Parts Unknown (5 page)

We turned left on Pond Street, then walked up Heath Road to Keats Grove.

“
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:/Its loveliness increases; it will never/Pass into nothingness
,” Josh quoted as we meandered our way toward the entrance of the beautiful white house. Then he leaned his forehead against mine and kissed me gently, lips brushing lightly. It was impossible. Flowers rioted in jewel colors across the ground. We stopped by a tree and kissed again, quietly, slowly, exploring. “Do you, like, have this bunch of poetry memorized? Or do you just tell that one verse to all the girls?” I asked eventually. Josh grinned enigmatically.

Afterwards, I couldn’t remember much of that visit. I was only aware of Josh next to me, holding my hand, not letting go. Peeking at period rooms and murmuring dutifully about the pretty garden, and then walking out, my legs like rubber, leaning against him. If he let go of me, I might collapse. Just faint, right there. Die of happiness, probably.

No one had ever looked at me like that before.

Up Downshire Hill, to Heath Road, and then into Hampstead Heath, a broad swath of beauty—lawns, forests, and ponds, all spread out ahead of us, blocking any view of buildings or civilization. “Let’s sit for a while,” Josh murmured intensely. “I need to kiss you some more.”

I saw a great, spreading tree and we climbed beneath it, alone together under its soaring branches. He grasped my face in his hands, caressed my hair, and pulled me close. Time stopped. Only our mouths existed, and then our hands, wanting to keep touching each other.
This
, I thought,
this is all there is. All there is meant to be
. I was on my back somehow, fallen twigs and leaves digging into me, looking up into the wild branches and then the dazzling sun slicing through the leaves, haloing Josh’s head with gold. I pulled his face down to mine and kissed him some more; then he dropped, his body weight pressing against me, grounding me against the earth.

After a while, we ate some bread and cheese, kissing all the while, cheese bits in my mouth mingling oddly with his deep kisses so that I laughed, eventually, and pushed him away. Foam spewed out of the Pepsi can when I opened it, drenching my arm, and he dramatically licked off the carbonation, in an exaggerated respectful gesture. “Miss Lewis,” he declaimed, “may I present your arm, now cleansed, for your inspection.” We laughed a lot, and stared soulfully into each other’s eyes, like in the movies. I never imagined I’d do such things. My small self, just struggling to find my place in the world, and now here it was: open for me, so easy all of a sudden, a doorway appearing where none was before. And all that mattered was this moment.

~ ~ ~

At last, mid-afternoon, we started walking again. Hours, under one tree—it felt like just minutes. Time, stopped. Dreamlike, we crossed the Heath, past Highgate Ponds, and reentered civilization at Swain’s Lane. “How appropriate,” I smirked. “My swain.” He swooped me up in his arms in a chivalrous gesture, then mock-staggered under my weight. “It’s a good thing you’re so tiny,” he choked.

Inside Highgate Cemetery’s gloomy stone gates, moss was everywhere, overtaking the stones, curtains of it dripping from the trees. Mist swirled through the branches, swaying the hanging strands. Gray gravestones tilted everywhere; I shivered. “It feels like I’m walking over my own grave,” I whispered. “Usually I love cemeteries, but this is eerie. I feel so sad.”

“It’s foreshadowing, baby,” Josh said. “You want to think that all that matters is right now. That we’ll be this happy all the time.”

I trailed my fingers across a tombstone. “What’s this
we
? It’s crazy; this sort of thing doesn’t usually happen to me. I mean, I mostly keep to myself. I don’t even date much.”

We pulled ourselves up to perch on the edge of a large mausoleum, guarded by a large bronze dog. Damp moss stained my jeans; the stone was icy. I shivered convulsively. “What’s happening?”

Josh tilted his head back and looked at the sky. “I don’t know. I’m no, whatever, Don Juan. Or romantic at all, really. I work hard. And I try to be . . . upstanding. Someone my family can be proud of. Coming here for a year—it’s the most daring thing I’ve ever done. And now it’s the end, and in a few weeks I’m going back to, I guess you’d call it, my real life. And right now, as I’m leaving, I meet you. Like, the person I’ve always dreamed of, but didn’t know I was dreaming of, you know? I didn’t know you’d be real.”

I bit my lip. “I’ve never told anyone half the things I’ve told you. About my art. About me. Like I can be completely open with you, about everything.”
Except Uncle Paulie
, I thought. “I’ve never had that before,” I continued. “I didn’t think it would be real, either. That I could have this.”

“I’ve only known you two days,” said Josh. “But I want to be with you, okay? I want to be with you, every single minute. We only have three weeks. Three weeks, minus two days. So we’ll make every second count, right?”

I nodded mutely.

Alleys of gray stone graves ahead of us and behind us; half-buried headstones. Faded inscriptions, impossible to make out.

We sat for a while, swinging our feet, talking about books, and poetry, and art. Where to find meaning, in life. In the world. Creativity, where it came from. How to find it and keep it. Josh fished his camera out of his backpack—it was wrapped in a bright, multicolored hand towel. He adjusted lenses and pointed the camera at me as we spoke, click. Click. Click. Capturing me moving, sitting, talking.

The whole time, I thought,
Love
. Can that exist—love, at first sight? Fate. Soulmates. The one person you are meant to meet, in life—that you are meant to be with. And how could Josh not be that person?

Suddenly Josh jerked bolt upright. “Oh shit!” he exclaimed. “I’ve gotta go, it’s 4:30. How am I ever going to make it to the restaurant by 5?”

He grabbed my hand. “We’ll have to run. Come with me, okay? As far as the restaurant. But which Tube stop is the closest?” He yanked a torn, wrinkled London Underground map from his back pocket. “Archway . . . Archway, or Highgate. Let’s go to Highgate. Crappy-ass Northern Line, the train better be on time for once.”

We ran fast, laughing and gasping, the mile to Highgate station. My side aching, hurting; eventually I had to stop, wheezing, hands on my knees. “I’m totally out of shape. I’m holding you back—go on!”

Josh stood, torn, then hugged me tight. “I’m going, okay? But meet me at the restaurant, at eleven o’clock. I want to be with you tonight.”

If he’d told me to jump off the Tower of London, I would have done it in that instant. “Of course!” I promised and watched him run off. It occurred to me, after he’d disappeared into the distance, that I had no idea where Chicago Pizza was located, much less how to get there.

~ ~ ~

Much less what to do once Josh and I were together, alone, in a room, which I sensed was going to happen later. I was almost completely inexperienced.

That spring, I’d gone to fraternity parties every Saturday night with Kelly, my suite-mate. It was amazing, how a girl who had ignored me despite our shared bedroom door for the entire year suddenly started speaking to me once I got that short perky haircut and started wearing similarly short, slinky dresses from Ross Dress for Less. We were a study in contrasts—busty, blonde, gregarious Kelly, and me. At five feet tall, I was a size zero. You could almost see through me, or step on me. I could slither through campus unnoticed, my round green eyes darting around like a deer caught in headlights, as I slid my small pale self into the spaces no one else thought to walk in. I was there but not there, even to myself.

The last couple months of sophomore year, Kelly’s friends had tired of the Saturday parties. These girls—clones of Kelly, with thick lustrous hair, clothes straight from the J. Crew catalog, and smiles as wide and insincere as the zirconia-modeling ladies on the Home Shopping Network—all had boyfriends at this point. Kelly didn’t, and she spent her Saturday evenings hoping to find love in the most unlikely of places. This arrangement suited both of us perfectly. Kelly and I would walk together to those parties; already tall, she would teeter along on extra-high heels so my eyes ended up about level with her boobs. We’d part ways almost immediately upon arrival.

Those Saturdays were the one night of the week I forced myself let myself go. It was practice for London, where I’d do better—I’d have to do better—than I’d managed at Dawson. It was ridiculous, me going to frat parties. But I went because I was certain I’d never see any of those boys again. I was safe, because they’d never recognize me in my daytime attire: paint-stained overalls. They’d never hear me: I never spoke in class. And I could drink a third of a cup of vodka in Kelly’s room, washing it down with a can of Coke in my other hand, and in ten minutes flat it didn’t matter who Vivian was during the day.

The taste of vodka still burning my throat, I’d dance, wildly, through the evening. And, not caring who looked at me, I felt suddenly powerful. None of the boys had faces really—but I loved feeling my body against theirs as we swung around. Dancing. Exchanging names and phone numbers sometimes. It was like the high I sometimes felt when painting—total exhilaration and abandonment. But I had to be careful: like painting, I was terrified that if I took that feeling too far, I would lose myself completely.

So at one a.m. I’d blink owlishly, look at my watch, and I was done. Finished with my debauchery for the week. Like Clark Kent, I’d slip away, return to being the same old Vivian Lewis again, till the next Saturday night arrived.

In London
, I thought,
it will be Saturday nights all the time. Once I cross that ocean—I will be truly free
.

On a Saturday in late April, the school year almost done, London beckoning ever closer, I let things go too far. I had gelled my hair in what I hoped were fetching elfin wisps. I nonchalantly poked my head through the suite door and hollered, “Let’s go!”

The moon was achingly bright; the ground tilted appealingly, its tilt assisted by too many gulps of gin, too fast. Inside Kappa Pi fraternity it was the usual bedlam: guys in football jackets everywhere; the pervasive odor of Rolling Rock beer. A stereo was blasting “Brick House” just like always. Tables were jammed with discarded plastic cups, some tipped over, spilling beer in puddles on the floor. I saw a boy in the corner I’d danced with several parties ago, chatting up an overly mascara’ed brunette.  I looked straight at him. He stared back, whispered in the girl’s ear, walked over. Took my arm. “What
happened
to you? I looked everywhere for you,” he said earnestly. “Tell me your name, so if I lose you again I’ll know where to find you.” That was about the sweetest thing a guy had ever said to me, and I blinked my eyes at him as coquettishly as I could.

This gentleman’s name was Todd, and last I’d seen him three weeks ago, we’d danced sloppily, each holding a sloshing beer cup in one hand while grasping the other’s waist with the other. Then he’d pulled me into a corner and we’d kissed for a long time. Being as the sum total of my sexual experience, up to that point, had been an awkward evening watching
The Nutty Professor
  with Frank Courtland in twelfth grade, followed by McDonald’s milkshakes and one very wet kiss, this guy’s hard-on was a revelation. It felt nice, me pressed up against him like that, my dress shimmying with a witchy polyester mind of its own. Todd didn’t slobber like Frank had, and he had a lot of tricks with his tongue, sliding it over my teeth, and under my lips, and then into my ear, where he whispered some things about his room, upstairs.

I’d wanted more beer first, and the lights were hurting my eyes—so much movement, so bright, so thrilling. I’d kissed Todd some more, being a good student and repeating his same clever tongue moves, then stumbled upstairs to use the bathroom. My stomach felt unsettled, and I thought unsteadily that maybe I should take just a little break before returning to Todd and exploring what was in his room.

Fortunately, the Holland House common room was near the bathroom, and it was empty at this hour of the night. It featured several comfy, ragged sofas and scarred bookcases full of former seniors’ discarded books, an intriguing mishmash of game theory and anatomy textbooks, Sue Grafton and Calvin and Hobbes. I lay down on a sofa—just for a minute—and closed my eyes—just for a minute.

Next thing I knew, it was daylight, and I had a crashing headache. If I moved, I was sure I would throw up, so I just lay there, as still as anything, and clutched my stomach protectively. Todd, of course, was long gone.

Tonight, neglecting to inform him of the details of my previous disappearance, I simply stuck out my hand. “Hi, I’m Vivian.” He nodded, and his hand grasped my waist possessively. We danced for about ten minutes. The dancing was just courtesy. When he asked me to come back to his room, I didn’t say no, and I didn’t hesitate. I was twenty; it was more than time. I’d had fantasies for years about my first time. True love. Being swept off my feet. Whispering sweet nothings in a room decorated like some sort of demented valentine, with rose petals everywhere and pink satin sheets.

But a person could only wait so long for that Harlequin scenario to happen.

Todd’s room smelled like unwashed pants; the walls were papered with pennants and framed baseball jerseys. We clearly had nothing in common. He was amazingly quick. One minute we were kissing, everything thankfully blurry due to the quantities of beer consumed earlier. The next minute my skirt had disappeared. And then I was lying flat on my back on the bed with an unfamiliar stabbing, filling sensation going on. It didn’t hurt much, really. So this was what sex was like, this was all of it?  Just this awkward shifting about, and squelching noises? Afterward was the worst part, when I got up and used the bathroom. Staring at the blood and goop in the bowl. Feeling nauseous.

What had I done?

But now here I was, in London, getting my second chance at my first time.

~ ~ ~

After consulting several maps and the phone book, and then lying prone on my bunk in the hostel for a while, reliving moment by moment the events of the day, I was ready. I slipped out of the dormitory, carrying a bag of essentials—toothbrush, breath mints, fresh underwear. The hostel locked down at midnight. If I stayed out past then with Josh, I’d have to go home with him. How crazy was that, me planning a night with someone I’d known for less than two days. Somehow, it felt completely right.