dantediscoversfic

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 40: The Crap Cave

“Dante! You found us!” Clio said as I hovered awkwardly in the doorway of the art room that first day of school during lunch period.

She bounded over and grabbed my elbow to draw me into the oddly dark classroom. The overhead lights were all off, the window shades partially drawn down and gloomy pop music I vaguely recognized as The Cure droned from a cassette player. About ten kids were sprawled out around the room, most of them sporting various degrees of punk/goth/New Waver style. Two corset-clad girls in billowy skirts drew intricate designs on each other’s arms in black pen; a couple dressed in “normal” clothes was making out with gusto in the corner by the potter wheels; a boy wearing all black continually skimmed his pointer finger over the top of a Bic lighter flame; and the rest were eating lunch, chatting, scribbling in notepads or singing along to the music. Clio flicked the overhead lights a few times to get everyone’s attention, eliciting a few winces and hisses and boos from the group.

“Everyone, listen up, this is Dante. He’s new. He’s from Texas, but try not to hold that against him. He’s a brilliant artist. Dante, this is everyone. That’s Raija, Jane, Sachi, Fletch and Kelly back there sucking face, Joseph, Ann, Dave, Forest and Vee.”

I was greeted with a few head nods and finger waves, except for the couple making out who kept at it with sloppy yet admirable enthusiasm. Everyone went back to their conversations as Clio led me closer to the girls she’d pointed out as being named Jane and Sachi.

“So, Dante from Texas, welcome to 'The Crap Cave’”, Clio said using air quotes. “We have lit mag meetings here and also make our own ‘zines and stuff. Raija’s mom Ms. B is the art teacher—she just stepped out for a minute—so she doesn’t care if we hang out here as long as we don’t you know, perform ritual animal sacrifices or set anything on fire. Again.” She coughed pointedly in the direction of the boy with the lighter seated a few desks down from us and the girls chuckled. Seeing my apparent confusion she said, “See, Joseph’s a bit of a pyro and went through a destruction of property phase last year, didn’t you, Jo-Jo?” The boy in question grinned slyly up at us. “But he’s got it under control now,” Clio continued. “He channels his urges into sculptures where he can use an actual blowtorch from woodshop.”

“Blowtorches rule,” he said and cast me one more glance before focusing all his attention back to his lighter and intrepid pointer finger. I couldn’t help but notice that all his fingernails were painted black and he was wearing eyeliner and dark lipstick like the girls.

I pulled my gaze away from him, not wanting to stare too hard and be rude. “What did you call this room? The ‘crap cave’?” I asked Clio. “Did I hear that right?”

“Oh yeah, you heard me right.”

“Do I even want to know?”

Clio laughed. “Don’t look so scared, we know how to use the bathrooms like everyone else. It’s a sort of long story. You ever hear of The Batcave?”

“You mean like from Bat Man comics?”

“No. Well yes, but no. Same but different. The Batcave is this famous club in London for people like us. Bauhaus, Robert Smith, Siouxie, Nick Cave, Specimen all hang out and play there. Jane actually got to go there this summer, that lucky bitch,” Clio knocked Jane’s shoulder with friendly admiration. “So we kind of started calling it that in homage to the club like a year ago. But then the school had this gross mouse problem and their little poops were, like, this constant presence in our lives, so somewhere along the line we started calling it ‘The Crap Cave’ instead. Because that's how we roll.”

“The mice were perfect and adorable, not gross,” Sachi said.

“Sachi, no. Just no. The mice themselves might have been cute but their poops definitely weren’t.”

The two girls bantered about whether the mice should have been saved and kept as pets or if they were indeed an icky health hazard while I took everyone in, trying not to gawk, and sat down to eat my packed lunch. I was fascinated by the group’s collective style: a motley assortment of teased and spiked dyed hair, leather jackets, ripped band t-shirts, corsets and lace, fishnets, heavy boots, winged eyeliner, black lipstick and nail polish, powdered white faces, spiky hardware chain jewelry mixed with rosaries, crosses and pentagram necklaces. Some of the boys were even wearing makeup, which was something you hardly ever saw in El Paso. Joseph, the pyro boy, was particularly fascinating to me. His raven hair was teased out as much as Clio’s and his dramatic eye makeup accentuated his blue eyes and delicate, almost pretty features. The flame from his Bic lighter cast a warm glow on his ghostly pale skin.

Clio must have caught me staring because she leaned in close to my ear and said, “Don’t worry, Dante, we might look at little scary but we don’t bite. At least most of us don’t. Forest over there is saving up to get his teeth filed, but it’s not for blood sucking purposes. It’s because it’ll look badass.”

“Wow. My old school in El Paso was a Catholic private school so we all had to wear uniforms. It’s so cool you can wear whatever you want here. And be whoever you want. Do you all make your own clothes? I love your corsets,” I said to Jane and Sachi.

The girls grinned at me with approval and Clio said, “I knew you were a good egg, Dante. Jane made the corsets. She’s an amazing designer and sewer. I think the rest of us get by with thrift stores, hot glue and a crapload of paperclips.”

“I’ve never really thought about my clothes before,” I said. “But now I feel so boring compared to you all.”

“Aw, there’s nothing wrong with being a normie,” Clio said and patted me on the back. “It doesn’t make you boring.”

“Well, if you want to try something new, let me know,” Jane said. “Jo-Jo’s my twin brother. I make stuff for him all the time. Cravats, vests, things like that. I’m sure he’d let you borrow something.”

“Wow, thanks. You think I’d look good?”

“Yeah, for sure. But don’t let us pressure you. We dress like this because it feels right, right? But it’s not for everyone.”

The girls nodded.

“How did you all know you wanted to get into goth stuff?” I asked.

Jane said, “Well, for me, growing up I loved making clothes and dressing up since forever. Halloween was my always my favorite holiday. I was obsessed, like obsessed. Like I’d start planning my costume and how to decorate the house six months in advance. And after it was over each year, the next day I’d get so sad and cry for days and beg my mom to keep the decorations up and let me keep wearing a cape or whatever to school every day. So when I figured out that I could dress however I wanted whenever I wanted and basically have Halloween all year round and have my clothes express how I feel inside all the time, it was like a big weight was lifted.”

“Do people make fun of you?”

“I mean, sure, dicks are dicks,” Jane said.

“We get all sorts of ignorant comments at school, on the street, wherever. Like…‘Hey Morticia, Halloween is over,’” Clio lowered her voice to a dopey male grumble.

“Or ‘Errr….Do you sleep in a coffin?’” Jane said.

“Or ‘You look pretty hot for a dead girl!’” Sachi said.

“Or my personal favorite, the classic ‘Going to a funeral?’” Clio said with an epic eyeroll. “Yeah, your funeral if you don’t shut up about it. Please. But there are lots of people who aren’t asshats and you can just ignore the losers.”

“Yeah,” Sachi said. “People say things like ‘Oh, you’d look so pretty if you didn’t dress like that’ but this is how I feel pretty and beautiful. I didn’t feel right before. Now I feel good. Right. Like myself.”

“Raija’s mom is super cool because she’s an old hippie and gets it,” Clio said. “But my mom is still waiting and praying for the day when I let her dress me all in pink pouffy dresses again. Sorry Anita, not gonna happen.” There was an edge to Clio’s voice when she talked about her mom that I hadn’t heard from her yet. It made me wonder what her home life was like.

Sachi said, “Yeah, my parents were all worried at first that I was depressed and wanting to kill myself. They tried to have an intervention with all my aunties and cousins. ‘We’re worried about you, Sachi.’ ‘This isn’t the real you.’ Um, first off, yes it is. And second off, I’m so much happier now than before when I felt like a fake.”

“Yeah, people think that we do this for attention or as a cry for help or because we’re suicidal or worship Satan or are in a cult, but that’s not true at all,” Jane said. “I started making clothes for myself when I was ten. This isn’t a ‘phase’. I’m not going to just grow out of it.”

“And finding people who are into the same bands and fashion and movies and everything makes putting up with all the weird looks and comments easier. We’re here for each other, ” Sachi said.

“And sure, we get attention,” Clio said, “because we stand out with our awesome amazingness. But it’s not like we do it for attention.”

“Yeah, I totally get it.” I said. “I think it’s great.”

The girls smiled at me and I wondered how it would feel to dress like them, if that would feel ‘right’ for me or not. I understood what Sachi had said about feeling like a fake, though, and not liking how that made me feel. I felt that way when I used to tell people my name was Dan and not Dante. I felt that way still, a little. Because I didn’t quite know what it meant to be totally free and open with myself and the world and the universe. Not when it came to the biggest secret I had. In El Paso, I felt like I already stood out by not looking Mexican enough, by liking art and poetry and books and astronomy too much. It was enough to blend in and not get teased or bullied for being a little strange. Now I wondered if I flipped the script and really tried to stand out—if I dressed all in black and put on makeup and spiked my hair and embraced my innate weirdness—if that would make me feel more like me. It might make me feel tough and cool and badass for a little while, but I doubted it would make me feel more like myself the way it did for this group. How did I know, though? I’d never tried it before.

I wondered what Ari would think of my new friends. I bet he’d like them. And then I wondered what Ari would look like in black nail polish and eyeliner. I bet he’d look like a dark glamorous rock star. The thought did funny things to my insides.

Then the art teacher, Ms. Baldwin a.k.a. Raija’s mom, came in. She had gray hair in a long braid all the way down her back and wore a long flowy dress and bangle bracelets. She turned the overhead lights on and said, “Hey darklings, the cruel daylight beckons. Gotta get ready for the next class. Lunch is over in five. And you two, yoo-hoo, Earth to Fletch and Kelly! Please rein in your raging hormones during lunch if at all humanly possible? I can’t have anyone getting pregnant on school grounds.” Everyone cracked up at that and Fletch and Kelly turned beet red but finally disentangled their entwined limbs (and tongues).

I had an art class with Ms. Baldwin later in the day so I introduced myself.

“Hi, I’m Dante Quintana, I’m in your painting class during sixth period.”

“Dante, it’s so nice to meet you. You’re new, yes? This lot showing you the ropes?”

“Yes, Clio invited me to eat lunch with her and be part of lit mag.”

“That would be lovely. I’m the advisor, so I’m sure I’ll be seeing a lot of you. How are you finding Chicago? Settling in all right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ma’am! Please, call me Ms. B. Where are you from?”

“El Paso.”

“Ah. I’ve only been there once. EPMA is a lovely museum. Have you been to the Art Institute yet?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“We’ll be doing a field trip later in the year, but if you are a lover of art you must go. It’s one of the prides of Chicago.”

“Thanks, Ms. B, I will.”

"Now if you’ll excuse me, Dante, I have to prep for next period. See you in a few hours!”

Ms. B went over to her daughter Raija, who had been sitting off to herself drawing in a sketchpad for most of lunch, and gave her a quick side hug before disappearing into a supply closet. Since everyone else was getting packed up I ate the rest of my lunch quickly and consulted my schedule to see where I was headed next.

“You’re in sixth period drawing?” I looked up and saw it was Joseph who had asked me the question. Standing up instead of hunched over the desk I saw how truly long and lanky he was. He was about a foot taller than me.

I nodded up at him and tried to smile but had a hard time keeping eye contact.

“Cool. Me too.”

He flicked his lighter a few times in his right hand and then grinned a lopsided grin at me before heading out into the hallway right as the bell rang.

This was shaping up to be a much different first day of school than I had expected.

#aridante fic #aaddtsotu

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 39: Letter 1

Dear Ari,

Okay, I think I’m falling in love-at-first-sight with Chicago. I know, I know, it’s only been two weeks since we moved...but the noise! the energy! the people! the pizza! (I’m sort of kidding, but not really. Deep dish pizza = a crazy good cheesy gooey mouth orgasm of decadent delight). Chicago’s so different from El Paso. Not better, but different. I wish I could send you a cassette tape of everything I’m hearing right now. There’s the clanking and sometimes ear-splitting screeching of the El train as it snakes along the track overhead; cabs blaring and honking in rush hour traffic; a street drummer going to town on a plastic bucket; snippets of conversation in a jumble of different languages as people pass by on their way home from work. There’s also a group of kids from my new school at a table near mine talking and laughing so loud they could be mistaken for urban hyenas escaped from the zoo. I think they’re doing it so everyone looks at them and wishes they were them and having as much fun as they’re having (or pretending to have). But I’m happy to be sitting by myself for a little while, taking everything in, writing to you. (Oh, I’m sitting at a coffee shop that has some outdoor tables that’s pretty close to my new school. I’m not friends with the loud obnoxious laughers, but I have made some new friends. Mostly goths and New Wavers. But I’ll tell you about that later).

Here’s another thing I like about downtown Chicago: the buildings! They’re so much taller here than in El Paso’s squat valley. It’s weird not having open sky though. But I love all the elegant old art deco buildings and how their fancy, intricate geometry pushes right up against grimy bodegas and newsstands and five-and-dimes and all night diners. I like the shine as well as the dirt and the grime. I even like the sort of rank, oily smell of the river. Is that weird?

I like people watching, especially on the El. If I’m brave enough I want to bring my sketchbook and secretly draw people. Not in a creepy way! Just so I can try to capture the kaleidoscope variety of people and faces and nationalities here. There are people from all over! It makes me feel like I can disappear, but in a good way. Like no one will bat an eye that I’m me, Dante, the odd duck Mexican teenager who’s bad at being Mexican. I can be anyone and no one. It’s sort of freeing.

I wrote this poem just now, it’s in a sort of new style I’m trying out:

traffic beats & city streets

feet & heels click slick cement

look up! the El is grinding, winding

eyes staring sirens blaring people wearing

their skin like it’s what they’re most comfortable in

Mexican sparrows Spanish staccatos

African rainbows Indian spices

black & brown & beige & pink & white

tight jeans taught muscles arms chests legs thighs

guys banging can drums bouncing hand balls

afros punks street soldiers skinheads skate boarders

bruised knees scrapes shouts break dancers

break it all down

Chicago’s own

welcome me to my new town

It’s okay if you don’t like the poem. It’s probably not very good. It’s just hard to describe how I feel being here, being surrounded by all this newness, all these different types of people, and being myself but not myself because I’m sort of anonymous, like I’m wearing a disguise or something, just observing, taking it all in.

Anyway, I’m babbling.

How was your first day of school? Were you nervous, scared, excited, bored? Did everyone ask about your crutches?

I made some friends the first day. I wasn’t expecting that. A girl named Clio sort of took me under her wing and introduced me to all her artsy friends. She dresses all in goth style (black clothes, black lipstick, crazy spiked up hair) and is really into Mary Shelley and a bunch of bands I've never heard of with names like Alien Sex Fiend and Christian Death. She writes amazing but super dark poetry and smokes clove cigarettes, which smelled surprisingly good. Have you ever smoked a clove cigarette? I kind of wanted to try it but chickened out. She and her group invited me out tonight to this place called Medusa’s that puts on all ages punk/rock/hardcore shows. I’ve never been to a club like that so I’m sort of curious but a little intimidated. I told them my parents had me on strict curfew (which isn't totally true) because I don't think I'm ready yet to dive into their whole scene. I think I'll go the next time I'm invited out though. (Side note: at first when Clio asked me, she told me everyone would meet up first at the “D’n’D”, which is her shorthand for Dunkin’ Donuts. At first I thought she meant Dungeons and Dragons, which led to me admitting to her that I used to play religiously every Friday night in middle school. But she thought it was cool, not weird or dorky. They're the least judgmental group I think I've ever met). Clio is cool. She’s sarcastic and puts on a tough front but she’s also sweet. (Does that remind you of anyone else we know??? Hmm?). I think you’d like her.

Are you doing anything fun this weekend?

I’ll write back again soon if I have anything new and interesting to report.

Your friend,

Dante

#aridante fic #aaddtsotu

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 38: Clio

First day of school, University of Chicago Laboratory School aka Lab aka U-High, 1987. (I couldn’t believe I was going to a school nicknamed U-High and I’d never even gotten close to taking a single puff of marijuana before. I felt like I was failing at basic teenager-ing).

U-High was an expensive fancy private school, but because of its affiliation with the university I got a 50% tuition discount for being a professor’s kid. A lot of the kids going there were professors’ kids too, which I wasn’t all too thrilled about at first. Yes, call me the world’s biggest hypocrite, but going into it I thought everyone would be exactly the same: rich overachievers hyper focused on 4.0 GPAs and perfect SAT scores and winning all the sports trophies and joining a zillion extracurricular activities just to make Ivy League colleges drool. And yeah, there were a lot of kids there exactly like that. But not everyone.

I was in Home Room, waiting for teacher to take attendance before the first class bell. The room buzzed with excited chatter laced with first day back jitters. Everyone seemed to be best friends already; or at least, it seemed clear that all the little social circles had already been well established years beforehand. I was doodling on the back of my class schedule, trying to look like I didn’t care that I obviously had no friends. Trying not to think of Ari too much.

“Pssst. Hey you. New guy.” Someone sitting behind me flicked my shoulder with a pencil, kind of hard.

I turned around and the boy behind me handed me a folded up piece of paper. He gestured vaguely to the back of the classroom and then went back to the conversation he’d been having with his friends.

Confused and a little nervous, I opened the note.

Hey Artist Boy, what’s your name? I’m Clio. You can sit back here with me if you want. (Or you can continue be an antisocial tortured artist if that’s your jam). (No pressure).

I looked in the direction the boy had pointed. A few rows back sat a girl who waved at me with a little smirk. She also appeared to be sitting by herself.

She didn’t look like anyone I’d met in El Paso and I tried not to stare too hard at her. Her face was super pale. Like, on purpose pale done with makeup. She looked like a porcelain doll, but with thick smudgy eyeliner and deep purple lips, almost black. She had a nose ring and an eyebrow ring and a lip ring and wore safety pins through her ears. She had on all black clothing with lots of chunky metallic chain jewelry. Her platinum blond hair was teased out in enormous feathery puffs. She was kind of scary looking, but also intriguing, and beautiful. I smiled back at her and her face lit up. I got up to move seats.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey, I’m Dante. I’m new. Just moved from Texas.”

“I could tell.”

“That I’m from Texas? I’m not even wearing cowboy boots.”

She smiled. “No, I could tell you’re new.”

“That obvious?”

“It’s a small school. And most of us have known each other for ages. Some of our parents were even in, like, Lamaze class together back in the 70s.”

“Lamaze?”

“You know…Lamaze. Baby breathing?” When she saw my still totally confused expression, she did a series of rapid firing breaths and exaggerated grimaces like a woman about to go into labor while gripping the edge of her desk and her belly for support. We both laughed. I liked her laugh; it was giggly and twinkly, somewhat at odds with her intense punk look.

“What were you drawing before when I was spying on you?” she asked.

I showed her my doodles, which were really nothing special. Some birds and storm clouds and a desert landscape at night. Her eyes went wide.

She smacked my shoulder (in a friendly way). “Get out, Artist Boy, you’re really good! I was expecting, like, manga sex scenes or something. But this is quality. Want to join Plexus? That’s the Art and Lit Mag. I’m the editor this year."

“Um…”

“Please say yes.”

She fluttered her big doe/raccoon eyelashes at me.

"Um...sure?"

She grabbed my schedule and turned it over to compare it to hers.

“Looks like we have lunch together. Sweet! The Plexus crew always eats lunch in the art room in the C Wing. Go there instead of the cafeteria and I’ll introduce you. And after school we’re prob gonna go to Wax Trax. Have you been there yet?”

“Is that like…a wax museum?”

She shivered like she had the heebie-jeebies.

“Uch, wax museums give me the creeps. They’re the worst. Like, you just know all those wax figures come alive at night when no one’s around and have crazy wax orgies and then have a ton of weird creepy bastard wax babies." She shivered again. "But no. Wax Trax's the best record store in town. We all basically live there. I'm in love with one of the clerks but I don't think it's ever gonna happen, alas. What bands are you into? I like lots, not just punk and deathrock. Though Siouxsie and the Banshees is my fave right now."

“Um…I like The Beatles?”

Her eyes got big and she laughed, but not meanly. “Ok, I’m definitely adopting you, Artist Boy. You're the most adorable. Consider me your Chicago Cultural Ambassador.”

The teacher finally shushed everyone for announcements and attendance and Clio and I kept passing our note back and forth. (I felt like a major rebel). When the bell rang we collected our things. "Don’t forget. Art room for lunch. Promise?” she said and held out her pinky. I pinky promised with her and she pointed me in the direction of my first class.

And that’s basically how I ended up making friends with U-High’s one and only goth crew on the first day at my new school.

#aridante fic

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 37: Not The End

During the last few days before we left for Chicago, my room was almost as blank and empty as Ari’s. My bed was still there, along with my empty bookshelves and desk and comfy reading chair, but mostly everything else that made the room mine had been boxed up in storage or packed up to take with us. It was kind of weird, but kind of peaceful too. I sort of understood why Ari liked his minimalist (i.e. nonexistent) interior decorating strategy. My head felt clearer those last few days than it had since the accident. A grad student was going to be living in my room next year and I made sure to leave a little note for them warning that birds liked to hang out on the window sill but it wasn’t a big deal – they were completely harmless but sometimes a little noisy.

The day before we left, my parents and I went over to Ari’s for dinner. I know that our parents had all met each other before because of the accident, but this was the first time we were all together purely socially, like one big family. Even though the occasion was sad, I wasn’t sad that night, not really. I liked how well our parents got along. My dad and Ari’s dad hit it off like gangbusters and spent the whole night drinking beer (blech) and talking politics. Our moms cooked together and talked in Spanish.

After dinner, Ari and I hung out on the porch. We weren’t talking much but I was okay with it. It was peaceful, like my blank room. I took mental snapshots of all of us together in my head to remember for forever.

“Your sketch pad is under my bed. Will you get it for me?” Ari said, out of nowhere.

It took me by surprise. I’d almost forgotten about the sketch pad I’d given him in the hospital. I had a flashback to how he looked that day hooked up to his hospital bed, with his double casts and banged up face and cloudy, pain-filled eyes. My stomach clenched at the memory. He was so much better now, I reassured myself. His arm was healed, he had crutches and not a wheelchair, he was going to be fine. But it didn’t make the queasy feeling in my stomach go away.

I almost told him I didn’t want to get the sketch pad. Showing people my artwork still embarrassed me most of the time. But I had given the sketchbook to him as a gift and it would be weird of me to refuse to look at it now with him.

I nodded and went inside to his room to get it. It was right under the bed, like he said it would be. His journal was under the bed, too. When I saw it, my heart slammed into my chest. I picked up his journal, just held it in my hands for a few seconds. It had a soft leather cover, smooth to the touch. Almost without intending to, I opened it up to a random page. My eyes quickly scanned the words:

I don’t like being fifteen.

I didn’t like being fourteen.

I didn’t like being thirteen.

I didn’t like being twelve.

I didn’t like being eleven.

Ten was good. I liked being ten. I don’t know why but I had a very good year when I was in fifth grade.

The fifth grade was very good. Mrs. Pendragon was a great teacher and for some reason, everyone seemed to like me. A good year. An excellent year. Fifth grade. But now, at fifteen, well, things are a little awkward. My voice is doing funny things and I keep running into things. My mom says my reflexes are trying to keep up with the fact that I’m growing so much.

I don’t care much for this growing thing.

My body’s doing things I can’t control and I just don’t like it.

I snapped his journal shut without reading any more and tucked it hastily back under the bed. I felt like a criminal. My heart was still beating so fast. I shouldn’t have just done that. I went to the bathroom and put some cool water on my face. It’s not that I didn’t desperately want to know what was inside Ari’s head. I did more than anything. I wanted to know if he still hated being fifteen and what other changes his body had gone through that he would never ever talk to me about. I wanted to know if he’d truly forgiven me, if he thought we’d be friends when I came back, if there was an inkling of a chance he liked me in the same way as I liked him. If he loved me, too. But it wasn't right, reading his journal without him knowing. I couldn’t betray his confidence like that ever again. His thoughts and trust had to be freely given, like I’d given him my sketchbook.

After my cheeks had cooled down, I went back outside to the porch and handed him my sketchbook. I was ashamed to look him in the eye.

“I have a confession to make,” he said.

“What?” I asked. My heart was still going wildly fast. I had no idea what he might say. Had he read my journal, too?

“I haven’t looked at it.”

Oh. I didn’t know what to say. My feelings were a little hurt that he’d never bothered to look at what I’d given him. But considering what I’d just done, I really had no ground to stand on for what constitutes being a good friend or not.

“Can we look at them together?” he said.

I didn't say yes, but I didn't say no, either. I was caught in some sort of silent limbo. He opened the sketchbook. The first drawing was a self-portrait of me reading, which I thought was a bit pretentious in hindsight. The next one was of my dad reading, which was not so bad. Then there was another self-portrait, more close up, just of my face.

“You look sad in this one.”

“Maybe I was sad that day.”

I remembered the day I drew that one. It was right after my parents had told me we’d probably be moving to Chicago.

“Are you sad now?”

Yes. Yes and no. Yes, I was sad to be leaving. But meeting and becoming friends with Ari this summer made me happier than I’d been in the longest time. I didn’t answer his question and we kept flipping through the book. We came to the sketches I’d done of Ari in his room, the same day I’d given him the drawing of his rocking chair. There were five or six sketches of him sitting on his bed, reading. Some close ups of his hands and his eyes. One of him sleeping. My face flushed as Ari traced his fingers over the page. I was a little embarrassed at how seriously he was studying each and every picture. I was glad he couldn’t peer into my head and know what I’d been thinking while I was drawing him. It was too embarrassing. But I was honored and a little humbled, too, to share this part of me with him.

“They’re honest,” Ari said.

“Honest?”

“Honest and true. You’re going to be a great artist someday.”

“Someday,” I said. I thought I might cry, but I didn’t. I cleared my throat and said, “Listen, you don’t have to keep the sketchbook.”

“You gave it to me. It’s mine.”

He looked at me and the tension I’d felt since I snuck a peak in his journal finally subsided. We looked through the remaining sketches and sat on the porch together as night fell and the sky changed from blue to dusty pink to orange. The air smelled like a future rainstorm.

My parents came outside and told us it was time to head out, we had a big day tomorrow. My dad gave Ari a kiss on the cheek and my mom touched his chin in that inscrutable way she has.

I hugged Ari.

He hugged me back.

It was a little awkward with his crutches, but I don’t think either of us cared.

I touched the back of his neck, his hair. It was as soft as I always thought it would be.

“See you in a few months,” I said into his neck.

“Yeah,” he said.

“I’ll write,” I said.

I didn’t cry, not then. I didn’t cry until very late that night when I was alone in my empty room listening to the wild rain beat down. In that moment, holding my best friend close to me, feeling our bodies aligned, breathing him in and breathing in the smell of my last summer night in El Paso, I was the happiest boy in the universe. Because I knew I’d be back here again, with Ari. I knew this wasn’t the end of us.

#aaddtsotu #ari and dante fic #please excuse the long hiatus life got in the way! #hoping to get back to a regular posting routine!

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 36: Swimming and You

A few days after I got my cast off, Ari got his arm cast off, too. I went over to his house that evening and we sat on his front porch. He stretched out his arm that had been broken and I stretched out mine.

“All better,” I said. “When something gets broken, it can be fixed.” I bent and stretched out my arm again, relishing in the simple freedom of movement. Now that the cast was off, my body was already forgetting what all the itchiness and constriction had felt like, how unbearable it had felt at first. “Good as new.”

“Maybe not good as new,” he said. “But good anyway.”

I thought about that phrase ‘good as new’. Ari was right; our arms would never be exactly the same as they were before we broke them. They’d never be perfectly new. But who says new things are the best things? The standard to be judged against? Most of my favorite things—my mom’s record player, the photos of my parents from college, the books that I’d dog-eared and highlighted and scribbled notes in all over the margins, my threadbare jeans with holey knees that Ari made fun of—were old and well worn. Of course there’s the thrill of getting something sparkly and new like my telescope or the excitement of cracking open an unfilled sketchbook or journal, when the anticipation of creation, the unsullied blankness of the pages, is part of the allure. But things are useless until you take the care to work them in, to make them yours, to create or discover something with them. I guess all relationships have that allure of newness at first, too. The thrill of meeting someone for the first time, seeing if you have that spark of connection, that zing that makes you think, ‘This is someone I want to get to know, to reveal myself to’. But how can you really know someone if the bad stuff—the stuff that scuffs and scrapes you up, that wears down the shine—doesn’t happen too? I think ‘good as old’ is actually more fitting than ‘good as new’ when it comes to the people you love the most.

And with other things, like swimming for example, you’re not very good when you’re new at it. It takes time, practice and patience to build muscle and endurance and to reach the level where moving through the water feels natural, not like you’re competing against it. To get to that level of quietness and focus inside even when your body is pulling against the full weight of water. To feel like you can breathe underwater even though that’s impossible.

“I went swimming today,” I said.

“How was it?”

“I love swimming.”

“I know,” he said.

“I love swimming,” I said again. I knew what else I wanted to say to him right then. I saw the words hovering over my head like a thought bubble in a comic. I took a breath but the words didn’t come out. The pit had dropped out of stomach in a way I imagine a sky-diver feels like right before they make the jump. Trust the free fall, I told myself. Trust you’ll land safely on the ground.

“I love swimming—and you.”

Ari didn’t say anything.

“Swimming and you, Ari. Those are the things I love the most.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” he said.

“It’s true.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t true. I just said you shouldn’t say it.”

“Why not?”

“Dante, I don’t—“

“You don’t have to say anything. I know that we’re different. We’re not the same.”

He nodded his head but refused to meet my eyes. I felt a stinging tightness in my throat and my eyes itched but I needed to ask him the one thing that I’d been the most afraid of.

“Do you hate me?”

I’d gotten the feeling over the last few weeks that Ari resented me coming over and reading to him every day, resented me trying to draw him out of his shell when he really wanted to be left alone. Like being friends with me was too big of a burden and was keeping him from healing, keeping him hurt. If that was true, I didn’t know what I’d do besides leave his front porch and never come back.

“No, I don’t hate you, Dante.”

I released a long breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. We sat in silence for a while. Ari and I were on shaky ground, but not shattered.

“Will we be friends? When I come back from Chicago?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

Relief washed over me. I smiled and he smiled back. I didn’t feel like crying anymore.

#ari and dante fic

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 35: Unsent Letter

Dear Ari,

I’m not going to send this letter. It’s for my eyes only. Oscar (my counselor) was the one who encouraged me to write this. He thinks it’ll help me finally move on from the accident and be able to get a fresh start when we leave El Paso. He asked me, “If you could tell Ari anything at all, without worrying about what he might say or how he’d react, what would it be?”

I’d tell you how amazing I think it is that we found each other. It’s crazy to me that I only met you two and half months ago. It seems like I’ve known you forever. Why do you think it is that you can be around some people for years and never really know them and for other people it just takes a few hours and—bam!—you know they get you—that they see you, really see you—and vice versa. Is that what adults call “having chemistry?” Is it somehow related to pheromones? Is there a friend version of that phenomenon, where with some people you get immediate friend sparks—Bunsen burners exploding, gaskets blown!—and with other people it's just dud central? Like, with my cousins. We visit with them on the holidays every year but it’s like a blank slate each time. Tabula rasa of anything interesting we’ve ever said to each other. We must resort to talking about sports I care nothing about or which distant relatives are popping out babies or how good the food we’re all currently masticating is. Blah city. But with you, we could talk for hours about the stupidest things and I’d love every minute of it. I want to know every little thing there is to know about you and I want you to know me, too. I want us to know each other so well that we could fit into all the little secret spaces of each other’s souls.

Yeah, okay, that was corny. And I’d never say that to you out loud. But I guess that’s the whole purpose of this letter. To say the unsayable.

I’d tell you again that I’m sorry about the accident. That you got hurt. And now we’re both changed because of it.

I’d tell you that there’s nothing about you that I don’t like. I like your sullen, introspective moods just as much as your happy ones. I like “debating” with you (okay, arguing) just as much as when we agree on things. I like when you make a deadpan joke and don’t crack a smile until the last possible second, like you’re playing a game of chicken with yourself. I like the way your face settles into concentration when I’m reading to you. Even with your eyes closed, it’s like I can tell what you think about a certain passage just by a quirk of your eyebrows, the tiniest curve of your mouth. I like when your hair is greasy and you’re a little smelly and you haven’t shaved just as much as when you’re fresh and soft and clean. I like looking at your face a lot. That’s not something I can actually tell you, is it? That I like every part of you because they make you who you are, make you the boy I love.

Ok, now I’m verging into Hallmark puke territory again. But sometimes that sort of thing is okay. In small doses. In love letters that will never be sent.

I’d tell you: don’t be afraid of becoming the person you were meant to be. (And then I’d try to take that advice myself).

I’d say I love you right out loud and I’ll miss you like hell when I’m gone.

That wasn’t so wrong or scary to admit, was it? It made me feel good writing it, acknowledging it. The truth feels good to let out of its cage, soaring out into the open sky where it belongs.

Love, Dante

#ari and dante fic #aaddtsotu

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 34: Self-Portrait at the End of Summer

Since the accident, my mom had been on a mission to keep me as busy as humanly possible. I think she thought it would keep me from slipping into another low spell if she kept me perpetually occupied. I have to admit her strategy actually kind of worked. I’d go over to Ari’s in the morning then come home and help my dad with the garden. Once a week I’d go to counseling with Oscar. My mom also decided the move was the perfect opportunity to give our house an organizational overhaul, so I helped her decide which things we’d take with us to Chicago, what we could keep for the grad student subletters, what we could give away to Goodwill and what we’d need to put in attic storage. We had shoeboxes full of photos that she’d never had a chance to put into albums so that was a big project we did together. I especially liked looking through the photos from when my parents were in college. I liked seeing their progression from mysterious almost-strangers to the people they are today. In some of them my dad is barely recognizable with his shaggy hair, ill-conceived facial hair and hippy dippy clothes. My mom’s style doesn’t change as much over the years. She’s younger yes, with less gray hair, but the same fierce love and beauty I see in her now shines through in all the photos of her and my dad together. She’s an old soul, my mom.

She also gave me the assignment of planning out our road trip from El Paso to Chicago, so I spent time at the library doing research about where I might want to visit on our pit stops. She signed my Dad and I up for Sunday shifts at the local food bank and made us all take weekly hikes in the desert so I’d stay in shape while my cast was still on and I couldn’t swim. Like I said, she was on a mission.

Despite all this I still had plenty of free afternoons where I didn’t have anything pressing to do and I’d lay in the hammock in our back yard for hours. I’d usually bring a book out with me but ended up looking up at the sky or drifting off or getting lost in daydreaming. I liked it out there in the shade, rocking gently in the breeze. It made me feel suspended in time, like the summer would last forever. But before I knew it four weeks had passed and it was time for my cast to come off and in a week we’d be leaving El Paso. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever call El Paso home again. And if we did come back, I wasn’t sure Ari would still be my friend when we returned. I didn’t like to think about that.

The day I got my cast off, I went swimming. My arm was sore and my muscles were weaker so I took it slow. But being in the water again felt right. Like coming home.

After I got back from the pool I drew a self-portrait and wrote in my journal, luxuriating in holding a pencil confidently again in my right hand. This is what I wrote:

This is me, Dante Quintana. This is the me I am today.

Do I look like the same person I was before the hailstorm came? Before the sirens and the near escape?

I’m the same height and weight. My eyes are still creek brown, my hair is still inky black.

My face is no longer splattered with purple and blue. My bones are healed and sealed. My lips are unsplit pink.

Then how come I feel different? If I’m not the same me the mirror saw six weeks ago, whose face is looking back?

Who am I trying to recreate with charcoal and paint, with lines and shades? What am I trying to erase if not my secrets and shame?

I don’t want to lie but I’m still terrified of becoming the me I see when I close my eyes and dream.

#ari and dante fic #ari and dante fan art

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 33: The Gift

I ended up going back once a week to talk with Oscar until the end of summer. We talked about a lot of things: school, my parents, not feeling like I fit in with the rest of my family, the upcoming move to Chicago, my interest in art and astronomy, and my friendship with Ari. We talked a lot about Ari. He would probably have been embarrassed by the amount I talked about him to Oscar, but I enjoyed it. It made me feel connected to Ari even when his distant and sad moods continued through July and August.

I never told Oscar that I loved Ari in so many words. I was too embarrassed and afraid to say it out loud, even to someone I ended up trusting as much as Oscar. But Oscar and I talked about what it meant to love someone, in general terms. How people express it differently. Knowing that talking about feelings had as much appeal to Ari as eating a plate of slugs, I wondered if there was a way I could let him know how much he meant to me in actions not words. I visited him every day, but it still didn’t seem like enough. Oscar wondered if there was anything I could do to help Ari’s mom with looking after him. I wasn’t sure but I decided to talk with Ari’s mom about it.

She was at her normal place at the kitchen table when I popped my head in after I’d left Ari in his room one day.

“Hi Mrs. Mendoza. Do you have a second?”

“Of course. Everything ok with Ari?”

“Yeah, we were just reading and he got a little tired so I’m gonna head home. I was just wondering…um…well, do you need help with anything? With Ari, I mean? I’d like to help if I can.”

“Well, I think you already help him a lot, Dante. I know Ari can be a bit…monosyllabic…but you must know how much you coming over and visiting him means to him. You’re like his rock, you know?”

I wasn’t sure why my cheeks felt so hot all of a sudden.

“I don’t know about all that,” I hedged. “I just meant…is there anything I can do to help you help Ari? You’ve probably got lots of prep work to get ready for the school year to start and now that he’s stuck in his casts I’m sure it’s a lot of extra work. I just mean, I feel bad about the accident and I wish there was more I could do to help him. And you.”

“Well, I get him in and out of his wheelchair from bed and take him to his doctors appointments and help with some bathroom logistics and getting dressed, but none of that’s really appropriate for you to do. I also give him a sponge bath and shave every morning.”

I remembered one of the dreams I’d had while I was sick with the flu—where I’d helped Ari into the pool while he was still in his hospital gown and I’d cracked his casts apart like eggshells and washed him clean. I wasn’t sure Ari actually would let me wash him, but it was something I knew I wanted to try.

“Do you think that’s something I could help with? Would Ari mind? How do you give him a sponge bath exactly?” I was struck with an image of Ari in the bathtub that made my cheeks burn even redder. “He’s not naked, right?”

She laughed, but not meanly. Probably because she saw how terrified I probably looked. “No, we have a whole system. He wears his trunks or shorts, don’t worry. He usually stays in his wheelchair but the hospital did give us a little stool for the bathtub we use sometimes. I fill up a bucket with warm soapy water and use a washcloth to clean him and another one to dry him off. Sort of like doing the dishes,” she chuckled.

“And shaving? You’re not afraid of nicking him?”

“He’s gotten good at staying still.”

“So you think I could do all that?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I’d like to help you. Is tomorrow ok?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, thanks Mrs. Mendoza.”

“See you tomorrow, Dante.”

The next morning I got to Ari’s house right after breakfast. I was still unsure how Ari would react when I told him what I wanted to do. But I was determined to try.

“So, I was thinking this morning I’d help with your sponge bath. Is it okay?” I asked.

“Well, it’s kind of my mom’s job,” he said. His voice sort of sounded like he'd just swallowed a bug.

“She said it was okay.”

“You asked her?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” he said. “Still, it’s really her job.”

“Your dad? He never bathed you?”

“No.”

“Shaved you?”

“No. I don’t want him to.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

I wanted to tell him so many things then. That it made me feel good making sure he was taken care of and happy. That I wouldn’t mind if it was my job to look after him. That it would be an honor to have him trust me again, a gift. Instead I said, “I won’t hurt you. Let me.”

A moment passed in silence and then Ari said okay. I could hardly believe it actually. My heart started firing off in quick hummingbird bursts but I tried to stay really calm. I rolled him into the bathroom and helped him out of his tshirt and out his special sweatpants that had a zipper all the way up the sides. He was just in his boxers and asked for a towel to put over his lap and leg casts.

I’d seen Ari in his bathing suit without his shirt on plenty of times at the pool. But it was different now that we were alone in the small bathroom. We didn’t talk or make jokes like we normally did as I filled up the bucket with warm water and enough body wash to make the water sudsy like a bubble bath. I dipped the cloth in the water and Ari shut his eyes. I started washing his shoulders, rubbing the soapy washcloth in slow smooth circles, being careful not to be too rough or scratchy with the towel. I watched the pulse point on his neck throb. It seemed at odds with the total stillness of his body and his long steady breaths. I washed the front of his chest and tried not to think about anything but being as gentle and careful as I could with him. I tried not to think about what my lips would feel if I kissed him on all the places the washcloth touched. I knew I shouldn’t thinking about kissing him right then, but I couldn’t help it. A strange tender ache had settled over me, reaching all the way from my chest to the base of my spine. I don’t know why, but tears fell down my face. I felt something close to what I imagined my parents felt when they were worried I’d been seriously hurt in the accident; like I wanted to protect Ari from getting hurt ever again even though I knew that was impossible. I kept washing him and let the tears silently flow, trying hard not to sniffle and cause him to open his eyes. I covered his chin in shaving cream and gently gently slid the razor down his chin and over his upper lip. I loved the shape of his lips and how pink they were next to the white shaving cream.

After I was done washing and shaving him, I patted him down with a fluffy dry towel and imagined that the towel was my arms, holding and hugging him tight, engulfing him in softness and warmth.

I’m glad Ari kept his eyes closed the whole time. Not because I was ashamed of crying, but more because I could drink him in and memorize all the details of his face and body that I wanted to save for when we were separated. He was giving me a gift and didn't even know he was, which made me even sadder in a way, but still grateful.

When I finished up and Ari opened his eyes, I knew he saw that I'd been crying. But he didn't say anything about it or poke fun of me for it, which was another small gift in its way. But he did have a lost and distant look in his eyes, like he was the hurt bird I'd seen in the road the day of the accident. I couldn't cradle or protect him, though, as much as I wanted to. I knew without either of us mentioning it that this was probably the only time he'd let me wash him like this.

#aaddtsotu

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 32: Rainbow Bird (charcoal and colored pencil, drawn by left hand)

#ari and dante fic

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 31: Oscar Ramirez

I got over the flu but it left behind a restless drawn-tight feeling inside me that I couldn’t shake. I went to visit Ari every day but other than that I didn’t leave my room much. My mom finally insisted on scheduling an appointment for me to see one of her counselor colleagues, Oscar Ramirez. I didn’t fight her too hard on it. I knew it was probably a good idea to talk someone. Oscar worked for the same shelter/halfway house my mom did in addition to having an off-site office. I’d met a few of her colleagues before but never Oscar, which made the idea of talking to him easier somehow.

Ari had been released from the hospital for about a week and a half by the time I went to talk to Oscar for the first time. I’d been going over to Ari’s house every day to visit him. Sometimes we’d go for “walk and rolls” around the neighborhood but mostly we hung out in his room. I decided to read The Sun Also Rises aloud to him (mostly because Hemingway’s sparse, terse writing style reminded me of Ari, but I didn’t tell him that). I read a chapter or two each visit and we’d talk about it after. One time we talked about where we’d go if we decided to become dissolute ex-patriots like the characters in the novel and travel the world together. I wanted to go to Paris; Ari wanted to go to Iceland or Norway. When I asked him why, he said he was sick of the Texas heat and wanted to see the Northern Lights.

“I bet there’s no light pollution up there,” he said.

“Sure, no light pollution, but the winter’s colder than a witch’s tit.”

He snorted. “I wouldn’t mind the cold.”

“How do you know? You’ve lived in Texas your whole life.”

“It snows here sometimes, you know. Like two Christmases ago.”

“I know, but El Paso winter is nothing like up there. We’d need to bring special snowsuits and camping gear or risk dying of hypothermia.”

“It’d be worth it though. To go somewhere so remote and cold and quiet.”

“Sounds like you really want to go on vacation to The Fortress of Solitude.”

“Hey, don’t knock The Fortress. A man needs a place where he can be alone and think.”

“And freeze his face and nuts off in the process.”

“That’s just the price you pay to stop everyone being all up in your business all the time. And anyway, Superman is impervious to frost bite. And don’t talk about Superman’s nuts. That’s sacrilegious.”

“I wasn’t talking about Superman’s nuts specifically. Just frozen nuts in general.”

“Okay okay enough with the nuts talk. Jesus.”

“What? They’re just a body part. No weirder than pinky toes or noses.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever. Hey I’m pretty wiped…so…I might take a nap or something.”

Ari’s face was flushed he looked sort of agitated so I cut my visit short after that. I could tell something was off between us but I didn’t try to press him. Sometimes when I went to visit I wasn’t even sure if he wanted me there. I figured he had every reason to be resentful of me. It was my fault he was stuck at home for the rest of the summer, at the mercy of his painfully itchy and useless legs. I was afraid more than anything that he’d want to stop being friends with me if I needled him too much or asked him what was wrong. So it was easier to talk about books or imaginary plans to travel the world together than what I actually wanted to talk about, which was how badly I was going to miss him when we moved and how sorry I still was about the accident.

When the time came for my appointment with the counselor, I was nervous even though I knew seeking counseling was a totally normal thing to do. Nothing to be ashamed of.

“Do I have to lay down on a couch?” I asked my mom on the car ride over.

She smiled. “Of course not. That’s the sort of thing you really only see in movies nowadays.”

“Good, because that part always seemed a little weird. Do I have to analyze my dreams?”

“Only if you want to.”

“What if I run out of things to say and we just stare at each other in awkward silence the whole time?”

“You’ve never had a particular problem with maintaining conversation, Dante. You can talk to him about whatever you want. Or not talk. No pressure.”

What I really wanted to ask her was if she thought the accident had messed me up somehow, or worse, messed Ari up, and that’s the real reason she wanted me to talk to a counselor. Not physically messed us up. But if I’d caused something to get broken inside us. I had no issue with the field of psychiatry in general, seeing as it was my mother’s profession, but I didn’t like the idea of a stranger realizing there was something wrong with me that needed fixing.

Oscar had an office in the El Paso Child and Teen Guidance Center, which was located in a shopping center. That sort of surprised me. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t the totally mundane looking storefront hiding in plain sight next to a hair salon, pet store and a travel agency. Oscar greeted us at the reception desk, where he kissed my mom on the cheek and shook my hand.

Oscar was around my parents’ age. He was on the stocky side, but not fat or anything. He was the type of solid build that you could describe as equally fitting for a linebacker and a big teddy bear. He had a round, friendly face and close cut salt-and-pepper black hair that didn’t do much to make his appearance less boyish and wholesome. He had a firm handshake and big hands.

“Dante, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Your mom has told me a lot about you.”

“Thanks, you too. I mean, nice to meet you, too.”

After my mom checked me in and filled out some paperwork, she left me with Oscar and told me she’d be waiting for me in the reception area.

Oscar’s office was bright and decorated with colorful furniture, throw rugs and artwork, which also surprised me. In my mind I’d pictured something much more stuffy and clinical. To one side of the room was a small couch and an armchair, both plush and comfy looking; between them was a coffee table with a box of Kleenex on it, which I was determined I would not have to use come hell or high water. On the other side of the room was a kid-sized table and chairs plus art supplies and toy boxes, set up like a mini preschool. Seeing the kid stuff made me feel strange. A little sad for the kids who needed to come in here. The office also had a desk, several bookshelves, and a beverage station. Overall it felt more like a living room than an office.

Oscar gestured toward the couch. “Please, take a seat. Make yourself comfortable. Do you want some water? Tea?”

“I’m okay.”

Oscar sat down in the armchair across from me. “So, Dante. Before we get started, I just wanted to let you know that even though your mother and I are colleagues and she let me know a little bit about why she wanted you to come see me today, I want you to feel like this is a safe space to share anything that’s on your mind with the understanding that I take your trust and confidentiality seriously.”

“Even though I’m a minor and you’re legally allowed to tell my parents what we discuss?” I asked. I’d done my research about confidentiality ahead of time. More than the accident I wanted to talk about what it meant that I loved my best friend who was a boy, but I’d decided already to keep that part of me sealed in the vault no matter what. I couldn’t be 100% sure he wouldn’t tell my parents about that.

Oscar smiled. “You are definitely Soledad’s son. Yes, you’re absolutely correct. Even though you’re a minor I would breach confidentiality only if I was worried for your personal safety or the safety of others or in the rare instance that my notes were subpoenaed by a court order.”

“Wow, that would be pretty badass.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow but was still grinning. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Sure, yeah. I was just joking. Discussion of client confidentiality protocol: check.”

It was a relief to hear him say he wasn’t going to tell my parents everything we talked about, but I still wasn’t quite ready to dive right into the accident.

“I like your office,” I said, stalling. I pointed to the kids’ area. “Do you work with a lot of children?”

“A fair number.”

“Do you do art therapy with them?”

“Sometimes. It depends on the child.”

“I’ve read all about the field of art therapy. I think it’s fascinating. If I don’t become a professional artist I might become an art therapist.”

“Would you like to do any drawing right now? We could start with some art exercises if you’re not in the mood to talk at the moment.”

“No, that’s okay. It’s hard for me to draw because of my broken arm. I’m a right-y. But thanks for offering.”

“So you’re okay to talk?”

I nodded.

“I’m glad. So, I understand from your mother that you and a friend of yours were involved in a car accident about three weeks ago and she’s concerned you haven’t been quite yourself since. That you’ve been having nightmares and seem much more withdrawn than usual. Do you want to talk about the accident? Or about what’s been on your mind?”

“So she already told you what happened?”

“Briefly. But I’d like to hear it from you, if you feel comfortable talking about it.”

“Well, it’d been raining and I went out into the street and didn’t see a car coming.” For some reason I didn’t want to tell him about the injured bird I’d seen. “Ari pushed me out of the way of the car and broke both his legs and his arm. He could have died but he didn’t.”

“Ari is your friend?”

“Yeah, my best friend.”

“How is he handling everything?”

“Um. Ok. I dunno. He can be kind of hard to read sometimes. They recently let him out of the hospital. He’s stuck in casts for the rest of the summer because of me.”

“And how have you felt since the accident?”

“I think my mom is worried that I’m showing signs of anxiety, depression and PTSD and that’s why they want me to talk to you. But I don’t have PTSD.”

“No?”

“No. I looked it up in the DSM-IV.” I ticked each symptom off with my fingers. “I’m not having recurring flashbacks or panic attacks. I’m not avoiding cars or the street. I’m not having angry outbursts. Well, I’m still kind of pissed at my parents about deciding to move to Chicago but that’s a different thing. Yeah, my dreams have been a little weird and I’m not sleeping great but that’s because my arm cast is so annoying. So I think we can safely say I don’t have PTSD. Possibly a little low-level anxiety. But I do deep breaths if I start feeling weird.”

“I don’t want to rule anything out just yet, but I’m happy to hear you’re listening to your body and your emotions. What do you mean when you say you start feeling weird?”

“I guess…sad. Stomach crampy. Frustrated. I think I’m worried about Ari. About how he’s recovering. About not being able to help him when we move.”

“It sounds to me like you might blame yourself for what happened to Ari.”

“Well, yeah, because it was my fault.”

“Who said it was your fault?”

“No one said it was my fault. But it obviously was.”

“Why do you feel that way?”

“It’s not feelings, it’s the facts. I went out to the street, I wasn’t paying attention and Ari got hurt because I was stupid and off in my own little world instead of paying attention to the road. And the thing about Ari is, he doesn’t like it when I’m upset, so he only let me apologize once and then he said we’re not allowed to talk about the accident anymore. He has some kind of stoic boy code about it. He wants to pretend it never happened.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Well, I don’t think we should, you know, dwell on it or anything. But I want him to know how sorry I am that I almost got him killed and ruined the rest of his summer.”

“Did Ari say anything like that to you? That you ruined his summer?”

“No. But he’s not big on talking anyway. But, like I said before, it’s a fact. Now he’s stuck in a wheelchair until his legs heal and he can’t do anything except hang around his house and read books and I know he’s pissed about it even if he won’t say anything.”

“Has he ever expressed anger or regret about what he did? That he saved your life?”

“No. Nothing like that. He’s just been moody and sullen. I mean, he’s been in a lot of pain so I don’t blame him for being crabby. I just don’t want him to hate me.”

“Why do you think he would hate you? It seems to me to be quite the opposite, that he cares about you very much. Do you want to tell me about him? How did you two become friends?”

“We met at the pool. I offered to give him swimming lessons. Because he didn’t know how to swim properly.”

“You like to swim?”

“Almost more than anything. Well, I like swimming, reading, drawing, stargazing and hanging out with Ari pretty much equally.” I lifted my cast arm and pulled a face. “Now my life is pretty much limited to reading and hanging out with Ari and teaching myself to become ambidextrous. Not that I’m complaining. I mean, I’m lucky to be alive. I know it’s babyish but I miss swimming with him. I wish I could retcon the whole day of the accident.”

“Retcon?”

“Oh that’s a comic book thing. Basically when the writers change things retroactively in a story to make up for continuity errors. Sort of like a big do-over. Usually that sort of thing bugs the heck out of me because it seems so lazy. But I get the appeal now. Like you have God’s big eraser.”

“It’s natural to wish you could change the past so easily. But it’s equally important to learn how to move forward. And to not beat yourself up over something you can’t change.”

I shrugged and picked at my cast. “I just keep thinking that if it had been Ari in the middle of the road, I wouldn’t have been able to save him. I wouldn’t have been fast or strong enough. He was like Superman, the way he dove at me and pushed me out of the way.”

“Why do you think you wouldn’t have been able to help him if your roles were reversed?”

“Because when I saw the car coming, I just froze.”

“That could have been your body experiencing a fight or flight reaction. And also Ari saw the car coming whereas you did not, yes? So he had more time to think and react.”

“But still, I don’t think I could ever be as brave as he was.”

“You may be underestimating yourself and your strength. It sounds to me like you’re beating yourself up about a theoretical past as well as construing what actually happened to place all the blame on yourself. Just imagine what the people driving the car must have felt like. They most likely felt guilt as well. But motor accidents happen so quickly, in a blink of an eye, that it’s not helpful to play the blame game after the fact, particularly if it’s determined that the driver wasn’t under the influence of drugs or alcohol and the accident was just that: an accident. I would advise you to try not to blame yourself for the actions of others. And if that’s difficult, you may want to ask yourself, what am I getting out of continuing to blame myself for something that was out of my control?”

I didn’t quite know what to say to that.

He must have seen my confusion so he rephrased his question. “In other words, are you holding onto feelings of guilt and shame because you don’t think you’re worthy of having a friend who cares about you enough to put his own life in danger to save yours?”

I didn’t think I was worthy of it. But thinking about that made me start to feel like I might cry, which I had been determined not to do, so I clamped down and said nothing for awhile.

After a bit of silence Oscar said, “You know, I never read comics but my daughter loves them.”

“Really? Which ones? Betty and Veronica?”

“Actually The X-Men is her favorite. She loves all the Saturday morning cartoons based on comics, too.”

“How old is she?”

“Twelve.”

“And she doesn’t think X-Men is too scary?”

“Well, she’s always been a tough little cookie. Never was into any of the princess stuff. Except She-Ra Princess of Power. She adores She-Ra.”

“She-Ra is pretty rad.”

“Do you have a favorite comic?”

“Ari teases me about it, but I really like Archie. He thinks they’re lame. Which, sure, yeah, they can be pretty cheesy. But I don’t like the really dark comics.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. There’s no rule that says you have to like all the same things your friends do.”

“Believe me I know that. I know I’m a little weird.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s not a secret or anything. Ari’s the first guy I’ve met my age who really gets me. I’ve never really had a best friend like him before. Not since we moved to El Paso anyway. I had a best friend in California but that was already years ago. We hardly see each other or write letters anymore.”

“And you’re worried that the accident and the move to Chicago will have a negative impact on your friendship with Ari? That you’ll lose touch and stop being friends? And you blame yourself for this future you see happening?”

I nodded, hoping to dislodge the traitorous lump that was forming in my throat.

“You’ve told me Ari hasn’t expressed anger or regret to you about the accident. It sounds to me like he values you and your friendship very much. He values you enough to have put himself at risk when he saw you were in danger. This doesn’t sound to me like a fair weather friend. And there are many ways to stay in touch. You can write letters and talk on the phone.”

“Sure, yeah.”

“I’d like to circle back to what you said at the start, about you being insistent about not having PTSD.”

“Okay…”

“It’s important to remember that everyone reacts to stress and trauma differently. You have in fact experienced a traumatic event. Your life and the life of your best friend was put in danger. For many people, acute stages of trauma may occur two to four weeks after the event itself. So it’s totally normal for your life and mental health to take some time settle back into place. You’re allowed to feel frustrated, angry, worried, scared and whatever other emotions might arise. It’s important to not rush to judge or ignore your feelings. You’ve mentioned that Ari isn’t talkative when it comes to expressing emotions, which is valid and what he needs right now to process the accident. But for you, I get the sense that you have a lot you’d like to express, either verbally or visually. Would journaling or drawing about the accident help you move forward?”

“Maybe…I usually keep a journal but I haven’t been able to write or draw much with my broken arm. When I draw with my left hand it’s like I’m in preschool again.”

“As I’m sure you know, artists express emotions in non-figurative ways all the time. If I asked you to express your feelings about the accident in abstract visual form and not worry how it looks compared to your other drawings, would that be a helpful thing to do?”

“Maybe. It still might look like chicken scratch.”

“Nothing wrong with that. If you feel more comfortable creating a collage we can try that instead.”

"I'd like to try to draw I think."

Oscar got out some paper and colored pencils and markers and charcoals for me. Instead of sitting at the kiddie table he let me sit at his desk to work. The first thing he had me do was draw how thinking about the accident made me feel.

Without really thinking about it, I picked up a black charcoal and started drawing the injured bird in the middle of the road. I used heavy black strokes. It was frustrating at first to not have complete control of the charcoal like I usually did but just putting marks and lines on the paper felt okay. But the drawing still left me with a hollow feeling.

“This is what I saw,” I told Oscar. “I saw an injured bird in the road and I went to pick it up and that’s why I didn’t see the car coming. I think I killed it. The bird.”

“And this makes you sad?”

“Yeah. I wanted to save it. But it still got killed. And Ari got hurt. It was stupid of me. I should have seen the car coming.”

“Is there anything you can do to this drawing now to make you feel less sad about it?”

“When I first saw the bird, it was on the road. But then I picked it up and held it close to my chest.”

I drew a hand around the bird, but it still didn’t feel right. Too stark and bleak. Not how I remembered the bird at all.

“The bird had colors on it. But I can’t really remember what they were exactly.”

“It’s your bird now, Dante. You can add whatever colors to it you want.”

I remembered the made-up birds I used to draw when I was little: the rainbow rocketbird, the tawny tailblaster. Pages and pages of sketchbooks filled with imaginary creatures. I hadn’t judged myself then about how anatomically accurate they were or how technically proficient I was. I drew and created because it felt good. Right now my drawing didn’t make me feel good so I added colors to my bird’s wings and I turned the hand into a nest. That felt better.

I felt calmer after my drawing was finished. But something still bothered me.

“Do you think me changing the drawing of the bird is like retconning the accident?” I asked. “I mean, when I started, I thought I would draw the bird like I remembered it. But that made me feel terrible to picture it all stiff and dark and lifeless. I wanted to protect it. Now it looks more like it’s asleep than it’s dead. But that’s not what actually happened.”

“If drawing the bird like this helped you reframe your sadness and anger into something beautiful, then I think it’s a good thing.”

“It’s not cheating?”

“No, I don’t think it’s cheating at all. In fact, I think it’s more like forgiving.”

“Forgiving who?”

“Yourself.”

#ari and dante fic

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 30: ‘Between the shadow and the soul’

I woke up panicked and drenched in sweat from yet another nightmare. In the dream I’d been walking on a railroad track and got my leg stuck between the wood slats in a sinkhole of pebbles. I saw a train approaching in the distance and tried to pull my leg out but it was like a cement block encased my leg and it wouldn’t budge an inch. Across the tracks, Ari saw me and came running toward me to help, only he didn’t realize the middle rail was deadly. I called his name over and over and screamed at him to stay away from the electric rail but the approaching train’s whistle overpowered my voice. He couldn’t hear me and my warning came too late.

Awake and shivering, I tried to shake off the residual fear coursing through me. I looked down at my legs, which were tingly and numb, but thankfully, still intact. I shook them out and turned over only to see my dad sitting in my comfy reading chair, with a book in his lap, dozing. The small reading light by the chair was still on and the dim blue light in my room told me it was early morning.

“Dad?” I croaked.

He woke up with a twitch and adjusted his glasses, which had fallen skewed across the bridge of his nose while he slept. “Oh, Dante. You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Okay. Better I think. You fell asleep in here?”

“I heard you crying out a bit in your sleep. Just wanted to make sure you were okay. Then I got caught up in reading these poems again and must have dozed off.” The book in his lap was the same Pablo Neruda one he’d read aloud to me the day before.

“What was I saying? In my sleep?”

“Just mumbling for the most part. And Ari’s name. You sounded scared.”

“Oh.”

“Do you remember what happened in your dream?”

“No, not really,” I lied. My face was already flushed but I felt it get even hotter. I knew he meant well, looking after me, but it almost felt like he’d been spying on me or like I was a baby he needed to watch over.

“Do you need anything? Tea? Breakfast? You barely ate anything but a few crackers and toast yesterday.”

I was surprised to find I was hungry, ravenous even.

“I’m starving, actually.”

“Good, that’s a good sign.” He touched my forehead. “It feels like your fever broke, thank God. I’ll warm up some oatmeal and take your temperature just to be sure we don’t have to take you to the doctor.”

“What time is it? Is it too early to call Ari?”

“It’s only 6:00am. How about you wait until after breakfast?”

“Sure, of course.”

“You sure you don’t want to talk about your dream? Was it about the accident?”

“Sort of. I’ve been having weird dreams a lot. Sometimes there’s an accident, sometimes not. But I don’t really remember them that well.”

“How’s your throat feeling?”

“Hoarse. But better than yesterday I think. It doesn’t feel like I’m swallowing a fire ball any more each time I take a breath.”

“Well that’s good, too. Here, take some more of this cough syrup.”

“Blech, it tastes so terrible.”

“I know. Just down it fast and drink this water right after.”

“You’d think in this advanced day and age of modern medical technology they’d have come up with something other than disgusting cherry poison flavor. Maybe I should forget astronomy and dedicate my career to inventing cough medicine that doesn’t taste like liquid death.”

My dad chuckled. “Well I can tell you must be feeling better if you’re planning to overthrow the cough medicine establishment. Yesterday you just drank it without a word. Now that got me nervous.”

I pinched my nose, drank the cough medicine as fast as I could and washed it down with a big glass of water. But the artificial flavor still lingered in my mouth.

“Uch, so gross. Can I break the no pop before dinner rule and have some ginger ale?”

“As long as we don’t tell your mother, I think some ginger ale for breakfast would be fine.”

“I’ll go down with you and help with the oatmeal.” I sat up in bed and a wave of dizziness crashed over me. “Oh boy. Maybe I’m not feeling so much better after all.”

“Dizzy?”

“Yeah.”

“Headache?”

“No, not really.”

“Nauseous?”

“No.”

“Okay, it’s probably just a head rush since you’ve been lying down for so long. You just stay in bed and I’ll bring breakfast up to you. K?”

“Okay, thanks, Dad.”

He leaned down to kiss my forehead and I hugged him tighter than I thought I was going to.

“Love you, Dante. I’m glad you’re feeling better today. You gave your mother and I quite a scare.”

“Love you too.”

“You know you can talk to us about anything, right?”

“I know.”

“Okay, good. I’ll be back up in a few.”

After breakfast I called Ari. I knew it was still early, but after my slew of disturbing dreams I couldn’t wait any longer to hear his voice. When he picked up with a groggy “hello?” I couldn’t help the relief that spread through my chest, releasing a tight knot I’d been holding onto for what felt like days.

“Morning,” I said.

“Dante? What’re you, my alarm clock?”

“Yeah, I thought I’d beat the early shift nurses and get the pleasure of your morning crankiness.”

“You sound weird. What’s wrong with your voice? Allergies again?”

“Nah, I got sick after I came to visit you. That’s why I didn’t call or anything yesterday. Got the flu I think.”

“Ugh, I hate the flu. The flu can wither up and die.”

“Agreed.”

“Night sweats?”

“Yeah.”

“Fever?”

“Yup.”

“Nasty sore throat?”

“You betcha.”

“Well you don’t sound like you’re about to keel over and die on the spot, so I’m cautiously optimistic you’ll survive.”

“Gee thanks.”

We both laughed. It felt good.

“How ‘bout you? How’re you feeling today?”

“Is it technically even day yet? It’s practically still dark out!”

“Listen, farmers wake up before dawn all the time. I’m trying to help you build a little character.”

“Yeah, just what I needed, a best friend slash rooster to wake me up at the butt crack of dawn every day.”

We both laughed again and I knew he wasn’t actually annoyed at me for calling so early.

“Did anything happen yesterday while I was in flu hell?”

He sighed. “They let me try out a pair of crutches but it was an epic failure. Looks like me and Fidel are going to get to be really good friends over the next six to eight weeks.”

“Fidel?”

“Oh, that’s what I’m naming my wheelchair.”

“You’re such a weirdo, you know that?”

“But that’s what you like about me.”

“Are you naming your casts too, then?”

“Yeah. Left leg is Che and right leg is Mao.”

“You’re sort of obsessed with communists. I’m a little concerned.”

“I feel like they’re a misunderstood bunch.”

“Just like you?”

“Just like me.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to name my cast too, then. I christen it Emma Goldman The Anarchist Arm Cast.”

“Excellent choice. And in honor of the books you brought me, I’ll name my arm cast Napolean.”

“Let’s just hope our arms and legs don’t try and overthrow our whole bodies.”

“I already feel like my legs are doing that. I’m about to write the Itch Manifesto. It’s like the Itch-olutionary War over here.”

“Ari’s Tale of Two Leg Casts: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

“This is for sure the worst of times. Definitely worst.” We both laughed, but I still felt a stab of guilt and had to bite back another apology that I knew was against his post-op rules.

We chatted until his nurses came in. I felt better after our phone call and thought I might be feeling up to visiting him but my mom didn’t think it would be a good idea in case I gave him my flu germs while he was recuperating and healing. I was secretly relieved when she said this. It’s not that I didn’t want to see him. I did. And didn’t. Because seeing him all laid up was really hard; joking on the phone was easier. And in person I didn’t trust myself to not blurt out the words to him that were bubbling up dangerously inside me. The words that I was afraid would change everything between us.

The thing is, realizing that you are hopelessly in love with your best friend is dizzying and terrifying and makes you feel a little foolish at the same time. Like you’ve reached the end of a Scooby-Doo episode when the big plot twist happens, and what a surprise, the unmasking moment reveals none other than the person who was right in front of your nose the whole time. So you smack your head and say “I knew it!” or “That was so obvious! How did I miss the clues?” and laugh at your ability to let yourself be so thoroughly duped.

Realize is not even the right word, because if you are being really honest with yourself, you knew the whole time but shoved the whole ‘desperately in love thing’ under the rug, couldn’t stare it in the face. Accept is maybe a better word, but it carries with it the weight of concession or contractual formality, such as:

These are the terms and conditions you must accept to move forward with a life spent loving your best friend (who happens to be boy, but that’s a whole other set of clauses and bylaws we’ll just gloss over for now).

Congratulations! You’ve been accepted to the School of Unrequited Love! Tuition may be paid in full heartache and/or fruitless daydreams about your best friend’s lips, eyes, hands, hair and other untouchable body parts.

Please accept me as I am.

Accept feels like such a small word, so full of compromise and acquiescence, when love feels the opposite. True love is boundless. Infinite. Yours for the taking, all you need to do is ask.

And the other problem with accept is that you can un-accept things, too. And imagining a life where I screwed everything up between Ari and I because I couldn’t keep my stupid mouth shut? Where I said the wrong thing and lost my best friend? That was unacceptable. So best to tamp it down, keep it hidden, leave everything unspoken, right? That’s what Ari would do.

The problem was, I wasn’t Ari. And once I got it in my head that I wanted to tell Ari I loved him (not that I was in love with him, mind you—that part was still sealed in the secret vault) it was all I could think about. I wanted so badly to say it because not saying it felt wrong. Stingy. Especially after he’d saved my life for goodness sake! I told my parents I loved them all the time. Saying “I love you” to them was as easy as saying hello or good-bye or what’s for dinner. I wanted it to be that easy with Ari. But I knew I was kidding myself. Nothing about being in love with Ari was going to be easy.

The flu laid me up for a few more days. I lost track of how many. I mostly slept. My dreams were a nightmarish jumble of storms, sadness, dead birds, broken legs, aliens, car accidents. In some dreams Ari would get hit by a car or bus or train and I’d cradle his body in my arms, crying enough tears to cause a flood that swept us both away. In other dreams, I’d be the one who was hit, but I usually woke up right at the moment of impact with a racing pulse and a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Except for the dreams where Ari’s body would find mine and we’d hold hands or press into each other impossibly close. Those dreams weren’t nightmares but I’d wake up with a knot in my gut just the same.

To pass the time when I wasn’t sleeping, my dad and I read poems aloud to each other. We were still working through 100 Love Sonnets by Pablo Neruda. Dad read each one in Spanish and then in English and we talked about how the differences in the two languages affected the rhyme, rhythm, nuance and meaning in each poem.

I was analyzing Sonnet XVII. “This is the part I don’t understand,“ I said. "He says: ‘I love you as certain dark things are to be loved / in secret, between the shadow and the soul.’ But then a few lines later he says: ‘I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride.’ How can you love someone in secret and straightforwardly at the same time?”

“Those two things don’t necessarily cancel each other out. There could be a reason why a love affair has to be kept secret. Safety or societal expectations, for example. It wouldn’t diminish the feelings they have for each other.”

“But you wouldn’t want your love to be kept secret forever, would you?”

“No. But declarations of love don’t have to splashy, written in the sky by an airplane, for them to be meaningful and true. When he says, ‘I love you as the plant that never blooms/ but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers’—it’s going against the convention of traditional love poems like Shakespeare’s ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’, where external virtues are praised, like the color, shape, and smell of a flower and a lover. Here all that is hidden away, the flower has not yet blossomed or might never blossom. But that doesn’t make their love any less real. If anything, it deepens it beyond the artificial.”

“But what about the secret part? Isn’t that like lying? To feel all these things for someone and not be able to share it with them?”

“Well, maybe he’s saying not that their love is kept a secret, but he feels love deeply in a place that is dark and invisible and secret, in the soul. And even if love is hidden deep inside you, you still know it’s there, don’t you?”

“Yes, but who wants to keep all that feeling bottled up inside?”

“Well, not me.”

“Me neither.”

I liked talking with my dad about poetry. It was easier than talking about the accident or Ari or the move to Chicago. Or what would happen if I ever told him and Mom my secret.

“Who said ‘I love you’ first, you or Mom?” I asked.

“I did.”

“I thought so.”

“Did she say she loved you back?”

“She did. But even if she didn’t I would still have known how much she cared for me.”

“How?”

“Well, you know how in grad school we both had study carrels in the library and that’s where we met? Well, I got in the habit of leaving notes and poems for her at her desk. And she would leave an orange or a chocolate bar. In her way, that was her giving me a poem.”

“So you’re saying actions speak louder than words?”

“Sometimes. It depends on the person though. For some people, love is expressed through words and physical touch, for others it’s shown in action and doing kind, caring things. There’s no wrong or right answer.”

Later that day, bolstered by the talk with my dad, I called up Ari at the hospital, determined to tell him three simple words. I just wanted to get it out of my system, just once, and then we wouldn’t ever have to speak about it ever again. My heart was racing as the phone rang and I told myself to stop being a chicken and just blurt it out before we got sidetracked by our typical jokey-chitchat.

“I want to say something to you, Ari.”

“Okay,” he said.

The words lodged themselves in my throat, refusing to budge.

This was a terrible idea. This would ruin everything. I only had one month left with Ari before our move and if I said it, I knew it would just make the rest of the summer more awkward and confusing than it already was since the accident.

“What?” he said again.

“Never mind,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Okay,” he said.

“I wish we could swim again.”

“Me too,” he said.

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 29: Fever Dreams

I’m on the bus. A man sits down next to me. His features are simultaneously clumpy and weirdly smooth, like he’s made of melted plastic or silly putty. He has no nose, just a cavity in the middle of his face. The bus smells like gasoline. I gag. I keep pulling the lever to let the bus driver know I need to get off, but he ignores me.

The man puts his hand on my knee. “Don’t worry, I’m just like you,” he says.

He’s an alien. So is the bus driver. The certainty of this hits me with a slap of icy dread.

“Heading home?” he asks me.

I nod. He laughs.

“You already are. Home is here,” he says, tightening his grip on my leg.

I’m panicking. I need to get off the bus, away from the alien with the burnt plastic face. I smash through the rear doors, rolling onto the street straight into incoming traffic. I’m in the middle of a highway. I wake up just as a truck slams into me and runs over my legs.

Awake now, my mom is sitting next to me on the bed. She’s taking my temperature. Her face is a knot of worry. She places a cold compress on my forehead. I clench and unclench my leg muscles. Relief washes over me, followed by a stab of nauseous guilt. Ari’s broken legs. Ari not moving in the middle of the street. Ari almost dead because of me. I don’t know whether I’m crying or sweating. I try to let go of the panic of the dream but my eyes keep leaking. I’m definitely crying. My throat burns. I remember my dad helping me up from the kitchen floor and that I’m sick with a cold or something but I know I’m crying too much for this to be a normal summer cold.

“Mom? What’s wrong with me?”

“Shhh, it’s okay honey. You’ve got a fever. Take these. Drink the whole thing.” She hands me two pills and a big glass of water. It hurts to swallow.

“I feel funny.”

“If your fever doesn’t break soon we’ll take you to the doctor. But just keep resting, okay? I made you some raspberry ginger tea.”

“With honey and lemon?”

“Of course.”

“Why aren’t you at work?”

“I took the morning off, just in case. Do you want some toast?”

“Not hungry.”

“Okay. Keep drinking tea and water and keep sleeping. I’ll check up on you in an hour. I’ll make some soup if you can keep it down.”

She kisses my forehead.

I’m in a city. It’s raining. People float down the street in colorful boats that are actually upside-down umbrellas. Everyone waves and smiles at me. We got the day off because of the flood. Isn’t that great? No more work! I’m holding onto a lamppost, watching the water rise and rise. Animals in pairs drift by on swimming pool rafts and floaties, even the water animals like dolphins and sharks and seals. (They took the day off, too). I don’t want to let go of the lamppost but have no choice as the water rises and fills up my mouth, ears and nose. I drift on my back, shivering. The water is cold and murky. I want to go home.

My dad is next to me on the bed now.

“You awake now, Dante?”

I nod but I’m not 100% sure I’m awake actually.

“How are you feeling?”

“Keep having weird dreams.”

“Mom thinks it’s the flu. Or maybe your body is still recovering from the accident.”

“Maybe.”

“There’s chicken soup. It’s on the side table there if you get hungry. Drink this water. And there’s more tea.”

He puts the back of his hand on my forehead and frowns.

“You still feel too hot for my liking. Are you nauseous? Dizzy?”

“Just tired. My bones feel like they’re made of sand bags.” I shiver.

“Are you cold? Need another blanket?”

I shake my head. “Gonna keep sleeping.”

“Okay.”

He stands up to go. I don’t want him to leave.

“Actually, Dad? Can you read to me a little? It’ll help me fall asleep.”

“Sure thing. What do you want me to read?”

“Anything.”

He picks up a book off the stack on my desk.

“You’ve been reading Pablo Neruda?” he asks.

I nod.

“—‘I built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each I built little houses, so that your eyes, which I adore and sing to, might live in them. Now that I have declared the foundations of my love, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life’—”

I’m drawing a scene in front of me I see out a window: a hilly island surrounded by a lake and sky. In the center of the hill I draw two V’s, like the way children draw birds. They’re actually eyes. The hill is a face. The face of a boy with black hair made out of dark tree branches, blowing in the wind. The boy shakes out his hair and the whole island erupts in birds. Seagulls. I draw them furiously all over the paper until the whole thing is scratched over with black Vs.

I drift in and out as my father reads poetry to me. I feel comforted, the way I used to when he’d sing me to sleep when I was a little boy and we’d make up silly rhymes together.

Fever. Flu. Flew. Fly. Sparrow. Sky. Shhh. Shy. Sleep. Dream. Give. Take. Kiss. Kill. Shiver. Shake.

The fever flew. The sparrow knew. The boy was shy. And he loves you.

I hear my father’s voice. I wonder when my voice will sound like his. As low and calm and confident. My voice shakes too much.

“—’I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you directly without problems or pride: I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love, except in this form in which I am not nor are you, so close that your hand upon my chest is mine, so close that your eyes close with my dreams’—”

I’m in a dark room, an attic or garret. Snow is falling inside the room, like I’m inside a snow globe. It’s cold but not too cold, so I think maybe it’s not snow after all but something else. Maybe magic. Or dust. Or dandelion puffs. Or ash. Or cherry blossoms. Maybe pollen. Maybe confectioners’ sugar. It’s hard to tell because the room is dark, illuminated only by pools of bluish light. I have a camera and am taking Polaroid photographs of my bare feet. I hear a creak and a trap door opens in the floor. Ari sticks his head up.

“There you are,” he says.

“Here I am,” I say.

“Have you ever seen snow like this before?” he asks.

“I’ve never seen snow period.”

“Me neither.”

We smile at each other and stick out our tongues, catching the maybe-snowflakes. “It’s not as cold as I thought it would be,” he says. “And it tastes like honeysuckles.”

“I’m shivering,” I say.

Het gets up and wraps his arms around me from behind. I take a deep breath into the softness of his neck.

“I have a secret,” I whisper.

“Don’t tell me.”

“Okay, I won’t. Can I take your picture instead?”

He hesitates. Then nods. I find the perfect spot for him to stand in the blue light. He doesn’t smile when I take the photo. I don’t ask him to.

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 28: Eggshells

Later that night after I got back from the hospital, I was alone in my room listening to The Association on vinyl, trying not to think about the far away look in Ari’s eyes after I’d given him my sketchbook, when I got a shiver of goosebumps down my right arm and felt an ache in my chest like someone was tightening a belt around my ribcage. I rubbed the spot where Ari had slammed into me to push me out of harm’s way and thought “This is what the hailstorm feels like”. Then seconds later I heard a low rumble of thunder and the plit plit plit of rain against my window that meant a sudden summer storm. I thought of my abuela, who claimed she could predict the weather based on the stiffness in her knees. I’d never really believed her but now I wasn’t so sure. Would I be like her now? An arm and chest based weather forecaster? How else had the accident changed me?

It was the first storm since the accident and my heart thrashed like the wind tearing through the tree branches right outside my window. I felt a jolt of panic and my first instinct was to curl up on my bed, pull the covers over my head and wait for the storm to pass. So I did. But once I was under the blankets, I felt too hot and closed in; my breath in the tight space was too musty and sticky and I felt small and spineless, like a child hiding from monsters under the bed, hoping they’d just go away on their own. I didn’t want to hide. I wanted to be brave like Ari. So I did the opposite. I opened my window and stuck my head out into the rain. I liked how it felt, so I turned around and leaned backwards outside as far out as I could manage while bracing my weight against the windowsill and keeping my cast arm dry. I leaned back and opened my eyes. Raindrops whizzed straight at me like a cascade of clear bullets; it was almost like I could see each one in slow motion. I scrunched up my eyes and stuck out my tongue. The rain was cold and prickly in my mouth, but I liked it. My hair quickly got drenched and I shook it out like a dog. I felt each rattle of thunder and crack of lightning tremor through my body. I wanted to scream into the storm, but I didn’t want my parents to hear me and get alarmed. So I whispered instead.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”

I was crying but it didn’t matter because the rain washed it away.

“I love you I love you I love you I love you.”

It felt good to stay the words, to hear them coming out of my mouth, even if it hurt at the same time. Even though the thunder swallowed them up.

I stayed like that, leaning back halfway out the window, for a long time. I’m not sure how long. But I had a crick in my neck by the time the storm ended and I withdrew back into my room. Maybe it was all the blood that had rushed to my head, but I felt exhilarated. I was shivering but felt better and more alive than I had since the accident.

I took a long hot bath (with bubbles, which I hadn’t done since I was little kid). I don’t know why, but in the bath I touched myself and for the first time didn’t get embarrassed or self-conscious about it. I thought about what it would be like to kiss someone. (All right, what it would be like to kiss a boy). To feel a boy put his hands on me. The bath was warm and safe, not suffocating like under my blankets. I thought about being able to swim again. I thought of kissing a boy in a big clear lake in the moonlight. The sensation that began building up inside as I touched myself was almost painful. I thought I should stop, that I wasn’t doing it right. But the tight, pressing almost-pain still felt good so I kept going. I thought of the desert on a perfectly clear night with no light pollution, all the stars swirling above me, me being in the stars now, surrounded by them, buoyed by them, hurtling through space. And then I saw a glimpse of dark, serious eyes staring into mine, stars reflecting in those eyes, and I felt lips and hands all over my slick skin. I expanded out and out and out. I felt a rush like I was there as a witness at the dawn of creation and I contained the whole universe inside me.

I felt a little weird after. Emptied. My muscles felt happy-melty like I’d just swam an hour of laps. Bone achingly tired, but in a good way. I put on my PJs and told my parents I was going to bed, kissing them both good night. I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

I dreamed Ari and I were alone at the pool. My arm was healed and I could swim, but Ari couldn’t go into the water because of his casts. He was still in his hospital bed and we rolled it—still attached to the IV drip and monitors and other medical equipment—up close to the edge of the pool like it was a beach chair. He had a big stack of books on his bed, but whenever I picked one up to read to him the words got all jumbled like they were sliding around the page.

“That means you’re dreaming,” Ari told me. “If words and numbers get all weird like that it means you’re in a dream. I read about it.”

“This isn’t a dream. I think I would know.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I’m already in my suit,” I said, pointing at my trunks, and we both laughed.

“I wish I could get in the water. These damn itchy casts are driving me crazy. It’s all I can think about.”

“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Scratch me?”

“Scratch you?”

“Yeah, you know, like how dogs like to be scratched on their bellies. Scratch me. It’ll make me feel better.”

I reached down into Ari’s casts and scratched his legs for him. I reached up under his hospital gown and dragged my fingernails all over his stomach and chest. He sighed happily and my insides crumpled like a balled-up piece of paper. I was embarrassed and had to pull my hand away from him.

“I have a better idea. Let me take these casts off for you,” I said.

“I know you’re smart, Dante, but since when did you become a licensed medical professional?”

I snorted. “You’re the one who just said I was dreaming. So I can take your casts off if I want to, can’t I? Since I’m calling the shots here.”

“Okay, let’s see what you can do.”

I tried yanking them off him like a big sock but they wouldn’t budge.

“Ow! Are you trying to dislodge my hip from the socket?”

“Sorry, sorry.”

I tried tearing them in half but the plaster was too hard.

“Don’t they usually saw them off? Where’s a saw when you need one?”

My dream brain stubbornly refused to produce a saw.

“Ok, I have one last idea,” I said. I gently rocked Ari’s legs back and forth like I was peeling a hard-boiled egg. Hairline cracks formed and little by little I chipped away at the casts. Once I was done, his legs were still covered in bits of dust and plaster like eggshells. Globs of white gunk were lodged under my fingernails.

“Let’s go in the water and clean you up,” I said.

I helped ease him into the water, since his legs were shaky from disuse. He floated on his back and his hospital gown billowed up around him in the water. My face grew hot and I averted my eyes as I ran my hands up and down his legs, cleaning the cast remnants off. The same tight feeling began building up inside me as when I’d had my bubble bath, and that’s when I woke up with a jolting spasm.

My room was still dark with a hint of pre-dawn blue, which was disorienting. I was shivering and sticky and drenched in sweat. Something was really wrong. I sat up in bed and was hit by a wave of dizziness. I thought it would be a good idea to go downstairs and stick my head in the freezer. I made it to the kitchen and grabbed an ice pack. I laid down on the kitchen floor, liking how the cool tile felt against my burning skin. I took off my shirt and put the ice pack on my chest, the same spot where I’d felt the incoming rainstorm earlier, and must have fallen back asleep right there because that’s where my dad me found in the morning.

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 27: Aurora

Paying a bus fare shouldn’t be the most challenging thing you have to complete in a day. But throw a broken arm into the mix and suddenly the whole world is an obstacle course called Formerly Trivial Tasks That Are Now As Daunting As Olympic Qualifiers.

I got on the bus, fished out a handful of coins from my pocket and tried to feed each coin one by one into the fare taker using just my thumb and pointer finger. Big mistake, since I’m apparently not as dexterous with my palm as fifteen years on the planet had led me to believe. The rest of the coins practically jumped out of my fist and scattered all over the bus floor, spinning noisily. I scrambled to pick them up, cursing under my breath, feeling my face flush from all the eyes I’m sure were boring into me. The passengers waiting to board barreled ahead of me and a man reached down to help me pick up the coins.

“It’s all right, I’ll get these,” the man said.

“Thanks,” I said. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right, it’s all right, just take a seat. I got this, sonny.”

“Ok, thanks.”

I handed him the coins I’d picked off the ground. The bus driver had already grown impatient and started driving away as the man paid the fare for me.

Normally I would have beelined it to the very back of the bus, where Ari and I normally sat, but I felt like I needed to stick around and thank the stranger again.

He sat down next to me and handed me back my spare change. “Thanks for your help,” I said.

“No problem, kid.” He looked me up and down. “What the hell happened to you, anyway?” 

The man’s voice was a gritty foghorn. Like he’d been smoking cigarettes rolled with sandpaper since he was eleven. I was taken aback a little but I didn’t detect anything malicious behind his question, mostly curiosity.

“Traffic accident. I almost got hit by a car.”

“Well at least you’re alive to tell the tale. Where was the accident?”

“Over by Memorial Pool.”

“You like to swim?”

“Yeah.”

“Swimming’s good exercise. Just make sure you don’t accidentally drink any of that pool water though. You don’t know what sorts of bad stuff the government’s been pumping in there on top of all the germs and chlorine and kiddie piss. You could end up with tapeworm that eats your brain. Or worse.”

At this point I probably should have smiled and nodded and left it at that. Maybe pulled out a book so he would get the hint that I wasn’t in a chatty mood. But I took a look into the man’s face. He was probably in his forties but looked much older. His skin was weatherworn, cracked and brown like a creek bed during a drought. His eyes were startlingly blue beneath his bushy caterpillar eyebrows. His gray hair was thin, long and straggly and he had crumbs in his beard. He was missing a few teeth and his breath was wet and rank. Part of me wanted to recoil away from him. But he’d been kind to help me. I didn’t want to turn my back on him just because he gave off a definite oddball vibe and a not-so-great smell.

“Really?” I asked.

“Oh yeah. You think waterborne diseases just happen naturally? Part of God’s plan? No sir. ‘Don’t drink the water.’ Ever. Ya feel me?”

“I thought that mostly applied to travel in foreign countries? Since your body hasn’t acclimated to the native microbes in the water?”

“Native microbes! Native to what? Native to this spinning piece of dirt we call planet earth? Because I’ve got news for you there, too. They’ve been pumping stuff into the water for hundreds of years. And there ain’t no such thing as native. Ever hear of Aurora, Texas?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, you’ve heard of Roswell, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Aurora happened way before that but you never hear about it. I wonder why. Year is 1897. An April morning just like any other. Dawn breaks and a one Mr. Judge Proctor wakes up on account of a horrible crashing noise. Nearly has a heart attack. Thinks the world’s ending or war has broken out. Jumps out of bed, grabs his gun and tells his family to stay inside and lock all the doors. Looks across his field and sees his windmill’s on fire. Alerts the fire brigade, grabs buckets of water to put out the blaze and runs over to the windmill. There he gets the shock of his life. What do you think he sees?”

He looked at me with his wide excited eyes, waiting for me to take a guess. I could tell where his story was going, but I was totally drawn into his tale and wanted to hear him finish it.

“Um…had something crashed into his windmill?”

He slapped his knee so hard it made me jump. “You’re a smart one! What does he see but the crash remains of an extraterrestrial airship. But he doesn’t know that yet. All he sees is wood debris and heaps of metal and smoke. The windmill’s water tank is busted and spewing water everywhere, which is at least lucky since it helps put off the fire from spreading. Proctor and his men are running around, trying to keep the fire from taking out his entire field and what do you suppose he finds hidden under a piece of blasted metal?”

“Um…the pilot?”

“Damn right the pilot! Poor fellow was dead of course. Charred and burned like a piece of barbeque. But even all burnt up the townsfolk knew he wasn’t from this world. They found papers on him, all written in mumbo jumbo like you find in Egpyt and the Mayan temples. Except this wasn’t like any of those hieroglyphics anyone had ever seen before. Scientists and G-men got on the scene right quick. The ship’s metal was like nothing found on this planet either. What do you think happened next?”

“Um…did they take the pilot and the ship to study it?”

“You’d think. You’d think that when one of our brothers makes contact the scientists and whatnot would want to find out as much they can about what makes them such evolved superior beings. But humans are greedy bastards. And cowards. So instead of sending it in to be studied, they tried to hush the damn thing up. They buried the pilot and stuffed the remains of his ship down a sealed well. No follow-up, no nothing. Thing is, before the crash strange things kept happening in Aurora. Boll weevil infestations wiped out cotton crops. Fever sickness spread so the whole town was under quarantine. Fires took out half the town. No one realizing that what they tried to cover up could have helped the town if they’d only listened and tried to understand the pilot’s mission. Instead the water made everyone sicker.”

“But why would they have covered it up?”

“The government needs to keep us stupid and sick and compliant. Pigs in a pen. Ignorant to The Truth. We’re all pawns in their big game. Let me tell you something, kid. Everything you see, this bus, the bus driver, the road, that 7-Eleven. It’s all an illusion. You see it because that’s what they want you to see. But once you’ve got your eyes open. Once you’ve seen and felt and talked to our brothers you’ll understand that they’re just trying to help us. They’re trying to spring us from this prison. The government tries to keep our brothers a secret so ‘the public doesn’t panic’. What a crock of horsehit. It really comes down to keeping us at war and keeping us down while they get rich on oil money and military money and Big Pharma money. Our brothers have the technology and abilities to end global hunger and sickness and poverty. But that would hand over the government’s power to the people. And the filthy warmongers want to keep us down. Pigs in a pen. Once you’ve seen that, you can’t unsee it.”

I really didn’t know what else to say to that besides, “Ah.” I wondered what Ari would have thought of this man if he were sitting here next to me. He’d probably think he was a total whackjob and would have been skeptical of everything that came out of his mouth. But I couldn’t help but sort of liking the man, with his wide overly bright eyes and emphatic gestures.

“’There are more things between heaven and hell than any of us have witnessed.’ Except some of us have witnessed it.”

“You mean you’ve seen aliens?”

“I got my first visit when I was probably your age. Maybe a little younger. I was fourteen.”

“I’m fifteen.”

“Yeah, just about your age then.”

“What happened?”

“I was living in foster care at the time. Hated it. The family I’d been placed with was a bunch mean sadistic motherfuckers, all of them. Pardon my French. Wanted to kill myself. Tried to. But I didn’t because that’s when the brothers found me. Put their suckers on me and dipped my head in a silver liquid like I was being baptized. After that, they could talk to me in their language through my brain and I understood it. Even though to your average person it would sound like whale noises. High pitched squeals and clicks. But they could talk to me after that and I didn’t want to die anymore. I ran away from the family I was with and I’ve been on my own ever since. But not alone. The brothers let me know their plans sometimes. I’m lucky they trust me.”

“Wow.”

“They have plans. They’re trying to help. Here in El Paso, the ones who escaped from Roswell have been working on taking over the transportation system. But our metal is toxic to them. Their skin is so delicate. The fumes, too.”

“And you’re helping them?”

“When I can, yeah. Not so much for the transportation thing, that’s not really my area, but I’m their man on the inside for Big Pharma intel. I get terrible headaches from the suckers after they’ve mined me for knowledge. But that’s okay because afterwards I feel so much freer, more alive than ever. It’s an honor to help them. That’s why I’m headed to the clinic now. They need me.”

“I’m going to the hospital to see a friend of mine. He was also in the accident except his legs are broken.”

“I broke both my legs once. Motorcycle accident. Hit and run. I was left for dead on the side of the road. I would have died right there in a ditch if the brothers hadn’t found me and helped heal me up.”

“Wow. You’ve um…had quite an interesting life.”

“Interesting ain’t the half of it. Here’s my stop. Good luck, kid. Keep your eyes open.”

“Sure, yeah. I will.”

The man got off and hobbled off the bus. Something was definitely wrong with his legs, they were bent inwards toward each other at an off angle. I couldn’t help but imagine him on the side of the road after his motorcycle accident, getting healed by an otherworldly blue light, even though I knew it was impossible.

I kept thinking about the strange man until the bus arrived at my stop. I wanted to write down the story he’d told me so I could remember it and maybe make a painting out of it, but I wasn’t good enough with my left hand to write more than a few chicken scratch lines. Aurora. Contaminated Water. Pig pens. The truth. The list looked a little crazy. I tore the page out of my sketch book and stuffed it in my pocket.

I went up to Ari’s room at the hospital. My stomach cramped a little bit when I saw him in his bed, alone, staring out the window that overlooked a parking lot. He looked a little better than when I’d seen him the day he woke up, but not by much. I couldn’t help but imagine him motionless in the middle of the road.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” he said. “The doctor said I was going to heal very nicely.”

“Very nicely?”

“That’s exactly what he said. So give me eight to ten or twelve weeks, and I’m going to be myself again. Not that being myself is such a great thing.”

That made me laugh. At least the car hadn’t knocked Ari’s self-deprecating humor out of him. But then I felt kind of bad for laughing. Hospitals really didn’t seem like the type of place for belly laughs. “Are you going to initiate a no-laughing rule?”

“Laughing is always good. Laughing works.”

“Good,” I said, relieved. If Ari and I couldn’t laugh together after what happened my heart would have well and truly broken.

I pulled up a chair next to his bed and took the books I’d brought out of my backpack. “I brought you reading material. The Grapes of Wrath and War and Peace.”

“Great,” he said. He didn’t sound overly enthused about the new summer reading syllabus I’d provided him.

“I could have brought you more flowers.” Every spare surface of the room was covered in get-well flowers. All the floral bouquets that would have been nice-smelling on their own combined to make a not-so-appealing mishmash of scents. But at least it covered up the underlying chalky hospital smell.

“I hate flowers.”

“Somehow I guessed that.”

He flipped through War and Peace in a desultory way. “They’re fucking long.”

“That’s the point.”

“Guess I have time.”

“Exactly.”

“So you’ve read them?”

“’Course I have.”

“’Course you have.”

I put the books on the little table next to his bed, next to a stack of get-well cards. My mom and dad had given him one and asked me if I’d wanted to sign it. I’d said no. There was no way I could have distilled all my feelings of regret and guilt and gratitude to him and written them out next to a few trite lines thought up by some random person who worked for Hallmark. But now I felt bad that I hadn’t gotten him a card. Everyone likes cards when they’re sick. Even Ari.

I took out my sketch pad. Another bout of nervous butterflies in my stomach, but I tried not to let it show.

“You’re going to sketch me in casts?”

Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t have. Not unless he wanted a sketch of himself that looked like the handiwork of a preschooler.

“Nope. I just thought that maybe you’d want to look at some of my sketches.”

“Okay,” he said. He sounded about as excited at looking at my drawings as undergoing another round of surgery. I tried not to let that hurt my feelings.

“Don’t get too excited.”

“It’s not that. The pain comes and goes.”

“Does it hurt right now?”

“Yes.”

“Are you taking anything?”

“I’m trying not to. I hate the way whatever the hell they give me makes me feel.”

He pushed the button to move his bed more into a sitting position. I handed over the sketch pad and he was about to open it up when I stopped him, suddenly too embarrassed to let him look at them with me right there next to him.

“You can look at it after I leave.”

He looked at me, not sure what to say.

“You have rules. I have rules too.”

He laughed at that and only winced a little bit.

“Tell me about the people on the bus,” he said.

That I was happy to do. I told him about the strange man and the aliens he’d encountered. I wanted to tell the story right. Not like I was making fun of the man or thought he was totally crazy, which I’m pretty certain he was to some extent. But I wanted Ari to understand the spell the man’s words had cast on me. How this man’s ranting didn’t seem so scary or weird because he believed in a power that was good, a power that wanted to help us humans even if we didn’t deserve it. But I must not have been doing a very good job of telling the story because Ari’s eyes were unfocused and drifting the whole time. He’d have to have been there, I guess.

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 26: Yes Rules and No Rules

I didn’t leave the house for three days after we got back from the hospital. I barely left my bed, if I’m being honest. Sleeping seemed like a good idea, but I only slept in fits and starts because my arm itched something wicked and the cast smelled funny (an odd mix of polyurethane, plaster and a weird unidentifiable cheesy smell) and my head felt like it was stuffed with gauze and I had nightmares. So I just stayed in bed and played my Beatles records over and over (I’ve never been able to listen to ‘The Long and Winding Road’ since then without thinking about the accident). I listened to sad songs and looked at my busted up face in the mirror for a long time. But it wasn’t my face anymore. Boy Dante had become Sad Automaton Zombie With Two Mean Purple Shiners Dante. But being a zombie was still better than being dead, right? So I added feeling guilty about feeling lousy—instead of grateful for each second I was still on the planet and safe at home while Ari was stuck in the hospital—to my ever-increasing guilt pile.

Once Ari woke up, it really hit me that he could have actually died because of me. I didn’t deserve a friend like him, someone as brave as him. I didn’t know how I’d ever be able to truly thank him for saving my life. But I didn’t want to visit him in the hospital for some reason. So I felt guilty about that, too. (The guilt pile was getting big enough that I’d be able to chop it up like firewood and start a big old guilt bonfire).

Having a useless right arm really screwed with my sense of normalcy and equilibrium for those first few days. It took forever to do the most mundane things like getting dressed (so why bother changing out of my pajamas?), squirting toothpaste on a toothbrush (just mouthwash would be fine), eating anything that required both a knife and fork (ice cream or cereal would have to do). Taking a shower was a whole production of trying to cover my cast up with a trash bag so I took baths instead. And even then I could barely wash my left armpit! Forget drawing or painting for the rest of the summer. Forget swimming. Forget writing. Forget playing guitar. So I just holed up in my room and replayed the accident over and over in my brain.

My parents were worried and checked up on me a lot, but they let me be for the most part and let me stay in my room. I told them I was fine, that I was just tired, but that was not really the truth and I think they knew it. I didn’t want to leave the house because I didn’t want strangers looking at me, looking at my two black eyes and my cast, and assuming things about why I’d gotten to be that way. Assuming that I’d got my ass kicked. Assuming that I was the type of person who was easy to break, easy to knock around and push down.

I was, though. Easy to push down. Ari had pushed me out the way of the car. Knocked me over like I was a bowling pin. When the car was coming straight at me, I hadn’t been able to move. I didn’t understand it: why had my body betrayed me like that? Why had my ancestors handed me the short end of the stick when it came to possessing actual survival instincts? What’s that all about, Charles Darwin?

I was ready to fully accept my new lifestyle as a zombie teenager hermit/recluse when my dad asked me if I was up for helping him with weeding the garden. Since I was officially off of lawn mower duty for the rest of the summer (silver lining to almost dying?) he needed an extra hand with the rest of the chores.

“I’m an invalid, Dad, remember? And anyway, why does it matter? We’re leaving this house for a whole year, who cares if there’s weeds?”

“Well we haven’t left yet. And one of my TAs is going to live here while we’re gone and will take care of maintenance things for us. Is that what’s been bothering you, Dante? That we’re leaving?”

“Who cares if it’s bothering me? You and Mom already made the decision for us to move, didn’t you? What does it matter what I think?”

“It’s okay for you to be angry with us, you know.”

“I’m not angry at you, ok?” I shouted (definitely not angrily).

“Is there something else that’s bothering you, then? Something about the accident?”

“I don’t really feel like talking about it right now, okay, Dad?” I hated the quiver in my voice.

“That’s fine. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But I do need some help with the garden.”

“I’m not sure how much of a help I’ll be.”

“We’ll figure out someway to make you useful.”

I have to admit being outside in the fresh air felt good after so many days in my dark room. It was nice to feel the grass between my toes, feel the sunlight warm my skin. Dad mowed and I weeded and watered. Then we refilled all the bird feeders. Despite what I’d told Ari at the hospital about being done with birds, I was still glad they visited our yard. It would have been oddly quiet without them. Dad and I didn’t talk much but that was okay. After, he made us lunch and I ate a big bowl of ice cream for desert (his idea). Then we played scrabble and checkers for a few hours until my mom got home. My dad and mom told me they were going to visit Ari at the hospital and asked if I wanted to come. I lied and said I was too tired and I wanted to take a nap.

After their visit, while we were eating dinner, my mom told me she wanted me to talk to a counselor about the accident and the move and whatever else was on my mind. She said she understood that there were probably things I wanted to talk about, but just not with her or Dad, and that was totally fine and valid. But she didn’t like to see me closing myself off like this. It wouldn’t help me heal.

I agreed to go. Because she had that look of fierce love in her eyes that I couldn’t refuse. And because I knew she was right. As much as I wished I could be like Ari, it just wasn’t in me to keep things locked inside. It hurt more than it helped.

The next morning, I called Ari in his hospital room.

“Sorry I haven’t gone to see you,” I said.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not really in the mood to talk to people.”

“Me neither. Did my mom and dad tire you out?”

“No. They’re nice.”

“My mom says I have to go to a counselor.”

“Yeah, she said something like that.”

“Are you gonna go?” The idea of Ari talking to a counselor seemed as plausible as El Paso getting a blizzard in July, but I had to ask anyway.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

“Your mom and my mom, they talked.”

“Bet they did. So are you gonna go?”

“When Mom thinks something is a good idea, there’s no escape. It’s best to go along quietly.”

He laughed, which made me happier than I’d been all week. “How’s your face?” he asked.

“I like staring at it.”

“You’re really weird. Maybe it is a good idea for you to see a counselor.” I laughed and my cheeks felt rusty, like I was the Tin Woodsman pre-WD40. Probably because it was my first real laugh in days. I imagined Ari in his hospital bed, with his three casts and hooked up to all the machines, laughing and then wincing in pain. The smile evaporated off my face.

“Does it still hurt a lot, Ari?”

“I don’t know. It’s as if my legs own me. I can’t think about anything else. I just want to yank the casts off and shit, I don’t know.”

His words hit me like they were the car that barreled over his legs.

“It’s all my fault.”

“Listen,” he said as I wiped my eyes. I was glad we were talking on the phone and not in person so Ari wouldn’t see me dissolving again. But knowing him, he could probably tell already what was happening. “Can we have some rules here?”

“Rules? More rules. You mean like the no-crying rule?”

“Exactly.”

“Did they take you off the morphine?”

“Yes.”

“You’re just in a bad mood.”

“This isn’t about my mood. It’s about rules. I don’t know what the big deal is—you love rules.”

“I hate rules.” That wasn’t exactly true. “I like to break them mostly.”

“No, Dante, you like to make your own rules. So long as the rules are yours, you like them.”

Wow, Ari really had my number, didn’t he? The thought made me both happy and a little ticked off, truth be told. But mostly happy that he knew well enough to call me out on my half-truths.

“Oh, so now you’re analyzing me?”

“See, you don’t have to see a counselor. You have me.”

“I’ll tell my mom.”

“Let me know what she says.” I could hear the smile in his voice from over the phone. And that made me smile, too. “Look, Dante, I just want to say that we have some rules here.”

“Post-op rules?”

“You can call them that if you want.”

“What are the rules?”

“Rule number one: We don’t talk about the accident. Not ever. Rule number two: Stop saying thank you. Rule number three: This whole thing is not your fault. Rule number four: Let’s just move on.”

Rule number five: Stop my heart from exploding with gratitude every minute of every day because my best friend was alive and I hadn’t accidentally got him killed. Sounded as easy as “stop breathing”.

“I’m not sure I like the rules, Ari.”

“Take it up with your counselor. But those are the rules.”

“You sound like you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

I knew if I ever wanted things to get back to normal between Ari and I, I’d need to go along with him on this. “Okay,” I said. “We won’t ever talk about the accident. It’s a stupid rule, but okay. And can I just say ‘I’m sorry’ one more time? And can I say ‘thank you’ one more time?”

“You just did. No more, okay?”

“Are you rolling your eyes?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, no more.”

We chatted for a little while longer but Ari had to get off the phone so some nurses could take his vitals or run tests or whatever they needed to do to him, so we hung up. I decided enough was enough with my self-imposed house arrest. I told my dad I was going to take the bus over to see Ari after lunch.

“Are you sure?” Dad said. “Mom can drive you over when she gets off work. Visiting hours are until eight.”

“I can take the bus, Dad. Ari and I do it all the time.”

“I’d just feel more comfortable if Mom or I drove you.”

“Dad, I’ll be fine. The law of averages says it’s highly unlikely I’ll almost get killed in a traffic accident more than once in a week time span.”

“Don’t joke about that.”

“Okay, sorry, Dad. I want to go early so Ari doesn’t get too tired, okay? And I’d like to go by myself.”

Dad looked at me, worry splashed all over his face, but he must have seen the determination in my expression and he softened.

“Do you have bus fare?”

“Yes.”

“And a bus map?”

I suppressed an eye roll. “Yes.”

“Okay, be careful.”

“I will.”

“I’m glad you’re going to see Ari. He’ll be happy to see you.”

“Yeah, well, they just took him off morphine so I don’t know how happy he’s gonna be.”

“You’ll find a way to cheer him up. You always do.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“I love you, Dante.”

“Love you, too.”

I went up to my room to start the arduous task of washing myself and putting actual non-pajamas clothes on for the first time in days. I took a bath—my cast hand clunking over the side of the bathtub—and thought about Ari’s rules.

I realized the main difference between what Ari liked about rules and what I did. For Ari, rules dictated what we couldn’t do. No talking about the accident. No saying sorry. No feeling guilty. No dwelling. It was like describing playing soccer as: No using your hands to whack a ball around a field of grass. That didn’t get you very far, did it? Didn’t really paint a full picture of the nuances of the game. For nuance, you needed yes rules as well as no rules. Okay, so Ari said I couldn’t say thank you anymore, but there were other ways I could show him how thankful I was, right? That wouldn’t break his rules. Nuance. I just needed to figure out how to show him.

I dried myself off and looked at my naked body in the mirror. My face still had half the color spectrum of ROY G BIV painted all over it: pink welts, red scabs and a smattering of purplish bruises taking on a yellow-greenish tinge. I was still leery of what people on the bus would think when they saw me but I was determined to go. I had nothing to be ashamed of.

I tried putting on a pair of jeans but after several minutes of aggravation and one-handed fiddling with the top button I abandoned the jeans and opted for sweatpants instead. Ari wouldn’t care, anyway.

I looked around my room for things I could bring Ari to cheer him up. His room was already full of flowers and get-well cards. No point in writing him a card if I wasn’t allowed to say thank you anymore and he’d probably get all weird if I showed up with a bouquet of flowers or a stuffed animal or any of those well-meaning but impersonal things you can pick up at the hospital gift store.

I picked out a few books for him, hefty ones, not like the compact books of poetry we usually read together. War and Peace and The Grapes of Wrath. Not exactly pick-me-up/feel-good summer beach reads. But I figured he had nothing but time while he waited for his body to heal so he might as well dive into some broody Classics.

I flipped through my writing journal, seeing if there were any poems I’d written I could share with him, but I knew that would make him embarrassed. Me, too.

I figured the easiest way to show him how much he meant to me was to literally show him. I got my sketchpad out, the one I’d used to draw Ari in his room. I hardly ever showed anyone my sketches, not even my parents unless they really asked. But I wanted to show him. I hoped he’d see what I saw when I looked at him and sketched him: someone worth savoring each moment with, someone worth capturing each tiny detail of his eyes and lips and hair and smile. Someone worth being thankful for that he’s alive and breathing. Someone brave and selfless and kind and funny (and grumpy, sarcastic, deadpan and mono-syllabic when it comes to expressing emotions, but that’s part of what I liked about him, too). Someone worth loving.

I tore out a drawing of Ari at the pool I’d done from memory and a few more that I didn’t want him to see. There were also a few drawings of my parents and several self-portraits that I kept in. There was a drawing of a bird who’d landed on my windowsill that I considered tearing out but I decided against it. Ari knew I wasn’t actually done with them.

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 25: The Weight of Waiting

I don’t like hospitals. Who in their right mind does? I bet the people who work there don’t even really like it. The smells, for one. The tension that hangs heavy in the air like it’s an anti-air freshener on the rearview mirror of a car but instead of a pine tree it’s shaped like an anatomical heart and smells like blood, vomit, bleach and astringent cleaner, day old coffee, piss and shit, body odor, fear and dread. The awful raw animal sounds people make. The machine sounds that are like a fly buzzing incessantly around your ear: clocks ticking, machines beeping, wheels screeching, TVs and radios bleating in the background. The long corridors and labyrinthine hallways that all look the same. How easy it is to get lost and wind up in the wrong wing, peering into strangers’ most private moments while you’re searching for the one you love.

So yeah, hospitals are terrible. But there was no way I was leaving until I knew Ari was going to be okay after his surgery.

I’d never been in an ICU unit before. I’d been to a regular hospital room when I was younger and my abuelo needed a stent put in for his heart. What I remember most about that is how he let me climb in bed with him and press the button to move the top of his bed up and down and that he gave me his little carton of milk and let me eat some of his cold mashed potatoes. I don’t remember being scared because I don’t really think I understood that he was in real danger, that something could have gone wrong with his surgery and he could have died. My parents left that part out and just said we needed to go see him to help him get better.

This time, I wasn’t a delusional kid who thought me being there would actually help Ari get any better. But I still couldn’t leave, not even to sleep. After I got my stitches and cast on (it turns out I’d broken my right arm when Ari pushed me out of the way of the car), my mom thought I should go home and rest and that the Mendozas would call us once they had news about Ari. But I flat out refused. My parents switched off staying with me while we waited with Ari’s parents. We didn’t talk much. My throat felt as scraped up as my face, all rough and gravel-singed. I thought the second I opened my mouth I’d start to cry so I just sealed it shut and waited.

After Ari’s surgery they let us see him briefly in the ICU unit. I didn’t realize that the ICU was just one big area and that all the beds would be separated only by curtains. He seemed so exposed. Ari was semi-lucent for only a little bit. He said my name but I don’t think he understood that I was right there, standing next to him. It’s hard to explain how scary that was to witness. Maybe scarier than right after the accident and he wasn’t moving. It was like he was there but wasn’t there. I could hope against hope that he would be himself again but I had no way of knowing that for sure. And it would be all my fault if he was permanently damaged. I’d never forgive myself if he didn’t make it out not just okay but not make it out as Ari. If he somehow lost a part of himself that made him who he was, made him the person I loved more than just about anyone else on the planet. He moaned, obviously in a lot of pain, and the doctors gave him drugs that made him sleep. And then all we could do was wait for his body to want for him to wake up.

The weight of waiting. It creates its own strange force inside your body. Your head droops and your neck snaps but you can’t really sleep. You can’t turn off your brain but it feels sluggish and dull. Your body aches, but not as much as your heart, which keeps pumping even though it stopped the minute the person you love was dragged away from you.

Time passes strangely in a hospital waiting room. Especially after visiting hours are over and you’re supposed to have gone home. It doesn’t obey the normal laws of reality we’re used to. You know you’re not supposed to be there, there’s no context for why you’re there, why the dawn breaks even though your soul still feels heavy and dark as the night sky.

At some point I needed to get up and stretch my legs so I went looking for the cafeteria vending machines and ended up finding the hospital’s little chapel instead. It was empty and I sat on the wooden benches. My limbs were heavy. I closed my eyes and time and space started behaving strangely again. My head felt like it was a snow globe, with the universe swirling around inside it. I asked the stars for help, to keep Ari safe. I didn’t say any of the Bible words my mom had taught me, but there, alone, was where I really learned what it means to pray.

My right arm was broken, which made me feel even stranger and more helpless. I needed my parents to open a bag of chips or crack open the tab of a soda can for me. To pass the time while we waited I practiced writing with my left hand; I wrote my name and Ari’s name over and over on a page of hospital stationary. It looked like a Kindergartener’s chicken scratch. It sort of matched how I felt, though.

Thirty-six hours after he’d gotten out of surgery, Ari’s dad came and found me and told me Ari was awake finally. My dad had gone home to shower and bring me back some real food, so I was alone. Something broke loose inside me when he told me Ari was going to be okay and I sobbed into his arms. He let me get it out of my system. He patted my back and let me cry, but his own face stayed dry. He was so like Ari. I went to the bathroom to splash water on my face before going in to see him. I wanted to be strong for him, like he’d been strong for me.

I stepped into his room and saw the brown and white parts of his eyes. They were really truly open! He looked absolutely terrible, but he still managed to smile at me. Relief flooded over me like a tremor.

“Hi,” he said.

“We sort of match,” I said. My arm cast, his leg casts. A mangled matching set.

“I got you beat,” he said. He sounded like talking took a lot of effort.

“Finally, you get to win an argument.”

“Yeah, finally,” he said. “You look like shit.”

“So do you,” I said.

I stepped in closer to his bed but was afraid to touch him. Like touching him would make him hurt even more.

“You sound tired,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad you woke up.”

“Yeah, I woke up. But it hurts less when I sleep.”

“You saved my life, Ari.”

“Dante’s hero. Just what I always wanted to be.”

I felt pressure start to build in the back of my throat and behind my eyes but I tried to shove it down. “Don’t do that, Ari. Don’t make fun. You almost got yourself killed.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

I couldn’t help it. Tears started running hot down my face. It wasn’t on purpose. “You pushed me. You pushed me and you saved my life.”

“Looks like I pushed you and beat the crap out of your face.”

I raised a hand reflexively to touch my still sensitive cheek. It still stung like hell. “I’ve got character now.”

“It was that damned bird,” he said. “We can blame it all on the bird. The whole thing.”

“I’m done with birds.”

“No you’re not.”

Once tears get going, they really have a life of their own. Ari was awake, he was making stupid jokes, he was alive, he was Ari, so why couldn’t I stop crying?

“Knock it off,” he said, not meanly. His voice was too tired to have any real oomph behind it. “My mom’s been crying—and even Dad looks like he wants to cry. Rules. I have rules. No crying.”

I thought of Dead Bird Day. If it wasn’t for that day I’m not sure we’d be here right now. That was the day that things started going to hell. And it was all because of stupid birds. I was done with them, even though Ari didn’t believe me.

“Okay,” I said. “No more crying. Boys don’t cry.”

“Boys don’t cry,” he said. “Tears make me really tired.”

It was such an Ari thing to say, I let out a barky laugh that was more like a combination laugh-cry. But since I was done with crying, it was a laugh.

I shut my eyes for a second and the accident replayed in my mind. I heard Ari’s voice like a wind chime saying “Why would I be sad?”. I saw the hail stones, the bird, the headlights, heard Ari screaming my name, smelled blood and asphalt. It all happened slower in my brain than in real life, almost like I was piecing together all the images after the fact, trying to solve the puzzle of how and why this terrible thing had happened. At the time it had happened so fast I barely registered what was happening, why Ari’s body was barreling into mine, but now time had made it obvious. It happened because of me.

“You took a dive like you were in a swimming pool,” I said.

“We don’t have to talk about this.”

“You dove at me, like, I don’t know, like some kind of football player diving at the guy with the ball, and you pushed me out of the way. It all happened so fast and yet, you just, I don’t know, you just knew what to do. Only you could have gotten yourself killed. And all because I’m an idiot, standing in the middle of the road trying to save a stupid bird.”

“You’re breaking the no-crying rule again,” he said. “And birds aren’t stupid.”

“I almost got you killed.”

“You didn’t do anything. You were just being you.”

“No more birds for me.”

“I like birds,” he said.

“I’ve given them up. You saved my life.”

“I told you. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Ari’s parents laughed, so I did, too. I’d almost forgotten they were in the room with us.

Ari smiled, then winced. I hated that. I hated that it hurt for the most beautiful boy on the planet to smile and it was my fault.

I took his hand. I thought he’d wince again but he didn’t.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Ari. Forgive me forgive me.”

His eyelids fluttered closed and he began drifting away. His mom told me it was the morphine. He hummed a little but didn’t talk any more. He kept holding onto my hand until he was fast asleep.

I carefully pried our hands apart even though I knew he was out cold. I brushed his hair out of his eyes. I said good-bye to his parents and went back into the waiting room. My dad was there. I told him Ari had woken up, that the doctors told us he was going to be fine. My dad hugged me and drove me home. I fell asleep during the car ride back to our house, even though it was only a short drive. He must have picked me up and brought me up to my room, because the next thing I remember was waking up in my bed and seeing a bird on my windowsill. I shooed it away, shut the blinds, and went back to sleep.

I dreamed that Ari and I were in a swimming pool. We were both sitting on a big inflatable swan. I was sitting behind him with my arms wrapped around his waist, my head resting on the back of his shoulder. I had big white wings and I wrapped them around us. The pool stretched on forever, it turned into the sky. He asked me if we could fly.

“I don’t know how,” I said. “I’ve never tried.”

“What are those wings for?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I just mean, they’ve always just been here. I don’t know what they’re for or if they even work.”

“Well, that’s stupid. Let’s try them.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Don’t be a chicken.”

“I’m not a chicken. I’m a swan.”

We both laughed. I was hugging him so tight I could feel all the vibrations run through his body. It hurt to laugh, though.

“What a waste,” he said.

I hugged his waist even tighter and brushed my cheek against his skin in the dip between his shoulder blades.

“Here, have one.” I yanked the right wing out. It slipped out pretty easily and stung only as bad as pulling out a splinter. I pulled the other one out. He held them out to his sides and tried flapping them up and down.

“Now what?” he said.

“Now what what?”

“Nothing’s happening.”

“I guess I hadn’t thought this through.”

“I guess not.”

“I could try sticking them into your back.”

“Won’t that hurt?”

“Maybe. But I don’t know what else to do.”

“Okay, try it.”

I took one of the wings from him. The end was pointed like an old-fashioned feather pen. I jabbed it into his skin.

“Ouch!”

A trickle of blood rivered down his back.

“This isn’t going to work,” I said.

“Can you give me a tattoo instead?”

“What do you want the tattoo to be?”

“Draw me some wings.”

My right arm was numb. I couldn’t hold the wing anymore with it, let alone draw. “I can’t write with my left hand. It will turn out terrible.”

“I don’t care.”

“You will. Tattoos are permanent.”

“I won’t. Just try.”

I used my left hand and drew blood wings on his back with the feather quill pen/wing.

“It’s all red. Doesn’t it hurt?”

“It hurts a lot. But I don’t care.”

“You’re so strong.”

He snorted.

“Let’s go for a swim in the sky.”

He sprouted wings where I’d scratched them into his skin. We switched spots so now he was positioned behind me; he held me tight around my rib cage and we lifted off. My ears popped painfully.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re migrating.”

“But where?”

“Anywhere you like.”

“But I like it here.”

“We can’t stay here, you know that, Dante, right?”

“Why?”

“Because here is nowhere.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t cry, Dante.”

“I’m not crying.”

“I can taste it on your cheek.”

I had forgotten our cheeks were rubbing so close together.

“Don’t let go of me,” I said.

“I won’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For hurting you.”

“The wings didn’t hurt.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

The air way up in the sky was frigid. The wind stung my eyes and made my face itch. But my whole body was throbbing and on fire from where he was touching me and from the rhythmic beating of his wings.

“I like this so much.”

“Don’t cry, Dante.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“It feels like we’re swimming in a pool up here. We’re weightless.”

“Will you wait for me?”

“Wait for what?”

“Wait for us.”

I was shouting so he could hear me over the wind.

“What would I be waiting for?”

“Nothing. Put me down please. Let me go.”

“I’m not doing that.”

I hated him so much.

“Let me go!”

“Fine.”

I felt the release of the pressure of his arms around my waist. I fell and fell and woke up right before I crashed into the ground. Everything hurt.

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 24: Hold

Past rooms with gaping mouths, held breath, past patients, asleep and hooked into machines that drip and beep, to the room that holds him.

His room is a dark dank hold of a ship that sways and pitches every time I look at him. I’m not going anywhere, I whisper, I’ll stay with you as long as they’ll let me.

His mother holds his hand. Her cup holds her coffee. His father holds back his tears, strong shoulders hold up his head, but barely. Keep holding on.

I’m the guilty one, not them, I should be held without bail, left to rot in jail. I deserve it. I’d go gladly, trade his life for mine, if he’d only just open his eyes.

I try to hold a meeting with God. They’re not available at the moment. Try back another time. How about tomorrow, then? Don’t hold your breath.

Hold on, this isn’t right. This isn’t fair. I’m trying to do the right thing, hold myself accountable, make a trade. Me for him. I’d do it in a heart’s breath. I’ll hold to my promise, I swear it.

Still no reply. So I make a new vow: I promise to hold his heart in my heart. My heart will be a lighthouse, I will hold his light and he will hold mine, just please let him find his way home to me.

#ari and dante poetry