I’m not a fixer-upper, you know? Like one of those ranch houses people snap up on the cheap, slap on some paint, and then sell at a huge profit? If someone genuinely digs me, then they don’t think I should change to fit into some random societal construct. Not cool to suggest it, either. I’d rather be alone.
That’s when I notice Simone’s staring at my dreds. Aw, man, she’s not going to try to tweak me, too? Almost subconsciously, I raise my hands to my hair, like I’m trying to protect it.
“I brought something for you. Have you ever considered...” She pauses as if to gather her thoughts, or maybe courage.
Well, Simone, I think, this was fun while it lasted.
She says, “This might be weird and you’re welcome to say no, but I’ve been carrying around these Hindu prayer beads that I think would look amazing strung on the tips of your hair. Wanna look at them?”
Pretty sure my smile in response is more golden than magic hour.
*
“I could have a brilliant career ahead of me in the hairdressing arts,” Simone says, all pleased with the job she’s done.
I nod, then turn my head right and left, feeling the weight of the beads. Makes me happy that they’re special to her and that they came from the other side of the world. She said she’d picked them up in an open-air market in sub-Saharan Africa and everyone would travel from miles around to shop there. Vendors would set up their stalls on the dirt, stacking up their wares, the market’s air thick with the smoke of cooking fires, which helped repel the flies, and the African moms would do everything with their babies strapped to their backs with brightly colored strips of cloth. She described the scene so vividly that I itched to capture it on film.
Bottom line, I’m inspired when I’m with Simone. And I liked the warmth that radiated to my back from her legs while I leaned into her as she sat on the riser behind me, stringing my beads while telling stories about her travels. Felt real natural. Comfortable as an old habit, but still exciting.
These beads are more than just an accessory; they’re proof that she sees me as I see myself. I’m not afraid she’s gonna show up at my house next week with a package from Vineyard Vines, saying how “totes adorbs” some pink collared shirt might look on me.
She likes me for me.
“These are the best,” I say, pinching one between my thumb and forefinger before letting it fall. I scoot back up onto the riser to sit beside her.
“Right?” she agrees, beaming.
“You’re the best,” I add.
At this, she leans in closer, like she’s feeling my vibe. I’m stoked at how she doesn’t find me wanting, not a renovation project, not a Before picture. I was taking my time with her, afraid of, I don’t know, maybe the inevitable disappointment? But I trust her now and I’m ready to make a move. Like Rousseau says, “Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.”
Let’s do this.
I angle in for the kiss, quiet and deliberate-like because our eye contact is so intense. I move in excruciatingly slow, building anticipation. If our lives were a feature film, this is when the score would swell as our faces come together. I wanted the moment to be right and it finally is. Her breath is sweet from the Coke, mingling with mine as we exhale at the same time. But right before our lips come in for a landing, the riser we’re sitting on shakes briefly but violently.
“What the bloody hell?” Simone says, her head snapping up, the moment broken. We look over to see Mallory Goodman barreling up the bleachers.
Figures.
I say, “Mallory’s always out here.”
“You know her?”
I nod, delighting in how the beads clack with the motion, like my own personal castanets. Every time they bang together, I’ll think of Simone and this, the beginning of the beginning. “Sure,” I say. “I’ve known Mal forever.”
“Mal...” Simone rolls the nickname around on her tongue, like she’s trying to determine if she enjoys the flavor, then finds it wanting. “You’re friends, then?”
She almost sounds jealous, but we were never like that and I’m quick to convince her. “Back when we were kids.”
Simone’s shoulders, which had inched up around her ears, ease down. Her reaction is confirmation that we’re feeling the same thing. This gives me a surge of dopamine, a better high than any street narcotic.
I explain, “Our parents all grew up in North Shore and they went to school together so everyone’s known everyone forever. Our folks used to hang out so I spent a lot of time with her family. Her brother Holden’s a real Zen dude.”
“The footballer?”
“That’s Theo. He’s okay, even if he’s kind of a meathead, which is way less interesting. He’s pretty much eat, sleep, football, repeat. Holden’s my favorite. He’s older, out of college. When I was a kid, he’d talk about ‘escaping the Matrix,’ and he’s in the Peace Corps now, so I guess he did.”
Holden used to say this place wasn’t reality, but he didn’t start to hate North Shore until one of his friends shot himself with his father’s hunting rifle. His buddy was wait-listed by Brown and figured since his life was over anyway...
God, that was sad.
I was just a kid, but I remember it clearly, maybe because it marked the beginning of a real bad trend around here. Used to think I was so far removed from suicide, because it happened only with kids who were way older. But after Paul this summer, and then Macey Lund, I realize that we’re the older kids now.
I wish that I hadn’t grown apart from Paul when we hit junior high, but we didn’t have much in common outside of a similar address. But everyone in this ’hood splintered. With Paul, he dug being onstage and I was into science and sports. Our interests didn’t overlap at all. Still, I have to wonder...if we’d stayed close, would things have been different?
Holden was messed up for a long while after his friend died. I get that; I do. Didn’t really pull himself together until he decided the best way to honor his friend’s life was through service to others. I wonder if he wasn’t on the right track.
“Are your families all still tight?” Simone asks, snapping me out of my reverie.
“Nope, they had a falling-out.”
Her eyes twinkle. “Ooh, that sounds rather gossipy. Do tell.”
I wave her off. “You’d assume it was standard old people stuff, like someone shaved a few too many strokes off their short game. But what really happened was a big fight about academic standards. There was some scandal about test scores or something and part of the town believed one thing, and the other part felt a different way. What started off as a conversation got ugly fast one night over dinner and then that was it. Finito.”