I cradle the bottle between my fingers, casually hitting a cigarette as I lose myself in a cloud of dizziness and smoke. I don’t smoke cigarettes much; I’m not a fan of the taste, but the way the smoke curls around my face and hangs in the space just above my head makes me feel mysterious. No one can see through the perfect fog. No one can see the little world I’ve gotten lost in, and it feels nice to escape for a moment. I laugh and half listen to the pointless chatter taking place around me, all the while seeing nothing but my smoke, thinking of nothing but the now.
I’m not the type to drink because it’s what high school Seniors are supposed to do - but like every other sometimes alcoholic, I drink to escape. I don’t smoke to die, I smoke to see things the way they are, to view life the way I know it really is: completely unclear, typically cloudy with a chance of rain. I know about the occasion sunny days, but I also know that they never seem to show when I need them most.
Maybe it’s my beer stained breath, or the mystery within the moment. Maybe it’s the loneliness I’ve felt since Conner left, but when a shadow comes to stand at my side, speaking as I half listen to a somewhat slurred accent, I have to ask.
“Have you ever kissed an American girl?”
He hasn’t, and I absent mindedly say I’ll be the first. The shadow leans in, slurring his sweet accent right into my cloud of smoke, kissing me without a second thought.
It isn’t like any other unpredictable kiss. I don’t know much about him, and he knows even less about me. But there’s comfort in kissing just to kiss, in smoking just to see things from a different perspective, and in not thinking or feeling or hearing anything but a beautiful accent you can’t understand. I hear that he is from Milan, a foreign exchange student and star soccer player.
He is temporary, and temporary is all I ask for anymore.
***
Monday the rumors seep throughout the halls, but I’ve gotten used to hushed whispers and harsh words.
“Tyger kissed the Italian. She’s a whore, she’ll kiss anyone.”
I am far from a whore by our schools typical standards, but I have been known to kiss and tell. I’ve kissed complete strangers: coworkers, neighbors, siblings of close friends. I’ve kissed men - guys who graduated a whole decade before me. I’ve kissed a few bad boyfriends. And I kissed Conner goodbye.
See, I work on impulse.
Sometimes my uncertainty scares people, the types of people who try to plan out perfect lives and flawless futures. It’s not that I’m a bad person - or an easy lay. I’m far from either. I just don’t give a damn about them, the ones who live their lives through words. Words are pretty, but I prefer actions. Imperfect and flaw filled actions. I have stories. All they have is the high school paparazzi’s version of my crazy, confusing life. As far as I’m concerned, they can take their tabloids and plaster my picture on the front, titling it: “Tyger Knox: The habitual high school fuck up.”
With my smoke filled lungs and six pack (courtesy of Gillian’s fake ID), I am far more alive then any of them.
***
If the world was a village of a hundred, only one person would go to college.
Sociology always makes me thank all the Gods in the world that I live in a suburb, although I constantly crave culture, and attend a school full of small groups desperate to be ‘different’, each member a carbon copy of the next.
Femi-nazi. That’s the term used by most when referring to Gale, our AP Sociology instructor. Refusing to go by “Ms.” anything (she thinks last names are sexist), she is five foot nothing and an avid advocate for women’s rights. I admire her for her strong beliefs, although I can’t seem to stop using the ‘banned vocabulary’ in class.
“My project looks ghetto,” I murmur, using rubber cement to paste pictures onto construction paper for a collage on body image. Gale clears her throat, and I immediately apologize before she can begin to rattle off a few definitions, or a couple negative connotations associated with my ‘wrongful vocabulary’.
“Pick another word, Tyger.” I choose “lame”, and leave it at that.
It is late October, and my desk faces the set of windows leading out into the courtyard. A couple trees are scattered around the phallus shaped pond, spraying the ground with an occasional golden-brown leaf. I was a bit disappointed when Conner noticed that our school pond looks like a giant penis peeing upside down. I am the one who typically discovers such things, but I found the comment hilarious nonetheless.
I swear, the administration never takes high school immaturity into consideration when making most important decisions. They constantly complain of dress code distractions. They bark about cleavage and saggy pants, then go and place an enlarged wiener directly in the center of the campus courtyard, as if that’s not an obvious distraction.
Just before the bell rings signaling our release to lunch, my jagged elbow knocks against my purse, and I curse as it’s contents spill across the green tile. I quickly sweep up the few contrabands, (flavored cigars and a cell phone), but my lucky orange lighter lands at the feet of the girl seated to my left.
“Smoking is grose!” She shrieks, as she drops the lighter into my open palm.
She is one of those virgins that remain virgins even after they’re married, and I kind-of think she hates me. I don’t know if she hates me because of my raunchy mouth, or because I have one of the highest grades in the class. Smart kids are weird. They’re supposed to be sophisticated, but practically burst into tears anytime you mention an A with a minus attached. She is a smart girl, but she’ll never be a real person like Conner was.
She’ll never truly be alive.
***
I sat leaning against Conner’s kitchen countertop, gazing out of the thick glassed window across the front yard that spilled into a field and eventually led to the school. I wanted to say something interesting, to capture his attention and fight the fifth grade girl excitement I felt. Nothing came.
“This has been my view all of my life. Ever since I was just a little dude, barely big enough to see over the countertop, I’ve had this view.” I continued to gaze out of the window, taking his view into consideration. He’d probably played basketball in the driveway, and stumbled up the street in various Halloween costumes. He’d probably trudged across the baseball field hungover after late nights performing with the band, snow filling his worn out tennis shoes as he made his way to school still drunk.
I saw silence and tall trees, everything green and reassuring. If I stepped back a bit, I saw our reflections. Conner’s messy brown hair and thick chin strap, his typical carefree appearance. His eyes were what got me; piercing, almost translucent blue eyes. Then came my reflection, the top of my head falling just a few short inches below the beginnings of his beard, blonde locks draping across my shoulder and down towards my chest. Deep brown eyes glared back at me.
Before I could look away from the window pane, Conner disappeared around the corner, coming back with a long necked bottle of wine. He worked a metal piece into the center of the cork, fiddling with it until it burst open.
“It’s Australian.” He’d whispered, and I felt a smile spread across my lips. I wonder if he’d planned such a smooth move, or if it were sheer coincidence that he’d picked up a bottle of wine imported from the country my mom’s family was from.
The wine fitted itself into two crystal tumblers, and we sipped its sweet taste away until the view was a different one; until everything was slightly unclear. The sun shone bright, the grass remained green, and the sky sat streaked with a blue the color of Conner’s eyes. For a moment, it wasn’t ‘his view’ anymore; it was ours.
Then he kissed me.
***
“I’m sittin’ here sipping on some rum and drunk - ha, I mean rum and coke. Hope all is well, Tyger!” I replay the message for the millionth time, making sure to save it even still. I know Conner is gone and all, but I like listening to his voice, the way he lisps on the letter L, and the long-winded messages he leaves that never make much sense to anyone but us.
Sometimes I lay in bed at night and press the phone against the side of my face while I half-listen and picture him playing the guitar. I never get to see him much now that he’s far away, but at least I can listen, and every once in a while, he’ll come visit in my dreams. I always detailed my dreams when we talked, and I dream often. Conner’s the one who told me to keep a notebook in my dresser drawer so I can write my dreams down. I didn’t do it at first, but lately, I’ve been trying.
Last night I had a dream that Conner came back to visit, except every time I looked at his face, he was just out of view. When I tried to be with him, something always came up. At one point an English mastiff settled at my side. I deeply despise dogs. The mastiff started begging for my attention, and made it impossible for Conner and I to talk. Then Conner said he didn’t love me anymore, and I woke up in a bad mood.
But the dreams usually make it better. They push time along just a bit faster, and bring us back together for a moment, even if it’s only in our sleep.
***
“No matter what you are, I will always be with you!”
Gillian and I sing the lyrics loudly, oldies blaring through the speakers of her teal Neon as I fit myself comfortably into the passenger seat. She snakes through the complicated intersections, aiming towards our ‘sacred spot’ - the large library downtown. Other people have their favorites places and things to do, and ours just happens to be hitting a bowl and getting lost within rows of hardbound books and thick cushioned armchairs.
Gillian just turned 21, and we met through work. Most of the time we sing, dance, drink, smoke, or read. Once in a while we have an unavoidable serious conversation. I consider her to be my best friend, but serious is not something I like to show anyone. The song slows to a stop, and I wait for the next one to play.
“I miss him today.” I speak in a whisper as I recall my dream, but the words dangle in the air between us and drop to the floor as if dead. Gillian puzzles upon the right response, utterly unaware of what to say.
“Well, sometimes you just have to miss someone, and remember that you love them. You know he loves you too, Ty. Always.” I reach over to the radio and turn the dial, finding a new song to fill the empty space.
I want to tell her that she’s right, that I feel better, but I can’t. I know he loves me, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder why he had to go and leave me all alone. I always feel alone anymore. Even in a room full of faces, I remain alone.
I knew music school was a big commitment, and that he’d been working himself ragged. He’d lost practically thirty pounds in a matter of months, and I could sense sadness when he spoke - even if it was only in a voicemail, or in those goddamn dreams. You can never hide behind genuine sadness.
***
“I’m performing in Columbus next Tuesday, you should come and watch. I need all the support I can get!”
Whoever he was, he was talking excitedly, constantly referring to his new found love: stand up comedy. Another face, another dream, another someone who I might not see again. It was Friday.
“That’s great, I’ll see what I can do,” I say as I half-listen and smoke another god awful cigarette. It’s late, and I’ve already made several trips to the keg, located in a dirty kitchen, in a dirty house that I know all too well. The stars shine especially bright, and the air grows frigid. I take a step closer.
“So, how old are you?” He asks as he crosses his fingers, afraid of my response. ‘Legal’ was all I had to say to any of them, the older ones.
“Yeah, we should hang sometime. I mean, I have Jaclyn every other weekend, but she’s a riot. You’ll love her.” I shrug, not caring enough to verbally commit to his suggestion. It’s always the same, nothing ever fits. The boys in Sociology think only of one thing, then grow up to be men like him who think the same thoughts even harder. I want to tell him the truth - that he’d be better off running away and never looking back. So I do.
I lean in and he kisses me aggressively, and he’s so old that I almost pull away. It feels wrong, and it is, but there’s no better way to get my point across. I tell him to call, and say we’ll get together soon. I tell him to call with no intentions of ever answering, or of listening to any long-winded voicemails he might leave, full of perfectly pronounced L’s.
I kiss him and pretend he’s Conner, though he’s old and freshly shaved, and his kisses aren’t as sweet. Except he’s not Conner, no one ever is. He is alive and breathing right before my face, and this time I know I’ll be the one to give the last goodbye. Conner is gone for good, his only view being that of the inside of a grave.
I am all alone. I kiss and I drink and I smoke the days away. I kiss just to kiss, and I smoke just to see things from a different perspective, searching for my own unclear view. I don’t think, I don’t feel, I don’t hear, and I don’t understand.
In a room full of faces, I remain alone.
