Hi! I'm back on time.
In the Debris
Ashes
Edward
It's just Max and me on Thursday night, wind howling outside, rattling the windows. With the house empty, I have him come to the pool house after dinner, put a game on and tell him to show me what he's been practicing with Esme.
"Show me what you got," I say.
After a few rounds, he gives up on kicking my ass with his erratic button-pushing, and lets his controller fall. His onscreen man goes down.
"Teach me how to be cool like you." He leans back against the couch, his legs flat in front of him. I mimic his position.
"You're already cool."
"None of the kids at school think so. How did you get everyone to think you're cool?"
I search for something to say, not ever knowing how to deal with questions like this.
I shrug a shoulder. "Just think of yourself as Superman."
"I'm not ten, bro."
I laugh. "Okay, see? You're cool enough to call me out on my own bullshit. You're cool as fuck, kid." I reach over and shake his shoulder a little.
His eyes widened when I said 'fuck.' I'm never careful about my language, but it's possible I've never actually said fuck directly to him before.
"Say it. Say 'I'm cool as fuck.'"
"I'm cool as fuck." He smiles the smile I know so well. I've done something right. So far.
"You're as cool as Jim Stark. Let's watch the movie. I'll show you how cool you are."
I put on Rebel Without a Cause, a known favorite of our mother's, neither of us strangers to it. We've probably seen it a dozen times with our mother, but this is the first time we'll watch it without her.
"You're Stark. I'm Plato," I say.
"No, you're Stark."
"Nah."
We watch the movie, both of us on the floor, backs against the couch. And this is how, quietly but together, we share in our grief of our mother. We don't have to talk about it. We both know the other misses her like nothing else. We know her favorite scenes and look over at each other at the same time. I check his face to see if he's okay, and he seems to be. No tears. I won't shed any either. Not on the outside. And maybe that's what he's doing, too. Keeping it in.
"You're cooler than you think, bro," I say. "You're tough."
Toward the end of the movie, Max says something that makes me question whether he's actually been watching any of the film at all, or just thinking the whole damn time.
"She was pretty, wasn't she?"
"She was."
"I liked her long hair."
"Me, too."
"I miss touching it."
"Me, too."
"Isabella has hair like hers."
I take a breath and have to turn my head for a second. "Yeah, she does."
"And Mom's eyes were green. We got Dad's eyes."
"Yep."
"It's okay that you didn't let me in the bathroom. I understand now."
If I was keeping it together before, this is what does me in. My jaw clenches, my nostrils flare, and every other part of my body is struggling to keep the tears jailed in my eyes. I look at Max and see the same thing in him. The tears in his eyes shake, and I want nothing bad to happen to him ever again. Not ever.
I put an arm around his shoulders and give him a few tugs toward me. But I can't look at him any longer. My voice is tight, like there's not enough oxygen. "You're so fucking cool, Max. I wish you could see it."
And that's all that's said about our mother. He ends the conversation, me following his lead. Our eyes focus on the screen in front of us, our brains unfocused.
.
While Max is at soccer practice on Friday, I ring Isabella's doorbell after finishing Mrs. Makenna's mowing.
Isabella leads me to her room to grab a book for me. I've never been in here before. The first thing I'm struck with is how much her room smells like her. It's that same flower smell that's in her hair and I'm overwhelmed by it. My pants have less room in them just because of a smell. I have to say something to distract myself.
"Is there any color in existence you don't have in this room?"
She laughs.
"Actually, I think you missed chartreuse."
"Do you even know what color chartreuse is?"
"No."
She launches a pillow at me. "That's it. Chartreuse is accounted for."
There's a bookshelf on the wall above her desk, but that's not where she gets the book she's picked for me. She pushes the drape aside that hangs in front of her closet and shoves her clothes back as far as she can. Over her shoulder I see floor to ceiling shelves, and I can tell, even with her clothes in the way, that every shelf is lined with books. She has about four pairs of shoes on the floor, some belts hanging on the door, a long necklace and a bag, but there are more books in there than anything else.
"You have a library in your closet."
"My dad built it for me." She fingers a book out from between the stacks. I try to remember if my father ever built anything for me. A sort of empire, I suppose might count. She hands me a book; it looks old, torn cover, yellowed pages. I flip through it, over four hundred pages, then look at the title: Women in Love.
I give her a look like she's punishing me. "Revenge because I made you read Naked Lunch?"
"It's Lawrence. Believe me, don't judge this book by its title. This is a guy's book, if nothing else."
I have a hard time believing that, but I shove it in my jacket pocket anyway. It hangs out the opening.
Sitting on the end of her bed, she motions for me to join her. When I'm beside her, she falls onto her back, and tugs on my elbow to have me lie back also. I'm facing her; she's facing straight up.
She points to the ceiling. "Look."
"What is that?" There's a circle up there that is obviously a darker color than the rest of the ceiling.
"I'm trying to figure it out. A person can fit through there. I think someone cut it out and then did a bad patch up job." She turns on her side, propping herself up on her arm. "Do you know who lived in this house before us?"
I shake my head.
"I think someone was trapped in here. You know, in a bad way. And they cut their way out. The quick patch up job was done so no one would ever find out." Her smile looks mischievous. "But I did."
"What would the person have cut the opening with if they were trapped?"
"Something ridiculous, like one of those metal nail files, or the tips of a pair of scissors."
"That's time consuming," I laugh. "Why wouldn't they just break the window?"
"Because the room was emptied out, no furniture. And the window is double paned, too strong for anyone's fist."
I turn toward her. "So, someone was trapped in this room with nothing in it but a nail file or a pair of scissors?"
"Yeah, it's like, whoever the captor was, was giving some sort of test or challenge. It was probably some survival training or gang initiation."
"That makes sense, because of all the gangs running around Forks. Fuck, that would be some sort of death wish. Imagine going up against another gang and having to announce yourselves as the Forks Gang. That's threatening."
"That wouldn't be the name. I don't think the word 'gang' would be in a gang name. It would have to be something like The Forks' Tines, or The Pitch Forks, and they'd actually fight with pitchforks instead of knives."
"And the way they initiate themselves is by sawing their way through a ceiling with a nail file. I might join this gang."
She's laughing, and the way she's doing it reminds me of my mother when she used to laugh, when she was really happy. She'd hold her stomach like Isabella's doing now, like it hurt.
"You know what I want to know?" I ask.
She gets control of her laughter, but I can still hear it in her voice when she asks me, "What?"
"Who else has been on this bed."
She laughs again and hits my chest. She thinks I'm joking.
"Okay, okay," she says. "I have a serious question. What would you want most in the world? I mean if you could have anything. It has to be tangible, something you can touch or use. I know this is a hard one for you, because you can buy pretty much anything you want, so dig deep, Edward."
"You go first," I say, but then regret it because it gets her off the bed. She goes to the desk, pulls something out of a drawer, and hands it to me. It looks torn from a catalog. She slinks into her desk chair as I sit up.
It's a camera.
"Really? If you could have anything?"
"Isn't it beautiful? I'd never ask my parents for it. It's way too expensive, but it's my dream camera right now. And I know I'll get it somehow because I place a sprig of dried lavender under my pillow whenever I can."
I narrow my eyes at her and shake my head, but can't stop my smile. "What does that do?"
"It makes your wish come true. You can't wish for too much, though - that's just greed. It has to be a true wish. A wish from your heart."
"I know what I'd want. It's not a specific thing, but it's like that Mickey Mouse snow dome you have. I want a thing that's only purpose is to remind me of a vacation, or something. Some kind of past memory reminder that has no other use. Just that."
"Every time you look at it or pick it up, a new memory from that time comes to mind."
"Exactly that. That's what I want."
"That's a good wish," she says, moving toward the top of her bed and lifting a pillow. She picks up the lavender she really does have under there and pushes it into my jacket pocket, the one without the book in it.
"Put it under your pillow. Just do it. Don't get all freaked out like guys do. Lavender under your pillow won't turn you into a girl." She squeezes my cheeks together and shakes my head for me.
My phone chimes a text, and when I check it, it's Max.
"Fuck, I lost track of time!" I'm off, down the stairs, answering Max's text with one hand as I go, and it isn't until I'm in the car, fumbling to get my keys in the engine that I realize not only did I not say goodbye to Isabella, but I also have her torn catalog page crumpled in my hand.
An excuse to come back tomorrow, I think. And I'm smiling even though I'm feeling like shit for forgetting Max. I have to make it up to him.
Later, the book is on my bedside table, the catalog cut out between the pages like a bookmark, and I put the lavender under my pillow - not because I think my wish will come true, but because Isabella gave it to me. It smells like her. It's that smell I always wondered about. It's her smell. I realize that when I answered her question, I should have chosen lavender as the one thing I wanted, but I didn't know then how much I wanted it.
Victoria
My sheets are all cool and smooth under my heated, just-showered skin, and my hair's soaking the pillow. I can smell my own naked body, fresh soap, jasmine. I smell like May and poetry, and I could be poetry, except that what happened this evening wasn't poetry. It was a lie. And I can't get it out of my mind.
Lying on my side, legs bent, I place my hand between my legs - still sore inside. I'm no longer a virgin. I've not only willingly given myself away, I sought it out.
Because of all I've heard of Jasper and sex, his notebook, I wasn't nervous asking him. I thought he would think of me as a means to sex, not as Victoria from school. And a virgin, no less. As far as rumors went, virgins were his specialty. I brought it up to him after school, outside, hidden as much as possible under a low-hanging tree with browning leaves. I said, "What do you think of the idea of you and me sleeping together?"
"I'd say that's some idea. When and where?"
He already had his hand on my waist, pulling me toward him, paying no mind to who might see us. I stood firm.
"Today."
He told me to come over. I'd work out the details in his room.
After dinner with my aunt, I went to his house. In his room, I told him I was a virgin. I asked him not to tell anyone about what would go on between us tonight, and I said we'd never have to see each other like this again. I expected nothing from him except his experience and making me feel comfortable - I demanded that part, my stipulation.
"You'll feel like the only girl in the world," he said with a smile, and he brought me in for a hug as if to seal the deal.
My nerves were millions of worms on my skin and under my skin, making me quiver.
Jasper didn't start things right away. He moved away from me, took a pack of cigarettes from a drawer, lit it and took a long inhale that made him shut his eyes up tight. He turned his head away from me when he blew out the smoke in a long, drawn-out stream.
He offered the package to me and I slipped one out.
It would help, I thought, to calm my nerves.
I held it between my lips and with a flick of his lighter, he lit it for me, his face so close. And so close, he said with a quiet laugh, "Good, we'll both taste like ashtrays."
He backed away, leaning against his long dresser and squinted his eyes a bit. "You surprised me. Everyone says you and Hood are together."
"Everyone's wrong."
"I have to ask you something." He pointed his cigarette at me. "I've been with virgins before."
I nodded.
"I have to ask you if you're sure about this, because I'm not your boyfriend. I'm nobody's boyfriend."
I answered on an exhale of smoke. "It has to be done." It's my only hope for the start of a love cure, I thought, but didn't say.
We smoked our cigarettes down in silence, looking at each other, looking away, looking back again. I broke the silence. "I'm not your girlfriend, either, so don't get clingy."
He laughed, stubbed both of our cigarettes out and took that as his cue to touch me. His hands came to either side of my waist, inched my shirt up, then slithered underneath, up my sides, all the way up under my arms to the tops of my ribs. By my ribs, he pulled me closer to him and kissed my lips.
He did taste like smoke and I didn't realize then how relieved I would be later to know that I never tasted his pure and real taste, nor did he taste mine.
Hands slow to remove my clothes, he laid me down.
"This is for you." He lowered himself over me, holding most of his weight off me with a hand against the bed beside me, a bicep flexed. "You don't have to do anything at all."
He made more professions that turned into naked kisses over my naked body. I remember his hand soft against my breast, light squeezes, and his tongue circling my nipple, his fingers between my legs.
He was so good at what he did, so concentrated on me, that I almost could've believed he loved me if he'd said it.
He brought me so close to my peak with his fingers before he entered me for the first time. The first time ever.
"Victoria." His whisper shook against my skin as his hand brought my hips up toward him. "You feel good."
He kept whispering, heavy breaths against my shoulder, my throat, kisses on my neck, licking, and his whispers right on my skin, told me again how good I felt to him. It was enough to take most of my mind off the pain.
He gave me exactly what I had asked him for, did everything right, and still, afterward as I lay against him, this person I'd known for years, yet hardly knew at all, I felt cheap. I felt used. I felt dirty. I'd given my virginity up in a sort of contract, a deal. It was a mistake I could never take back.
I sat up. "I have to go." I reached for my clothes.
"You okay, baby?"
"Don't call me that." I wiped my eyes and pulled on my jeans.
Jasper was up, stepping into his underwear. I was almost at the door when he caught me and turned me around, hands on my shoulders. Bending down so we were face to face, he looked into my eyes as if he might never stop. He dragged his hands along my shoulders, up my neck to my face. His hold on my face was barely a touch, his thumb taking my tears.
"Hey," he whispered. "Don't go like this."
"I shouldn't - I - I shouldn't have…"
"Come here." His voice was still a whisper and with an arm over my shoulder he brought me back to the bed. "Here, sit down."
I sat.
He pulled a flower from a vase near his bed, a red rose, and brought it over to me. He held it up to my face. "It's a match," he said. "Beautiful."
I didn't know how to respond, couldn't tell if he was serious or not.
"Close your eyes."
I closed them and he caressed my face with the rose, the softest feeling I'd ever felt. He caressed down my forehead, nose, lips, chin, down my throat to my chest and back up. When I opened my eyes, he handed me the rose.
"It's yours." Then he knelt down, and with me sitting on the bed he was slightly shorter than me. He lifted his face and kissed my lips. "Not a mistake. Okay? This was all for you. No mistakes."
All tears had disappeared. I was touched. Jasper could be caring. He could be caring and charming and gentle. Of course I'd demanded most of that of him as a stipulation, but he'd followed through on every promise.
"You're good at this. If you're serious right now, you might make a really great boyfriend to someone someday."
His laugh was closed-mouth and cute.
"I don't have to ignore you at school. I don't do that, you know? Ignore girls that I um…" He pointed to the bed.
I told him that I was okay, and that I knew he had all his friends and I had my few, and I wouldn't expect anything from him at school. The truth was, I would never want James to find out, and if Jasper and I were suddenly buddies, there would be too many questions asked.
"Okay but just-" he crossed over me onto the bed and pulled me next to him "-come here." He hugged me against his body with both of his arms. Holding. Tight. He held me so tight.
I'd never been held like that before. Not by James or anyone. And the fact that it was Jasper? I couldn't think about that. I just closed my eyes and relished the feeling. For a little while I pretended he was James.
"Victoria," Jasper said, reminding me that he wasn't James. "I remember what you look like naked."
I didn't say anything. What is anyone supposed to say to that?
"Can I draw your beauty later?"
And then I understood what he was getting at. So, this is how he did it. Did he always ask permission? Did he really care if he got permission or not?
"I don't want to be that."
"Be what?"
"Just that. Just a thing."
He turned me onto my back, looking into my eyes, tracing fingers down my arm.
"It's not a thing. You're not a thing. That's not what the sketchbook is. The sketchbook is…" He rolled over, falling onto his back, explaining himself up to the ceiling. "It's something that I feel like I can't stop. My fingers itch to do it. You know? I can't help it."
"You're compelled to do it." Thinking of my poetry, I understood him.
"Yeah. And it's something I really, even if nobody believes me - fucking Cullen doesn't even believe me - but it's something I care about. It's like an extension of myself."
"But you show people. It's like a brag book."
"Yeah, I'm proud of it." He laughed, and then shifted around to look at me again. "I could just draw your body, or parts of you. I don't have to include your face. Nobody but me will know it's you. That'll be our thing. And you can check out the sketchbook before you decide, if you want. It's all about curves and lines and beauty. It's not porn." He laughed again. "That's not what it's for. I'm serious."
"Is Lauren in there?"
"Mallory? Fuck, no." He actually shivered like she gave him the creeps, which made me smile.
"Do you know you're a little messed up, Jasper?"
He brought his nose down to my temple. He was making this an intimate conversation. "Who isn't?"
"And you won't draw my face?"
"Not if you don't want me to." His lips brushed over my cheek.
"Or my hair?"
"Nope."
"And it's all drawn from your memory?"
He tapped the side of his head and nodded.
"I don't know."
"Okay. You can say no."
I thought about it. This was a moment in my life I wanted to forget, not something I wanted documented in any way, anywhere.
His hand on my waist, pulled me close against him, and he rested his chin on my shoulder. "How about if it's not a nude? I'll add your sexy as fuck lace underwear and your bra. I'll put more detail into your underwear than your body. How about that? But…" he lifted my shirt with his hand, exposing my stomach, and unbuttoned my pants, pushing them just slightly down, along with the tiptop of my panties, planting a kiss with some tongue where my trio of dark freckles form a tiny obtuse triangle. His kiss tickled there and I had to squirm. "These, I have to include."
"You're not going to give up, are you?"
He buttoned up my pants, tugged my shirt back down, and wiggled his fingers at me like a magician getting ready to perform a trick. "I told you. I can't help it. And check it out, now you know something about me that's insane."
I got myself into this whole thing, sex with Jasper, knowing I would probably end up in his book, but not knowing that he would ask permission, or that he would even let me have a say in how he drew me. Still, it's really weird to give permission for something like this.
When I was ready to leave, Jasper made sure I took the rose, walked me to my car and he kissed me goodbye. Not once had he made me feel like he was trying to get rid of me or rush me out; in fact he had tried to keep me there longer when I told him I was ready to go. It may have been a mistake, a big naïve mistake, but no longer did I feel cheap or dirty. He did that. Jasper. I couldn't believe it. In my aunt's car, after he kissed me one more time, I gave him permission to draw me. Faceless and not nude. Just for him, because he had to, like me with my poetry.
Now, on my own bed, all covered under my sheets from head to toe, with my hand between my legs, I know what I've done. I may not feel cheap or dirty anymore, but I know I've lost something, and the person who has it, and will have it forever, is Jasper, when the only person I want to have it is James.
I touch myself, thinking about the things that Jasper did to my body, but I pretend he's James. He was James all along. My fingers are slow and circling, and they move faster when I need them to, and when I come, with my back and neck arched, I'm dreaming of James. James. His quiet name falls over the edge with me. His name collects my tears.
I'm not love cured. Not even close.
I put my pajamas on, slip into slippers, go to the bathroom to pee and wash my hands and then grab the rose and my poetry book, unlocking it on my way out to the deck by my room.
Looking out at the black-as-tar trees, in the freezing cold night, I think about love.
Love is tar that captures you and won't free you. Struggle all you want, it takes something otherworldly to get out.
Under the outdoor light, sitting with my back against the house and my legs pulled up, I write a poem about a girl who gives everything away to the person she knows is right. She gives him her sense of humor in ribbons, her sadness in raindrops, her fears in stars, and her memories in windstorms. She gives away her expectations in rainbows, her ambition in train tracks, her dreams in sunrises, and her regrets in kisses. The only thing she keeps for herself is her virginity in rose petals, and even if she's given away everything else that she is, she still feels whole.
Underneath the poem I write: I have to stop loving you.
It's the title of the poem, and it goes at the end.
Sometimes you don't really know anything until it's the end.
I stand and tear my rose apart petal by petal, letting each go in the wind, except for one, which I press in between these pages of my poetry book.
Back inside I cross the dark hallway and knock on my aunt and uncle's door. I don't hear anything. I peek in and see only my aunt in bed. Mud's working the nightshift at the lodge. Closing the door behind me, I slip into bed with my aunt and cuddle up beside her warm squishy body, tucking my poetry book between my knees.
"Is everything okay, sweetheart?"
I sniffle and take a breath. "I slept with someone for the first time, Auntie. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before."
She turns around and gathers me into her arms, petting my hair. "Sweetie," she says a few times. "Sweetie. It's a confusing time, your teenage years. You'll be okay."
She asks me if it was James and I tell her I wish but he doesn't want me.
"Were you safe?"
"Yeah. He's kind of a slut." I laugh, drying my face on her pajama sleeve. "But he was good to me."
"Do you want to hear about my first time?"
"Not really." I smile, and she tells me anyway.
"I was sixteen, no, fifteen, the boy was sixteen. We were in his parents' den watching TV. We started necking and we didn't even take off all of our clothes. It was his first time too and he had no idea what he was doing." She starts laughing. "He kept jabbing at me." She can hardly speak. "He asked me to help him, but I was shy and didn't know what to do either. All we knew was what was supposed to go where, but we didn't know how to get it in there." She laughs even harder.
"Anyway, not to torment you with details, but it was over in a flash and even though there was a little stinging, I wasn't even certain if I was still a virgin or not. That's how fast it was before it was over." She's laughing so hard I have to hit her arm to stop her, but I'm laughing, too.
"Your first time?" She's calm now, bringing a hand down my face to my shoulder. "It's such a myth that it's supposed to be beautiful and perfect. It's supposed to be painful and embarrassing."
"But I thought I was ready and it turns out I wasn't."
"Ah, well, it's done, isn't it? You can't take it back, can you?"
I shake my head.
"It wasn't the special thing that you thought it would be, and that's okay. Next time, when you find the right person, it'll be what you want."
"Do you really think there's a special thing waiting for me?"
"Oh, don't break my heart, you." She pulls me tight into a hug, almost clobbering me with the top of her breasts. Her hand slides down my hair, fingers tangling in my curls. " You're a lovely girl, Victoria. Why wouldn't there be? Many special things are coming your way. A multitude. Some are already with you."
She tells me I can sleep with her tonight. I plan on staying for just a little while longer, but I'll leave soon in case Mud comes home. Before she goes to sleep, she tells me she'll take me to the doctor to get me on birth control.
Thank you for reading. :)