***Hi everyone, thanks again for reading my story. Please let me know if my
sentences are too convoluted-I tried to be as clear as possible, but there
was too much going on in my head! Anyway, enjoy this chapter. More is
definitely on the way (I couldn't stop now if I wanted to).***
"Distance has no way of making love understandable"--Wilco
Grace woke up with a piece of Judy's stationary stuck to the side of her face. She peeled it off, groaning, and rose from her bed. Last night she'd torn up all of the acid free paper and the elegantly flowered envelopes into pieces and stuffed them into a plastic bag. But one sheet had escaped the massacre unharmed and found its way into her bed. She was about to throw it away when she suddenly remembered him saying, "You don't have to be the bravest person who ever lived, just the bravest writer."
That was back when he was still just another quirky, arrogant adult whom she was forced to tolerate. He said he thought about Emily Dickinson and Proust. How they were too afraid to leave their rooms. And now she was standing in her own room, terrified of a piece of paper. She groaned, angry that he still monopolized her thoughts and that in the end she always decided that he was right.
But in spite of herself, she put the last piece of the stationary on her desk and smoothed it out. She took his pencil out of her desk drawer and placed it next to the paper. Then she got ready for school.
Downstairs, Zoe sprayed whipped cream on her waffles as Lily frantically made her a bologna sandwich, the ends of her hair covered in mustard. Jessie was sitting at the table, eating strawberry yogurt in small spoonfuls, her head buried in the morning paper.
"Hi, Gracie" her mom chirped. She wore the same glowing smile that she had every morning, no matter what was going on in their lives. It always infuriated Grace. She almost missed the days when her dad first moved out and her mother would lie in bed in her robe all day and stare at the walls absent-mindedly. At least then she'd been able to relate to her. She mumbled a hi and sat next to Jessie with a bowl of cereal. Jessie's eyes were still glued to the paper. "Oh my God" Jessie whispered, her eyes widening.
Grace turned and looked at her, "What are you reading?" she asked.
Jessie looked up, startled. "What?"
"The paper," Grace said, laughing at Jessie's dazed expression. She was so weird.
"Oh!" she tucked the paper under the table. "Nothing," she smiled. "It's just the weather-they say it's going to rain like all next week."
"Oh, thank God" Grace said, but she still felt weird. Why would Jessie be shocked about the weather? She shook her head, everything in their house was always so much more complicated than it had to be.
After breakfast, they said goodbye to Lily, grabbed their lunches and headed for the door. As she was putting on her coat, Grace noticed Jessie grab the paper and stuff it into her backpack. Grace watched her, suddenly suspicious, and followed her out to the car.
On the way to school it was silent except for the sound of the rain outside. Grace could sense Jessie watching her, but as soon as Grace glanced in her direction, she turned away. Grace wished that for once Jessie would say what she was thinking, but Jessie, unlike Grace, rarely said anything she didn't have to.
Remembering the weird incident with the paper, Grace looked at Jessie, trying to read her face. Jessie just stared through the window.
"What were you really reading in the paper?" Grace asked her.
"What?"
"The paper, at breakfast when you said you were reading about the weather?"
"What about it?"
Grace sighed impatiently. "So what were you really reading?"
"I really was reading about the weather."
"Jessie!" Grace glared at her until she could no longer feign innocence. She sighed and took the paper out from under her arm.
"Are you sure you want to know?"
Grace felt a pang of doubt in her stomach. "Yes, tell me." She swallowed.
"Well..I was just looking at this calendar of arts events and.."
"And?" Grace's hands tightened around the steering wheel.
"And.it says that there's going to be this..uh, poetry reading tomorrow."
"And?" She heard the sound of an oncoming train in her head.
"And that's it."
"And?!" The train was moving faster and with more force.
"So. " Jessie turned away again, nervously fiddling with her hair.
"Jessie!!"
"Okay, okay!" she put her hands up, afraid Grace might strike her. "I'll just read it."
Grace could feel her throat starting to close as Jessie turned to the arts page and cleared her throat.
"The reading will feature new work by local poets Angela Chase and" she paused and lowering her voice, added "and. August Dimitri."
Grace sank into her seat. In her head, two trains crashed into each other head-on. She could hear the sound of metal against metal, brakes squealing. She put her hand against her forehead as if she could quiet it. "Oh," she said softly, "you could have told me that."
"I know."
"I mean it's not like it's a big deal or anything."
"I know."
"I mean, maybe it was, at one time, but that was a really long time ago."
"I know"
"It's not like I still.like think about..any of that anymore or.. anything."
"I know, I'm sorry, I just wasn't sure if it would be weird.."
"I know you and Mom and everyone think that I'm like still upset about this..but I'm not"
"Okay."
"Just so you know."
"Okay."
"So don't feel like you have to protect me or something."
"Alright, I won't, geez."
"Okay then."
Silence fell between them like a curtain.
"So.are you going to go?" Jessie asked carefully.
Grace glared at her.
"Sorry," Jessie said, "Sorry..I'll just shut up now."
They drove the rest of the way in silence while Jessie stared at her lap and Grace used all of her will-power to hold back the thoughts that were swarming in her head like tiny mosquitos.
For the rest of the day, Grace felt like she felt like she was living under water. Everyone looked distorted-their heads were too big for their bodies, their lips moved really slowly when they talked and she barely heard what they were saying. Cynthia sat next to her at lunch, telling her about the party she was throwing for all the drama people but Grace just smiled without listening and played with her fingers. "Are you okay?" Cynthia asked.
Grace's head shot up, "Yeah" she laughed. "Are you sure?"
"Yes!" she insisted, "I'm fine, I just..didn't get enough sleep last night, that's all."
"Oh God I know what you mean, I was up all night studying for that stupid math test. I hate seriously hate my teachers, they're such sadists." She laughed.
Grace smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Yeah, I know."
That night, when everyone had gone to sleep, Grace sat at her desk, chewing on her nails and staring at the blank page in front of her. When she had stared at it so long that she was sure flames would start shooting from her eyes, she turned it over.
She took out her Chekhov book from its place beneath her mattress, opening it to "On Love." Eyes closed, she ran her fingers over the words, feeling like she could channel him through the Chekhov-the way she had when she first read the story, each word stinging as if he were standing there injecting them into her with a syringe.
But paper was a poor substitute for skin, for the feel of hair brushing against her cheek. Her fingers ached and she placed her head on her desk, her face resting against the stationary, eyes closed. For a second she thought she heard someone whisper her name--she could feel his breath against her cheek. But when she opened her eyes, the room was dark and she was alone.
Disappointed, she reached for her letter opener and held the sharp side against the inside of her arm, the coolness of the metal calming her. She had promised herself that, whatever happened, she wouldn't let herself care about what he was doing or where he was. She had decided it would be best to remember things as they had been, and just keep it that way. She didn't want to ruin what she already had by wanting more. But she always wanted more, she couldn't help it.
She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the letter opener against her flesh, craving the sharp pain that would follow if she just pressed a little harder. But she couldn't go further. Instead, she put it back in the drawer and reached for the pencil. Slowly, without knowing what she was doing, she moved her hand across the page until the words "Dear Mr. Dimitri" were there on the paper, looking much smaller than she'd imagined they would.
Exhausted, she stopped and let the pencil fall to the floor. She put her head back onto the desk and fell asleep with her fingers spread out over his name, her head resting against the spine of the book he'd once held in his hands, had once written in.
"Distance has no way of making love understandable"--Wilco
Grace woke up with a piece of Judy's stationary stuck to the side of her face. She peeled it off, groaning, and rose from her bed. Last night she'd torn up all of the acid free paper and the elegantly flowered envelopes into pieces and stuffed them into a plastic bag. But one sheet had escaped the massacre unharmed and found its way into her bed. She was about to throw it away when she suddenly remembered him saying, "You don't have to be the bravest person who ever lived, just the bravest writer."
That was back when he was still just another quirky, arrogant adult whom she was forced to tolerate. He said he thought about Emily Dickinson and Proust. How they were too afraid to leave their rooms. And now she was standing in her own room, terrified of a piece of paper. She groaned, angry that he still monopolized her thoughts and that in the end she always decided that he was right.
But in spite of herself, she put the last piece of the stationary on her desk and smoothed it out. She took his pencil out of her desk drawer and placed it next to the paper. Then she got ready for school.
Downstairs, Zoe sprayed whipped cream on her waffles as Lily frantically made her a bologna sandwich, the ends of her hair covered in mustard. Jessie was sitting at the table, eating strawberry yogurt in small spoonfuls, her head buried in the morning paper.
"Hi, Gracie" her mom chirped. She wore the same glowing smile that she had every morning, no matter what was going on in their lives. It always infuriated Grace. She almost missed the days when her dad first moved out and her mother would lie in bed in her robe all day and stare at the walls absent-mindedly. At least then she'd been able to relate to her. She mumbled a hi and sat next to Jessie with a bowl of cereal. Jessie's eyes were still glued to the paper. "Oh my God" Jessie whispered, her eyes widening.
Grace turned and looked at her, "What are you reading?" she asked.
Jessie looked up, startled. "What?"
"The paper," Grace said, laughing at Jessie's dazed expression. She was so weird.
"Oh!" she tucked the paper under the table. "Nothing," she smiled. "It's just the weather-they say it's going to rain like all next week."
"Oh, thank God" Grace said, but she still felt weird. Why would Jessie be shocked about the weather? She shook her head, everything in their house was always so much more complicated than it had to be.
After breakfast, they said goodbye to Lily, grabbed their lunches and headed for the door. As she was putting on her coat, Grace noticed Jessie grab the paper and stuff it into her backpack. Grace watched her, suddenly suspicious, and followed her out to the car.
On the way to school it was silent except for the sound of the rain outside. Grace could sense Jessie watching her, but as soon as Grace glanced in her direction, she turned away. Grace wished that for once Jessie would say what she was thinking, but Jessie, unlike Grace, rarely said anything she didn't have to.
Remembering the weird incident with the paper, Grace looked at Jessie, trying to read her face. Jessie just stared through the window.
"What were you really reading in the paper?" Grace asked her.
"What?"
"The paper, at breakfast when you said you were reading about the weather?"
"What about it?"
Grace sighed impatiently. "So what were you really reading?"
"I really was reading about the weather."
"Jessie!" Grace glared at her until she could no longer feign innocence. She sighed and took the paper out from under her arm.
"Are you sure you want to know?"
Grace felt a pang of doubt in her stomach. "Yes, tell me." She swallowed.
"Well..I was just looking at this calendar of arts events and.."
"And?" Grace's hands tightened around the steering wheel.
"And.it says that there's going to be this..uh, poetry reading tomorrow."
"And?" She heard the sound of an oncoming train in her head.
"And that's it."
"And?!" The train was moving faster and with more force.
"So. " Jessie turned away again, nervously fiddling with her hair.
"Jessie!!"
"Okay, okay!" she put her hands up, afraid Grace might strike her. "I'll just read it."
Grace could feel her throat starting to close as Jessie turned to the arts page and cleared her throat.
"The reading will feature new work by local poets Angela Chase and" she paused and lowering her voice, added "and. August Dimitri."
Grace sank into her seat. In her head, two trains crashed into each other head-on. She could hear the sound of metal against metal, brakes squealing. She put her hand against her forehead as if she could quiet it. "Oh," she said softly, "you could have told me that."
"I know."
"I mean it's not like it's a big deal or anything."
"I know."
"I mean, maybe it was, at one time, but that was a really long time ago."
"I know"
"It's not like I still.like think about..any of that anymore or.. anything."
"I know, I'm sorry, I just wasn't sure if it would be weird.."
"I know you and Mom and everyone think that I'm like still upset about this..but I'm not"
"Okay."
"Just so you know."
"Okay."
"So don't feel like you have to protect me or something."
"Alright, I won't, geez."
"Okay then."
Silence fell between them like a curtain.
"So.are you going to go?" Jessie asked carefully.
Grace glared at her.
"Sorry," Jessie said, "Sorry..I'll just shut up now."
They drove the rest of the way in silence while Jessie stared at her lap and Grace used all of her will-power to hold back the thoughts that were swarming in her head like tiny mosquitos.
For the rest of the day, Grace felt like she felt like she was living under water. Everyone looked distorted-their heads were too big for their bodies, their lips moved really slowly when they talked and she barely heard what they were saying. Cynthia sat next to her at lunch, telling her about the party she was throwing for all the drama people but Grace just smiled without listening and played with her fingers. "Are you okay?" Cynthia asked.
Grace's head shot up, "Yeah" she laughed. "Are you sure?"
"Yes!" she insisted, "I'm fine, I just..didn't get enough sleep last night, that's all."
"Oh God I know what you mean, I was up all night studying for that stupid math test. I hate seriously hate my teachers, they're such sadists." She laughed.
Grace smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Yeah, I know."
That night, when everyone had gone to sleep, Grace sat at her desk, chewing on her nails and staring at the blank page in front of her. When she had stared at it so long that she was sure flames would start shooting from her eyes, she turned it over.
She took out her Chekhov book from its place beneath her mattress, opening it to "On Love." Eyes closed, she ran her fingers over the words, feeling like she could channel him through the Chekhov-the way she had when she first read the story, each word stinging as if he were standing there injecting them into her with a syringe.
But paper was a poor substitute for skin, for the feel of hair brushing against her cheek. Her fingers ached and she placed her head on her desk, her face resting against the stationary, eyes closed. For a second she thought she heard someone whisper her name--she could feel his breath against her cheek. But when she opened her eyes, the room was dark and she was alone.
Disappointed, she reached for her letter opener and held the sharp side against the inside of her arm, the coolness of the metal calming her. She had promised herself that, whatever happened, she wouldn't let herself care about what he was doing or where he was. She had decided it would be best to remember things as they had been, and just keep it that way. She didn't want to ruin what she already had by wanting more. But she always wanted more, she couldn't help it.
She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the letter opener against her flesh, craving the sharp pain that would follow if she just pressed a little harder. But she couldn't go further. Instead, she put it back in the drawer and reached for the pencil. Slowly, without knowing what she was doing, she moved her hand across the page until the words "Dear Mr. Dimitri" were there on the paper, looking much smaller than she'd imagined they would.
Exhausted, she stopped and let the pencil fall to the floor. She put her head back onto the desk and fell asleep with her fingers spread out over his name, her head resting against the spine of the book he'd once held in his hands, had once written in.