His Words

By Rebby Berard

“What are you doing?”
“Watching turtles.”
“Isn’t that boring?”
“Nah, they’re cool.”
“I guess so…”
“Look, those two are friends!”
“Like us.”
“Just like us.”
“They’re probably all friends.”
“Or family.”
“Either way, I’m more lonely than these turtles.”
“Ah yes, this is a conversation between you, Allen Jameson, and me, chopped liver.”
“Dev, you know what I mean.”
“How you think you have no friends.”
“Yeah, that.”
“Well, you’ve got me.”
“Till graduation…”
“Til forever!”
“Dev, college, you know this.”
“Don’t be such a downer.”
“Am I wrong?”
***
I hate walking home alone. The issue is that you never know if there’s actually somebody around. They could be unlocking their door or sitting on their porch, riding their bike or driving past with the windows open. You’re never alone, not really, and the anxiety of somebody seeing me before I see them is so great it makes me quake.
***
“You should get a new backpack. The tear is getting bigger.”
“I like my backpack! It has personality.”
“You’re gonna lose your books.”
“You’re gonna lose a friend if you keep pointing that out everyday.”
“So dramatic!”
“I’m dramatic?”
“Only slightly.”
“Liar.”
“Meanie!”
“Child.”
“Loner!”
“…Dev.”
“…Sorry.”
“It’s ok…”
“Don’t lie to me, Allen.”
“Ok.”
***
Mom wanted to be an astronaut. She wore long dresses and hippie headbands and she wanted to go to space. She was born in Michigan, but moved all over the country. She could speak in nearly every American accent, but couldn’t pick a favorite. I wasn’t the first baby. She had given one away for adoption as a teenager. We had met him. He was ok. Sally was born when I was six. She was small and pink with little wisps of blond hair and I loved her more than I loved chocolate bars or recess. I would spend hours making her laugh. Now I have to work hard for a smile.
***
“Sally thinks Pluto is still a planet.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Not for a few years.”
“Eh, Pluto’s basically a planet.”
“It’s too small.”
“You’re too small.”
“C’mon!”
“Why does she think that?”
“She’s been reading old textbooks.”
“Your mom’s?”
“From college, yeah.”
“She seems cool.”
“She was.”
“Does Sally think so?”
“Sal loves her.”
“Don’t you?”
“I… miss her.”
“I know. But can’t you love her too?”
“My dad can’t.”
“You’re not your dad.”
“Yeah, Dev, I love her.”
“…I love you.”
“What’d you say?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what was it, I couldn’t hear.”
“It was nothing, Allen, just that I’m… proud of you.”
“Cool.”
***
I had a teacher who thought I was cursed my first year of high school. She made us write in journals and when she read my entries she became convinced six was my “magical number.” She was a young teacher, still excited and attentive to her class. That made me nervous. I think she thought I was interesting, like a puzzle, she wanted to know more about me and I wanted to stay a secret. I had my counselor switch my class second semester. She still smiles at me in the halls and it makes my stomach change density.
***
“We should cloudwatch.”
“What?”
“Cloudwatch. Y’know like in the movies, lie on the grass and look at the clouds.”
“Why?”
“For fun!”
“How is that fun?”
“Get on the grass, Allen.”
“But how is it supposed to–”
“Get on the graaaaass.”
“I’m getting!”
“Good.”
“Why are you so demanding?”
“Why don’t you just listen to me?”
“Why would anyone listen to you?”
“Nobody seems to.”
“I do.”
“I know.”
“So what do you see in the clouds?”
“Something beautiful.”
***
Dev showed up at the end of last year. He was new, a sophomore in private school. His hair was long, like old pictures of my uncle Johnny from the 60s, and he was taller than me, but skinny as a toothpick. He walked dogs over the summer. I could see him from the park basketball courts where he passed by most days. I played a lot of basketball that summer. A week before school started his hair was chopped short. He shared my path home from school. We were chatting by Labor Day.
***
“What’s with the long sleeves?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who wears long sleeves in October? It’s like 70 degrees.”
“The school building’s cold.”
“Not that cold! What’s under there, Al, a tattoo? Or a…a… bruise…”
“Dev… j-”
“How did that happen?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Did he do that?”
“It doesn’t hurt or anything.”
“Allen, did he hit you?”
“It was really nothing– ok– he-he-had a bad day.”
“A bad day? You’re blaming this on his bad day?”
“Dev, I didn’t say that he did anything.”
“Did your father hit you, Allen?”
“…yes.”
“I’m gonna kill him.”
“Dev, stop.”
“He shouldn’t do that!”
“Yeah, well, you can’t do anything to stop him.”
“Allen, what the fuck? He hurt you.”
“Please. Don’t hurt me too.”
“I… Allen, you have to do something.”
“What can I do?”
“More than I can.”
“Dev, no I can’t.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“It’s not that big of-”
“Don’t. Lie to me.”
***
Sally found the viola at four. She’d managed her way into the attic and pulled it out from among the boxes. It had been our grandfather’s. He’d played it in a ballet school’s orchestra until the war. Our grandma was a dance student there. Sal started lessons by five. She sucked. Really, it was painful to listen to, but after a few long years, and an insane amount of money spent on noise-canceling headphones, she’s almost a master. Sure, most kids learn to play instruments pretty quick, but she is basically a prodigy! At least in my eyes. Sal loves her viola. I hope one day she can play it for the world. I hope one day I can help her get there.
***
“I want a nap.”
“Can’t you take one?”
“I haven’t had one in years.”
“Oh.”
“It’s cool, I like staying busy. So much work to do.”
“Homework?”
“Sure.”
“Me too.”
“How do you get it all done on time?”
“Well, I used to get home earlier.”
“Are you saying I slow you down?”
“It’s worth it.”
“As if you had a choice to walk with me.”
“You know I’d still be here.”
“I know.”
“Good. That’s… good.”
***
I imagine him in my bed some nights when my bones feel chilled and I can’t sleep. His deep brown curls on my pillow. His face inches from mine… our legs in a mess of tangles… His presence keeps me safe. On the nights when dad’s voice fills the house like smoke Dev holds me so tightly as I cry I can almost smell him… some nights… until Sally knocks on my door just like mom used to and Dev fades away so she has room in my arms. We cry. Then she drifts her way to sleep. And I promise again to protect her forever.
***
“What do you want for Christmas?”
“You don’t have to get me anything.”
“C’mooon, I want to!”
“Well… I have been getting close to the end of my journal…”
“You write in a journal?”
“Yeah, sometimes.”
“What do you write?”
“Anything. Stuff I think, stuff I feel, stuff I want to remember.”
“Secrets?”
“I don’t have anything good enough to hide from people.”
“Do I count as people?”
“I guess so.”
“Don’t shrug at me! I am shocked and offended that you consider me to be people!”
“What are you then if not a person?”
“I’m… a wizard.”
“I think wizards count as people.”
“Damn. But do wizards get to read your journal?”
“Maybe one day.”
***
Dad used to make waffles in the morning. He and Sal were chocolate chip addicts, I always had raspberry ones, and Mom loved whipped cream on hers. He had a temper back then too. He would yell at other drivers, he’d yell about politics, and his job, and sometimes he yelled at us when we did something wrong or make a mess. Mom was always the one who calmed him down. She had that effect, you know? She would sit somebody down to talk and by the end they were completely fine. You just, you can’t be angry when somebody that understanding is around.
***
“I need to pick some flowers.”
“Look, Al, I’m all for embracing your femininity, but why exactly do you need to pick flowers?”
“They’re for Sal.”
“You apologizing for something?”
“She wants to press them, y’know, in a book, make them flat.”
“Well alright! If that’s the story you’re going with I’ll help you pick flowers.”
“It’s the truth!”
“Says you!”
“Are you saying you don’t trust me?”
“I would never!”
“Well, I don’t trust you then either.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Don’t push me!”
“I know you trust me. You wouldn’t let anyone else see your journal.”
“You still haven’t actually seen any o