Gravity (7 page)

“You’re an asshole.” She grabs her bag; a
threat she’ll leave the table.

Pete rolls his eyes. “Sit down, Cher?”

“You’re just a bunch of hypocrites pretending
to be all buddy-buddy with everyone."

"And that's news to you? You've never
complained before. Matter of fact I remember specifically you
laughing you ass off when Lucas Reiner was running around with a
half shaved head and boxers over his pants," Jake says.

Pete chuckles. "I remember that. He actually
made it into the house."

"I let him stay since he was following Kate
Pierson around. I hate that bitch."

“Alex?”

The sound of my name makes my temple
throb.

Cher clenches her bag. “Tell him inviting
Hunter’s crew is a bad idea."

"You can't
not
invite the football
team, Cher." Jake twists his mouth.

"Then don't invite the people that won't get
in. Alex? You can’t possibly agree—“

I can't look at her. Why does she keep
pulling me in like I'll take her side? If my answer makes her
leave, than maybe it won’t ruin my friendship with Pete. “Get over
it. It’s just the way it is.”

Cher stalks off. Pete curses under his
breath. Her leaving from the center table might start some gossip,
but it’s not something Pete can’t bounce back from.

“Someone isn’t getting laid tonight,” Jake
sings.

“Shut up!” Pete’s voice fades as I shut my
eyes.

My headache has reached its limit. Nausea has
taken up residence and its rising. I'll have to leave the center
table for fresh air, but Cher had just left. It's too suspicious
and it would start a lot of gossip. Luckily Madison’s voice emerges
from across the cafeteria. Focusing on her for purpose and pleasure
will hopefully make the other voices fade. Sinking my mind into
hers, I'm like a thought vampire, feeding my ego with her foolish
girly thoughts; the sound of her voice mulling over what she'll
wear to the party, how her friend Christine is
totally
jealous
,
Alex Aisling wants to hook up
and she can’t eat
because she’s too excited. Her voice is soothing to my mind’s ear.
The sick feeling leaves me as the other voices soon soften like a
distant hum of a highway.

Alex

Cher appears in my peripheral when I shut my
locker. She's standing near the end of the hall. Our eyes connect.
I know to follow her. The second bell rings when I leave the
building and see her get in her white VW. I quickly sweep the
parking lot for a sign of Pete before I step into the car.

"You're an asshole." Her tearing eyes don't
leave the steering wheel.

I stare at her. I know what she wants when we
meet in her car, but she's crying. She wants to know why I didn't
defend her at lunch. If she wants to talk then I'd rather be in
class. She isn't my responsibility. Why would she think I could
console her? Cher looks at my hand, which still rests on the
release handle. She's scared I'll leave. She doesn't look as pretty
when her brow wrinkles.

"Why didn't you say something?" She grips the
steering wheel.

"What did you expect me to say? I'm not
agreeing with you over my best friend. You know how suspicious we'd
look? And I don't appreciate you singling me out like that."

Her forehead rests on the steering wheel. Her
thoughts start rolling in like a storm.
I used to be like them;
those outcasts. Some of them are still my friends. I thought he
cared about me. Doesn't he care about me?

Fuck me! I shouldn't have gotten into this
car. I grind my teeth. I don't want this. I don't want my best
friend's girlfriend to get attached. I don't want to get to know
her any more than I already know. For as long as I've known her,
she's always been separate from those other groups; she’s a part of
our circle. But now, she's rehashing some old shit; revisiting all
of her insecurities. She's scared of what will happen to some of
her old friends. She still talks to them. What would they think of
her if they're messed with at the party? She scared to be with Pete
and she thinks she loves me. I don't want to be part of her
identity crisis. She knows the deal—we fuck—that's it.

"You're basically saying you don't care."

"Why would I?" She's thinks she loves me.
Fuck that shit. "They're right, Cher. Who cares?"

"I care."

Why am I still in this shitty car? "Well, I
couldn't care less." I pull the door handle.

"No." Cher leans over and her hands grab my
thigh. There's desperation in her eyes, I've never seen before. She
doesn't want me to leave. I still haven't given her what she wants,
but caring for is her boyfriend's job. "Please." Her voice sounds
anxious. She's always so beautiful and composed, but now her face
is red and seems so vulnerable, she's falling apart. Who knew she'd
be attractive when she begs.

No. I have to get a grip. "I can't do this
anymore. Pete's my best friend."

"Then you don't want me to tell him." Her cat
eyes are staring hungrily. The weak girl from a moment ago
vanishes. Her hands are like claws digging into my thigh. "I was
going to tell him if this doesn't work out."

This? This isn’t anything. Bitch.

Cher reaches under her skirt and pulls off
her panties. She's still offering herself even though she'd rather
talk about her problems. She wants me to be close. She'll do
anything. I can only get so close. She should know by now I don't
roll like that. I glance at her panties which she throws in the
backseat. I can't think of a reason anymore. She still wants to do
it.

I shut the door and shift over on the seat to
make room for her. I unzip my jeans and pulls them down a bit. She
climbs on top of me.

She's trying to not to cry; trying to hold it
together. This isn't what she wants; she wants to talk and she
wants me to listen. I can see it in her eyes, she wants me to care
for her, but I can't. A serious relationship with me is
impossible—she knows that. I look away from her eyes and thrusts
inside of her even though she's silently crying. I turn my lips
away when she attempts to kiss me. She'll give her all to me
anyway. I will still get what I want without giving her what she
needs in return. If this is what I have to do to keep my best
friend, Pete from knowing; if this is what will shut her up, then I
won't stop.

Alex

After school I head to the music room. It’s
the one thing I don't do with Jake, Pete or Cher. It isn't hanging
out at the coffee house, drinking beers behind the school or
fucking in the parking lot. It certainly isn't like Jake's
parties.

It’s a sanctuary from everything that's
supposed to matter. Mrs. Rubio allows free range on all the band
instruments and stereo equipment. It’s not a club—at least not
officially, but it should be. It’s more like a music lover’s
paradise; a place to share ideas, to collaborate, to make music,
sing and dance. If I could be myself, it’s here in the music room
with these students and Mrs. Rubio. Evenings here are long and it's
usually a party in itself. Today, I'll stay as long as I can before
Jake's party. I need to clear my head.

Walking down the noisy hall is the only thing
between me and the sweet sounds that drowns out everyone’s thoughts
including my own. Mrs. Rubio’s piano calls to me like the Pied
Piper. The noisy hallway of students and teachers soon leave my
ears as I open the door to sweet relief. The large room echoes the
musical bliss in such a way it refreshes my mind from the burdening
static of living outside of this room.

The same faces smile when I enter. Music
lovers tuning their instruments; singers warming their voices;
dancers stretching their bodies; Mrs. Rubio bouncing hands play
Mozart’s piano sonata number eleven; Alla Turca (Allegretto).

Her face lights up as I enter the room. “Ah,
Alexander!” I love the way she says my name with her heavy Spanish
accent. Her fingers, swing into a less choppy, familiar tune. The
key strokes are slowed down and they connect smoothly together.

“That’s beautiful. What is it?”

“Rolling Stones.” Her brilliant teeth bring
me to smile. “Tony let me borrow his CD.”

“I’ve never heard them like that.” I look
closely at her joyful expression. Her face looks thirty-something,
but the minor lines around her eyes reveal she's older. Her smooth
skin and dyed red hair trick the eyes. “Have you looked in to the
schools I recommended?”

“Ah…” I avert my eyes.

Mrs. Rubio presses her fingers down like a
child throwing a tantrum, the keys blare out noise, destroying the
song. “Alexander!” I've seen that penetrating gaze before. My
adoptive mother does it when my grades aren’t to Aisling standards.
“You must stay with your passion. Your dancing, your singing, your
music, Alexander. Isn’t it what you want?”

“Yes. It is, but—"

Her slender frame gracefully rises from the
piano bench. “No. No. No,
but!
You listen here,” She points
to my heart. “Not here.” Her finger springs off my forehead.
"You're parents give you trouble?"

"No, not exactly."

"Then you are de problem, Alexander. De
head."

She's right. If she only knew how much of
de head
is a burden to me. Sometimes I want to tell her I
can read minds because she's the only one that gets me. It sounds
pitiful just to tell my teacher and not his friends.

Her painted fingernails daintily motions to
the piano. I don't hesitate and place my books down. I know what to
play for her. Mrs. Rubio motions to another student to dance with
her. I begin to play a popular love song I always thought Bobby
Darin sung best. I don't need the music sheet; I know it by
heart.

I'm good at this. I have to be if I want to
stay sane. I can feel everything fall away from me like I'm a bird
lifting off the ground. It's the only time I can focus and not hear
thoughts; my parents’ thoughts; my friends’ thoughts and my own
thoughts; only music makes me feel at peace.

Everyone is dancing and singing; some grab
their instrument and play along.

Mrs. Rubio and the other students who love to
dance take a partner. She scoots me off the bench and she takes
over flawlessly. "Go Alexander! Show me your stuff,” she winks.

She told me I move passionately like Fred
Astaire. She thought I should pursue a music and dance career. I've
always thought that would be a new beginning for me. Music seems to
be the only option anyway. It's a no brainer. But it always changes
the moment I leave the music room. It’s like that dream only lives
there. Leaving it, I become a different Alex—the one that has to
pretend to be an honest student, a good athlete, and a loyal best
friend.

In this room I don't have to act or lie.

I walk over to Beth, a violinist who usually
taps her feet as far as dancing goes. She’s stunned when I offer my
hand; I broke the social barrier between seniors and freshmen. I
pull her up and cradle her stiff little body into my arms.

"Don't worry. I got you."

I can't hear her; the music blocks all the
voices I would normally receive. There isn't a need to use my
ability to know that Beth is nervous. I start out slow and show her
the steps.

"Follow me."

She tries her hardest and she begins to
loosen up once she gets the rhythm down. I swing her around and she
smiles frightfully. I sing to her which makes her blush. I would
normally find her vulnerability useful to what I usually want from
girls, but dancing with Beth, I want her to be comfortable and
enjoy what music does for us both. It isn't about getting another
notch on my belt, as Pete always says. It‘s about Beth and sharing
this sacred place with her. For this moment, she’s precious to me.
Gently gliding her across the music room floor, I listen to her
laugh, and feel her soft hands in mine. Her eyes are bright behind
her glasses, her curly hair bounces like bedsprings, and her smile
lights up her face beautifully.

I kiss her hand as the piano echoes the last
few notes. Beth turns red. I'm just doing what feels right for the
moment. My action surprised me as well. The room full of voices
rushes into my head for just a few seconds, until a blaring
vibration of a trumpet rips the voices away.

***

Alex

The definition of home is an empty house. The
smell of homemade cooking permeates the air, but it's not
welcoming. There's no one home to share it with. The housekeeper
had left me dinner as per my parents' instruction. The meal is
still warm with plastic covering it. It's not the same as a hot
meal made by someone who loves you. The substitute meals don't have
that special something. I sit and eat my meal quietly. One thing
about being home is there's no one to bombard my mind. But that's
the problem, there's either too many or no one at all.

"I hate spaghetti."

The red blinking light on the answering
machine flashes. A message from my parents no less. I press the
button and immediately hear my father.

"Hey, Son, Florence from the
guidance
office called. What's this about not showing
up for some of the extracurricular activities you signed up for?
Your commitments to those activities are what the college boards
will look at. If you can't commit yourself to those clubs than…” My
father audibly sighs. “Florence doesn't think you're being
consistent. She wondered if anything was going on at home. Alex, I
don't like being called a bad father..."

"Right, I'm sure that's exactly what she
called you, Dad." I play with my food.

"...You know what I do for a living and I do
it for you and your mother."

"Alex, this is Mom. Honey, I know this is
strange on the answering machine..."

"No shit." I twirl the fork to see how big I
can get the spaghetti around it.