nori.
I’m so sorry.
He
doesn’t want me anymore.
It’s the
long-distance thing. It’s too hard not being able to see you every day. I’m
sorry, Nori. I’m so sorry.
He
thinks I’m going to cheat on him.
This way we can
both go off to college and be free. You can be with someone else, without
worrying about me or thinking about what I’m doing….I’m so sorry, Nori. I wish
it didn’t have to be this way.
He
doesn’t want me.
It just isn’t going
to work. I’m sorry, Nori.
He
thinks I’m not good enough for him.
We’re just too
different…we have different lives, different values, different ambitions. I’m
sorry, I’m so sorry, Nori, I wish I could be with you, I really do.
That
was all he could say, on the phone, not even listening as I died, as I tried to
remember how to breathe—
I’m sorry, Nori, I’m
so sorry.
Like
fuck you are, I want to tell him. You’re not sorry. You’re better off without
me and we both know it.
I’m sorry, Cooper,
I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I love you. I’m sorry that I’m such a freak. I’m sorry
that you had to deal with me all that time. I’m sorry you had to take me to the
prom, I’m sorry you had to kiss me. I’m sorry I made you help me with my
homework. I’m sorry I made you feel guilty about getting into Vassar.
I’m
sorry, Cooper. I wish I didn’t love you.
May
It’s
the night before graduation.
Crying
parents, excited seniors, hyper siblings, wistful underclassmen. The works. The
seniors had a special picnic earlier today. Cooper laughed as I tossed pretzels
in the air and caught them in my mouth. We ran around the clearing and played
Frisbee with Sam and Maggie. Then he pinned me up against a tree and kissed me
even though I was wearing his least-favorite flavor of lipgloss. Strawberry,
for the record. He hates strawberry.
Now
it’s almost midnight and we’re dancing together for the last time at the
end-of-year party in the gym. Sam and Maggie have long disappeared. The DJs are
playing “Don’t Stop Believing” and I want to kick them, this is not the song I
want to hear last. “Don’t worry. It won’t be,” Cooper assures me when I
complain to him.
The
last song turns out to be one of my favorites—“All the Small Things” by
Blink-182. “Did you—?”
“Of
course I did,” he grins, and then begins to spin me around the dance floor as
if we’re in a ballroom instead of a gymnasium.
He’s
laughing in the same exhilarated way that we were laughing at prom, and I love
that he’s touching me, I love that he’s holding me and laughing with me, I love
that he’s so happy to be with me. I love that we feel so young, so immortal,
like this night will never end, like we can stay here with each other forever. I
love that he kisses me as the last chorus swells, and I love that just before
the song ends, he leans in and whispers in my ear—
“I
love you, Eleanor Harrison.”
August
There
are two songs I can’t hear without thinking of him. Neither of them are the
slow, sappy love songs you’d expect. It’s just those two—“We R Who We R,” the
song we danced to at senior prom, the song that was playing when we had that wonderful
first kiss—oh, God, how I wish we’d done that sooner, “going slow” be damned—and,
even worse, perhaps the worst of all, “All the Small Things.”
Because
he used to sing me that song.
Because
when he called me from the train station just before he went home, he called me
his “little windmill.”
Because
it was the quote in his signature at the end of his e-mails, and now it’s not,
and I know he’ll never change it back.
Because
he used to kiss me whenever I sang the chorus back to him in my thin, shaky
singing voice.
Because
he used to call me and sing me the chorus when I answered the phone.
Because
he used to make me playlists and share them on iTunes.
Because
he used to quote lyrics to me when I was having a bad day.
Because
he was the first boy to do any of that for me and I know that no matter how
many boys (though there won’t likely be many) do those same things for me, even
if I let them, it will never mean quite the same thing.
Because he used to love me.
[Avery Udell, 2013. Please credit me if you quote this story online, in person, or elsewhere. Thank you.]
