Fade In:
SLIP BACK INTO NOELLE’S SKIN
Today will be the best day you’ve had in a long while, Noelle, because today you’ll get to spend time with Grace. You actually bought her birthday present in December, meaning to give it to her for Christmas. But she spent winter break with her family in Vail, and every time you tried to meet up with her after that, she was busy with other things.
with you.
You were afraid she wouldn’t come by this time, afraid she’d find yet another excuse to stay away. Other than seeing her at church occasionally—something you make sure will happen—you don’t remember the last time you met up with her. Must have been late November, when you were still in school.
God, how you wish you were back there, celebrating your senior year with prom and pep rallies. You tried to stay, but the increasing workload, coupled with testing, testing, testing, was exhausting and left you vulnerable to seizures. You’ve had a couple in classrooms, and one on the soccer field. Neither peers nor teachers were exactly sympathetic.
Now you do online learning. Low pressure. Self-directed. Boring as hell. Even that requires some modifications because you can’t stay in front of a computer for too long. So you read printed text as much as possible, listen to lectures without the visual stimulation of the video seminars, and only tap into the virtual arena to check boxes on their programmed tests. Sometimes even that gives you the headaches that signify the approach of an “event,” as your dad calls them.
At least you’ll earn your diploma, and everyone says that’s what matters. But college is a distant dream, one that won’t materialize because the pressure would be debilitating. As for a career, your options are extremely limited. Ditch digger, maybe.
As if you could be trusted
with a shovel.
You command yourself to stop thinking, already. It’s Saturday. No schoolwork today and you need to eat. With luck, your parents will already be finished and immersed in some activity. No oversight means buttered toast!
Unfortunately, however, no such luck. Your mom and dad are at the table, sipping coffee and drinking smoothies. Dad looks up from his newspaper. “Morning.” He lifts his glass. “We left you some in the refrigerator. Banana-carrot-kale.”
“No wonder it’s such a disgusting color.” Hopefully it will taste better than it looks. You’ll just have to find something more substantial later.
“So how did everything go last night?” asks Mom.
When Cami dropped you off, they were both in bed, pretending not to be waiting up. But their TV was on, so you know they were awake and doubtless anxious. Your mom checked up on you four times over the course of the evening.
“A-OK, just like I told you every time you called last night.”
You pour your liquid breakfast, plus a cup of coffee, which you sweeten with sugar and cream, silently daring your parents to say one goddamn word. They notice, but remain quiet, and you join them at the table, pretending to listen to their banter.
Meanwhile you think about last night, and the tiff you had with your sister. She and Rand got home a few minutes before midnight. You expected them later and asked Cami why they were so early.
“Grace and I had a little argument, and after that things weren’t so much fun, so we called it a night.”
When you asked what they had words about, you couldn’t believe Cami’s story. “You seriously told her everyone should be armed?”
She shrugged. “Why lie?”
“Why say anything? Cami, Grace’s dad was murdered, and the same gun ruined me. How can you think guns make people safer?”
“I’m well aware that you two happen to be prejudiced against firearms. But that’s on you, not on me. I think everyone should be prepared to defend themselves or their families. There are lots of crazy people in the world, you know.”
Prejudiced? Maybe that’s so, but not the way she thinks. Carrying a gun around to look important, intimidate, and maybe even use when you’re pissed at a driver who’s going too slowly in front of you is ridiculous, and so is Cami’s neurotic lust for a weapon she’ll never have a use for.
Your parents used to keep guns. In fact, your mother taught you and Cami to shoot, something she learned growing up in New Mexico. “Better to understand and respect firearms,” was her philosophy. But after the accident, after your brain rewired itself, sometimes dropping you deep into pits of depression, they got rid of them.
But they don’t know everything,
do they?
Honestly, in those times when you’re sucked under, you’ve fantasized about putting a barrel into your mouth and pulling the trigger. The gun wouldn’t have to be new or expensive. You could buy it used, and it would be worth every penny to be assured, if and when you made that decision, there’d be no turning back. Most girls, you’ve read, prefer other methods. Usually boys choose a bullet. But as long as you did it correctly, it would be quick. Painless. An escape from pain, in fact.
Regardless, the conversation does get you thinking. Maybe, now that a wedge has been driven between Grace and Cami, just maybe this is the time to initiate some sort of reconciliation between Grace and you.
Truthfully, had you stayed in school, it would’ve been harder for Grace to cut ties. How would that have looked? And Grace truly does care about how her reputation is shaded. “Dump your bestie because her brain is clearly not working the way it should” could possibly have put her in a hideously colored spotlight. Then again, people can be cruel.
“Don’t you think?” It’s your dad’s question, but the reference is totally lost on you.
“Sorry. My mind was wandering. Think about what?”
He gives you a you can’t be serious look. “We were talking about spring break. Maybe taking a little trip to Hawaii?”
“Hawaii?” Somehow you missed that.
“Yes,” says your mom, “we’ve decided to do something special for your birthday this year, and since it happens to coincide with your vacation for once, this is the perfect opportunity.”
“You can bring a friend if you want,” adds your dad, completely missing the fact that your pal list is practically nonexistent.
Only one person comes to mind and she’ll be here later. This could be the very thing to lure her back into your sphere. “You mean, you’ll pay for everything?”
“Including the sunscreen,” agrees Dad. “But it’s BYOB.”
“What does that mean?”
“Bring your own bikini.”
You laugh, even though there’s zero chance of you wearing a bikini. You’ll have to go shopping for a suit that will fit your body. Maybe you and Grace can go shopping together and . . . And you haven’t even asked her yet. She wouldn’t say no to Hawaii, though, would she?
A sunburst of hope scatters endorphins throughout your brain. Spring break is two months away. If you start right now and stay focused, you could drop a few pounds so you don’t have to wear a swim caftan. The last thing you’d want is for Grace to be embarrassed by your company.
“I think I’ll take a walk.”
In unison, your parents glance at you, then look at each other and smile. Apparently it’s a plot, but that’s okay. You know they’re conspiring out of love.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“It’s just a walk, Mom. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, but take your phone. Just in case.”
One of the things that sucks about having epilepsy is how everyone worries about you all the time. Bad enough you have to worry about yourself. You’ve noticed the stress lines on your mom’s face deepening, and there can be no other reason than fretting about you.
You down your smoothie, which doesn’t taste bad despite its sickening hue, pour half your coffee down the drain, and head outside into the vibrant Arizona sunshine. It isn’t very hot, maybe sixty-five. Still, despite the slow pace you set, you’re sweating by the time you reach the corner. Huffing a little, too. Maybe this exercise thing was a dumb idea after all.
But now your thoughts turn to Grace and the wild notion that maybe she’ll agree to travel to Hawaii with you. Spend a week in a steamy tropical paradise with you. Now, you’ll be ecstatic if she agrees to go as your friend, but once you would’ve prayed for something closer to romance.
Grace is the only person in the world who knows for sure you’re queer. You weren’t certain yourself until a few years ago. You’ve always admired pretty girls, never thought twice about the way your eyes were drawn to the swing of their hips or curves at the dip of their necklines. In elementary school, unlike some of your classmates, you much preferred female company to that of roughneck boys.
But then middle school rolled around, and with burgeoning adolescence came feminine cattiness. It was all about competition, and mostly they competed for the attention of guys. The word “lesbian,” if uttered at all, was hissed as an insult, along with the abbreviated “lez” or highly favored “dyke.” You threw those words around a few times yourself.
You tried to fit in, tried flirting with boys. But on those rare occasions you were successful, somehow kissing them wasn’t a huge turn-on, and their hungry fingers fumbling to unbutton your blouse or touch you there only made you feel dirty, rather than desired.
Thank God you had Grace for your best friend. She never judged. Never called you weird or a loser for failing with boys. In fact, the two of you laughed about it.
Grace, of course, was pretty much perfect from the day she was born, at least to an outside observer. She could have any guy—or girl, for that matter—she waggled her finger at, and she never rubbed that in, either. There are things about her most people would never suspect, a darker side. A secret side. For you, that only intensifies her magnetism.
It was around eighth grade that you began to suspect your love for her meant more than simple friendship. Back then, she felt the same way, or at least pretended to. You were so close, moving into the forbidden zone felt completely natural, an outpouring of the desire for complete connection.
You didn’t dare out yourselves in public, but sleepovers took on new meaning. In the beginning it was just spooning, soaking in each other’s body heat, the exhilarating scent of sun-basted female skin. Easy, then, to caress each other, every brush of fingers cloaked in innocence.
“Infatuation” isn’t strong enough to cover the way you felt, because that word implies something temporary, and you’re still smitten. But on Grace’s end, the ardor eventually cooled. She was adamant no one else should ever find out, though you would have been happy to stroll down any street or corridor, holding her hand. The rending was subtle, a single thread unraveling a seam.
And then came the accident. It was the final blow. You suspect she turned completely off, seeing you in the hospital, face bloated like a corpse in the sun, hair shaved, accommodating the removal of a slice of your skull to alleviate the swelling in your brain. Yes, you were a beauty, okay.
That was also the time Grace went religious, seeking confirmation that death is only a pathway to the next life. After you were released from the hospital, you followed her there and honestly, though you’re still not sure about heaven or God, you’ve found some solace within worship.
There, too, you discovered a cause. It surprised you, really. You’ve lived in Tucson your entire life, but never really understood the depth of the hatred some people here harbor for their south-of-the-border neighbors.
As a Latino immigrant, your pastor is leading a charge against such prejudice, organizing a pro-immigration rally on Monday. You’ll be there, standing elbow-to-elbow with others who believe in an easier path to citizenship. You’ve heard there will be thousands there, which is at once elating and petrifying. But you’re determined to manage it.
Walking the approximate speed of that proverbial tortoise, you circle three long blocks in around forty minutes. Not bad, considering it’s the lengthiest continuous distance you’ve managed for many months. The last real exercise you got was PE the first semester of your junior year.
You’d think a gym teacher would be at least somewhat familiar with epilepsy. But not Ms. Harrison, who had no desire to understand your disability. Meds or no, you can still have seizures, and that one was triggered by the onset of your period. Hormones again. You happened to be running across the field when you felt it coming, so you stopped and sat quickly rather than fall. A few of the girls gathered around you, along with Ms. Witch.
You entered the tunnel. When you finally emerged again, disoriented and woozy, lying in grass that smelled like an unlit cigar, she wasn’t even there. Candace said she’d gone to get the nurse, but you never saw them. And after that, you decided to take the F.
Fortunately, there will be no more PE classes. But, as tired as you feel after forty easy minutes, you realize you should have cared more about taking care of yourself. To do this again tomorrow will require force of will, something you’re in short supply of.
Might as well give up right now.
No matter how hard you try
Back in the house, you take a quick shower, then dress in a pretty shift, one that conceals a couple of bulges, pick up a book, and read until Grace arrives. She promised to be here by two, but shows over an hour late. That’s okay. Not like you were going anywhere, and when you open the door, see her standing there, a huge wave of joy slams into you.
“Come in! God, it’s so great to see you.”
She returns your hug. “You, too. How have you been?”
“Good. I’m good. Let’s go to my room.”
You take her hand, lead her down the hall, marveling at how soft her skin is, smoothed by some lotion that smells like melon. Once you’re through the door, you turn on some music. You want to jump straight to Hawaii, but decide to wait, hoping she’ll hang out for a while. “Sit. Tell me what’s up with you.”
“Not much, really. School, yeah. That’s going okay. Only three more months to graduation. Oh, I got accepted at U of A. Can’t see the need to leave Arizona to get a teaching degree.”
A thrill shoots through you. She’ll still be close next year!
“Are you going to prom?”
“Nah. Too expensive, and Daniel doesn’t have a lot of spare cash. I mean, my parents would probably cover it, but I think it would make Daniel feel bad. I’ve been to prom. It’s not all that.”
Daniel. Too bad his name had to come up, but of course it did. “How are you two doing?” Behind your back, you cross your fingers, willing her to say she wants to break up with him.
“We’re solid. He’s waiting for me at the mall, by the way, so I can’t stay too, too long.”
He means more to her than you do.
But then, you already knew that. Anger crackles, hardwood in a fireplace.
“Waiting . . . ?”
“Yeah. He’s been staying at my house for the past couple of days. Took the time off work and everything. My parents are gone until Monday, so he’s keeping me company.”
He’s doing more than that, you know.
Now the crackling intensifies.
“That’s nice. At least he’s off the streets.” That was kind of obvious. Change the subject. “Cami says Silas is spying on you. Creepy, huh?”
“Totally. And I’m not sure what to do about it.”
“Call the cops.”
“And tell them what? He hasn’t really done anything.”
You state the obvious. “Yet.”
“Correct. But, like Rand said last night, the police work after the fact, and it’s not like Tucson cops don’t have more important stuff to do than track down a guy over a ‘maybe.’ I couldn’t even get a restraining order without him actually threatening me.”
Good point. “Well, please be careful. If anything feels off—”
“Dial 911.”
“Exactly.” You let it drop, veer away from the subject, toward something more positive. “Oh, hey. Hang on.”
You go over to your dresser, pick up the little package sitting atop it. It’s wrapped in bright red foil, with a silver bow, but Grace won’t necessarily realize that’s symbolic of Christmas. And even if that thought crosses her mind, it’s what’s inside that counts, not when you bought it.
When you turn, she’s waiting, and the smile on her face, pre-gifting, is priceless. You offer the present with a heartfelt “Happy birthday.” If only you’d thought to get a cake.
Grace removes the paper carefully, opens the small box, revealing the sterling silver bracelet you shopped so diligently for. She studies the charms you chose with much consideration: a dragonfly, symbolizing freedom; a yin-yang symbol, for opposites attracting; and, of course, a heart.
“You can add more.” Again, you state the obvious.
“Maybe one day. For now, these are perfect. Help me put it on?”
You do, and she rewards you with another hug, punctuated by a sweet kiss on the cheek. It meant nothing but friendship, you know, but still it makes you blush. “You like it?”
“I love it. Thank you.”
She’ll want to go soon, so you hurry. “Hey. For my birthday, my parents are taking me to Hawaii. They said I could bring a friend. Want to come with? Dad says they’ll pay for everything except a new bikini.”
Surprise—the pleasant kind—lights her eyes. “Seriously? Wow. That would be fun. I’ll have to check with my parents, of course.” But now she sobers. “You—you’ll be okay on a plane for that long, right?”
“We wouldn’t be going otherwise.”
Looks like you’ll have to go over the epilepsy primer with Grace. She should know how to help in case there’s a problem. But, hey, whatever. You’re pretty sure she just agreed to go.
She’s got plenty of time to change her mind.
Fade Out