She's inspecting herself in the mirror again, listing what she thinks is wrong with her. She thinks her face is too square; people often ask her if she's part Asian because of the shape of her face and the almond cast of her eyes. She thinks her mouth is too big, her body too thin, her breasts too small, her skin too pale. All the things she thinks are flaws are the things I think make her perfect.
She runs those pale, delicate fingers of hers through hair so dark a brown that it's easy to mistake for black at first glance. She picks the brush up off her desk and messes with the angle and parting of her hair.
"I like it when you part it on the right," I say. I'm in the beanbag on her bedroom floor, finishing off a fried chicken leg.
"Do you?" she says quietly, her reflection looking back. Our eyes meet in the mirror amid the reflections of afternoon shadows.
"Yeah. I like the way you kind of let your hair fall over your one eye. Looks mysterious."
"Hmm," she murmurs, looking down at the pens and bits of paper scattered on her desk.
"It makes you look like a rock star," I say.
Her shoulders shake a little in what I guess is a silent laugh. I roll what's left of the chicken leg up in a napkin and set it aside.
"Like this," I say, standing, wiping my fingers off, moving to her. My heart starts pumping faster now, like it always does when I get close to her. She turns to face me with dark eyes so open and honest that they break my heart.
"Don't get chicken fat in my hair," she says, but there's the hint of a smile on her face, and I know she is just teasing me. I run my fingers along her hair, sweeping it to one side, fixing it to hang over that one eye, trying to control my breathing and the tremors in my hand. I am sick with these distant little touches that skirt along the edge of contact; I want full contact. I want to lay my body against Carly Shay's. I want to wrap around her and hold her and press against her so tightly that we absorb into each other.
Instead I let my hand fall, and step back. "There," I say.
She bites her lower lip and turns to check herself in the mirror. The spills like a dark curtain over one eye and onto her shoulders. "Rock and roll," she says softly.
"I like it like that," I say. I let my hand fall on her shoulder. I grasp tightly on the epaulet of bone under my palm. "What if I play guitar and you start singing?" Most people don't know that she can sing. It's not a conventional voice, but to me it is honest and beautiful.
One corner of her mouth twists upward in an attempt at a smile, but quickly falls back down. It's been so hard to get a real smile out of her ever since the end of iCarly. "Sam, you can't even play guitar."
"I could learn. Even if it means work, and effort, and junk." I would, too, if it would make her feel better.
She just shakes her head with that half-smile on her face.
"I could make you look all indie rock," I continue. "Ditch these puffy sleeved blouses and start wearing baby doll T-shirts. Keep the short skirts, but stop wearing those high boots. You gotta show off your legs. Wear some low top Chucks instead; like, some red or pink or orange ones."
"But my legs are pasty sticks."
"Your legs are awesome. You ought to show them off."
She looks in the mirror as if she's trying to imagine herself in different clothes. I glance at myself, standing beside her, in my typical long-sleeved T-shirt and cut off cargo pants. I love my style - it's comfortable for me, but it just wouldn't work on Carly. She needs something more cutesie, more girly. She looks like a real life anime character - she needs to be dolled up. Actually, I would love her no matter what she wore, but the clothes she usually wears don't show off enough of her body; and since I can't lay against that body and kiss every inch of it, I'd at least like to see more of it sometimes.
"Maybe I will," she whispers as she breaks away from the mirror, turning to face me. "Did you finish your chicken?"
"Um, yeah."
She half-smiles, says, "Come on, let's finish our homework."
Two days later and I'm laying in the bathtub, in my own wet dirt, in water that's long since gone tepid, searching my legs for stray hairs that I missed when I Nair'ed them and shaving them away with my special pink razor when I find them. I love the smooth feel when my legs are freshly waxed and shaved, but I keep the razor from straying too high up. No, I don't shave that area; I like the silky blond hair I have down there, even if no one else ever sees it.
I finish, then run some more hot water and lay back to relax. I haven't been to Carly's since that night, and it hurts. I just don't know what to do when I'm at home, or anytime she's not around, really, but she's so lost herself these days that it hurts doubly.
It's all because of what happened to Mrs. Benson. For all her obsession with safety, nothing could stop that oversized pickup truck from flattening her car in the intersection just down the road from Bushwell a few months ago. Turned out to be some lumberjack from Aberdeen who'd come up to Seattle to blow his paycheck on a weekend of booze and partying. Poor, crazy old Mrs. Benson probably never even knew what hit her.
Freddie's dad came up for the funeral, then took him back to Los Angeles to live with him. It was that simple. It was heartbreaking to watch Freddie and Carly break down and cling to each other on the sidewalk outside of Bushwell, just before he got into his dad's car and rode out of our lives. Even I cried a bit that night after the little nub had left.
We tried to keep the show going, but we went through 4 different tech producers in the first month - that kid Jeremy first, then some of Freddie's other AV Club buddies. The quality of the show immediately went downhill; there was a backlash by the fans and people stopped watching, and I could tell Carly's heart wasn't in it anymore. The last show barely had a couple thousand viewers, and ended early when the tech guy's camera shorted out.
My thoughts return to the present when I hear the ringtone on my phone going off. I reach down toward the pile of clothes beside the bathtub and dig my phone out of my pants pocket.
"Hey," Carly says on the other end.
"What's up, Carly girl?"
She hesitates a second before answering. "I just wanted to talk to someone."
I sit up. "What about?"
"Oh, I'm not even sure. I was just listening to the radio, and all the songs made me feel a way I haven't felt in a while. Like, there's stuff going on the in the world, and I could be a part of it. You know what I mean?"
"I actually do," I say. "Like you're connected to the world, but still kind of lonely."
I can hear her sighing. "Would you want to meet me at the Groovie Smoothie in a few minutes?"
I glance at the clock hanging above the sink. The Groovie Smoothie closes in about an hour. "I'd love to," I say.
I quickly blow dry my hair, get dressed, and grab the keys to my old pickup. I drive the few blocks and park. She's already waiting for me when I walk inside, sitting at a table by the window. The first thing I notice is the pale length of her legs, because she is wearing a short skirt and some red, low top Chucks. She's wearing a faded red, tight fitting T-shirt. She appears to be staring off into space as she sucks on her straw, but then she glances over, sees me, smiles beneath that curtain of dark hair, and waves a cup at me to let me know she already got my smoothie.
I sit across from her, take my smoothie. "Thanks," I say. "You're looking very indie rock tonight."
She smiles shyly. "I feel so self conscious."
"Just give it time. You look cute, like you rode over here on an old 60s bicycle, with a Care Bears lunchbox."
I get that half smile from her again. "Dressing different doesn't change how I feel inside."
I really don't know how to reply to that, so we sip our smoothies in silence for a few minutes.
"Thanks for helping me with my project the other night," I finally say.
"Oh, no problem. I was glad you came over." She plays with her hair for a minute. "I'm sorry, you know?"
"For what?" I ask, genuinely mystified.
"I just... feel like I've been neglecting you ever since the show ended."
It feels like something has thawed inside of me and is now flowing warmly within, but I just shrug and say, "It's been a rough time for everyone, I guess."
"Yeah, but..." The tip of her tongue darts out, swipes a drop of smoothie from her lower lip. She doesn't have to finish the thought - I know we haven't spent as much time together since the show ended. She bends her straw and changes course. "Let's do something this weekend. Just you and me."
"I'd like that," I say. "What do you have in mind?"
"Just hang out, I guess. I maybe you could think of something?"
I take a sip of smoothie, thinking of all the things I'd like to do. "I'll get back to you on that. But yeah, definitely, let's do something."
We finish our smoothies and go outside, where I enjoy the view of her long legs and the trim fit of her T-shirt. She really looks cute in those clothes.
We stand on the sidewalk, looking at Bushwell standing tall and lit up across the street, neither of us moving or talking, just feeling the cool wind wash over us. And as much as I wouldn't mind standing here silently with her all night long, I do have to get back home soon..
"I guess I'll see you in school tomorrow," I say.
She turns abruptly, clumsily, and throws her arms around me. I'm in shock for a second, but I quickly pull her closer. Her body is all sharp angles and long planes and warmth. She feels so fragile under my arms; not soft, but delicate like a glass figurine. She smells of lavender and vanilla soap.
"Thanks for everything, Sam," she murmurs into my ear. "For being my friend and all."
I say nothing, just squeeze her tighter in reply. She lets her forehead rest against my shoulder for a minute, then raises up, smiling.
"See you in school tomorrow, then," she says.
She hurries across the street, her pale legs ghostly in the dim light of the street lamps.
So I drive back home, shifting gears and cranking up the radio, in love with Carly and the lights of the city, the gas stations and video stores and burger joints that line the highway. The music is flowing out my window and the wind is flowing in, and I sing along; and this love - of Carly and music and the city - it feels like it all springs from the same source, somewhere sacred inside me.
I don't know how I'll ever get to sleep tonight.