This Raging Light (11 page)

“Good, right?”

“Yeah, good.” I hand him back his phone. “Thanks.” Everything hurts as he goes toward the door.

He hugs me so tight on the way out. I try to press myself into him, and for a crazy second I think if I hold on tight enough, maybe I will actually become him, fade into him and none of this will matter. But in the end I am still me and he is still him, and our bodies come apart and his hand is on the doorknob, his backpack on one shoulder, the night on my face.

Then nothing.

Parker Delaney is the farthest
I've ever gone in the sex realm. Seems like forever ago now, back when I had Mom and Dad and I didn't know how breakable everything is. I still thought you get a family, some clothes, a best friend, a sometimes-annoying little sister, and you go about your day until you get old enough to see what the world is really about.

I used to spend afternoons at the park with Eden sometimes, when we still lived side by side, before Mrs. Albertson moved in. We would watch the boys play basketball—hoops, they said—and we would lie on the spinny merry-go-round, stare at the sky, talk a lot of smack.

Parker wasn't my boyfriend, but he was as close as I ever got, in that he was kind of regular about wanting to kiss me. It had been that way for a long time. One day I wound up behind the karate dojo right across from the park with Parker's hand up my shirt, down my pants. So many things happened at once. Thoughts about whether or not I liked him, about whether or not it mattered, his tongue too wet, too big, not giving me the chance to catch up to it. His hands, too. He must have had eight of them, sprouting everywhere at once.

He had this really soft hair. I wanted to run my fingers through it, to spy into him and see if anything was there, to talk to him some, but he was moving like he was going to catch fire if he didn't get as close to me as he could. It was like he had a bomb in his pants that was going to go off and explode the world if he didn't get what he wanted, if I didn't let him touch me. I had to pry myself away that last day, or I would have lost my virginity against a dirty wall, and I wouldn't let him move me to a second location when he said his parents weren't home and we should go there. He promised he wouldn't push me, but I knew better. The brakes don't seem to work so well once you get past a certain point.

Kind of intoxicating and sickening at the same time.

I still had all my clothes on, but by the end of it Parker had touched me everywhere and I couldn't even tell if I really liked it or not. After Dad went away and until Digby, I didn't want to touch anyone, anywhere, and it sure as hell seemed like no one wanted to touch me.

I thought Digby was safe.

So after Digby is gone, I take the
hottest shower in the universe while Wrenny sleeps in Mom's room, which means I can take my time, languish, feel the water in beadlets, think about that kiss, those kisses, brand every second into my consciousness. Remember what I said about forgetting things? That's real. You have to focus to keep things near.

Then I get into one of Dad's old T-shirts. It says
WHY ARE YOU WEARING THAT STUPID MAN SUIT?
That's a line from
Donnie Darko,
Dad's favorite movie.

Digby's hands were so soft, but something about the pressure of his fingers on my back sent me flying. I'm thinking how lips so close but barely touching made me feel romance-novel things. My thighs they quivered, my breath it came quick, a moan escaped. Like that. I crawled, for chrissakes, crawled onto his lap like a wanton creature.

I also didn't hurt. For a few minutes I was exactly where I was, and truth? I would not have taken a million billion dollars to get off that lap right then. But now the pain is worse than it was before. So much worse.

I want, I want, I want.

Digby all over me.

I wish I could talk to Eden.

I can't stay still, have to move. I am up and running for the yellow box, for the warped but clean canvas I found. I pull it open and get the brushes out, the paints. This color, that color, I am in a frenzy. I cut the paint with thinner and I go to town on this canvas. The paint is a living thing. Orange, red, yellow, and then blue and purple and green all up against each other. I don't have a picture in my head. I only have a feeling about what it could be.

When I'm done, it's a tornado of color. I am absolutely one hundred percent certain that it sucks by any real artistic standard.

But I know that the red, the orange, the yellow? That's me, burning. The blue, the green, the purple? That's Digby.

We are together in that painting, suspended.

I go to Eden the next day. I can't
get what Digby said out of my head. Are Eden and I fighting for real? I'm not sure, and I'm suddenly not okay with it if we are. I get to English early so I can sit next to her. I try playing footsies with her and find her unresponsive. I text her a love note during precalc, and she never responds. I even sit with her at lunch and have a one-sided conversation. That goes over so well, she calmly picks up her lunch and walks away while I'm midsentence.

She really is mad at me.

Digby comes over as usual.
There are no kisses. There is no touching. After he leaves, I find a red pepper, sliced into strips arranged symmetrically, on a plate in the kitchen.

“I'm going to be a rainbow for my birthday!”
It's the first thing Wren says as I walk in the door from work, carrying a couple of bags of birthday supplies in my hands.

She has on some faded leotard with big red, green, blue, and yellow stripes zipping across the front of it, and she is smiling so hard that I don't laugh. She is totally jacked up. I can't believe it's eleven o'clock. I drop the bags in the kitchen. Admittedly, I stomp a little.

“I hope it's okay that she went in the attic,” Digby says. “She saw some things you brought down, I guess.” He comes in behind her. “There's so much cool stuff up there. Boxes and boxes. There are all these guitars—” He stops. Assesses me for a second. “Sorry she's awake. I know it's a school night.”

I made almost two hundred bucks at work, just in time for Wren's birthday. I should be in a good mood, but I'm mad or irritated and I don't know why. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Digby and I haven't talked about how we kissed and he keeps coming back and I have to not touch him and it's holy hell torture, and now he's just going wherever he feels like going in my house, into places I'm just discovering myself.

“You're mama's so fat, I ran out of gas driving around her,” Wren says, skipping in a circle.

“I'm sorry if you don't want her up there,” Digby says. “She kind of insisted.”

I take off my jacket and hang it up, try to get a grip and get away from them so I can calm down. Wren looks like she's having a manic episode or something. She has now paused and is sipping some chocolate milk.

“You shouldn't be drinking that this time of night,” I say when I get back to the living room. “No wonder you're so wired.”

Digby takes the milk out of Wren's hand. “There's all kinds of artwork up there. Your aunt's, right? Do you still have any of yours from before?”

“Hey!” Wren says, and takes back the milk. Digby comes over to me.

“You should check with a person before you go poking around in all their personal things,” I snap.

Digby gets that look again, like I hit him, and I suddenly want to. Really hard.

“Anyway”—Wren flits between us, drinking once more—“I found this box of stuff. I know you said I should get cre-a-tive for Halloween since it's my birthday time, and so I thought I could be a rainbow.” She pauses. “Maybe you could get me some glitter tomorrow, like, in the morning before school? I saw some that was all different colors. I could just put it everywhere, and if you get me some purple tights, I'll be almost all the colors.”

“Wren, would you please calm down!” I yell.

I'm instantly sorry, even though Wren is acting nuts and Digby is too, a different kind of nuts, like he didn't cheat on his girlfriend with me, like there's nothing between us and he's just my babysitter. Digby and I stare at each other. It's a standoff and I am ready to shoot.

Wren looks back and forth between us. “I want to know what you think about my rainbow idea.”

“Rainbows are magical.” I break away from Digby, run my fingers through Wren's hair and come up against a huge knot. She pulls away. “And you are going to be the best one ever.”

She twirls. “Halloween-slash-birthdays are the best. Remember when Mom and Dad dressed up like Shrek and Fiona?”

“You cried,” I say. “Dad scared you when he came out with that mask on.”

“I don't remember that,” she says, looking deflated. “I just remember thinking it was cool.”

“I was there,” Digby says. “That happened. Sometimes you remember things differently from how they really were.”

“Revisionism,” I offer.

“Or perspective,” Digby says. There's a pause. Then, “I have to go.”

“Okay.”

“Listen,” he says as he pulls his keys from his pocket. “I don't want to stress you out, but Elaine's debate event was tonight. I don't think I can watch Wren for you on Halloween. I wanted to do the trick-or-treating and everything with Wren, but now Elaine wants to spend some quality time together.”

“But I told Fred I would work, even though it's a Friday. You said—”

“I'm sorry, Lucille, but—”

“No, it's fine, you should do that.”

“Maybe we can both watch Wren for you.”

The effects of this statement cannot be exaggerated. Vomit. Bile. Splat. I don't know how he can suggest it.

“No, thanks.”

He squints a little. “Yeah, okay. Well, I'm sorry.” He smiles and it looks so weak to me.

“Say it ten times and then never say it again.”

“Lucille—”

“You owe me ten,” I say. Then, “Wren, it's time for bed.” I grab the chocolate milk out of her hand, huff as I walk into the kitchen, and throw what's left into the sink.

“Why did you get so cranky tonight?” Wren calls. “Cranky sucks.”

“You know,” I say to Digby from the kitchen doorway, “now she's going to be up all night. You don't give kids sugar before bed.”

“I didn't. She just took it.”

“Well, you're supposed to be in charge. In control.”

“Like you?” he says. He sounds mad now.

“Upstairs,” I say to Wren, who doesn't argue. “Good night, Digby. Enjoy all your quality time.”

“I saw the painting,” he says to my back.

I am taken down by sudden panic.

“I liked it,” he says. “A lot.”

“Me too!” Wren says. “I want to paint. Can we paint together?”

“Not tonight,” I say.

“But—”

“Not tonight!”

Digby is still standing by the door. This is such a mess. The whole thing. And now I've hurt his feelings and he is trying, trying to make amends. I can see it. I can't leave it like that, don't want angry words between us.

“Go upstairs, Wren. Brush those teeth.”

Shockingly, she does.

As soon as she's gone, Digby throws an arm around my waist and pulls me toward him in a fierce bit of hug. I hug him back really hard.

“You're trying to make me crazy,” I say into his chest.

“I'm not.”

I have to crane my neck to see his face.

“I'm trying to do the right thing.” He runs a finger over my ear. Looks like he might maybe cry. “Can you get that?”

“Yeah, I guess.” I move to touch his hand. He backs up so I can't.

“It really is a good painting,” he says, and walks out.

Wren and I watch
Cupcake Wars
and I try to settle down. The teams are competing to throw a party for George Lucas, so the whole thing is
Star Wars
themed. We disagree about who should win. For me it all comes down to personality; for Wren it's flavors. She will root for a total bitch if she's making pistachio cupcakes with white chocolate frosting. Secret ingredient? Rose water. Wren is so excited about her rainbow leotard that I let her fall asleep in it, and me, I don't have the time to shower and change either. We pass out in Mom's room with the TV on.

It's Wren's birthday. And Halloween.
Something about that is gnawing at me. Like, we all wear masks all the time, right? And the fact that I wish so much that I could take mine off and come clean to the world, today of all the days, seems ironic on a level I can barely grasp.

Yes,
I want to shout,
my dad is crazy, my mom left me, my best friend won't talk to me, and I am in love, desperately, never-to-recover, twisted-up sick in love with a boy I can't have. Go ahead, world, do your worst. I want to be free.

I made a banner last night and hung it up in the doorway to Mom's room so it would be the first thing Wren sees when she wakes up. It has birds all over it, and a sun, and even a butterfly. It's a lie, of course, and Wren could probably have done a better job with it than me, but I tried.

Mom has a waffle iron that makes little heart-shaped waffles, and sometimes she would pull it out on a weekend morning and sing along to music while she cooked. It was always going to be a good day if it started like that. I find the pan behind the plastic juice pitcher, behind the metal platters that only came out at holidays, and I stare at it for a while.

It's only six in the morning, but I couldn't sleep. I had the phone next to me all night, just in case. If there was ever a day that Mom was going to call, it's today, and I want to be ready. I plan to very calmly pass the phone to Wren. I won't yell. I won't tell her bitter truths, and I definitely won't cry.