The Pillow Friend (16 page)

All of the food was realistic and identifiable, all except one, the most fascinating for its mystery, the plate of pink meat. She was sure it was meat, but what kind she could not imagine. It must have come from an animal she had never seen before. Her mother said it was ham, but it looked to her like no ham she'd ever seen. And why was it so big? On a plate the size of a quarter, it filled the whole space, there was no room left for the potato salad, or sweet potato pie, or succotash or green beans that normally accompanied slices of ham. The thought of the greedy carnivore who would devour a whole plate of strange meat was unsettling. She longed to taste this meat above anything else. It would be like nothing she had ever tasted before, and it would be better, she was sure, better and more satisfying than any meat had been.

She understood why Alex made her think of that imaginary meat. He wasn't the passionate, poetic, romantic boy she had imagined throughout the long, hot summer, but he still looked like someone that she loved, and not even a recognition of their incompatibility stopped her from wanting him. Surely there had to be a way for them to meet and understand each other? Surely the love she felt could not be wasted, meaningless?

Impulsively, she put down her hamburger untouched and tried again to reach him.

“Do you think people can want things that aren't right for them? Really want them, I mean; like, need them.”

“Of course they can. All the time. Look at drug addicts. They ‘need' something that's killing them. Or wasn't that what you meant?”

“Oh, well, I wasn't really thinking about addictions, things like drugs or cigarettes. I guess I meant more like, well, food, for example.” She suddenly realized she could not use love as an example. If people never fell in love with the wrong person there'd be no broken hearts and no divorces.

“Food?” He looked baffled, and waved his burger. “We don't ‘need' this stuff, that's for sure. If people only ate what they needed there wouldn't be so many fatsos in this country.”

“I guess you're right,” she said sadly. Wanting something fiercely was certainly no sign that it was good for you; maybe even love could be an addiction, a bad habit, like cigarettes or booze.

She didn't know why it should hurt so much. Alex Hill didn't love her, but he wasn't the man of her dreams. He was just a boy she wasn't getting along with very well. The person she had loved all summer wasn't real. She'd just have to reject her fantasies about that person in the same way that she'd refuse to swallow pills offered her by a sinister stranger. She didn't love Alex; she didn't love anyone. She didn't know why that should hurt so much. It shouldn't hurt at all, but it did.

It was barely seven o'clock when he took her home. They were both very polite when they said good-bye at her door, mouthing the little formula they'd been taught by their mothers to utter after every childhood party, visit or treat: “Thank you so much; I had a nice time.”

She didn't invite him in, and he didn't try to kiss her.

Tears filled her eyes as soon as she was indoors; she shoved her hand in her mouth and bit down on it as she stared around her like a wounded beast.

Her mother had left a note where she always did, on the refrigerator door. It said she wouldn't be back until very late. There was chocolate chip ice cream, also cold cuts and chips, if she and Alex wanted a snack. . . .

She took her fist out of her mouth and howled out loud. Then she staggered around the downstairs rooms, weeping and clutching at herself until she dropped to the floor, exhausted, and just lay there, snuffling and breathing raggedly. It was over. That was it. She got up and went into the kitchen, where she splashed some water on her face and blew her nose on a paper napkin. Then, feeling hungry (she hadn't managed much after the first bite of hamburger) she put a couple of slices of pickle loaf on a plate with a pile of chips and a blob of mayonnaise, and took it upstairs with a glass of Dr Pepper. She wasn't even thinking about her broken heart or Alex when she walked into her dark bedroom and, glancing through the glass of the balcony doors to the courtyard and swimming pool below, saw him.

Her heart leaped up. The figure was in shadow, standing away from the light, close to the ragged bamboo hedge which divided the courtyard from the parking lot, but she was absolutely certain it was Alex. She had watched him for so many devoted hours, memorizing his every movement and stance, that she could not be mistaken.

He hadn't gone. He must be feeling as miserable as she was at their failure to connect, at the stupid way their first date had ended. But he was afraid to knock at the door; he didn't know what to say to her.

She put down her plate and glass, turned and ran down the stairs and out of the apartment. She didn't know what to say, either, so she wouldn't say anything. That would be best; words had come between them before.

He must have started walking toward her as soon as he saw her come through the door. They collided by the side of the pool.

It was a curiously embarrassing shock to feel his body so close against hers, and she would have pulled away, apologized, if his arms hadn't gone around her at the moment of impact. Not a bump, then, but a hug. An embrace.

They just stood there holding each other for a while. She moved a little, turning her head, looking up, wanting to see his face, but the harsh, bright poolside light was directly behind him, and she couldn't make out his features. The only thing she could see were the twin glittering circles of his glasses.

With a little shiver she recognized something creepy about this. He didn't try to stop her pulling away, which reassured her. When she put a hand out he took it. His fingers were warm.

“Let's go inside,” she said.

By the warm glow of the corner lamp in the living room Alex looked wonderfully familiar, just wonderful. She was going to say something, she didn't know what, something to express her happiness, when he put a finger to her lips.

She smiled. He took his finger away and kissed her.

“Agnes? What are you doing down here? You weren't waiting up for me?”

She blinked up at her mother, disoriented. What was she doing here? Had she fallen asleep? Where was Alex? Her mother smelled of soap, like she'd just washed her face. Where were her glasses? “What time is it?”

Her mother laughed. “And what time do you call this, I'd like to know? No fair. I didn't give you a curfew, so don't try to pull that on me. It's after two. You weren't worried, I hope? I said I'd be late—didn't you get my note?”

“Yeah, yeah.” She found her glasses on the coffee table and put them on. Alex's glasses, like Alex himself, were gone. She remembered, with a slippery, warm sensation low in her stomach, the tender practicality with which he had gently removed her glasses before taking off his own.

Her mother patted her shoulder. “I'm going up to bed, dear. I think you should, too.”

When her mother had gone she searched the room in case Alex had left her a note, but found no sign of him. But did she need a sign? Her lips were still swollen from his kisses; she had only to close her eyes to feel them again, the way, after a day at the beach, she would go on feeling the steady, insistent rhythm of the waves against her skin.

So, that was what kissing was about. She went up to bed happier than she'd ever been in her life.

Roxanne called her a little before noon the next day for the details.

“Well, the date was pretty much of a disaster, really.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I hate dating. It should never have been invented. I hate football. I hate trying to make conversation and all that getting-to-know-you garbage.”

“Uh, was there anything about last night that you didn't entirely hate?”

“Yes.”

“And what was that, Ms. Grey?”

“Kissing Alex.”

“Kissing Alex.”

“And being kissed by him, of course.”

“Of course.”

“It was like a dream—really, it was a nightmare at first. I was sure he hated me. I wanted to die.”

“And then he kissed you good night?”

“No, no, no! We said good night at the door, I came in, burst into tears, blah blah blah, then I came up to my room and looked out the window and he was still down there. He was just standing there by the pool, like he was just as miserable as me about the way things had gone—God, I can't tell you, we just disagreed about
everything
—but—well, when I saw him there, I went straight down to him and he just put his arms around me and that was it.”

“So what did he say?”

“He didn't say anything. That's the point. He didn't have to. I didn't have to, either. We came inside and sat on the couch and, well, you know.”

“You tell me.”

“God, Roxanne. We kissed.”

“And?”

“Kissed some more. That's all. Well, it's not all, it was more than enough. It was wonderful. We just kissed and kissed and—God, now I know what all those songs and poems are about!”

“Awwww. That's great, Grey, that really is wonderful. I'm so glad it worked out; I'm so happy for you. Want to go out and do something today, or are you going to be tied to the telephone all day, waiting for HIM to call?”

“I guess I should go out, or he'll think I don't have anything better to do than sit in all day waiting for HIM to call.” She grinned as she spoke, so certain was she that there would be no need for games and strategies like that with Alex. In one enchanted evening they had leaped over all of that, into the sort of closeness she had dreamed of all summer. Maybe he would call and maybe he wouldn't; either would be fine, and they would see each other again tomorrow, at school, no longer just classmates, no longer unequal, but boyfriend and girlfriend.

From the moment she arrived at school on Monday morning she was one quivering, sensitive antenna attuned to his presence—but she didn't see him anywhere.

She loitered in the hall for a while, hoping to catch him, but then she began to feel too nervous to pull off a casual act—and, anyway, she didn't want to act with him—so she went into the English classroom and took her usual seat.

Alex was not actually late, but the bell began ringing seconds after he slid his long legs beneath the desk beside hers. She noticed that his hair looked uncombed and his glasses were smudged, and he had a pimple on his neck. He felt her looking at him and turned to give her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

She felt the radiance of her own smile die, felt it slip from her face to land rather heavily somewhere in her stomach.

The teacher had already started talking and there was no possibility of exchanging words with Alex. She had to get through the class, wait for the sound of the next bell, before she could say anything to him.

When the bell rang he began to gather his books together without even glancing at her; he seemed unaware of her presence.

She spoke despite the painful lump in her throat. “Want to eat lunch together?”

He rolled his eyes like a horse about to bolt. Maybe it was just surprise. “Uh, sure, if you like. I'll look for you.”

“I usually eat with my friend Roxanne under one of the big trees out front—”

“Okay, I'll look for you. I'm sorry, I don't want to be rude, but I've got chemistry next, and I left my notes in my locker which is at the other end of the building, so I do have to run. But I'll see you at lunch.”