Under Rose-Tainted Skies (17 page)

L
uke drops by every night after school for the next week.

We sit on the couch for hours and talk about everything and nothing all at once. Like on Wednesday, we start chatting about French, I quiz him on some Spanish homework, and then, I'm not sure how we make the leap, but we're talking about cheese. Cheese. We spend the next hour discussing Cheddar as if the survival of humanity was at stake. He tells me his favourite kind is cashew nut cream cheese. I've never tried that. Shocker. Maybe I will start making a list of things I'd like to try . . . on second thoughts, that might do more harm than good. I'm not even sure we have enough paper in the house to cover it.

The space on the couch between us stays the same, lingering like a chaperone at junior prom, forever ensuring we don't get too close. Not that there's any chance of that. He doesn't mention the handholding. Neither do I.

It's Friday morning, and, as per usual, Mom is reading the paper. Not the real paper; they're still not allowed in
the house. This thing is a broadsheet called
You and Your Garden Monthly
. The scariest thing in there is an article about a successful aphid massacre in Minnesota. I checked. With bated breath, I stir the oatmeal in my bowl. It's thick and creamy and smells amazing, but I can't swallow it down yet because something is on my mind.

‘Mom.'

‘Hmm?' She replies from miles away in her planter's paradise.

Deepest of breaths. ‘When Luke comes over later, would it be okay if we watched a movie in my bedroom?'

The paper goes down and she eyeballs me from over the top of her wire reading glasses.

‘Should I be worried?'

‘No.' I shake my head, whip my hair into a frenzy.

‘Have you gotten comfortable with him touching you yet?'

‘Sort of . . .' In retrospect, I could have probably said no.

‘What does that mean? Exactly?' She folds
You and Your Garden Monthly
in half, sets it down beside her empty bowl.

‘It means we take all our clothes off, and he turns into a koala, clings to me like a tree while we watch TV.'

Mom chokes on the sip of tea she's just taken. ‘Norah Jane Dean.'

‘It was a joke.'

‘Obviously,' she says. ‘I'm just a little shocked you made it.'

Her shock would be less, I'm sure, if she knew how hard I was working to keep a mental image of the aforementioned out of my mind. I take half a second to wonder if Luke would find my quip amusing. It's a joke at his
expense, after all, having an abnormal girlfriend, one he can't touch.

‘So what is “sort of” comfortable?' Mom prods.

‘I touched his hand last week, you know, before the fear kicked in.'

Mom pushes her glasses back on top of her head. I foresee a disaster when it comes to pulling them free from her hair later.

‘Does he get it?'

‘Get what?'

‘Your limitations?'

I'm not really sure what she's asking. ‘I mean, we've talked about it a lot.'

‘But does he understand?' Mom says, her Dr Reeves impression almost perfect. I load my mouth with a spoonful of porridge and nod. Nope. I still don't have a clue what she wants to know, but a serious note in her voice suggests another ill-timed intervention, and I'm not sure I can handle two of those in one week. I'm still considering the scratching issue. ‘It's nice to see you smiling,' she says and I have a sneaking suspicion she's decided it's not worth pursuing this line of questioning. At least not yet.

‘So . . . is that a yes?' I flap my lashes, throw my best grin in her face.

‘Sure,' she says.

I'm sitting at the top of the stairs, using my teeth to file down the corner of my thumbnail, when Luke knocks.

‘I'll get it!' I yell, sprinting down the stairs, excitement level off the charts as I bunny-hop back up the last step before heading to the door. Mom laughs at me from the
living room. She's been swallowed. All that's left of her is a pair of feet in penguin slippers hanging over the arm of the couch.

‘Hi.' I'm a little out of breath when I answer the door. Worse when I'm done soaking up his smile.

‘You like vanilla ice cream, right?' he says, holding up a brown paper bag. ‘Not the vanilla pod stuff. I remembered that thing you said about not liking black bits in your food. Assumed you were being literal.' See. He does understand.

‘Aww,' Mom coos from inside the mouth of the couch.

Luke winces like he just coughed too loud in church. ‘I didn't know your mom was home,' he whispers. Lately, she's been doing a great job of making herself scarce.

‘That's okay. We're going upstairs,' I tell him and lead the way.

Tonight we're watching
Mad Mad Mary
, one of my favourite horror classics. I'm on my bed, legs crossed, and Luke is slumped on my sill. I didn't ask him to sit so far away; he just sort of gravitated towards the window.

‘Who does that?' he says. His eyes are on the TV. My eyes are on him, wondering for whose sake he's bypassed the bed. I conclude he's done it for me, but out of nowhere, for the smallest of seconds, I wish he'd done it for himself. ‘Don't go up. Go out.' The guy in the movie, the lead, runs straight past the door and takes off up the stairs. Luke starts reciting a list of mistakes the characters in horror movies make, a mental list I've made a thousand times before. It feels good to have someone to share with.

‘Don't move to a house that's a million miles away from anywhere,' I add.

‘Yes.' He almost chokes on a spoonful of ice cream. ‘Switch on the lights the second you hear a strange noise.' I laugh so hard the urge to pee hits me.

‘I'll be right back,' I say, climbing off the bed. He hits pause on the movie. I try not to get teary over how considerate he is.

One relieved bladder and two fresh squirts of Mom's perfume later, I float back down the landing, so happy I feel like there should be bluebirds frolicking overhead and stems of sweet roses to stop and sniff. Anxiety is forced to trail ten paces behind me.

I stop when I get to my room because I can hear Luke talking and I don't want to gatecrash his call. ‘When?' he says into his cell. ‘Next Friday? Are you serious?' I see him through the crack in my door, pacing. Excitement has erupted on his face. ‘Yes. Awesome. Can you get me two tickets?' Pause. Face scrunch. Headshake. Someone pulls the plug on his smile. He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Actually, dude, I'm not going to be able to make it. I already have plans.' He laughs. ‘What makes you think they're with a girl?' My heart leaps into my throat. ‘There might be.' Pause. ‘She might be.' He perches on my bed, reaches for the antique silver photo frame that sits on top of a wicker table. He smiles at the picture of me blowing out eighteen candles on my seventeenth birthday – had to round the candles up to the nearest even number so as not to upset my psyche. Lame.

‘Trust me. You don't know her.'

Anxiety catches up to me; I wobble when it slams into my back. Me. It's me that's pulled the plug on his smile.

‘Nah. Don't worry about it. I'll catch them next time.
Thanks anyway, man.' He hangs up, tosses his phone in the air and catches it. He's all happy-go-lucky again as he heads back to his safe seat on the windowsill. I push my body up against the wall, count to ten as my finger carves out a crevice in my palm.

We need to talk. He can't start missing out on things for me. He can't do that. That's like climbing into a car with its brakes cut. Disaster imminent.

I head back into the room, watch my feet move, one in front of the other. Everything feels uneven, so I use the furniture to ferry me back to my bed.

‘Norah. Are you okay?' He sits up, startled.

‘Sure. You know me . . .' I dismiss the worried expression he's throwing my way with a wave. ‘Stability of spaghetti.'

‘Is the movie too much?' He gets off the sill, walks over, sits on the very edge of my bed. ‘We can watch something else.'

‘No!' I protest a little too intensely. ‘I mean, honestly, I'm fine.'

‘Okay,' he says. ‘I'll quit bugging you.' He stands up.

‘You can . . .' A heatwave washes over me. ‘You can sit over here with me . . . if you want to.'

‘Sure.' I revel in the way the bed shifts when he sits back down, more on than off this time.

The rest of the film plays out, but I don't tune in. Between his proximity and trying to figure out how to mention his phone call, which I'm totally going to have to confess to eavesdropping on – ugh – my mind is a hot mess. I'll figure it out. I really wish Mom's question from this morning wasn't starting to make more sense.

W
hen Luke suggested we sit and count stars the following Friday, I was suspicious. You normally find stars outside, after all. But then he showed up at my house with a projector.

We're lying on my bed like soldiers, arms by our sides, legs together, too afraid to touch, and watching space swirl around on my ceiling. It's impossible to count the stars, there are so many, flickering like diamonds on a black backdrop.

My iPod is on shuffle. Rock chicks have been commandeering the airwaves for an hour, but then some dude starts strumming his guitar and, with a soft voice, begins singing about holding the girl he loves. My concentration abandons the stars and I focus hard on the lyrics of the love song, the love song with lines that, somehow, speak directly to my current situation.

The invisible barrier between us
. . .

The ache in my heart
. . .

The burn of constant curiosity
. . .

‘I got you something,' Luke says, twisting his body and leaning over the side of the bed. While he's reaching, his shirt lifts and I can see the bottom of his back. I swallow lumps.

I'm supposed to protest, I know that for sure, because I see it happen all the time on TV. Though I'm not sure why anyone would want to object to a present. That's a thing I'd like to figure out, but my brain is too busy inspecting the sliver of exposed flesh. Luke has freckles. I've never been close enough to his skin to see freckles before.

‘Check it out.' Luke lies back, and my stare charges towards the ceiling. He hands me a book. Not a book. A journal. The cover is coated in pictures. It's shiny. Silky smooth. My fingers skate idly over an image of the Arc de Triomphe, the Latona Fountain, the Eiffel Tower, and half a dozen other famous structures in France.

‘It's like a journal,' Luke tells me, opening it to the first page. ‘But it has a travel planner in the back.' He flips through more lined light blue pages, stops at a group of white sheets coated in plastic. ‘You can keep photographs in this part. Or maybe postcards. And then this section here is a directory, with every number you could ever need.' I watch him flip through the rest of the journal. The excitement in his smile is immeasurable. ‘I thought you could use it when you go to school in France.'

‘I love it,' I tell him. ‘Thank you so much.'

I do love it. Really, I do, which is why I can't understand the bolt of hostility that shoots through me when he says France. He's so thoughtful, and I'm super-grateful, but my mind is unsettled.

Luke talks about Paris, about art, about maybe dumping
his no-travel policy for a week to visit the Louvre and see the
Mona Lisa
. My head spins. He keeps asking me what I think. Asking me if I've ever seen this online? Or that online? Seen them online? Seen it online? Seen her online? Or him online? In conclusion, my life is all about things that can be found on the web, and
yes
is the only word I can contribute to this conversation.

The sound of Luke breathing beside me is melodic. I copy the rhythm, force my lungs to slow down.

He's just talking. Dreaming. Dreaming for both of us. I smile to myself, squash hostility with happy. Reclaim the normal night we're having.

The warmth of my room mixed with the low light makes me sleepy.

My eyes are getting heavy when Luke's pinkie brushes against the side of my hand. I stiffen. At first I think it's a mistake, but then I feel it a second time.

‘Is this okay?' The bed shifts, he turns his head, and I turn to meet his face. He's drenched in starlight, practically sparkling. There's only inches between us. I can smell spearmint on his breath. My body bursts into flames.

We're not wearing matching sweaters or strolling through a fall landscape, but I imagine kissing him now would be perfect. I look at his lips. They're parted, just a little. It would be so easy to tighten the gap between us and press my mouth against his.

Except: petri dishes, full of little alien life forms that live on the human tongue. Then this morning, I was flicking through my Hub feed, and this one guy from Cardinal was talking about having glandular fever. Viruses spread like
wildfire in schools. Their school. His school. As much as I want to, I can't forget that.

His pinkie meets my hand now, draws circles on the side. Pins and needles explode in the pit of my stomach, and shivers, good shivers, the kind you get when something exciting happens, shoot up and down my spine. I can't pull away.

‘Norah.' I like the shape his lips make when he says my name. ‘Will you be my girlfriend?'

Blink-blink. ‘What?'

He smiles. ‘Will you be my girlfriend?' I float up and up and up, get lost in the makeshift galaxy on my ceiling. My heart feels like it's trying to box its way beyond my ribcage.

Yes
. I think it so loud it's a wonder he doesn't hear it.

But this is me. Nothing is ever easy. I guess every story needs a villain, and never one to be outdone by something as silly as a heartbeat, my brain kicks back, harder. I come crashing down to earth.

And just like that, my bed becomes bottomless. I'm sinking through the floor, Luke's dreams and aspirations fall from the starry sky and slam into my chest.

I've been searching for an opening to talk to him all week. The idea that he should have been somewhere else tonight plagues me.

‘Answer me something honestly first?' I say, sitting up on my elbow. He frowns at me. I'd frown at me too. I'm brutally massacring his romantic moment. I don't mean to, don't want to, but practicality is pressing. There are questions in my head and the threat of gnawed fingernails is fast approaching.

‘Do you miss kissing?' Granted, I'm kind of going in from an obscure angle, but I figure missing out on a concert/movie/trip to the circus/whatever is small fry, easy to dismiss in comparison to a kiss. He might be able to catch a concert/movie/trip to the circus/whatever next time. He's not going to be able to catch another girl's lips so easily.

‘Where did that come from?' he says.

‘Just thinking . . .' I shrug as casually as I can muster. ‘Do you?'

‘Honestly?'

Casual quits on me. I climb off the bed, pace while I consider writing honesty off as overrated. No. I need to hear the end of this conversation. Mom was right; he needs to understand just how many limitations are hanging over him.

‘Yes,' I say.

‘No, I don't. But I do think about kissing you every time I'm with you. I'm kind of looking forward to the day that's okay.'

‘What if . . .' I say, perching on the edge of my bed only to stand back up a second later because all my muscles have been replaced by jumping beans. ‘What if you're waiting a really long time? It's unreasonable for me to expect that from you, isn't it?'

‘It's unreasonable for you to expect me not to kiss anyone else? You realize I quite like you, right? And that I have this crazy new built-in thing the kids are calling self-control?'

He's missed my point. He thinks I'm questioning his capability instead of the commitment. A swarm of bees
wakes up inside my skull.

‘I don't want to be with anyone else, Norah.'

‘That's not what I meant.' I can't explain; my mind isn't putting sentences together properly.

‘Wait. Is this about the party invite on my Hub wall?' He side-eyes me.

‘Party invite?' I haven't been on social media since this morning. There was no invite then.

‘You haven't seen it?'

‘No.'

He sits up. ‘Can I borrow your cell?' His is still being fixed.

‘Sure.' I grab it off the side table, hand it over, slightly embarrassed by its ancient appearance. My mom sells bricks that are more discreet.

‘I thought maybe you were worrying,' Luke says as he punches buttons. He shows me the screen.

It's his Hub page. The last post is a colourful upload inviting him to the Fall Ball at Cardinal High. Of course the invite is from Amy.
Committee Chair
has replaced the
Queen
in her user handle.

‘You don't have to worry. I'm not going,' he says. I think if he could, he'd pull me back down on the bed and wrap me in a hug. At the bottom of his invite, there are almost a hundred comments from dudes that call him bro and chicks that sign their names with an XO. They're all talking about how much fun this thing will be.

‘You can't miss this party,' I say, successfully suppressing all reluctance, though it does leave a bitter taste on my tongue. ‘You can't stop doing things because of me,' I tell him. I perch on my bed but have to stand for a second
time, because nothing says ‘serious discussion' like a game of musical chairs. ‘We're different. I have limits, you don't. We can't pretend that's not a thing. I'm afraid if we do, you're going to start feeling shackled to me . . .'

‘That's not going to happen,' he argues lightly.

‘If we're not careful, that is exactly what is going to happen.'

‘Norah, it's one party. If it makes you happy, I'll just go to the next one,' he replies, but he's stopped smiling. I think maybe he's starting to understand what I'm saying.

‘What about your call last week?' I say it quietly, hope it lessens the impact. ‘I heard you talking on the way back from the bathroom.'

The part where I've invaded his privacy seems to go unnoticed. His face crumples like he's been hit by a sudden stomach cramp. ‘I forgot about that.'

‘Would you have gone if you weren't with me?'

He straightens his shoulders. ‘But I am with you, and I love hanging out here with you. I love talking to you, and eating ice cream with you. I love watching cheesy horror movies and staring at the stars with you.
J'adore
that I can now speak eight whole words of French,' he says, all smug. ‘Pretty soon I'll be fluent.' I crack a smile, can't help it. ‘I'd rather hang out with you than go to any concert or party.'

He's so sweet. So nice. It pains me to press on with this and shatter the sentiment. I continue pacing.

‘Humour me for just a second?' I'm a little breathless, so he doesn't argue. I'm wearing holes in my carpet. ‘If you hadn't met me, would you have gone?'

He groans, falls face first on to my bed.

‘Yes, probably. I probably would have gone. But—'

‘And the party?' I interject. I have to get this out. Clear the air so we can move on. ‘You'd be going to that too, right?'

‘I don't know; maybe. They're all pretty much the same, those things.'

‘But you'd go?' I repeat, jaw tight. For the first time since we met, he's looking at me like I'm about to go Carrie White on his ass. I'm not; I just need him to see how bad this will be if he stops going out, hanging with his friends, cuts himself off because of me.

‘Yes,' he says. ‘I would.'

‘Right. So you have to go. Don't you see? You can't not go places because I'm not going.'

‘But I love your company.'

‘And I love yours. But if you stop doing things because I won't be there, you're going to end up feeling trapped here.'

‘Norah, come and sit down. Take some deep breaths with me for a minute?'

I do as he asks because I am feeling a little lightheaded. Not sure if it's panic or exercise making me feel this way, though. I sit on the bed and he watches me inhale and exhale. It hurts to see him bury his hands beneath his knees because he's trying not to reach for me.

‘I'll go to the party,' he says. ‘But I can come and see you immediately after, right?'

‘Yes. Yes. You absolutely can. If I'm going to be your girlfriend—'

‘Wait,' he interjects, grinning from ear-to-ear. ‘You're going to be my girlfriend?'

‘Yes. If you can promise me you won't hold back just because I can't do a thing.'

‘I promise,' he says, and his pinkie, as light as a feather, draws a heart on the side of my hand.