p.o.v. gene is overrated, but it seems no one has the guts to impersonate finny. (only kidding, of course.)
disclaimed.
gene forrester has more secrets than anyone, i think. he keeps them locked up in a box in his chest, and when he moves, they rattle obscenely. there's a key to his box of secrets right under his tongue (he has it there all the time; that's why he hardly says a word), and during the quiet moments when i can stare at him from across the classroom or a table at the library, i fantasize about kissing it away from him, stealing it with my teeth.
"tell me about yourself, gene," i say to him.
"what?" he replies, startlingly, as if i've caught him in an act of murder or something.
"tell me about yourself," i repeat. "it's only natural that friends should know everything about each other. i've told you everything about me already."
"well, you can't keep your mouth shut," he mumbles.
"gene!" i protest, but that's about all i can get out of him at once. it's a game, it is—or at least it starts to become—and i quite enjoy playing.
because, inevitably, his secrets will start trickling out if you poke and prod enough, and then they'll be our secrets to keep.
.
gene. gene plays the viola, and he plays it horrifically well. he doesn't ever bring it with him to devon, but i've seen him with it the time i stayed over at his house for three weeks during the summer. when he can't sleep at night, he climbs out of his window and onto the roof, and he plays to the moon. and i pretend, from my sleeping bag on the floor, that i'm still asleep, as i listen to the window creak and the sounds of a mournful viola.
"someday, will you write something for me?" i ask him.
"what?" he replies, in typical gene forrester fashion.
"music," i say, obviously. "will you write a piece for me someday and play it on your viola?"
"if you want," he says.
"i do." i give him a stare. "and don't make it sound so damn sad."
he laughs at that.
.
gene loves his family. he keeps a photograph of them—his father, mother, three older brothers, and one younger sister—under his pillow, and he says a small prayer each night with his fingers holding their faces. he loves them in the way that he will do anything to leave them. he's the first forrester ever, as he puts it, to escape from virginia.
"why aren't you in the photo?" i say.
he doesn't answer, just snatches the photograph from my hand and stuffs it under his pillow again.
"do you really love your family, gene?" i ask.
"yes," he says with a sigh. "of course."
the unspoken words are it's not as simple as it seems. i don't press.
his father owns the plantation that's sprawling behind him in the picture. gene insists it's only a small plantation—all plantations look big in photographs, he says.
but it's big enough. gene forrester, his father's plantation, and summer would be my whole world if it could. there's nothing quite like him, a small farmer's boy with his big head in the clouds.
but i don't tell him that, of course.
.
gene says i love you in the strangest ways. he'll sit beside chet on the other side of the classroom just so he can give you long smoldering stares over the master's head. and he'll think that i don't see them, and i'll let him think that i don't. (but i do.)
he'll melt if you look at him. he'll melt if you smile at him. he'll melt if you say his name a certain way, just the right way—in a short, curt syllable, with the corners of your lips flicking up at the end. (or maybe it's just when i do it.)
he melts when i kiss him—he positively quivers. i can feel every inch of him breathing in my hands. i can feel all the words he'll ever say through his lips, taste them on his tongue.
we never needed words, gene and i, at least not the conventional kind. because every part of him says i love you.
..
"finny, i wrote you that piece," gene says.
"you wrote me a what?"
"just listen."
he pulls out his viola, and he plays it jerkily, matter-of-factly. when he's done, he looks up, his face flushed.
"no," i say.
"what?"
"play it again."
gene passes a tongue over his lips nervously and starts over. this time, i walk over behind him and slide my arms around his middle, and the music takes another form. it flies. it becomes us. the melody turns sweeter—and thank god it's a happy one—and that's really all i can tell. but it's enough.
"finny. phineas," gene stammers when he finishes playing.
i don't let go of him. i never want to let go. "i know," i say. "what would you ever do without me?"
i can see the redness creep up his neck. "just fall off the earth, i suppose," he murmurs.
..
there's just one secret gene never told. or maybe he was screaming it the whole time and i just wasn't paying attention.
it all comes out at the tree.
there's a 'before' and 'after' in gene forrester's secrets. but even after the fall, i know the ones that came before are still true.
god, i hope they are.