Tonight we’re watching Mad Mad Mary, one of my favourite horror classics. I’m on my bed, legs crossed, and Luke is slumped on my sill. I didn’t ask him to sit so far away; he just sort of gravitated towards the window.
‘Who does that?’ he says. His eyes are on the TV. My eyes are on him, wondering for whose sake he’s bypassed the bed. I conclude he’s done it for me, but out of nowhere, for the smallest of seconds, I wish he’d done it for himself. ‘Don’t go up. Go out.’ The guy in the movie, the lead, runs straight past the door and takes off up the stairs. Luke starts reciting a list of mistakes the characters in horror movies make, a mental list I’ve made a thousand times before. It feels good to have someone to share with.
‘Don’t move to a house that’s a million miles away from anywhere,’ I add.
‘Yes.’ He almost chokes on a spoonful of ice cream. ‘Switch on the lights the second you hear a strange noise.’ I laugh so hard the urge to pee hits me.
‘I’ll be right back,’ I say, climbing off the bed. He hits pause on the movie. I try not to get teary over how considerate he is.
One relieved bladder and two fresh squirts of Mom’s perfume later, I float back down the landing, so happy I feel like there should be bluebirds frolicking overhead and stems of sweet roses to stop and sniff. Anxiety is forced to trail ten paces behind me.
I stop when I get to my room because I can hear Luke talking and I don’t want to gatecrash his call. ‘When?’ he says into his cell. ‘Next Friday? Are you serious?’ I see him through the crack in my door, pacing. Excitement has erupted on his face. ‘Yes. Awesome. Can you get me two tickets?’ Pause. Face scrunch. Headshake. Someone pulls the plug on his smile. He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Actually, dude, I’m not going to be able to make it. I already have plans.’ He laughs. ‘What makes you think they’re with a girl?’ My heart leaps into my throat. ‘There might be.’ Pause. ‘She might be.’ He perches on my bed, reaches for the antique silver photo frame that sits on top of a wicker table. He smiles at the picture of me blowing out eighteen candles on my seventeenth birthday – had to round the candles up to the nearest even number so as not to upset my psyche. Lame.
‘Trust me. You don’t know her.’
Anxiety catches up to me; I wobble when it slams into my back. Me. It’s me that’s pulled the plug on his smile.
‘Nah. Don’t worry about it. I’ll catch them next time. Thanks anyway, man.’ He hangs up, tosses his phone in the air and catches it. He’s all happy-go-lucky again as he heads back to his safe seat on the windowsill. I push my body up against the wall, count to ten as my finger carves out a crevice in my palm.
We need to talk. He can’t start missing out on things for me. He can’t do that. That’s like climbing into a car with its brakes cut. Disaster imminent.
I head back into the room, watch my feet move, one in front of the other. Everything feels uneven, so I use the furniture to ferry me back to my bed.
‘Norah. Are you okay?’ He sits up, startled.
‘Sure. You know me . . .’ I dismiss the worried expression he’s throwing my way with a wave. ‘Stability of spaghetti.’
‘Is the movie too much?’ He gets off the sill, walks over, sits on the very edge of my bed. ‘We can watch something else.’
‘No!’ I protest a little too intensely. ‘I mean, honestly, I’m fine.’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll quit bugging you.’ He stands up.
‘You can . . .’ A heatwave washes over me. ‘You can sit over here with me . . . if you want to.’
‘Sure.’ I revel in the way the bed shifts when he sits back down, more on than off this time.
The rest of the film plays out, but I don’t tune in. Between his proximity and trying to figure out how to mention his phone call, which I’m totally going to have to confess to eavesdropping on – ugh – my mind is a hot mess. I’ll figure it out. I really wish Mom’s question from this morning wasn’t starting to make more sense.
When Luke suggested we sit and count stars the following Friday, I was suspicious. You normally find stars outside, after all. But then he showed up at my house with a projector.
We’re lying on my bed like soldiers, arms by our sides, legs together, too afraid to touch, and watching space swirl around on my ceiling. It’s impossible to count the stars, there are so many, flickering like diamonds on a black backdrop.
My iPod is on shuffle. Rock chicks have been commandeering the airwaves for an hour, but then some dude starts strumming his guitar and, with a soft voice, begins singing about holding the girl he loves. My concentration abandons the stars and I focus hard on the lyrics of the love song, the love song with lines that, somehow, speak directly to my current situation.
The invisible barrier between us . . .
The ache in my heart . . .
The burn of constant curiosity . . .