"Baby-in the-water……."
Her voice hums lightly in the morning silence of her room.
"Moses – in the – wa-ter….floating – in the – reeds…"
The notes travel up, pause, and come down plaintively. The silence comes back.
"That's all I remember of that part. I used to…it was a….lullabye I guess." Her tone becomes abrupt. "I don't know where it's from."
She sits up in the sheets, yawning, and gets out of bed, unfolding her long legs fluidly, her movements like a bird's, a heron maybe, pale blue shadow. She only sleeps in some underwear and a tank top. She stands before the mirror, left hip slightly cocked, and begins brushing tangles out of her hair. Her long arms move in the air gracefully, sharp elbows outward, pushing the damp, thick curls to the side.
He sits in her computer chair, swiveling slightly left-right left-right, watching her with his chin in his hand.
"Why do you come up so early anyway? I mean I'm glad you're taking me around today, but all that stepping up through the window stuff and waiting around; having to do that would drive other dudes crazy."
He shrugs, smiling faintly.
"Just to watch you do this," he tells her honestly, and loves her for her demure, self satisfied smile, her slightly self conscious shift of balance to the other hip.
Her smile fades in a little bit, and she pauses thoughtfully.
"Baby – in the – water……came to Pharaoh's –daughter……"
"Count them three by three," he finishes abruptly and she looks up, surprised.
"My mom sang that one too," he says calmly, looking away.
She doesn't ask anything more, but observes carefully in the mirror, watching his face as he looks at the dress glistening like snow in the pale early sunlight.
"David had a – harp, played –and tended—to the sheep" she continues, less sure, voice lowered. "Played a song with these chords, count them three by three…….."
She falls silent, looking at him.
He doesn't meet her eyes.
His fingers brush the silky fabric. He looks down at her long legs, the sharp bones that jut at her hips, the slender curve of her neck, and looks away.
"You're………sometimes I don't know how to tell you," he says hoarsely, his eyes pleading with her. She trembles, begging too, begging for the word.
"I'll wait outside while you dress," he says courteously in a moment.
She clings to that moment after he leaves, and it vibrates in the empty room resonating. Her heart thrums in heavy rhythm.
"Jesus in the manger," she whispers, shoulders translucent,
unsteady like a new, wet butterfly. "Wise men….count them …..three…"
He had almost said it.
Almost.
Like pompoms, thinks Peyton. The rain sound.
She sways slowly to the left, to the right. The dress sways and swishes right with her.
"Sit," orders Brooke, and she does.
The redhead dabs a brush expertly on the back of her hand, and swipes it under Peyton's eyes, layering concealer thinly. A stiff, perfect stripe of black along her lid, stopping demurely at the edge of the lashes. Long sweeps of mascara. The big doll eyes emerge.
"We're going to spare you from that nasty peachy beige crap you usually wear, and go with a rosy apricot stain for the lips," Brooke tells her, wiping harshly at her mouth.
"I like my peachy beige crap," she replies, just to have something to say.
"Mouth closed," is the only answer.
A soft brush dabs at her cheeks, leaving a soft glow on porcelain skin, a hint of a flush.
She's done then, and Brooke's already steadily filling in her own lips with a classic red in the next mirror. She gazes in wonder at herself, at this glorious, glowing baby skinned girl staring back at her from behind the subtle, classic makeup.
"Wow," she tells herself. "You look great."
Brooke rolls her eyes.
"Don't let him get his hands all over it," is her terse reply.
Peyton swishes back and forth a little more.
"He never does," she says absently, watching the rustling silk. They both fall silent..
When she comes towards him that evening under the glitter of the chandelier, her white dress rustling softly, fully as though she were floating in a cloud, he closes his eyes. He closes them for a second because he cannot bear it; he opens them because he cannot bear to miss a moment either. He can't stand the delicacy of the willow waist, her trembling arm on his, her defiant chin, her hardened, confused eyes, her small soft smile. He cannot understand the feeling that possesses him, the terrible melancholy.
She jumps at the touch of his fingers on her dress as he tries to pin the corsage above her breast, and watches him trying to avoid the delicate embroidery, his mouth drawn in concentration. He is so close, so beautiful.
"Here, let me help," she says, and they're both unnerved by her voice. Their heads bend close, her fingers slipping around his, deftly securing the needle.
He steps back, his face unreadable.
"They're orchids. I wanted to make sure you had the right thing."
"I know," she tells him.
They both pause. A frantic Karen motions to Peyton. She opens her mouth, but he nods, anticipating, and she smiles and tries to move as fast as possible.
"You go up here," the older woman tells her. "When you hear
your name called, after Bondurant, step up to the
center in front of the door and meet the escort halfway. He'll hand you to
Lucas at the end of the walk, where you'll both go off to the side and stand in
the circle. When the music begins to play, you dance."
"Dance?" she gasps.
It's too late and she's being pushed in a line behind Lila Slater, whose thin shoulders are pushed back proudly, back rigid. She mimics the posture nervously. Lila turns around with a benevolent look.
"You look….lovely," she says sweetly, for the benefit of anyone listening. And then, less loudly, "Almost as though you belong here."
Peyton grits her teeth and says nothing. She's too focused on not humiliating herself.
But when she walks down the long red carpet, towards him, all she can see is his face and then a strange thought passes through her mind; this is what it must be like to get married, to see him standing there waiting. The people on the side fade out in soft focus, and all she can see is his face, his dark suit, his hidden grin at her discomfort, a teasing look in his eyes.
"Bastard," she thinks, wanting to almost laugh, then to cry.
He takes her hand and holds it innocently, and when the music plays they begin to sway back and forth carefully, imitating the couples around them. They circle around Brooke, who makes immature faces, wiggling her eyebrows until they both strain not to burst out into laughter. She's surprised at how well he can lead, and how easy it is just to follow.
"Thanks for suffering as my escort," he tells her.
She shrugs.
"Now you owe me one," she smiles up at him, and all he can think about is how lovely the nape of her neck is, her shining hair pulled back smoothly in a double knot, pearls in her delicate ears.
He drives her home afterwards, and goes inside. Night has fallen softly, fireflies gleaming softly around them like falling stars, the wind whispering through the blossoming trees under a clear sky. She does not turn the light on in the living room but goes straight to her room, heart pounding. Her window is open, the curtains fitfully moving, swelling and falling like tall, lacy ghosts. She turns on a small lamp that glows a dark gold, weak as a candle, throwing deep shadows, inviting the night to come in instead of alienating it. A wind from the river comes in, cool and green and dark.
"Please help me with the buttons," she asks him, and he does not refuse.
They start at the top of her back, small and pearly, down to her waist. He takes his time with each one, fingers unsteady as each inch of pale skin comes into view. When he is done, he steps back.
She feels shy all of a sudden and does not know why. She's never been shy before, and is surprised by this new, nervous feeling.
"I'll wait outside," he says, and when the door is closed between them, they both slump in agony.
"You can come in now," he hears her soft whisper from the other side of the door.
When he opens the door slowly, it is dark inside the room. Only a dim hint of the orange streetlight creeps in through the window, illuminating the shape of things in the darkness.
They both climb up on the bed, and she opens the window. Her long legs pour awkwardly out of a cotton night slip ages too old for her, hanging precariously from the hunched shoulders.
They can hear the sounds of the school band from the football field, muted and distant, like a whisper hiding behind the voice of the wind. The smell of fresh cut grass and river mud curls around them, spring damp.
In the dark, neither of them says anything, just listening to the far away sound of brass, of people, the sound of their childhoods like a ghost in the distance.
"I used to listen to this every Friday night," she tells him, her voice coming from the shadows as though disconnected from her somehow. "Wondering what it'd be like to be one of them. I thought everything would work out once I got to high school, once I had friends."
He knows. He did the same thing.
"Were you ever lonely?" she asks, and her voice is small and seven again, on that evening lit sidewalk, watching him standing there with the ball.
He considers this for a moment.
"Yes," he concedes, but gives no more.
Her small hand creeps into his quickly and guiltily, almost subconsciously; they sit there, frozen in a paroxysm of wanting and memory.
Her cheeks are tear damp. She stares at the dress that's hanging like a stiff white ghost from her closet door.
"It was hers."
He quickly looks at her face, but it is still as ever, expressionless. He can see the gleam of her full, damp eyes.
"You were beautiful in it," he tells her gently, wishing he knew something more to say. She looks down at their hands clasped tightly together, laying between them.
"She was good, you know? A proud person."
He hides a little smile.
"You take after her."
He hears a small hiccup, and her head moves side to side in a violent negative motion.
"No I don't."
There is a pause.
"If…..if I did, you wouldn't be in my bedroom," she finishes bitterly.
He considers his answer carefully.
"It's an honor."
He feels her stiff shoulder next to his slowly relax, little by little.
They lay down in the dark on top of her cover, listening to the far away sound, letting the night air cradle them, his fingers gently tracing her face. She kisses his palm, eyelids lowered in pain, sorrow.
"I didn't think you would understand all this. I didn't think you would want to," Peyton tells him, and she realizes at that moment that it is the truth.
"I didn't know that I would either," he replies pensively. "But I think……I think I wanted to try."
She curls her knees up, and his hand touches her ankle, light and quick as a firefly.
"Half a year since that night at Nathan's house when we were about to fuck for no reason at all," she whispers and he is jolted by the recollection uncomfortably, by the word. It's escaped from her petal lips so innocently, such a hard cornered word. He shifts beside her, wondering what to say.
"I'm glad we didn't," he decides to tell her, and is relieved by her smile. "I'm glad….you let me ….come around."
They both lapse into a small reverie.
"It's nice having you around," she says absently, unfinished.
Abruptly, he sits up on one elbow.
"Peyton, my offer still stands."
Her heart pounds thickly.
"Offer?"
He shakes his head softly.
"I want everything," he says once again, and she remembers his exact words. The way he had stood there before her, half pleading, half determined, all serious.
But this time she isn't frozen in fear. Instead she feels that twinge again, that light, helium feeling in her chest grasping and rising dizzily.
"Ok," she says simply, and they both sit up, not knowing what to do with this. Her arms fold across her stomach gently, tightly inwards towards herself, and he reaches out almost instantly and pries them away; holding her shoulders, he kisses her then with everything he's ever wanted to say to her unspoken on his lips. The weight of this kiss hits her like a current, stunning her into silent submission.
They both feel the ecstatic, terrible beat of their hearts, the awkwardness and promise and ecstasy, the intoxicating nearness of each other.
"I don't have …anything for you," he tells her hopelessly, lost.
She laughs, surprised at the sound of her own voice.
"You're acting crazy," she giggles, feeling her eyes welling up with tears, but she knows this time it's not sadness.
He pauses, then springs to his feet, and with one swift movement, slides out her window feet first. She gasps, leaning out of it. His form fades in the darkness, and she can see the white shirt, the moving shape of his back but it is indistinct. She crawls back into bed, confused, elated, half choked with fear and happiness and dizzy with …..love.
"Love," she says, mouth numb, disbelieving.
She hears the curtains rustle, and the thatch of blond hair appears.
"Get back into bed," he commands and she grins at the delicious thrill that surprises her at the sound of this order. She scampers back, sitting against the headboard.
She feels him suddenly pull her feet and then with a gasp she hits the mattress, flat on her back; his mouth is suddenly on hers, fierce and insistent and she feels a small twinge of fear. He draws back quickly though, and then something cool is on her mouth instead; she quickly puts up her hand to catch this falling thing, and feels the paper thick petals of a …..flower. She cannot see it in the dark, but she recognizes the green scent of magnolia, the pristine whiteness of the petals visible.
His hands run up her legs then, and do not stop at the flimsy hem. With a gasp, she feels the cotton slide up brusquely to her chest, laying there bunched; she feels the cool air on her legs and stomach. She shudders, wanting to yank it back down, eyes burning, but then realizes he's not touching her.
When she stops trembling, she sees his head bend down gently and feels the light kiss that lands in the corner of her hipbone. His palm slides down the concave hollow of her stomach, brushing the fragile ribs, skin like paper magnolia, white in the shadows.
Then something cool touches. Her whole frame shudders, thrumming, electric at each touch, weakly unresisting. But his hands are gone; in their place, chaste white blossoms are landing from his hands. He pulls her knees up, so that they'll stay in that small valley, and heaps them up to her neck, some crushed and missing petals, some perfect and whole in their ghostly radiance.
Dizzy and afraid of herself, she lays there, each nerve vibrating invisibly, waiting; he does nothing more, but places a kiss on her forehead as cool and chaste as the blossoms.
He lays down beside her, his head curving into the hollow of her neck, his lips close to her skin so she can feel the slight breath when he speaks.
"There, I've brought you flowers," he murmurs, and she feels a tear slide down her cheek and into the cool pillowcase.
She waits a while before she can speak. With one hand, she lifts a blossom to her mouth, her tongue touching the gold-fragrant center, tasting it's green, crushed creaminess; she remembers being thirteen and doing this, wondering if that was what kissing was like. Another tear escapes. She is delirious with happiness.
When she can trust herself to speak, she looks down her cheek at him, nestled there so close to her. His eyelids are closed; he seems asleep.
"I love you," she says then, and is shocked.
She feels him move sleepily, and slowly breathes with relief. She listens to his slow, even breath, notices his still shut eyes, and her heart starts beating again. But she does not want to take it back immediately; and at this thought she has to bite her hand to keep from laughing out loud with joy.
She relaxes, looking up at the ceiling, feeling her body flood with peace.
Beside her, he moves again, nuzzling into her neck.
"I love you too," he replies then, very clearly.