TWO
Daisies
Friday...
Mom and Frank haven’t been going to the bar. Instead they come home every night by six and try not to talk to each other. Every step is soft and every word is guarded. Their fight isn't over so much as dormant.
Over the last week we've all more or less retreated into our own corners. Even when the house is full, it's quiet. But the silence feels more like tension than peace.
Dan’s been scarce. I see him in the evenings through my bedroom window, climbing into his panel truck. When he comes and goes, he uses the door through the yard. He hasn’t mentioned his offer to play pool. He hasn’t mentioned anything.
Hannah calls a few times, inviting me out for five-dollar smoothies at the mall, but I tell her I'm busy. Homework, practice, whatever. It's almost not a lie. I open a blank document titled Valediction and stare at the blinding white page until my eyes hurt.
I play cello until my fingertips blister, but not Pachelbel's Canon in D—the song we’re supposed to be practicing for graduation. Instead, I saw out Bach's suites or Brahms' sonatas. Anything I know in the minor key.
I reread Hamlet until the spine cracks, but only Ophelia's parts. Her soliloquy becomes like a song stuck in my head and my thoughts carve into iambic pentameter.
That unmatched form and feature of blown youth,
Blasted with ecstasy. Oh, woe is me,
T' have seen what I have seen, see what I see…
The last day of spring break is marked by another gentle snowfall. A last-ditch effort from a relentless winter. The clock strikes six o'clock, then seven, then eight. Mom and Frank haven’t come home yet. I try to calculate their probable blood-alcohol levels based on our health class lectures. Then I factor in that they're probably making up for lost time. The shot of bourbon with every beer might be a double.
I can't understand why they do it. Thinking about it, I realize that this isn't a routine. Not exactly. These aren't earthquakes to relieve the pressure. There's a trajectory here, and I consider its arc.
They always fought, but a year ago Frank started walking out—disappearing for a day or two at a time. Six months ago Mom started smashing dishes. Frank responded by punching walls. 9-1-1 phone calls from neighbors soon followed.
This isn’t inertia; this is acceleration.
It's just after eight when I hear harsh voices cut the night. I glance out my window. Yellow streetlights throw Mom and Frank into silhouette. Down the other way, a turquoise panel truck sits parked. I’m surprised Dan is still here.
All week he’s been out of the house by seven. It doesn’t make sense that he’d stick around tonight of all nights. If I had a car, I would have driven away the second I realized they hadn’t come directly home.
There’s a jangle of keys dropping on the porch and a few muttered curses. I thumb a quick text to Hannah. A few seconds later my phone buzzes back:
Sorry, babe, I'm sleeping over at Kayla’s 2nite. U could come over here tho? Her parents r gone and we have schnapps ;)
Damn. All I know about Kayla’s house is that it’s way up in Birmingham, far from any bus stops. I reply that I can’t make it then add a frowny face.
Can't u get ride from ur bro? The words blink onto the screen. He can hang with us too :D
Dear god. I offer a few basic lies before signing off with a heart.
Stomping feet crisscross the house, shaking the walls like thunder. I bury my head under my pillow. Screams of “he’s a bad influence” and “don’t start that shit with me again” give way to the clatter of a chair being kicked over. A first fight after a break isn't usually as bad as this. Something heavy slams my wall so hard the Christmas lights tremble.
There's a fraction of a pause before, “Are you serious?” Mom's voice sounds calmer yet more venomous than before. It’s also close. Very close. Exactly where the bang on the wall had been. “Don't you raise your fucking hand at me unless you’re actually gonna do it.”
My phone glows under the tent of my blankets and I dial three numbers.
“9-1-1, what's your emergency?”
“The address is 230 East End Lane,” I whisper.
“Are you calling to report a domestic disturbance?”
“Uh, yeah.” I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised they know our address by now.
“Officers are on their way.”
With a click, she's gone. Another loud crash rumbles from the kitchen. It covers the sound of my window groaning open. Instead of climbing to the roof, I circle around the yard.
Through the door I hear guitar strings plucking. Every so often, a note rings false and he starts over. Dan hasn’t said a word to me since last Sunday. I haven’t tried to speak to him either. But right now I just want to go back to how things used to be when I could take refuge from fights in his room.
My teeth soon start chattering from cold. Unable to hold off any longer, I tap my knuckles gently on the door. The guitar stops and I hear footsteps drawing near. The door creaks open.
“Holy shit,” Dan says. Then he steps aside.
“Thanks.” My jaw still rattles as I descend the steps into the basement. A heady haze of marijuana smoke thickens the air. “I called the cops and didn't, you know, want to have to talk to them when they showed up.”
He just nods and hands me a blanket. Still shivering, I wrap it over my shoulders and drop cross-legged onto his futon. I’m not sure how to be so close to him after what happened. What didn’t happen. What might have happened. An infinity of could-haves billow between us. Most feel forbidden. I close the blanket tighter around myself like a shell to keep them out.
Smoke curls up through the air from a blown-glass pipe. A journal sits open on the bedspread, its pages crowded with hasty cursive. When Dan scoops up his pipe, the journal falls closed. He sparks the lighter over the bowl and inhales deep. Holding the smoke in his lungs, he offers me the pipe with raised eyebrows.
Muffled shouts filter in from upstairs and the ceiling quivers. When I take the pipe, my fingers graze his. I lift the swirled blue glass to my lips and let him light it for me. Dense-packed weed glows red under the flame, crackling as I draw a breath. Rough smoke hits my throat and I cough.
“I never smoke,” I croak.
He gives me a steadying pat on the back. “I know.”
Quickly, he moves his hand away and slides a stick of incense from a box. I notice a stack of library books—The Trial of Lady Chatterley; Eyes, Lies and Illusions; A People’s History of the United States. Beside them sits an ornate glass bottle. He drops in the Nag Champa before sparking his lighter at the end. Clouds begin to gather in my head. My skin tingles and my body feels as if it’s floating away. I lean back against the wall to feel something solid and he pulls his guitar back onto his lap. A few strummed chords sound off but soon he settles into a progression that works. Once the tune finds form, it starts to sound familiar.
“Wait…” I squint at him. “That's Clair de Lune.”
“If you say so.” He shrugs. “I heard you playing it and it sounded kinda familiar.”
“I only played it, like, twice.” His version is slightly simplified, a basic gist more than a proper recital, but it’s a pretty complex song. “You got all that just from hearing my cello?”
Another shrug. Dan starts switching between strummed chords and plucked notes, refining which moments carry the most weight. I slide my head down onto the pillow and let my mind drift. By the time my eyelids flutter closed, his arrangement is just about perfect.
Saturday...
I wake up slowly. Even before my dream fades entirely, I feel his chest rising and falling under my cheek. A faint heartbeat taps an even rhythm. Skin and clothes and blankets and air all feel exactly the same temperature. Only a spare few rays brighten the room, streaming in from the narrow windows at the ceiling.
Then I remember where I am. One of my knees crooks over his lap. One of his arms curls loosely around my back. My breathing stops, but otherwise, I don't move.
“Morning,” Dan mumbles. Then shifts. Somewhere in the gesture his arm tightens ever so slightly around my waist. Or maybe I’m imagining it.
I think I’m supposed to pull away. Instead, I let my head find the valley of his chest. For a second the tips of his fingers pass over the skin between my shirt and jeans.
Something flickers under my thigh. I remember junior year, in the trees at the edge of the football field, leaves crunching under my back, and Stuart Eichler's greedy mouth on mine. I remember the stiffness behind his fly rubbing against my skirt.
When Dan’s eyes catch mine, I can tell he noticed me noticing.
I panic and say, “Do you have a boner?” like it’s a joke.
“Yeah uh.” He rubs his eyes with an embarrassed smile. “I was asleep, so. You know…” He groans. “Sorry.”
Words crash together, crowding my throat, and I’m left unsure what to say. Neither of us move. Dead heat. But this time it feels as though we’re on the same team. If only I knew the object of the game.
“Sophia!”
The sound of my mother's voice makes us both start.
“Sophia! Where are you?”
"Shit," I hiss and leap off the bed.
“Sophia!”
Dan gives me a faint smile and I have exactly zero idea what to do with it. I tiptoe quickly up the stairs into the kitchen. Mom turns the corner just as the door shuts behind me. Her eyebrows knit together.
“Were you downstairs?”
“Yeah, I went down to play Xbox.”
The crease in her forehead deepens. “Do you go down there a lot?”
“Well it's not like there's an XBox up here so…”
For a second she doesn't do anything, but I don't feel like she's done with me yet.
“I'm surprised he's awake already,” she finally says. “It's not even noon yet.”
“Yeah.” I give a vague chuckle and bury my hands in my pockets.
“Well I've gotta go to the fucking county jail in Pontiac again.” She rummages for change in her purse. “It's gonna take all fucking day.”
It's three buses between here and Pontiac, at least two hours without traffic.
“Cool.” I nod before quickly adding, “I mean that sucks.”
“Yeah.” Mom's dry lips bounce off my cheek and she heads for the door. “You should get out of the house today. Call Hannah and see a movie or something.”
“Yeah,” I call back. “I think I will.”
The front door slams and I take a moment to breathe. My hair’s a mess and my armpits feel pinched and sore after sleeping in my bra. Back in my room, I tug open my drawer for a clean change of clothes. My hand hovers over my nicest pair of black underwear. I step into lace-trimmed boy shorts and slide them up to my hips. In the mirror, I spot the shadow curving into my thigh. A padded bra sits in a spiral at the back of my drawer. Suddenly I feel very stupid and yank a basic black skirt off a hanger. A gentle knock taps against my door just as I tug on a t-shirt.
“You left your phone in my room.” Dan's voice comes muffled.
“One sec,” I call back. Force of habit means my door is locked. When I pull it open, I’m surprised to see he’s beaming.
“Also.” He produces a thick, eight-and-a-half-by-eleven envelope. “I think you just got into Stanford.”
“What?” I seize the package and turn it over. “It's not opened. Did you read it?”
“It's huge.” He shrugs, perching on the end of my bed. “I don't think they'd send that much paper just to say you didn't make it.”
I bounce down onto the comforter and grin. While I don't want to jinx it, I can't help but think he's right. Information booklets and follow-up forms have no company with rejection notices. It’s not like they’d send me hundreds of pages of material just to explain how, exactly, I’d come up short. I tear open the flap. Dan looks almost as excited as I am. A one-page letter waits atop glossy catalogues and folders. My hand shakes as I slip out the sheet.
“‘Dear Sophie,’” I read aloud. “‘Congratulations! It is with great pleasure that I offer you admission’—oh my god this is really happening!” I hug the letter to my chest before rapidly mumbling through the rest. “Once again, I extend my congratulations on your admission to Stanford and welcome you to the Stanford Family.”
“What's that at the bottom?” Dan taps his finger toward a hand-scrawled note beside the signature.
I squint to make out the untidy cursive. “‘The Stanford University Symphony has their eyes on you!’”
“Holy shit!” He shakes my shoulder.
“I'm going to Stanford!” I throw my arms into the air.
“You're going to fucking Stanford!” He ruffles my hair.
When it feels like the moment when his hand should withdraw, it doesn’t. Instead, it slides down my cheek. I hold his gaze. I watch its twinkle harden. Thoughts flicker behind sea green, fast as a beating heart. I don’t know what they are but I think I know their shape.
My hand lands on his, an automatic gesture. I'm not holding it in place as much as checking that it's really there. His other palm slips behind my neck, so gentle it makes my skin shiver. I don't think I'm breathing.
Think, Sophia. Don’t do something stupid, Sophia. You’re smarter than this; use your head.
I don’t. It doesn’t matter anymore what I should or shouldn’t do. I’m propelled by a force as irresistible as gravity, as unstoppable as time. The space between us disappears. I part his lips with mine.
My heart leaps like I missed a stair in the dark. At first, the kiss is soft. With my eyes closed, I feel like I’m spinning. Then he pulls me closer, breathes me in, and the air vanishes from my lungs. Fingers tangle in my hair. His arms tighten around my back, behind my neck. Each muscle is iron. My chest pounds against his firm embrace. His kiss becomes more desperate.
Nothing about my room feels familiar anymore, as if it’s changed by his presence. While I’ve watched his lips for years, now I feel them. New territories reveal themselves to me as my curious hands rise along the length of his back. I feel him press closer, kiss me harder, and I’m dizzied by how quickly we race across lines. This is Dan, in my room, under my fingers. There’s no coming back from this. A soft moan boils in his chest.
The mattress crashes against my back and I gasp against his mouth. Firm hands circle my thighs, my chest. It’s as if he needs to feel all of me at once and I need the same. We kiss hard. My skin burns for him. When he starts to grind against me, I feel a pulse up my spine. A naked moan escapes my throat. Lips travel to my neck, down my collarbone. He explores up my shirt, over my bra. Under my skirt, over lace-trimmed panties. I think I might have conjured him here. Bare skin sparks under his touch.
I feel his fingers fumbling the button of his jeans and my heart races. Even though this happened fast, I can no longer pinpoint how it started. This should be impossible but instead it feels inevitable.
He pushes aside my panties and all major barriers between our bodies disappear. His pale eyelashes flutter and I feel him hard against my heat. Desire swells between my legs. My back arches.
“Oh fuck,” he groans, hips swaying. “Oh fuck.”
He pushes into me and something like a high chirp escapes me. I feel myself tighten around him. I grasp his back, hug my thighs against him. I am officially having sex. With Dan. With a graceful roll of his back he forces deeper.
“Fuck.” He pulls the word from my lungs. I hear his trembling breath beside my ear.
My fingers dig into his shoulders and I feel them quiver. Sweat beads on his brow. Each thrust pushes just a little farther. There’s a sting of pain each time, overwhelmed by my fevered need. The headboard knocks against the wall in lilting rhythm. Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—it starts to feel like a pagan chant.
His arms close around me, cradling my neck in the crook of his elbow. He tightens with want. He’s holding back. His ragged breath warms my neck. Then he breaks into me. The charge comes so sudden, so deep it tears a cry from my throat. I feel like I’m splitting in half. My fingers seize handfuls of his shirt. I didn’t know he could go so much deeper.
For a second, Dan doesn’t move. His once-shuddering breath seems to stop. I don’t want him to stop.
Quickly, unceremoniously, he slides out of me. I see a muscle pulsing in his jaw as he looks down. When he speaks, his voice is toneless. “Are you on your period?”
“What?” My shoulders still tremble, my chest still heaves. “No.”
“Shit.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Shit.” He pulls farther away from me.
I try to draw myself up but my weakened arms buckle. Dan just scrubs his face with his palms.
“This… I didn’t…” The bed rises and falls as he stands. “Fuck.”
The room around me looks even stranger, more foreign. Seconds stretch, slowed by the adrenaline flooding my veins. Each detail of him appears sharp and vivid. Tattoos curl down his arms to his hands. I now know how they feel beneath my fingers. I don’t want him to leave. I can’t let this end before I understand what’s begun.
“I'm sorry.” He shakes his head. “This is… I’m sorry.”
“Dan—” My voice cracks. “Wh—”
For the second time, I watch him disappear without a backward glance. Ghosts of his touch still linger on my skin. They fade alongside the sound of his Chevy disappearing down the street. There's blood between my legs.