You are everywhere, whether I like it or not

May

I spin your class ring around my finger.

Getting you off my mind is something           I

Am having trouble with, when I see you

Every time I glance at my hands.

June

Summer walks with you,

Swing sets and flip flops and sunsets

And coconut chapstick, and I                     can’t

Imagine a more perfect moment.

July

Kaitlyn catches us kissing.

My best friend of three years

calls me a bad Mormon.

And she’s probably right.

August

“I need space,” I                                    say.

You hesitate and then kiss me.

And there is definitely                             no

space.

September

After I send the text,

I break down sobbing.

But you can’t persuade me out of

Breaking up with you,

When you’re not here.

 October

I cannot go more than a week

Without giving in and texting you.

How do you still hold such

power over me?

 November

If I thought seeing you

would ease some of the loneliness,

I was wrong.

I turn                                                   to

leave,

And you grab my arm,

Pull me back and kiss me.

And just like that,

We’re back together.

December

You keep telling me how

Mormons are a cult.

And that I’ve been brainwashed

By the people I trust most.

But I trust                                           you

too?

 January

The loose thread on my mother’s comforter

Is far more interesting than her disappointed mouth

And critical, searching eyes.

Especially after I just told her

I’m giving up on church.

The Monday After

January 10, 2011

I dig my nails into my palms and check our front window again. Still no van.

By refusing to go to seminary and my parents refusing to let me make the five minute walk to school, I’ve doomed myself to waiting for Dad to finish the seminary carpool before coming back to drive me to school. I am going to be so late.

I should’ve just walked. Or taken you up on your offer for a ride. But both those options would’ve made me argue more with my parents and I’ve already argued more with them in the past twenty-four hours than I think I have my entire life. It isn’t natural to us, which makes it all the more stressful for both parties.

It’s 8:05 when I see the white mini-van pulling into our circle. I gather my things and meet him on the driveway.

“Hey sweetie.”

“Hi.”

It’s silent except for the classical station he has turned on, as we pull out of the neighborhood, turn right at the stop sign, and get stuck behind a long line of cars. Ugh.

He must’ve missed my puffy eyes because he asks, “How was your morning?”

I clench my phone a little tighter, noticing I have a text from you.

“Fine.”

                Do you want me to come?

We inch forward, crossing the intersection to wait in another line of cars.

“Jam missed you this morning.”

I bite my lip hard. I still get all teary. I type a response to you.

                Yes.

When I don’t respond, Dad looks over. “Oh.” He’s seen the tears. “Jess, I—”

“Here is fine.” I cut him off, throwing the door open. We’re close enough to the back gate and I couldn’t have stayed in the car a moment longer.

In an uncharacteristically public moment, Dad rolls down the window and calls after me, “Be nice to everyone…”

He’s waiting for me to finish it. I always do. My hesitation is brief before I spin around.

“Learn something new.”

He smiles a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and mouths, “Love you.”

I’m not sure what sort of twisted, watery expression he gets from me before I’m forced to let him see the tears streaming down my face or turn around and keep walking.

Of course Mrs. Lloyd has picked today of all days to be late. As fallen apart as I am right now, I don’t need to add “late to English” to the list. I just want to drop my stuff and go.

I hesitate around the corner. I also don’t need to add “seen sobbing by the entire sophomore class” to the list. I’m trying to get a steady breath when Tina turns the corner. I throw my hands over my face but she doesn’t say anything. She just wraps her arms around me.

“Not a good morning?”

Through my tears comes some strangled form of laughter and she releases me.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. She gives me a few moments more to see if I’ll be able to compose myself enough to talk to her. I’m not. The late bell rings.

“I have to go to class.. but I’ll see you at lunch.”

I nod and she leaves. I glance up to see Mrs. Lloyd scurrying down the hallway, case of black licorice in hand. I wait for most of the students to get in and then keep my head down as I cross the hallway, enter the classroom, reach over a line of desks to throw my swim bag onto my chair, and then turn around and make a beeline for the gym, praying that no one else sees me.

Except you.

You’re already in our spot when I get there. You stand up and I run the rest of the way and throw myself into your arms and just sob. I’m not sure I’ve ever cried like this in front of anyone, except maybe my sisters. I’m heaving and gasping and soaking the front of your shirt with my tears.

You hold me, one hand firm on the small of my back, the other smoothing my hair because you know that relaxes me. It takes a while for the tears to stop, but eventually they do.

You guide me to our planter box, sitting beside me and keeping an arm wrapped around me. I lean into you.

“I’m sorry your morning sucked.”

“It’s getting better now.” And I mean it. You have this ridiculous ability to calm me down, which is a feat in itself. I can get pretty wound up.

We sit for few more minutes, a few stolen kisses, and then I sigh and tell you I have to go to English at some point. You walk me to the edge of the hallway and give me one last hug, all warmth and cologne and comfort. I don’t want to let go, but I do. Putting on my brave face, I pull open the classroom door.

Love is being uncomfortable so you can be happy

January 15, 2011

“Can I see your board?” I ask quietly, leaning into you, glancing up to see your face.

“My room is really messy...” you trail off, your hand absentmindedly trailing up and down my arm, giving me goose bumps. I wonder at the reluctance in your voice.

“So?”

I see that crooked half smile play across your lips, like you’re toying with the idea, considering. I make up your mind with a kiss, and you lead me by the hand up to your “messy” room.

The carpet feels smooth against my bare feet and as I slip my jacket off, I can’t remember ever feeling more beautiful, more alive, more loved.

Your room really isn’t that bad, just a couple piles of clothes scattered around, the covers on your bed still mussed like you just got up. The blinds in front of the window are pulled back, allowing the morning sun to shine in brightly.

We stand, your arm around me, gazing at the board for a few minutes, absorbed in our memories, our stupid jokes and first date, my first letter…

When all the papers and memories have been remembered with appropriate nostalgia, I turn towards you, wrapping my arms around you, burying my head into your chest, taking in your smell, like maybe getting enough of you now will keep me from missing you later.

You kiss the top of my head, reach down to take my hand and hold it close to your heart. I smile into your chest.

I reach up on my tip-toes to steal a quick kiss, and then another, and another, small little kisses, as I gently push you towards your bed. Your little boy brain takes a second to put two and two together, but then you give in to my pushing, pausing just a minute to move the guitar leaning up against your bed, then pulling me onto your lap, kissing me deeper, holding me closer.

You pull away a few minutes later, pushing some hair behind my ear, your hand cupping my chin, guiding my eyes to meet yours.  I grin, and you look confused for a second, like you’ve seen that grin somewhere before and you’re trying to place it. And I use your moment of confusion, tackling you back onto the bed, covering you in kisses.

You run your hand down the length of my arms, then slide them around my waist, pulling me closer to you, and I break the kiss to snuggle into your chest. I curl my leg around yours, pulling myself closer still.

And this is how we stay for a few minutes, nothing but the sound of us breathing, together, just together.

You pull away again, this time to get in a better position to kiss me, but then your lips don’t go to my lips like I expect them to. They travel down my cheek, onto my neck, where you focus for a few minutes, kissing down and then across, lips brushing across my collar bone.

I feel something bubbling inside me, begging to burst out, and I know that if I don’t stop you now, I’ll lose any self-control I have left to resist you. I raise a hand to push your shoulder, to push you away.

“Ian, I have to get to school.”

You groan, burying your head in my neck. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

You don’t react to this except to bring your lips back to mine. It catches me off guard, and I kiss you back for a second before pushing you off again.

“Hey..” I kinda chuckle. “School..”

“Nooo,” you say, and then throw an arm over me and keep me pinned to the bed.

I allow a couple more minutes of this before trying again. I know that if we don’t leave now, I’ll be late for AP Chem and that’s not something I can afford.

“Ian,” I murmur between kisses. “We really should go.”

“No.”

The tone of your voice completely empties the moment of any humor. I shrink back from you, but there’s not much room to do that when I’m lying on the bed. You try to kiss me again and I push your shoulder away. You try harder.

“Ian!” I shove you as hard as I can and you seems to snap out of whatever single track your stupid boy brain was on.

You sit up and I push the rest of my way off the bed.

“We should go,” I say again.

“If that’s what you want.” You grumble as you stands and grab your keys.

“I’m sorry..”

“It’s just.. I thought you refusing to go to church meant that we could.. that we would..”

“What?” When did that become a thing?

You turn to me then, taking one of my hands and rubbing your thumb over the back of it. Your brown eyes seem a lot darker, but they are still yours.

“Don’t you love me?” You ask, your voice very quiet.

“Of course.” It’s an automatic response. “Do you even have to ask?”

“I just want to show you how much I love you.”

I pause, absorbing your words. I hadn’t thought of it that way. If I love you, I should show it. I should be willing to go past my abandoned Mormon standards. Because that’s what you want, and love means putting your needs in front of mine, right?

I rise onto my tiptoes and give you a brief kiss.

“I’m sorry.”

You pause. Then: “It’s okay. Next time?”

My stomach drops and it isn’t a happy feeling that takes its place. I don’t know why I feel so horrible about this, so uncomfortable with something you obviously want.

I can’t force the words, so I just smile at you and then you squeeze my hand and drive me to school.

When things start to get back to normal

January 12, 2011

I take the stairs two at a time, the carpet scratching against my bare feet.
        Bits of our conversation from last night bump around in my head.
        Leaping onto the landing, it’s two steps into my bathroom where I seize a hair tie and my chapstick.
        You said, "I just can't wait until you return my favors."
        Where are my navy flip-flops? Downstairs?
        I told you I just wasn't comfortable with that.
        I swear I’ve run these stairs six times this morning.

Sleeping through seminary is nice, except for when I sleep until ten minutes before school starts too. Cursing under my breath is totally a thing this morning. What my parents would do if they knew I cussed..

Down the stairs and rounding the corner into the kitchen, there’s three minutes until school starts. I yank open the closet door, searching for my backpack. Shit. Shit. Shit.

BONK

What the heck?

I spin around and there’s Larissa, or at least the back of her head as she bounds across the kitchen and down the other hallway, maniacally waving around an empty cardboard paper towel roll above her head.

A bonker-wonker.

I don’t have time for this. But am I really gonna let her run away? But school.. But bonker-wonker..

I drop my backpack and sprint after her. She shrieks as she sees me coming after her and a game of “which way around the kitchen is she going” ensues.

“Give it!” I say.

“Neverrrrr!”

She uses her height to her advantage and gives me several firm bonks on the head. I fake one way and when she lowers the bonker-wonker, I grab hold. We tug-of-war over it for a few moments, but cardboard is only so strong and pretty soon..

RIIIIIPPP.

It tears apart. We look at each other for a second. I have the bigger half. I raise it threateningly.

I’m expecting her to run but she just takes her teeny half of the bonker-wonker and taps in on my head. Repeatedly. Of course that means she has to be closer, so I just whack her with my half of the bonker-wonker. More repeatedly.

She breaks first, collapsing onto the floor in a fit of laughter and relinquishing her weapon. I snatch it up and then we’re just a pile of giggles. I can’t remember the last time I laughed this hard. Probably with you, but not for a while now. Not for a while.

Dad comes through the garage door.

“What are you guys doing? I’ve been waiting on the driveway for five minutes now.”

Woops. With a last grin at Larissa, I grab my backpack and slip on the closest pair of flip-flops, and follow Dad out the door.

You broke me into pieces so tiny I wasn't sure I existed

January 26, 2011

We are in your car, your silver cube car, in the backseat. We’ve already been kissing for a good hour.

Your hands have taken a half hour to creep up my sides, massage my chest. You are still so shy about it.

It’s gotten pretty heated, you’ve just taken off your shirt, both our cheeks are flushed. You’re more into it than I am. You always are.

Then, a low growling comes from the back of your throat, your kissing becoming more desperate, more needy, as if you’ll die if you don’t get enough now.

The change frightens me. I try to push you away with confused hands, but you don’t feel my push, like always. I am so weak compared to you.

 Your hand drops from my waist, runs down my leg, and then onto yours as you works off your belt, then your jean button and zipper.

My eyes are closed. But I hear the zipper and my eyes shoot open in surprise, my hands moving to push you away more firmly. You have to have felt my push this time, but you just pull me even closer, your hand running back across my leg, sliding up my arm to take my hand, leading my hand down, down-

 I freeze. You pull harder. I know I will have bruises tomorrow in the shape of fingerprints on my wrist.

You pull harder then, as hard as you can, placing your hand over mine, molding my hand to your penis. I’m so shocked, I can’t even...

You jerk my hand upward and downward, helping me to pleasure yourself, and once you think I’ve got the hang of it or whatever, you let go of my hand.

I immediately withdraw my hand, again attempting to push away from you, but you make that sound again, low in your throat and seize my hand and put it back.

I’m so panicked. What is this wetness on my cheeks? I can’t focus on anything. It’s all spinning and out of focus.

The second you let go, I do too, and after this time, you just keep your hand on mine, up, down, up, down, up down, up down.

You’re kissing me so hard, I wouldn’t be surprised if my lips bruise too.

When you break the kiss to catch a breath, I shove in a desperate plea.

“Ian, no. Please, please, no.”

If I expect a gentle reaction, this is not it. You let out a giant sigh, shoving me away from you.

“Ian??” Oh no. Oh no. What have I done?? I’m losing him.

I hear the zipper go back up, the button buttoned. You’re fumbling with your belt. Your eyes are black, black, black.

“Here, let me.” I move myself closer, reaching for the belt. When I can’t figure it out in the next 15 seconds you sigh even louder, pushing me so hard that I hit the opposite car door and I’m dizzy for a second.

“Ian??” I’ve lost him. I’m such a retard. What’s wrong with me??

You don’t reply, just slam the side door, walk around and climb into the driver seat.

“Get up here.” Your voice is so rough.

I tenderly climb out, close the side door, wince at my already red wrist. I slide into the seat next to you.

Silence. All the way to the school. Complete silence. It’s so loud. I can’t even hear myself think. You don’t even turn on your music, which is weird for you.

When we get to the school, you stop the car and unlocks the doors.

Your eyes are still dark, fury burning beneath. I reach out to turn your face to mine. My hand is shaking.

“Go.” I’m shocked by the tone of your voice. Go?

And then I see your hands clenched into fists and your fists are shaking. And the wild darkness in your eyes suddenly seems more alive, entering my twisted reality, swirling around, around, and I’m very afraid and I can’t get out of there fast enough.

I end up tripping over m y bags, landing in a heap outside your door. You speed off without another word, leaving me alone, drowning in the setting sunlight, all the pinks and purples too perfect to even be real and I’m too shocked to even cry.



January 27, 2011

Blissfully blank, and it feels good.

Cuz I’m in love, and just happy.

The battle scars and broken heart

Are nothing to be bothered with of course

Nor the screaming, the pounding inside my head

The words ripping apart my subconscious.

If I had a choice, right now I’d be dead.

I have to combine posts because I thought we had longer to tell this story

Mascara gives me away

February 3, 2011
It’s the middle of AP Chem and Tina nudges me under the desk.

“You’re wearing mascara today. What gives?”

I sigh, mulling over my words.

“A couple days ago, Ian and I-”

“Ladies! Back to work please.” Stinkin chem teacher.

Tina pushes a piece of paper across the desk, “So?” Written at the top.

I don’t even know why I’m still so bothered by what happened with you. It was really no big deal. I sketch the words across the paper nonchalantly, briefly describing what happened in the cube car and push the paper back.

I see her eyes narrow as she scans the few meager sentences I managed to choke out about the incident. We get chastened again for not paying attention, and so it’s several minutes before she picks the paper back up, furiously scribbling her response. I roll my eyes inwardly. She’s mad, and now her writing is going to be impossible to read. Jeez.

“He did what?? I’m gonna find him and rip his man parts out so he never has the chance to ever.. I mean really?? You can’t just treat my best friend like that! Who does he think he is? That’s not cool. Not cool at all.”

There’s a tug in my gut that I ignore. Tina overreacts about so many things.

I write a careful reply. “It’s not a big deal. It sounds worse than it was. Nothing really bad happened. Calm down. It’s fine.”

She reads my response and rolls her eyes. She leans over to whisper, “If you say so. But I swear, if this happens again, I’m gonna hurt him.”

I laugh a bit too loud, which earns us another sharp glance from our teacher. I turn back to my work but I can feel Tina studying me from across the desk, analyzing and over-analyzing every stray thought stumbling across my face that only she can see.

We haven't been the same

February 7, 2011

Red. Fiery passion.

Hard breathing. Hands running.

Lips moving, but not a word spoken.

Scarlet. Flaming cheeks.

Arms pinning. Hands pressing.

Slow resistance, but never enough.

Crimson. Fierce images.

Trapped. In my mind,

My body, my past. 

When praying for a good day actually works

February 16, 2011
It’s a rare sunny day in Salinas. My morning wasn’t full of arguments with my parents. You were in a good mood when I met you for lunch. I’m holding my breath and praying— weird for me since I haven’t been to church in months—that the rest of the day will stay this good. I need a good day.

Swim practice after school. Tina and I share a lane, with Tim and Jacob next to us. We goof off and somehow manage to finish good portion of the workout. We’re on our third to last set of the day: 3x50’s on 50, when Tim grins over at us.

“Race you.” He says.

Tina snorts. “Why would we do that?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Winners get a day off from covering the pool?”

Ooh. That’s a solid offer. Covering the pool is a dreaded task everyone tries to get out of. It involves dragging giant tarps across the entire (Olympic size) pool so that heat doesn’t escape and cost the school more money to heat the pool bla bla whatever. It sucks butt.

Coach divided us up into shifts, so that every swimmer doesn’t have to help every day. The easiest way to split it was boys and girls. Today is the girls’ day, but I’m sure that if Tim and Jacob win, they’ll make us take their place tomorrow, when it’s the boys’ day to cover.

Tina and I exchange looks. Jacob isn’t a strong swimmer but Tina isn’t a sprinter like Tim and me. It would be a close race.

“Fine.” I say.

We discuss the rules: no false starting and we decide to forgo diving too. First team to finish wins. Fastest swimmer anchors the relay, so Tim and I watch as Tina and Jacob struggle across the pool as fast as they can. Distance swimmers. Pfft.

I focus in on Tina who is just clearing the flags. I watch her stroke length. Calculate when she’ll touch the wall. Wait for it…

I streamline off the wall. One, two, three butterfly kicks. Then I burst to the surface and start stroking through the water.

I reach the wall, flip-turn—ducking my head, flicking my legs over, pushing off hard—and start my second lap. I know it’ll slow me down, but I can’t help a glance at Tim.

Shoot. He’s on my tail. I will not lose to him. Not a chance. I put on an extra surge of speed. My arms whip around. My lungs burn. I turn my head to breathe.

I swallow a bug.

I come up sputtering and spitting and coughing, hands clawing at my tongue. It tastes like dust and fart, not to mention the gritty and uneven texture. Ew ew ew ew ew.

“You okay?” Tina calls from the wall.

 “What happened?” This time it’s Tim who asks, and I can just hear the smugness in his voice. I call him some names in my head while clearing out the remaining bug carcass.

“Nothing happened!”

I start stroking into the wall.

“Jess. Come on, what—”

“I SWALLOWED A BUG OKAY.”

They don’t even try to suppress their laughter and I reach the wall to see Tim mimicking my spaz attack in the water. I reach across the lane line and snap his goggles.

“You okay now?” Jacob says.

“I’m fantastic.”

“You guys don’t have to stay and cover for us tomorrow.” Tim says, still grinning, all arrogance and raised eyebrows, but I do notice that he’s moved out of my reach.

I stick my tongue out at him. “I don’t want your pity.”

Tina sighs, wistful. “I want his pity..”

She laughs, and Jacob and Tim join in, and even with how crazy things have been, I manage to laugh too.

I wouldn't remember for another year and a half

February 28, 2011

AP Psych is my last class of the day, thank goodness. I wring my hang out once before closing up my notebook—today we were talking all about repressed memories, so fun—and grab my bag. I join the crowd of people getting herded out of the building.

Tina has the car on Thursdays, so she gives me a ride home. I’m waiting by the lockers when I see her turn the corner, all four foot ten and one hundred pounds of her. Her converse smack the pavement and I grin at the pen lining the edges, the result of a bored Jessica in AP stats class a few weeks ago.

“Hey Shmoo.”

She’s taken to calling me by my family nickname lately. I stick my tongue out at her. “It’s still weird.”

She shrugs and we fall into step together, chatting about swim until we reach her beat up Camry, all peeling paint and sticking doors. We’ve affectionately christened him “Caesar” because of our trip—the first night she had her license—to Little Caeser’s where the door wouldn’t open and I had to climb in through the window.

We’ve just reached the top of the hill when she glances at me. Then—

“Has Ian been behaving himself?”

I blink. “Um.”

Behaving? You treat me well, better than most boys probably—but then I don’t have any other boys to compare to. You’ve been my first for everything.

You can be moody, that much is true. But I haven’t told Tina anything about that. So why would she ask?

“Yeah. It’s been fine.”

She reaches to turn down the music. Shoot, she’s getting serious.

“Has he tried anything else sketchy?”

“Sketchy?”

We come to a stop sign, giving her the chance to look straight at me. I shy away from her gaze.

“A couple weeks ago..” She says, like I should know exactly what’s going on here.

“What?” I ask, when the silence falls between us for longer than I’m comfortable with.

She throws the car into park and twists her entire body towards me. “Are you shitting me right now?”

When I still don’t respond, she continues. “You didn’t give me a lot of detail. But he.. and the cube car..”

What is she talking about?

“You really don’t remember?”

My confusion must show. Tina bites her lip and her eyes scrunch up while her eyebrows press down. Another long moment of silence. I see a multitude of emotions pass over her face, only a few of which are recognizable. Then, finally:

“Never mind.”

She turns back to the street and places her hands back on the steering wheel, all deliberate motions. I watch as she falters a moment. Then she flicks on her turn signal and puts the car back in drive.

A good day with you

March 13, 2011
        I ditch during lunch to see you. I just walk out and the supervisor on duty smiles when he sees me.

“Ditching again huh?”

“Pretty much!”

He laughs because he thinks I’m kidding. I’m in line to be frikkin valedictorian. Valedictorian would never ditch. He assumes I have a pass and I walk right past him.

You’re waiting in your cube car. I climb in, letting out a happy sigh, “hi” and lean over. You meet me halfway for a brief kiss. “Well hello there gorgeous.” I feel my face light up with the smile that belongs to you and you alone.

We drive to our secret park and you produce a picnic of homemade pizza and strawberries and cream soda. It’s a warmish day in Salinas, high 60’s maybe, and so we sit outside, enjoying the sun and feasting on our pizza, pausing in between mouthfuls to steal a kiss, playing footsie under the table like twelve year olds.

Mom is desperate for information about you that no one is willing to give

March 24, 2011

“Lauren, please, I know she talks to you. Do you know what’s going on with her?”

I freeze outside the kitchen door where I was about to announce my arrival home from swim practice. There’s a brief silence. I hear my mom clicking her nails on the table.

“How can you say it’s not your place to tell? It is too!”

We’ve always joked that my mom will always be twelve at heart, but hearing her argue with Lauren like this just takes the joke to a whole new level.

“Lauren, I’m worried. I just want to know what’s going on.”

I hold my breath.

A week ago

My phone lights up and a second later my blaring trumpet ringtone echoes throughout our empty house. I turn my head, looking at the caller i.d.

Lauren.

She’s honestly been such a blessing throughout all of this. She’s the only one that has gotten the truth and nothing but the truth from me. She even volunteered to come home for this semester and help ease tensions at home. I couldn’t do that to her though.

Sighing, I silence my phone and send Lauren to voicemail. I know that I can talk to her. I know that she loves me.

But right now I’ve got nothing but bad news to tell her. Mom and I had another fight. I haven’t been to church in months because I don’t—I can’t—belong there. I’m steadily losing my straight A record. You and I, whether you’re in a good mood or not, have been doing things I promised Lauren I would stop.

So I just can’t pick up the phone right now. I just can’t.

There is a very long silence and then Mom comes through, her voice thick with tears.

“I don’t know what to think anymore, Lauren!”

I bite my lip and turn away from the door, thanking—well, God? That’s a funny thing for me to say with the way things have been going lately. Anyway, I’m beyond relieved that what little I’ve told Lauren, she can keep to herself. My phone itches in my pocket, and even though I don’t reach for it now, it’s nice to know I have options.

Proof

   April 3, 2011
        I raise onto my tiptoes for a kiss and you pull me to you with a hand on the small of my back. I wind my arms around your neck, fingers running through your hair.

You tug away. “Woah, don’t mess with the hair.”
        You run a hand gingerly over the top, smoothing a few strands. I stick my tongue out at you and you smile down to kiss me. A moment of absolute bliss unfolds around us as you try to kiss away my fears and arguments with my parents, my expectations of myself battling with their expectations for me.
        I find myself winding my fingers back into your hair, to draw myself closer. In a second, you've withdrawn again, removing a hand from my waist to untangle my fingers.

“Are you serious?” This has never been a big deal to you before.

“What, is it bad that I want my hair to stay nice?”
        It isn't bad. But I know you've gotta be joking with me, pulling my leg, a flirty kind of humor.

You should know better than to tell me not to do something. Grinning mischievously (you would call it devious) I again raise onto my tiptoes and ruffle your hair.

Before I can even react, you’ve taken me by the shoulders and shoved me away so harshly that I stumble back a couple steps. I blink, look up at you and see you fixing your hair. Your lips are twisted, eyes dark, brow furrowed. It's an expression I've come to be familiar with. 

I reach to brush your arm and you pull away.

“Ian.. I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

You huff. “No. You didn’t.” A silence unfolds between us.

For a second, you seem to soften, reach towards me. I flinch. You retract your hand.

 “I’ll just see you tomorrow, okay?”

        I don't reply, because you're already walking away.

Bishop Rosa

April 17, 2011
        I’m sitting on my bed, sobbing with my entire body, when there’s a knock on my door. I don’t want to deal with more barging in. I can’t handle that right now.

But he comes in anyway.

My dad comes to sit beside me on the bed, until he sees me wincing away, recoiling at his closeness. He settles for the foot of my bed, a calculated distance apart.

“Are you ok?”

What a dumb question. Do I look like I’m ok?

I stare at him with watery eyes, and he must be encouraged by something there—maybe a flicker of hope or love escaping through my wall and sending a flickering SOS signal to him through my eyes—because he continues.

“I’m sorry.”

I’m at loss for words. Is he seriously apologizing?

“I’m sorry Jessica. I’m sorry. I feel like I’m not a good enough father. I feel like I’ve failed you in some way.”

I remain stunned. What do you say to something like that anyway? Would he like me to tell him that it’s ok that he and mom have pushed me to the edge, further and further away, that it’s ok that he never listens or tries to understand me?

He’s not a failure though. Not in the least. If he’s a failure, then I should already be in hell. 

Although, with the reckless way I’ve been behaving recently, maybe hell is where you and I belong anyway.

“I just want you to be a good Bishop’s daughter; I need you to be a good example, and obey, and be true to the church. I don’t know how to help you be that.”

And there it is. He’s failed me, and I’ve failed him. So maybe we’re even?

 “I just wanted to tell you that.” He rises to leave.

And I don’t stop him. I still don’t want to talk to him. I need time for myself, time to process stuff and get things straight in my mind.

He closes the door on his way out, and I can’t help but thinking how maybe he’s just as lost and confused as I am.

Tina will take down anyone who hurts me, which is why I haven't told her about you

       April 18, 2011
       “Were you crying again?”

I blink, jerked out of deep inside my head, out of shrouded thoughts with veiled meaning, a scary neighborhood to wander by myself.

“Hm?” I meet Tina's eyes, blinking and widening my eyes a bit, trying to reduce the look of puffiness, although I don’t know why I try when I know she won’t be so easily fooled.

"Come on, you're wearing mascara. You only do that when you're trying to make your eyes look less puffy." 

I bite my lip and she scoots closer, reaching to smooth that one curl that insists on sticking out. 

"What happened this time?”

“Dad.”

“Dad??”

My eyes are all watery now, so I just nod.

“I thought he was the mediator. What did he say?”

I pause for a second to collect my thoughts and swallow the lump in my throat.

“He said that—”

“Oh my gosh, Jessica, are you crying?"

I don’t even have to look up. I'd know Raechel's voice anywhere, the nasally little whine that has followed me around since sixth grade. 

Tina puts a hand on my shoulder. “Shut up and get the hell out of our business!”

I can’t help cracking a smile at Raechel's expression, and at the beauty and tenacity of my best friend.

Talking things out is always successful

        April 27, 2011
        If I thought attempting to communicate with my parents was a good idea, the past thirty minutes have convinced me otherwise. I guess after months of tense silences and level conversations that meant nothing, I thought reaching out and sharing a little might help.

I wrong. Telling my parents about you and me and us was possibly the stupidest move I've made.

Why am I still sitting here?? I rise from my chair, taking quick steps towards the door.

“Wait, Jessica!” My dad puts an arm out to block my way.

I try as hard as I can to empty my eyes of any emotion, any pain or hurt. And slowly, turn to face him.

“Let’s talk this out.”

Yeah. Sure. Translation: stay here and let us talk at you until we feel better.

“I thought you liked that nice boy, Jacob. He's so kind.” My mom puts a hand on my arm, turning me to face them both. They're always pushing and tugging in some way.

I shrug. Study the tile. Push back my cuticles.

“I feel like you don’t tell my anything anymore. I feel like you can’t talk to me. We’re like strangers! I don’t even know you anymore! Talk to me, honey!!”

I raise my eyes to hers, some of my composure slipping as my mind registers her shock and hurt expression.

“How am I supposed to tell you stuff when this is your kind of reaction?” This, at least, is a fair point. Mom over-reacts while Dad under-reacts. Sometimes I wish I could mush them together to create a steady kind of parent. 

“What, I’m not allowed to have feelings too?? Do you know how hard this is for me?”

It's this comment that makes me snap. I’ve been so carefully composed, taken so many lectures and emotional beatings from them in complete silence.

How hard it is for them?? Do they know how hard it is for me?? I can't talk to my parents for fear of their reaction. I can't even be myself around them because they don't accept me! They force me to fit some stupid Mormon mold that I can't fit. But if I pretend to fit, pretend to be something I'm not, then they get off my back. Do they know how much that hurt?? My parents don't love me, they love what I pretend to be. And when I try talking to them to tell them exciting news that was really important to me, the real me, they freak out, they're disappointed and concerned. So can they blame me?

My face twists up with rage, fury, as these harsh thoughts run through my mind, flashing across my face, displayed for all to see. But my parents have never really wanted to see.

I try to control myself, but the words escape—“This is so hard for me too!! I want so badly to tell you everything, but you never listen!”

“Don’t you dare talk to us like that, we give you everything! All we ask in return is that you talk to us!!”

I blink back tears. And Mom barrels on. "We used to be so close, honey. What happened?"

"We were never close, Mom. I tell you the same amount and same types of things I used to tell you. You just never knew there was more to tell."

I push past her hurt expression and leave the room.

Brother Cramer and chocolate cupcakes have made all the difference

       May 15, 2011
        I’m in sweats and a giant t-shirt, blasting music in the kitchen as I scrub counters. I grab another Lysol wipe from the container and dance over to a new counter.

“All my life I’ve been good, but now, what the hell?” Avril Lavigne is my life right now. God, her music—this song in particular—just makes sense.

This is what Sunday mornings have become for me, when everyone else is at church. I pause for a second, sighing. I know I clean when I’m upset, and maybe that’s why the kitchen is spotless every Sunday. Or maybe it’s a guilt thing, or maybe both.

Knock, knock, knock!

I freeze mid-wipe. Who would be—

Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

But there it is again.

I toss the wipe into the trash, steal into the front room, and peek out the peep-hole.

Brother Cramer??

What is he doing here? I have to do a double-take, but there he is in his beaten and worn Sunday suit, chocolate cupcakes in hand, cheesey smile on his face.

My stomach grumbles; I realize that I’ve skipped breakfast. It’s so loud, when I’m trying to be so quiet and not let him know I’m here. But then, where else would I be, if I’m not at church?

My stomach grumbles again.

Ding-dooooooong!

Sighing at my stomach for giving me away, I dare a quick glance in the mirror on the wall. I frown at my messy bun, mascara still all runny from crying last night, in all my sweat and glory.

Ding-dong!!

He doesn’t give up, does he? I take a deep breath and open the door.

His smile brightens.

“Moca!” His “adoring” nickname for me. I’m still not convinced it doesn’t mean “booger”.

He steps around me to give me a hug, somehow weaseling his way in the front door.

“Where’ve you been?” Right to the point.

“Um..” I realize I don’t have a response, but he interrupts, saving me the humiliation of answering.

“Well, listen, if you’re not at church next Sunday, I’m gonna come to your house and drag you to church in your sweats!”

I’m not sure if I’ve misheard him, or what. He’s still smiling huge.

“Alright!” He shoves the plate full of cupcakes into my hand.

He’s abruptly serious. “Listen, Jess, we’ve really missed you.”

I take that with a grain of salt. Soo many people have told me that. But when I look up to meet his eyes, I’m surprised. A fierce determination blazes, making me more seriously afraid of his threat. But it’s what is behind the determination that catches me off guard. A softer fire burns beneath, a warm flicker of care, of hope: love.

“I promise things will look up.” He hugs me again, on his way out the door.

“Th-thank you.” I manage.

“Better eat those before your parents get home!”

And I do—I eat myself sick off those—sick with relief, with love, with all I’ve been missing.

I hang onto days like this

May 6, 2011
       I am having a truly awful day. After an increasingly common argument with you yesterday, I didn't sleep last night. Meaning I've been napping through classes and quizzes all day. Not to mention the group project that my entire group forgot about. I have to skip swim to finish it. I'm finishing a stupid group project by myself. I am so frazzled.

I'm working frantically in the library when you find me. You pull out the chair next to me and slip a single rose and a small note onto my table. After kissing my cheek, and whispering that you love me, you are off to tennis practice.

I finger the rose, allowing myself a moment to breathe. This rose will join the others I have in your "box" of keepsakes. It seems that I've been adding more and more roses these past weeks. After an argument day like yesterday, where any tiny thing can set you off, I can count on a good day like today, where you are gentle and adoring. 

Sighing at the rose, I set it down on the table and turn back to my project.

Roses are red

May 22, 2011
        I tug at the sleeve of my dress as I hurry up the aisle, at such a quick pace that no well-meaning member can attack me with a smothering of love. I half-trip up the stairs to the stand before settling on the organ bench and flipping the on-switch.

I repeat to myself how much I love Rose and her family. They have been amazing through all of this. Just a couple weeks ago, after some argument with my parents—I can’t even remember what it was now—I’d called, and her mom, Sister Campbell, had picked me up. No questions asked, no explanation needed. I'd slept over at their house and made cookies and watched movies and was just silly. I was just myself.

So, when Sister Campbell asked me to play organ for her this Sunday, so she could sit with her husband on his birthday, I couldn’t reasonably say no. Not to mention Brother Cramer’s threat hanging over my head.

Mom was stunned speechless when I walked downstairs this morning, all dressed to go to church. She’s been asking me to come for months, but in all the wrong ways. I told her my plan to leave right after sacrament meeting though and she was less surprised by that.

Now, zoning back in on the organ, I select a couple stops and adjust the volume. Prelude music is the easiest part because no one is listening yet. .

Three hymns, two speakers and half of the postlude later, it begins.

First it’s Brother Cramer, laughing and telling me he’s glad he didn’t have to drag me to church in my sweats. Then it’s Sister Batistich, my primary teacher and young women’s leader, sitting next to me on the bench to give me a hug and tell me how much she’s missed me. After that there’s Sister Caringal and Brother Speer and Sister Ibarra, all fulfilling their Mormon duty to welcome me back into the freaking fold.

I’m back at church after six months and they’re treating me like I died or something. It’s ridiculous. The last thing I wanted on my first Sunday back was this much attention. I’m ready to cut my postlude short and make a break for it when Rose approaches the organ.

I tense, just because so many people have said well-meaning offensive things already.

“Hey! This is one of my favorite skirts of yours, just so you know.”

I should’ve known. Rose has never treated me any differently and I adore her for it.

I laugh and thank her. She continues, “Isn’t that the skirt you made during that young women’s activity?”

“With the crazy sewing lady?”

She giggles back. “Yeah that’s the one!”

Rose keeps up an easy conversation with me and the next thing I know, I’m sitting in between her and the wall in Sunday School. She fends off more good-doers from making me even more self-conscious and just.. talks to me. Like I’m a regular human being. Like I haven’t been absent for so long. Like one of my best friends.

And she is, I realize. I guess nine years of steady friendship and sleep overs and doodling together during church will do that. I need more people like her fighting on my side.

I escape after Sunday School with an apologetic smile to Rose. She gives me a half smile and even as I walk out the church doors, I know that with Rose here, with her help, with her companionship, I can come back.

She's a redhead.. that's why the title of this post is funny..

Tina is graduating

  June 2, 2011

Graduation day. Class of 2011. Balloons and decorations are everywhere when I pull up to the school.

“So just call me after school, and you can come home for a bit before the ceremony.” Mom’s eyes look anxious as she tries to read my expression, tries to predict my lately unpredictable behavior.

“Well, actually, band kids are sticking around, getting pizza and stuff.” I'm careful to word my lie. Nowhere do I say I'm staying.

My mom’s eyes relax when she sees my easy smile. Deceived by my act, as she always has been.

“Ok, hun. Have fun.”

I force myself to unclench my fists, pick up my bag, open the door, get out of the car, start walking. Walk under the balloon arch, through the gates of hell, to my grave.

There's no way I'm staying at school.

I call you. You're always up for a ditch day. “Let’s just go somewhere.” You don't ask questions. You never do.

I spend the day watching the clock, knowing that I should be back to play with the band for graduation, knowing that someone will have to drug me, for me to go.

2:30.

“Shouldn’t you be going back?” In between kisses.

“I’m not going back.”

You stop. “Jess?”

“I can’ go back. I can’t watch that. I can’t celebrate my best friend in the world leaving me.”

“Jess… you can't just avoid it.”
        "I can certainly try."
        "Tina would never forgive you for missing her graduation."
        And there's the one argument that will make me go back. 

We're seconds away when your phone rings. Caller i.d. informs us Jessica’s mom is calling. We freeze.

You answer. Start lying. Start pulling out your smooth lines, your easy answers.

But I can't take it anymore.

“Mom. I’m almost at the school.”

“Jessica?? The band is worried sick!!”

“I’m sorry.” Lump in my throat.
“We’ll talk about this later.”

You drop me off, a gentle squeeze of my hand, and as I shut the door, the tears start pouring out. What am I supposed to do? I run- or at least the closest thing to a run while I'm sobbing- to the band, arranged up front. The sun shines, not a single cloud in the sky.

My band family is alarmed at my lateness, even more so at my tears, and they straight-up panic when I refused to explain. But families are amazing, and soon Mack Daddy has me smiling, there's water in my hand, and my trumpet layingon my seat, ready for play.

I enjoy my few hours, knowing there's a big lecture to come.

And come it does. It lasts quite a few nights self-exiled into my room, quite a few drastically silent and horrendously loud days.

But it's a turning point. I know I can't ignore this tightness in my chest, this awful feeling I get whenever I'm around you. It has to stop. You have to stop.