Skye Fields looked in the full-length mirror and pretended she had a body. But even with oranges stuffed in her bra and a nice stack of oven mitts in the seat of her jeans, she was still a toothpick. A length of spine. A bundle of kindling. She rotated her hips for a different angle, with the same results: nothing. Skye pulled a face at the mirror. She turned to kiss her imaginary friend just as Andromeda walked in the room.
“Hey!” Skye yelled. “Haven’t you read the Bill of Rights, Barbie? Fourth amendment.” Skye held up four fingers. “It protects me against unreasonable searching.”
Andromeda folded Skye’s fingers down. “This is a public bathroom. And why are there oranges in your bra?”
Skye defensively yanked her shirt up. “Just ‘cause you have enough chest space to fill a swimming pool.”
“And I saw you kissing Darian.”
“Liar.”
Molten embarrassment pulsed in Skye’s face.
Andromeda’s curvaceous self swung past Skye and to the mirror. “You are so in denial. Even Mom knows about your nonexistent boyfriend, and she’s getting worried. Pass me the mascara.”
Skye grabbed the mascara tube and flung it in the toilet. She flushed.
“That was expensive, you know,” Andromeda said. “And you know what else’s expensive? Your therapy bill. So get a life. Ditch the nonexistent boyfriend.”
As Skye removed the oranges from her bra, she said, “Imaginary.”
“What?”
“He’s imaginary, not nonexistent. One hundred years ago, we could only imagine space travel. Two hundred years ago, women could only imagine wearing pants. Right now, I can only imagine Darian, but someday my dreams will become reality.”
Andromeda moaned and tugged her honey-colored hair. “You sound like a politician when you get mad, you know that? You could power a balloon with all that hot air.”
Skye’s face screwed up, but she was incapable of speech. Her lips burned. She wished Darian—perfect Darian—would burst into the bathroom, stuff both oranges in Andromeda’s fat mouth, sweep Skye off her feet, and kiss her passionately. The only bursting was from the noises in the toilet.
“Mom will murder you,” Andromeda observed. “You better crawl down the sewer and fix everything before she finds out.”
Skye still couldn’t speak. Violently, she ripped the oven mitts out of her pants and hurled them on the linoleum. Meanwhile, Andromeda positioned her luscious body on the edge of the sink and began primping.
When Mrs. Fields was pregnant with Andromeda, she had consumed pint after pint of ice cream. Her happy fetus had sponged up the river of butter-pecan crunch, and when she thrust her way into the world, raspberry-red and bawling, she weighed in at twelve pounds, four ounces. A big baby. And as time went by, the ice cream fat melted in some places and froze in others, leaving a body that could just as soon smash a boy as seduce one.
“Is this an okay outfit for graduation?” Andromeda asked.
Her dress was shapeless and the color of vegetable tops. Amid a hideous ruff of fungus-green lace was a single, egg-sized wooden button.
“You look like an avocado.”
“It’s vintage!” Andromeda shrieked. “Can’t you appreciate fashion?” When Skye didn’t answer, Andromeda snarled, “Fine. I’ll wear jeans. What are you wearing?”
“This.”
Andromeda’s waxy eyebrows lifted. “It’s not Halloween.”
“Nothing pretty fits me,” Skye said in vain hopes that Andromeda would say, “Oh, Skye! You’re beautiful! Do you know how many girls would die to look like you?”
Instead, Andromeda shrugged. “Well, there’s nothing much you can do with size zero. Darian loves you no matter how trashy you look, though.”
She winked and left the bathroom.
Skye howled, slammed the door shut, and sank to the floor. As soon as Andromeda was gone, Darian materialized. He didn’t even notice her paint-stained T-shirt and holey jeans. Skye knew that if there were a brick wall between them, Darian would find a way to kiss her. Like always, she got a small, feathery rush under her breastbone but was left unsatisfied.
Darian was dark-haired and blue-eyed, a complete angel. His shirt was emblazoned with a golden griffin, which Skye found dashingly British. He was so familiar he was almost real.
Despite herself, Skye couldn’t smile. And that rush…had it been imaginary? That word had no meaning anymore. If imagination was real, then nothing could be disproved, and nothing was a lie. What a depressing thought.
“Are you real or am I just psychotic?”
“Define reality.”
“No. I refuse.” Skye pushed Darian away—an easy act, considering he had no body mass to speak of. “We’ve been through this before.”
“Don’t you love me anymore?” His angel eyes turned deep indigo.
“Um…Of course.”
“You said ‘um.’”
“But I didn’t mean it!” Skye corrected herself. “Just as long as you still love me, right?”
“How could I not love you? You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
Skye waited for the rush, but it never came. For the first time, she realized that Darian spoke entirely in clichés. What did that say about her own imagination? That she didn’t have a creative bone in her body? Another depressing thought.
Darian stroked her hair. Nothing. Skye’s feelings were as flat as her chest.
What was wrong with this picture? Darian had no faults. He was all of the following and more: straight-edge, suave, intelligent, artistic, funny, compassionate, romantic, brave, loyal. It was obscene, now that Skye thought about it. And not only that—she realized with a jolt—Darian was ridiculously good-looking. Hell, he was the most gorgeous homo sapian outside anime. No one, not even Andromeda, was that beautiful. At least, not without Photoshop. And even if you were a natural babe, practically born on the New York runway, would your soul run deeper than your skin? How can you be a heartthrob, human, and not slightly heartless at the same time?
“Get away from me,” Skye said.
Darian staggered back, confused. “Are you sick?”
“Yes,” Skye muttered. Then, louder: “Yes, I’m sick! I’m sick of you! We’ve been dating for three years, and you don’t even exist!” She was on a roll now, and yes, there was the rush. “Look, you’re a spry, talented young man. Why don’t you walk through the wall and stay out? Oh my God!” Skye let her head drop into her hands. “I’ve wasted one thousand and ninety-five days of my life. I can’t see you ever again.” She checked her watch. “Damn. I have to be at graduation in half an hour. And I still don’t know what I’m going to wear.”
Darian’s face crumbled. He didn’t complain or rage or cry; he just said, “Okay,” and disappeared.
Just like that.
The linoleum floor was too cold.
Skye jumped up and raced for her room. She dug through her closet, nearly blinded by the colors. Were they always so bright? And had they always smelled like cloves and vanilla? And the sun—had it always made a checkerboard pattern on her turquoise quilt?
Memories popped up among lonely socks and day-of-the-week underwear. Skye remembered the last day of sixth grade. The playground seemed dry enough to crack; dust billowed down her nose and throat, baking her from the inside out. Through the blinding fury, she saw the occasional couple. Dating, it was called. When a boy and a girl stood five feet away from each other, listening to their own CD players.
Skye had tripped. She fell through burning, choking, golden sand and hit her head on a stump. Through the stars in her eyes, a figure appeared. It performed an act uncharacteristic of your everyday slovenly twelve-year-old boy. It took her by the hand and pulled her up.
Darian shared Skye’s contempt of superficial dating. He wanted to discover true love.
That got the ball rolling. Skye remembered what she had lost and rejected in the name of love. Like the time Nico Nublado had pulled her aside after biology and recited a Pablo Neruda poem, first in perfect Spanish, then in broken English. And when he reached the last line (“I want to do with you what spring does to the cherry trees”), his eyes turned dark and liquid, round Mexican moons. Terrified by the passion she saw, Skye did what? She said, “I’m sorry, but I’m seeing someone. His name is Darian Chase.”
Nico had said, “Oh,” and the next day he wasn’t at school. When he finally returned, he was silent as a mummy. He didn’t talk for the rest of the school year.
And what about the trip to Mexico? While her family bought parrot feathers and fresh tortillas at the Acapulco market, Skye stayed in the condo with Darian and watched a movie. She had promised him that much, because he wanted a romantic evening with her.
Skye had nearly suffocated on her own yawns.
Nico Nublado, she thought again. Well, he was a sweet kid. Quiet and average-smart, but still good. And she hadn’t even given him a chance. She had been too busy making out with oxygen molecules.
Since Mrs. Fields found out, Skye had been seeing a child psychologist. Dr. March, however, saw nothing to fix. Skye was a bright, dynamic young woman who enjoyed dancing, reading, and astronomy. Her parents were happily married. She was popular with her teachers and liked by her peers. Aside from the two-thumbs-down she gave her figure, there was no obvious reason for the creation of imaginary lover.
So why were they paying six hundred dollars a month for therapy?
Finally, Skye found the dress. It was dusty and missing sequins, but still fit for a duchess.
As she tore off the dead husk of her clothing and changed into a dazzling butterfly gown, she felt new. Her body hadn’t grown, but the world was gigantic. What had she missed in one thousand and ninety-five days?
From downstairs, Andromeda bawled, “Hurry up! Or do you want to repeat ninth grade?”
I wish, Skye thought. I wish I could repeat my life without kissing the air every five seconds.
Before heading downstairs, she ripped all twenty-six pictures of Darian from the wall, tore them up, and put them in her kitten’s litter box. Now her boyfriend was right where he belonged.
Ten minutes ago, she could only imagine being complete without Darian. Now, she saw him for what he really was: a cruel figment of her mind, the byproduct of feeling undesirable. Love is dangerous.
Skye twirled in front of her mirror. “Dang,” she said. “I look good in this dress.”
. It was engaging all throughout. Descriptions are good, and your two characters are well-defined. You've made the topic of love very complex, human and meaningful. I suppose that sometimes, the only sort of love we need is the one that can come from ourselves 