Believe, page 12
“I didn’t know he taught classes. He seems cool. Maybe I can switch out of Ms. Swinson’s class.”
Alex was looking away from her. She liked how the sunlight peeking through the leaves overhead danced across his cheek. She was thinking about how she could draw that, capture it on paper, when he spoke again.
“What are you doing here? In the grave yard, I mean.”
She flipped to a blank page and started moving her pencil in light strokes. “I like to sketch. I don’t like being around other people—mostly,” she smiled up at him, hoping she hadn’t offended him. “This is the best place I’ve found to do both those things.”
“Can I see?”
She froze.
Back home all of her friends had seen the things she worked on. It was just part of who she was, they all knew it, and it never felt risky to share with them. Here things were different. Art had been turned into a knife to cut her with, a label to brand her with, and she wasn’t eager to give someone else a chance to do more of the same.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he was holding up his hands, palms facing her, and shaking his head. “I get it—art is personal. I didn’t mean to invade your space or anything.”
“How about if I work on some stuff, and show it to you when it’s ready,” she offered. She wanted to trust him, but…who knew what he was like at school, or who his friends were, or what he might say to them?
“Deal.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, Alex watching the world around them while Lori let her pencil translate what she saw onto her paper. When her hand began to cramp, she put her pencil down and shook it.
“What about you? Do you come here often?”
His grin lifted the corners of his eyes. “You could say that,” he echoed her own words. “It’s beautiful. So peaceful. Right in the middle of the old town, really, but you can’t hear cars or people or anything. I love watching the deer and the birds. And at night the racoons and owls—”
“You come here at night, too?” Lori was impressed.
“Oh, well, sometimes,” he kicked his toe into the dirt and coughed. “It gets dark pretty early in the winter.”
Lori suddenly remembered to check the time and moaned when she saw 4:55 on her phone screen.
“I’ve got to go,” she said, cramming her things into her backpack and standing up. “I’m supposed to be home by 5:30.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Mom thinks I go to the public library after school, to do homework. If I’m late, she might look for me there…”
“I get it,” Alex stood up, too. “My mom can be a clingy sometimes, too.”
Lori half turned away, but then looked over her shoulder at him. “Maybe, if we bump into each other here again, we can talk about … difficult parents?”
“Sure,” his smile seemed to light up his face, and once again Lori wanted to drop everything and see if she could convey that glow using graphite and paper. “I’d like that.”
She waved and began trotting back toward the gate, the sidewalk, and home.
It stayed summery through the entire month of October. Halloween felt more like Cinco de Mayo. Her mother encouraged her to dress up and go trick-or-treating in their new neighborhood (“It’s a great way to get to know the neighbors, honey, and kids here do it well into high school—it’s not like in the City, where all you had was a school dance! Isn’t that cool?”). Instead, Lori shut herself in her room, turned out her lights, and went to sleep early.
It wasn’t until the second week of November that the nights began to cool, and her long pants and sleeves stopped being so uncomfortable.
She would have been miserable if it weren’t for Alex.
At first she’d been careful with him, like on that first day. But he always listened so intently—like a thirsty person drinking cold water on a hot day, she thought, soaking in every word she said. He never made fun of anything she told him. Eventually she’d told him everything: the divorce, the move, the bullying at school, the slow-burning hatred she felt for this town and everyone in it.
Well, almost everyone.
Alex told her things, too. He loved music. He’d taken piano since he was four years old, and his dream was to be a composer.
“Not like those old guys, the fancy classical music no one really likes,” he’d said. “I mean, they’re good of course, but I want to make music that goes with life.”
“You mean pop songs?”
“No,” he paused for a minute, looking at his hands quietly. “No, I mean the kind of music that makes you feel something, and then every time you remember it you have that feeling again. I want to write movie sound tracks.”
“Really?”
“Sure! Think about it,” he sat on the ground, legs crossed, and leaned forward eagerly. “Think about your favorite movie, the most important scene, and the music that goes with it.”
“Like Harry Potter?”
“Exactly!” He beamed at her. “If you just listen to the music from the movies, you don’t need the video part at all to feel exactly what each melody wants you to feel: scared, excited, happy, sad—it’s all there in the music. Have you ever watched a movie without its sound track?” She shook her head no. “It’s awful. You’d hate it. It’s worse than naked. The music brings it to life---and that’s what I want to do.” He dropped his hands in his lap. Lori thought he sounded sad.
“That’s amazing,” she picked up her pencil and began to sketch the way a beam of watery sunlight seemed to give him a halo as he was sitting there, in front of the grave stone where they always met. He was so beautiful; she couldn’t resist trying to draw him again and again. “You can do it, Alex. You’ll be famous.”
“You’ve never even heard me play,” he still sounded sad, wistful, like he was talking to her from far away.
“Okay, so play for me then,” she was working fast, afraid the light would fade, or he’d move his head.
“Sure. Some day.”
She’d looked for him at school, but never saw him. Whaley Junior High was desperately over crowded. They were building a new junior high school across town, but until it was finished there were 900 kids crammed into a space built for 500, classes held in portables and conference rooms, with five different lunch periods because the cafeteria couldn’t hold them all at once. So it wasn’t that strange that she never managed to cross paths with him.
Part of her was relieved, anyway; what if he had friends who he had to be different with? In the grave yard she trusted him, she felt relaxed and like she could just be herself, and he was himself. School could change all that. She wasn’t sure she really wanted to find him.
But at least three times a week they met in the old grove in the grave yard. They talked while she sketched. Sometimes she showed him what she’d been working on, sometimes he just let her work without asking to see it.
“What does your family do for Thanksgiving?” She asked him the week before the holiday. She wondered if the local people all dressed up like pilgrims or settlers or something.
“Nothing much. Just the usual dinner. How about you?”
“We have to drive up to New York to visit some relatives of my mom. I’ve never met them.” She sighed. She had hoped she’d get to see her dad, but with only 4 days for the weekend, it wasn’t enough time for her to fly to him or vice versa. “We’ll leave Wednesday night, get back on Sunday.”
“I’m sorry, Lori.” She looked up to see him gazing at her, the look on his face so sorrowful and sympathetic, it almost made her cry.
“Whatever,” she pretended to brush a leaf off the page she was drawing on. “I mean, you know, who cares? We’ll go, we’ll come back, it’ll be over. Right?”
Alex just nodded.
“I’ll miss you,” he said quietly.
Lori felt herself blush. She’d been thinking the same thing, wishing she could stay and spend the holiday with him instead of going to visit family she didn’t know or care about. Alex was her best friend.
“Well, look, why don’t we text each other or something?” Why hadn’t she thought of that before? They didn’t have to wait for the grave yard—they could talk all the time, keep each other company where ever they went! “Technology to the rescue!” She held up her iPhone like a trophy.
“Nah,” he shook his head. “I don’t have one.”
“What?!” She couldn’t believe any kid didn’t have their own phone. “Is it your mom? Is she one of those technophobe parents?”
“Pretty close,” he said, and got up to wander a few feet away, his back to her.
Afraid she’d said the wrong thing, Lori followed him.
“Well look, it doesn’t matter. We’ll just look forward to coming here and telling each other about everything. Okay?”
He was still for a moment before shrugging his shoulders slightly. “Okay, Lori. That sounds good.”
She tried to think of something to say but couldn’t. She wanted to make him laugh, see him smile, and know that he wasn’t upset with her.
“You’d better get going,” he said without turning around, “it’s getting late. See you later.” And he walked away from her, his steps falling heavily, crunching in the leaves between the headstones. She watched until she couldn’t see him anymore and worried all the way home.
Thanksgiving was over and Lori had gone back to the grave yard every day, as usual, on her way home from school.
Alex did not come.
The weather actually got cold, and she wondered if he’d gotten sick. Or maybe his over-protective mother wouldn’t let him go outside when it was cold?
She fumed on his behalf, and waited in their grove every day, pacing around, too impatient to sketch. She had made a comic book lampooning her entire trip with her mother: the aggravating car ride, with endless traffic and too few rest stops; the cousins and their quirky personalities; the 200-year-old house made of stones where she’d been put in an attic bedroom on a cot that was lumpy and smelled like moth balls; the dinner disaster when the oven caught on fire and no one could find the fire extinguisher so the turkey burned up and they had to order takeout Chinese food; the old great-great-uncle who arrived a day late and wouldn’t stop talking about magic spirits and the end of the world coming, who she’d thought was crazy until she finally realized he was drunk all the time. All the little details and funny, agonizing moments were in there. She had stayed up late at night working on it, fixing it, making it better, all for Alex.
She had imagined giving it to him, watching him read it and laugh, and seeing him happy, knowing he was glad she was his friend. ‘And now,’ she would say, ‘let’s go to your house and you can play something for me.’ And from then on, they wouldn’t have to meet in the grave yard, they could go over to each other’s houses, like regular people, and it wouldn’t matter what happened at school or anywhere else, they’d have each other and that would be enough.
But days passed, and no Alex.
The second week of December it snowed. Not more than an inch, just enough to be pretty, but not enough to shut school down. Lori was looking forward to seeing the grave yard in white, pushing back against disappointment with a hope that maybe Alex would come to see the snow, too.
She walked briskly on the slushy sidewalks. When she got there, she saw a set of foot prints in the snow leading toward the grove, and her heart beat faster. She patted her backpack, feeling the outline of the comic book next to her sketch book, already anticipating the look on his face when she gave it to him. She could see someone bent over the headstone in the middle and started running.
“Hey—” she called out, but stopped when the figure rose and turned to face her.
“Yes?” It was an old woman. She wore a dark blue winter coat that reached below her knees, and had a scarf wrapped around her neck. Her hair was silver, pulled back in a messy bun. She’d been crying.
“I thought,” she started, then took a step backward and simply said, “I’m sorry.” A bouquet was placed in front of the stone, fresh and fragrant: white and green and red against the lettering, a splash of color in the snow.
The woman smiled. “It’s all right.” She filled her lungs and tipped her head back, exhaling slowly, steam rising from her face. “I love the cold. I should come here more often, but it’s easiest on days like this.”
“I’m, uh, sorry for your loss,” Lori tentatively raised a foot to take another step backward. She felt confused and wanted to get away.
“Ah, thank you,” she said. “It was a long time ago, but...” she wiped her cheek and shrugged, “the pain never really leaves us. I think we just get used to it.” She turned toward Lori. “Do you come here often?”
In spite of herself, Lori laughed when she heard Alex’s words echoed by this stranger. “You could say that,” she felt clever continuing the old conversation. “I kind of hang out here after school. I like the quiet.”
“All by yourself? That sounds rather lonely.” The woman sounded like she pitied her.
“I like being by myself,” she snapped. “But my friend comes too, sometimes. We both like it here.”
“Ah,” the woman nodded. “Away from the durm and strang of the wide world, in a quiet place all your own.”
Whatever, Lori thought, trying to figure out how get away quickly. Alex wasn’t here. There was no point in staying.
“I had a place like that when I was your age,” the woman continued, “in a park near my family’s apartment. We lived near the panhandle of Golden Gate park, and there was a small gully with wizened old fruit trees left over from an orchard. I used to go there to get away from…things.”
“Golden Gate park? You lived in San Francisco?”
“Yes. Do you know it?”
“Know it!” Lori forgot the cold. “I’m from there! We moved last summer. I went to a concert in the panhandle once.”
Her voice must’ve given something away, because the woman nodded and said, “You miss it, don’t you?” Not waiting for her to answer, she went on, “There’s nothing really like it here.”
“You can say that again.” Lori rolled her eyes. “How long have you lived here?”
“A long time,” she answered. Snow was falling again, and she shivered. “I’m afraid my old circulation isn’t up to outdoor conversations in this weather. But my house isn’t far,” she hesitated, but then asked, “if you care to reminisce a bit, you’re welcome to join me for a cup of tea before meeting your friend?”
Lori looked at her. She didn’t seem strange. And her mother was always telling her she needed to make friends with the locals. Even if she was from San Francisco originally, she said she’d lived here a long time—didn’t that make her a local?
“I don’t think he’s coming today,” Lori finally said, hitching her back pack higher up on her shoulders. “Tea would be nice.”
She followed the woman out of the grave yard. There was a neighborhood of older homes just across the road, and her house was the third one on the left. It was comfortable looking, Lori decided. Not fancy, just homey. Welcoming.
She entered behind the woman, following her through an entry way, down a hall and to the back of the house, where a kitchen opened into a cozy family room. Taking a seat at the table, she put down her backpack and waited.
“I’m Emma,” the woman told her, “and please feel free to call me by my first name. I don’t go in for the old-world formality much.” She took their coats and lay them over a chair, then turned to fill a kettle, setting it on the stove top to boil. On the table she placed a tray with several different tea bag varieties, milk, and sugar. When the kettle whistled, she filled two mugs, brought them to the table, and sat opposite Lori.
“Tell me about yourself,” she said.
She usually didn’t like talking about herself, but something about Emma made her open up. She told her everything. It reminded her of talking to Alex—who she ended up talking about, too, including her confusion over why he’d stopped coming to meet her.
“And you don’t have a phone number for him?”
Lori shook her head sadly. “I didn’t think to ask for his home phone number when he told me he didn’t have a cell phone. It was so stupid of me.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Emma patted her hand. “There’s likely a fine and reasonable explanation for his absence, and you’ll both laugh about it together.” She refilled her mug. “May I see the book you made for him? I do enjoy a good comic.”
Lori thought she was just being nice but got it out anyway and handed it to her. She was secretly very proud of it and was glad to have someone to show it to. While Emma looked over its pages, Lori walked around the family room, looking at the knick-knacks on the tables, art on the walls. There were some unusual paintings, something between landscapes and the surrealist stuff her old art teacher had shown her, and Lori wanted to ask about them.
“This is quite remarkable,” Emma said. Lori wondered if she meant it was bad and was trying to say so in a nice way. But when she looked, the silver head was still bent over the pages with interest, so she decided Emma meant it in a good way.
On a shelf at the far end of the room were several photographs, and she walked over for a closer look. The first was of a much younger Emma on a beach somewhere, holding a baby. She was smiling and the baby was asleep, gulls circling above them. The second picture showed her holding the hand of a little boy, maybe seven years old, both of them dressed formally—perhaps at a wedding? They looked happy.
Lori stepped over to see the next picture, gasped and dropped her mug.
“Oh my God!”
“Lori?” Emma stood up. “Are you all right?”
“Oh God—I’m sorry—” she bent to pick up the mug and pat uselessly at the wet spot on the rug where her tea had spilled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s all right,” Emma brought a towel and handed it to her. When it was all cleaned up, she took the damp towel and turned back to the table. “What startled you?”
Pale and shaking, Lori went to her backpack and reached inside for her sketchbook.
“Alex and I used to meet three times a week, maybe four. We talked a lot, but I was always sketching. I drew him some of the time.” She placed the sketchbook in front of Emma.
