On his bed, top bunk, the late afternoon light’s coming in slantways and outside somebody’s yelling. Gorgeous day.
He didn’t see the scar on her wrist at first because it’s not discolored, but it’s definitely there if you look. He draws his fingers up to her hand and touches it. He’s known about it, about her, for a year, but hasn’t seen either until today.
She’s watching him, not afraid, just curious. It’s soft and warm under his touch–he almost expected hard edges, but it’s only a gentle, horrible vertical spray. Now and forever, it says, this person is me.
Rikki nearly skis to keep her balance on the heaving carpets, but somehow the Hioliphant stays gyroscopically still: this strange moving tent orbits around him.
“I got this far,” she says, trying and failing to keep the yelps out of her voice. “You know that means I’m worth hearing.”
A brazier crashes down, then rights itself, ridiculously. The Hioliphant keeps writing.
Rikki gambles: “A name,” she says, “Rakshasa’s mistress.”
The floor’s suddenly still, and the Hioliphant’s brown eyes are on her, big and impenetrable. Rikki can see the sharp triceratops shadows outside. She licks her lips: the ride’s not over yet.
Thursday, October 30, 2003
She’s hesitant about using her gravity on walls, because it affects both sides–not really fair to anyone inside the building. But now she’s got no choice. Carlisle’s jetpack has a brute-force vertical efficiency, and if he gets up there first…
Lissa’s hands smack brick, and then she concentrates and rotates her own personal world: now fore is down. Her sneakers scrabble in the corner and she’s off, running straight up, behind but moving fast.
Inside, people gasp, coffee spills, papers flurry. Each office she passes becomes chaos for a second, as in her wake, everything suddenly tries to fall out.
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
He’s not staring, not exactly, just watching. Sala’s rolling and he looks like money, so she pulls a girlfriend over and they get all hot up against the wall. She locks eyes with him just once, for one long second.
Later he’s gone, but she follows the music down to the next frat. He’s there. This time she leaves, and he finds her arched between oblivious boys. The bass blurs everything in 4/4 time.
They slip between houses in turns, dancing with everyone, dancing only with each other. It’s an old, old game: She likes to move. He likes to watch.
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
“Die-off” is what the radio stations have begun calling it, and downstairs the anchor sounds tinny and nervous–three meteorologists in two weeks can’t explain the heat.
Holly’s hand stings under the bandage she tore from a shirt; her sweat is gone as soon as it’s there, but the salt sticks around. Glass crunches under her flip-flops on the rotten little deck.
She’s finally sobbing. It doesn’t feel good. “I’m sorry!” she cries to nobody. “I hate you, I hate him, I’m sorry!”
She’ll have to fix the glass door, use duct tape or something. All the AC will get out.
“There’s an art to not getting caught staring.” It’s Link’s voice, a memory, two years ago. “You have to learn to anticipate when she’s going to feel it.”
“And then just look innocent?”
“That’s the trick. You have to look bored, not innocent. You have to already be moving your eyes when she notices, and you have to keep them moving, like you’re just sweeping the area. And never jerk your head.”
She’s going to turn. The outline of her flank is vivid in his mind. Link would be proud: when she finds him, he’s already gone, gaze sliding impassively away.
Tonight they’ll sing the Cantiphoebo, and throw dried leaves on the electric fire, and breathe deeply of the smoke; they’ll crack jars and smear their faces with the sour stickiness, and their voices will rise:
Phoebo, whose arms could touch all moons!
Phoebo, who taught us of viscous styling products!
Phoebo, who always received the finest jars of jam!
And deserved them!
At least Phoebo said so!
Phoebo, with feet like horn and hands like gophers!
Phoebo, who fuck fucking smoke hold on. Whoo. Okay, let’s go back
Phoebo, who glowed unmatched with the light of his shellackéd hair!
Phoebo!
Phoebo!
Thursday, October 23, 2003
She used to have dreams about the park. It was a small green perfect square, and she’d only have once chance each day to see it: between cars and the pillars of a fading hotel, out the window on her bus ride. One splash of ripe grass and then it’d be gone.
Aisha promised herself the day Jordan left she’d make her way there. She’d sit with her book on a bench, touch the grass with bare feet, make it her refuge.
Now, today, she’s there. And it turns out to be a fancy driveway for the office park next door.
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Lee shuts up when he’s angry and this time he’s been breathing through his nose so long that when he starts to open his mouth again, a puff of steam clouds his glasses. (It’s not very cold out, but it’s cold enough.)
It would be terribly easy, and blameless, and he can’t do it. It is morally right but it’s logically invalid. So he won’t let go.
Lee’s fists are soft and hot inside, wrinkled like a baby’s. His eyes are red-rimmed. It takes a long time, this slow scared reopening, the strained release of all his body’s wish to hurt.
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
She’s heard dolphins make new skin constantly, that this is why they move so fast: Esperanza is sure Allison must work the same way. It’s the only way she can possibly look so fresh, the only way her skin can be so endlessly new. Even her smile lines are bright, youthful. Even her stretch marks.
She could watch Allison forever, lying there, making new skin every second. She’d make the sun stop, or the earth stop, whichever it takes to make sure the angle of this light on her thigh never changes.
But. Esperanza sighs. She’ll have to be untied eventually.