Chapter Two

Christian looks good on stage, he really does. He has a specific face that he reserves solely for playing guitar; a kind of slightly open-mouthed concentration that might be funny if it weren’t so powerful. The lights are bright and hot and make the sweat on his forehead glisten. I am being pushed around a little, but that is okay with me. It is a small price to pay just to know that while he is up there, he is looking at me.

His shirt is a green checkered pattern and short sleeved, worn over a black long sleeved tee. His hair is even curlier in the humidity and a couple of the curls in front—the ones he hates—are stuck to his skin. His brown eyes stay fixed mostly either on his quick moving fingers or the microphone in front of him, but come every now and then to rest fleetingly on my face.

The venue is somewhere in the heart of New Haven; a smaller, much less spectacular version of New York. The people are rougher around the edges and not half as eager to adopt the glamorous, sparkling façade that the city has. There are small, round tables in the back for the people who don’t want to be part of the action, and a large expanse of wood floor for the pulsing crowd. There is a wraparound bar directly to the left of the stage, the permanent home to the older bachelors and nonchalant college students that are just looking for a place to get drunk. Personally, I find the stage to be the most appealing with the neon lights hanging above it, and all the pedals and wires and amplifiers that make everything sound just that much more impressive.

Christian is a different person whenever he plays shows. Unusually assertive and preoccupied, he is unpleasantly stressed out for at least a good two hours beforehand. He is always looking for things: guitar straps, cords, distortion pedals. The only thing he never really loses track of is me, because I am always there in the background; a silent, vital support system for when all else fails.

“What did you think?” He asks when they are done, brushing some hair out of his face. His eyes are dull and tired, as if he is just coming down off some sort of euphoric high. I guess in a lot of ways, he is.

“You were so amazing,” I say, moving towards him and wrapping him in my arms. He struggles a little, smiling self consciously.

“I’m sweaty.” I don’t care, but I back off anyway because I figure he probably needs a little room to breathe. “So it was good?” He is really reaching out for extra validation; an endless supply of loving accolades that he knows he can really only get from me. And I am ready and willing. All the time.

“Amazing. You’re amazing.”

Something I’ve learned about musicians is that they are always doubting themselves. I’ve seen my fair share of compliment-fishing; at least enough to know that this is different. It is a kind of uncertainty that is deep rooted and unshakable, no mater how many words for ‘amazing’ they have thrown at them. Truth be told, I never love Christian more than when he is on stage and the few moments after, while he is still raw and vulnerable from his own truths.

The second time around, Stella still thinks he is too quiet, only this time she has other things to add to his list of downfalls. She thinks he is whipped, for lack of a more forgiving word, and I guess he is, for lack of a more forgiving girlfriend. Another thing about Christian is that he changes like a chameleon whenever he is around me and I think it pisses a lot of people off. It pisses me off, too, mainly because it is me that gets blamed for it.

We are at another party; this time hosted by someone named Janie, who is not a complete bitch but is dangerously close. We were actually invited by default, because I am friends with Stella and she and Janie take a couple classes together.

Ben Kweller is playing over the built-in speakers, which is probably just a fluke because none of these people are that cool. This time, the party room is fully lit with all these different colored light bulbs, and there is no alcohol actually being served, which is fine because Stella always brings enough for both of us. In fact, I have already had a couple sips and I am feeling friendly.

The incident at the last party has taught me a lot about limits. For example, after three shots of hard liquor, walking starts becoming a struggle. After four, I completely lose the filter between my brain and my mouth. By five I am aggressive and just generally unpleasant, unwilling to sacrifice even a drop of alcohol in the name of tact or self preservation. At parties held by people from school I will try to keep it down to two or three, so that I can remain composed and dignified because nothing is worse than making a scene when you are more or less a nobody. People remember things like that.

Christian is at my side with only a couple inches between us. In other words, much less than a comfortable personal distance. I look at him with a certain degree of annoyance, even though it is hard because my face is already starting to feel sort of numb.

“Look, there’s, um…” Shit. I don’t even know the kid’s name. Not the most effective way to initiate a mid-party bond. And Christian isn’t even drinking which makes it even harder. He looks at me.

“Alex.” I nod and wait, but he looks completely uninterested. Great. Plan B. Luckily, Christian’s best friend since elementary school walks up and puts his arms around us.

“Hey guys. Having fun?” His name is Ben. I should know, since I went to homecoming with him before Christian and I started dating. He wasn’t a good date because he wore an orange shirt and complained the whole night about how I ignored him. Oops. At least I think he has forgiven me for that by now. Christian smiles and I feel his hand on the small of my back. My eyes dart around the party; to all the people I'd like to be talking to. I feel like I am suffocating.

“I guess,” Christian says. He clears his throat. There is something about Christian that changes me. Something about being held so unbearably close that makes me want to explode into a million pieces just so that his hands will no longer fit around me. I have never really been much of a partier; in fact, I am socially awkward most of the time and I attribute this to the fact that usually when people talk to me I don’t know what to say back. It’s like this incredibly one-sided game of ping-pong. I want to hit the ball back—I really really do—but my wrist just won’t make the effort. Except my wrist is actually my brain. It’s hard to explain.

Anyway, while Christian is standing with Ben I make my getaway. I duck away from them into a crowd of people that have just arrived and lose myself amongst fragments of conversation and glowing, intoxicated eyes.

I find Stella quickly and steal another couple quick sips of vodka from the Poland Spring bottle in her purse. As I wait for it to kick in and play its tricks, I think about how I can avoid Christian long enough to do some much needed socializing. And then as I lose myself again I think that it is not supposed to be like this.

About thirty minutes later, he catches up with me. Unfortunately, at about the same time the alcohol does.

“Jesus, where’d you go?” He is next to me again. I can feel his body heat. My face is hot and tingly; I will myself to keep a straight face just long enough to explain why I have been avoiding him.

“I, uh…I couldn’t find you. I was with Stella.” I don’t think I am slurring too badly, but I can’t be sure. I'd need an outside opinion. He is glaring at me.

“How much did you fucking drink?” I shrug, a little annoyed that he is yelling at me. I inhale deeply, trying to detect even the slightest trace of alcohol on his breath so that I can accuse him of being a hypocrite, but I come up empty. “Fine, whatever, we’re leaving.” I dig my thumbnail into my palm as a last ditch attempt at self control. It doesn’t work; I barely feel it.

“You can leave. I’m having fun,” I hiss. He takes a step back, for which I am grateful, and looks at me carefully. I’m sure I look disgusting: my makeup has probably all but worn off and I can feel my hair hanging limply around my face with a few strands sticking to my cheeks.

“Fine. Enjoy.” He is gone within seconds and I am left alone in the center of a crowded, Technicolor room I don’t belong in.

Christian is at my house the next day, flipping the channels on my satellite TV. He is mad at me, which probably means we could have avoided this visit altogether but I think he is trying to punish me. Christian is here at least one day out of every weekend. Since he lives a few towns over, his mother drives him in her Toyota here to the very edge of Fairfield and then goes back home, only to make the trip again a few hours later. Sometimes we do other things like go to the mall or to the movies, but really only to pass the time between car rides to and from our houses.

“Well, are you going to say anything or are we just going to sit here and not talk for three hours?” I ask, pulling my feet up onto the couch and crossing my legs. We have only been dating about a month, which means awkward silences are not yet a thing of the past. Only this one is intentional. I decide not to give up. “Come on. Why are you even mad? I didn’t tell you to leave. You could have stayed. I should be mad at you for leaving me.” He turns to look at me this time, with incredulous eyes.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, calmly, glancing back and forth from the TV screen where a big, fluffy bear is trying to sell laundry detergent.

“Thanks,” I say, sarcastically. He sighs.

“Do you not get it or something? That party sucked for me. I just, like, wandered around looking for you the whole damn time. I wanted to hang out with you, but when I found you it was like you didn’t even want me to be there.” I’m silent for a second, figuring out a way to sound sincere when I insist that I had wanted him there. That I was just drunk. That he had misinterpreted me.

“Yeah,” I say, and we are both surprised.

It is probably sometime in late November when I start cutting. I am alone in my bedroom, crying about something, or maybe nothing, when I pull from my purse a small blade that I stole from the art department at school. It is sharp; fresh out of the box. I am not really sure what makes me do it, but I press its pointed edge against my skin, still pressing as it slides, effortlessly, across the width of my wrist. There is minimal pain; only a sort of dull stinging as the blood collects in a straight line of tiny drops. Instantly, I relax and cry harder as I drag myself to the bathroom for damage control.

I rinse off the blood with my eyes closed, so that I won’t have to see the pink tinged water as is swirls and disappears down the drain. I press a washcloth to the open cut until it stops bleeding and then I pull my sleeve down, crawl back into bed and cry myself to sleep.

It is a Saturday, a week or two before Christmas, when Christian and I really start having problems again. I am sitting in my bedroom with the lights off—as I often do—and he is talking to me through the phone that is pressed to my ear.

“What do you want from me?” He asks, hotly. I sigh.

“That’s the thing, Chris. I don’t want anything from you! I just want you to be yourself and not depend on me so goddamned much!” It is true. For the past month and a half that we’ve been dating, Christian has made me the absolute center of his world, second only to his music and even that is a very, very close call. I don’t want to be mean, especially since, in my experience, he is incapable of standing up for himself, but I am only fourteen and to have the weight of someone’s entire life resting on your shoulders at this age is taxing. I rub my free hand over my face, willing the tears back. I feel like I am always crying these days.

“Jesus, I don’t know what to do to make you love me! I just want to be with you.” The thing is, anyone can say that they love you and that they want to be with you. The thing that sets someone apart is whether or not they’re willing to do what it takes.

“Everything just can’t be about that,” I say, so quietly that I think I throw him off.

“What else is there?” he asks, just as softly. I don’t really know how to answer, so I just sit there for a few minutes, listening to him breathe.

That night, I sit in the dark and the silence and watch the world move outside the window. The cold breath of the wind, pushing the trees back and forth and making them creak. The streetlight that flickers, casting the cul-de-sac in and out of eerie winter shadows. The occasional car that drives by, realizes it has reached a dead end and turns back to where it came from. It all moves and buzzes and breathes with a certain sense of consistency and I find comfort in its sleeplessness.

The cuts on my wrist have stopped bleeding, so I feel it is safe to remove the washcloth that I have wrapped tightly around it. On it are several lines of blood; a colorful, dysfunctional imprint that will probably never come out. And that is okay.

Three days later, I break up with Christian for the second time in my life. Unlike the time in the food court, this causes me some physical pain to do. This time, I think he knows it is coming, but all the same he asks me to reconsider.

“Please don’t…” he trails off, his voice catching.

“I have to. It’s not working. I can’t do this,” I offer up several patented break up lines without meaning to, finding it difficult to prevent my own voice from betraying me.

“I’ll change, I swear to God. I’ll do whatever you want.” I can’t bring myself to explain to him that the root of the problem lies in that very promise; that I can’t be with someone who is willing to compromise who they are for me. I feel strange; like I should be happy that someone wants to change for me. But if there is one thing I need it is strength and Christian just keeps on coming up short.

There is one week until Christmas and happy things are everywhere. The only Christmas colors I can muster up, however, are the red lines on my wrists, covered up and hidden by the long sleeves winter thankfully demands. Stella is still with Tyler, of course, although I don’t know how much longer it will last because like I told you before, Stella is free spirited and mostly love just holds her down.

“You needed to do it. Or he did. It just…it needed to happen.” Stella and I are in my bedroom, sitting cross-legged on my bed. She is busy explaining to me why I shouldn’t regret the fact that I am completely alone and I, in turn, am busy thinking up my new list of things I will miss now that he is gone: The forehead kisses. The random, thoughtful presents. The nervous throat clearing. “Have you talked to him?” I shake my head, no. “You should talk to him, I think you’d feel better.” It’s not that I don’t want to talk to Christian, it is just that I don’t think it is fair to rub salt in the wounds just yet. If there is one thing I know about him, it is that he is a slow healer when it comes to these things, and I want to give him ample time to recover.

“How are things with Tyler?” I ask, carefully. I want desperately to change the subject, but I am wary of the answer I might receive. Stella shrugs.

“Fine, I guess. He’s sweet.” Really, calling him ‘sweet’ means nothing. Anybody could be sweet. Stella is looking for handsome. Exciting. Worthwhile.

“You’re going to break up with him, aren’t you?”

“Well, not right this second.”

“Wait here,” Leigh Henderson places a hand on my shoulder, keeping her eyes trained on me as she retreats, backwards. I am standing in the hallway of school. The final bell of the day rang only moments ago; I can still hear its echo in the depth of my eardrums. Leigh and I are, conceptually, good friends. We walk together in the hallways sometimes and make the occasional effort of a meaningful conversation, but she is not Stella and I am not her Stella and we both know that. Apparently, though, she has gotten me a Christmas present and has left me here in the eerie solitude of this hallway, chock full of cheesy decorations. Absently, I rub my wrist.

“What is it?” I ask, dumbly, as I watch her hurry over to me. It is a pointless question, as I know she won’t tell me and I could just open it and find out anyway. She smiles. I am busy telling her she shouldn’t have gotten me anything when it becomes clear there is one of those velvet boxes that jewelry comes in beneath the shiny paper. I eye her suspiciously. “How romantic.” A small, folded up piece of lined paper flutters to the floor and I bend down to pick it up.

Inside the box is a long, silver chain. Hanging from it is a teardrop made of white gold, with a tiny diamond nestled in its center. I know it is from Christian before I even open the note.

My first instinct is to react. To cry. To miss him. But I can do all of these things after I find him and give the damn thing back. I know where he is; the problem is, he knows I will be looking for him. As I round the corner into the front hallway, I see him standing talking to Ben. He sees me, too, and takes off in a full-on run down the stairs on the opposite side. Shit. I run after him, all the while thinking this is way too pseudo-flirtatious.

When I finally catch up to him, Christian is sitting up against my locker. He is breathing sort of heavily and his cheeks have color in them. I stand in front of him and he stares at my shoes. Those habits die hard. I hold out the box; shiny paper is hanging from it like the shredded ruins of something beautiful.

“What?” he asks, lifting his eyes to meet mine.

“You know what. Take it,” I say firmly, shaking the box a little for emphasis. He shakes his head.

“It’s yours. What do I want with a necklace?”

“I dunno. Give it to your mom or something.” He looks at me like I am crazy.

“It won’t look right,” he says. I sigh.

“Well then give it to…” he cuts me off.

“It won’t look right on anyone. Except you. I bought it…for you.”

I walk away, silent and still holding the box and the necklace in my hand. Christian is still sitting against the locker, his head leaned back against the metal, his eyes shut tightly. I do not notice, as I leave, that my knuckles have begun to turn white from how tightly I am holding onto this glittering fragment of the past.

Once I am home and locked in my room, I change out of my uniform and sit down on my bed. I pull the folded square of paper out of my bag and open it. Some of the ink is smudged, and Christian’s handwriting leaves much to be desired. It is small, loopy, and hard to discern:

Hey. I know we’re not going out anymore. And that you probably don’t want to be bothered with me, but I still needed to give you this. I told you before that it wouldn’t feel right to give it to someone else who doesn’t deserve it…who isn’t worth it. I realize now that you are happier without me and at this point that’s the only thing making me happy. But you know I’ll always love you. So I bought this for you…and only you will wear it. –Christian

I am crying by the first sentence, sobbing by the last. I fold the paper back up and press it to my heart for a minute before shutting it away in the drawer of my nightstand.