because fiction is the science of
I wrote something about these three young people at one of the young people's summer house on a fictional island down the Cape. I started writing the second part in econ class today because fuck you, econ. Not that this going to be a chronological series, really. I'll tinker around exploring these folks and life on the island, trying to rediscover my writing groove. 'Cos, like, sometimes I'm like, "Where did it go?"
The room smelled like ramen and Frankie's feet. It was unpleasant but Maria made no show of it, sitting on the bed with her laptop on her lap. She was comfortable. Her outstretched legs were draped with linen and Frankie, who, lying on his stomach, fiddled with his half-empty pack of Camels as he contemplated smoking one. Neither of them was clothed.
The sunlight that flowed in through the bedroom window - out through which you could see the Cape - had a starkness about it that lent a quality of ill fit to the afternoon. Like overlarge shoes, it would look okay but it felt off and made one stumble. The breeze that blew in brought with it the calls of the gulls and the mundane shrieking of children playing on the shore, something of a boring normalcy that rubbed her the wrong way.
It was summer in Massachusetts and Maria had just had her first affair.
Doug would be back in an hour.
She set the laptop on the sleep mode, put it on the night-table, and pulled her legs out from under Frankie, who only made a sound of protest because the sudden movement jostled his arm when he was trying to light a cigarette. Maria crawled to him, kissed his neck, nuzzled his shoulder, and draped herself over his back, resting her chin in the crook of his neck. Frankie took a drag of his Camel and offered it to Maria. When her lips touched the filter they brushed against Frankie's fingers, and she was all too conscious of the thrill that ran through her.
"We should clean up soon," said Maria. "Change the sheets, have a shower..."
"Together?"
She chuckled, humoring him, and took the cigarette from his fingers to smoke it herself.
"That's mine," he said.
And Maria just chuckled again because she knew Frankie didn't really give a damn anyway.
She rolled off him and sat back against the wall, studying him as he studied her. Frankie had been slowly tanning ever since they arrived on Hallister Island a few weeks ago. It was not a result of conscious effort, but of all the times she insisted they all explore the island; of rowboating every couple days after he found out he was stronger than he thought, discovering a reserve of energy set loose by good times and better company; of getting stoned at the base of the old willow tree in the backyard before racing through the neighborhood to the beach - sometimes clothed and sometimes in swimsuits - and throwing themselves into the surf. Kids being kids and loving summer vacation. Not that they were really kids anymore, anyway.
The beach when stoned is an experience not to be missed. She remembered how, one time, Doug swam beneath the surface and ran his hands over her legs as she treaded water, how she had shrieked, had filled her lungs with air, and dove underwater, swimming after him like the world was a strange aquatic pastoral scene. Instead of sky, you have the water. Instead of humans, you have merpeople, strange creatures stuck between being one thing and another, spliced figments of your imagination, rendered ethereal by dreams and the glitter on the surface of the water. When Maria caught him, she kissed him amid the blue-green depths.
When they had surfaced again, she saw Frankie splashing around some distance away, gallantly ignoring the fact that he had become the third wheel once more. Doug had yelled something funny and obscene, which Frankie reciprocated, and then the three of them would be a family again.
Doug had dark curly hair that clumped, and Frankie had russet-colored hair that was getting long and stringy. That might as well have been the only way to tell them apart. Doug may have been more centered and inwardly turned than Frankie, but not by so much that it made a significant difference. They both had a way of slouching and shuffling their feet. Shrouded in baggy clothes and an innocent apathy, they braved the lonelier edges of life and had adventures their way, living on their own level of simplicity. Maria had been taken by Doug's vast store of knowledge, off-kilter anecdotes, and precocious articulation. Then she met Frankie when she stayed at Doug's for Thanksgiving break, and there was something about him that wouldn't leave her mind, and it bothered her that she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Because if it wasn't him, then it was her, and she didn't want to know what this sort of thing said about her.
They passed the cigarette back and forth between each other, and when it was done Frankie crawled on top of Maria, kissed her neck, and whispered a sweet nothing in her mouth before he kissed her lips. They made love again. Frankie's body was warm, pliant, and soft, but not as soft as Doug's. And the sex wasn't as frantic. They savored every kiss, every touch. To feel Frankie's body move against hers was a pleasure Maria never thought she'd have the gumption to experience.
The sheets were cleaned, the bowl of ramen washed, and the room sprayed with deodorant to rid of the smell of sex. They showered in separate bathrooms.
At Maria's suggestion, Frankie rolled a joint and they smoked it on the roof. Doug's summer house was located right near the center of Hallister Island, and from the roof they could see the shore on all sides. All the summer cottages, the playground near the center of the island, the small shops in the distance, and the row of summer cottages on the mainland: they were all bathed in summer light whose paleness belied its heat. When the joint was done, Frankie was pink. Maria giggled when he wondered if they would fall off the house and then couldn't stop giggling, so Frankie giggled at her back, and so it continued until falling of the house seemed like a real possibility. Then:
"What the fuck are you guys doing?"
Doug's voice from the front yard brought forth the clichés: Maria's heart skipped a beat and her blood ran cold. She and Frankie traded nervous looks, and when they looked over the edge of the roof, there was Doug, unknowing and smiling and squinting up at them. He was laughing that his girlfriend and best friend were stoned on the roof of his house, not angry and accusatory that they had just had sex. The grocery bags lay at his feet and Maria could see a bag of Doritos peeking out.
Doritos. Would be so good right now.
"Nothing," said Frankie, and Maria could hear the relief in his voice. "What are you doing?"
"If you fall off, you're not suing me, is all I'm saying," said Doug. He picked up the bags and walked to the front door, disappearing from view. "If you burn yourself, you buy your own bottle of aloe vera."
"Doug," Maria giggled. "Dooooooouuuuuug."
"Yeeeeeees?" came the reply.
"Dooooooouuuuuuuug. Woo!"
Frankie giggled. "What the fuck."
"Fucking psychos," said Doug, and then they heard the front door closing.
They were climbing back down off the roof onto the balcony when Frankie said, "I thought you loved him."
"Who?" said Maria.
"Doug."
"I do."
"Oh," he said, nodding with comical sagacity. "I see." Then, "'Cos... Good, 'cos I don't, like, then I don't think you should fall in love with me. Or--"
"What?"
"Or whatever." He shook his head, as if confused by what he just said. "I dunno. Whatever." Then, "Let's raid the groceries."
From the doorway of the bedroom, they could hear Doug bustling around downstairs. They paused, faltered, and almost simultaneously stole glances at each other. There was a sense of waiting that hung. But Maria, perturbed by Frankie's words, made a point of taking off at a canter, leaving him behind. No kiss, no touch, no nothing. The waiting dissipated into air out of necessity and pride.
I wonder how fucked up this will turn out, Maria wondered as she hugged Doug from behind.
"Yo," said Doug, and turned around and kissed her.
Maria kissed back and closed her eyes.
The room smelled like ramen and Frankie's feet. It was unpleasant but Maria made no show of it, sitting on the bed with her laptop on her lap. She was comfortable. Her outstretched legs were draped with linen and Frankie, who, lying on his stomach, fiddled with his half-empty pack of Camels as he contemplated smoking one. Neither of them was clothed.
The sunlight that flowed in through the bedroom window - out through which you could see the Cape - had a starkness about it that lent a quality of ill fit to the afternoon. Like overlarge shoes, it would look okay but it felt off and made one stumble. The breeze that blew in brought with it the calls of the gulls and the mundane shrieking of children playing on the shore, something of a boring normalcy that rubbed her the wrong way.
It was summer in Massachusetts and Maria had just had her first affair.
Doug would be back in an hour.
She set the laptop on the sleep mode, put it on the night-table, and pulled her legs out from under Frankie, who only made a sound of protest because the sudden movement jostled his arm when he was trying to light a cigarette. Maria crawled to him, kissed his neck, nuzzled his shoulder, and draped herself over his back, resting her chin in the crook of his neck. Frankie took a drag of his Camel and offered it to Maria. When her lips touched the filter they brushed against Frankie's fingers, and she was all too conscious of the thrill that ran through her.
"We should clean up soon," said Maria. "Change the sheets, have a shower..."
"Together?"
She chuckled, humoring him, and took the cigarette from his fingers to smoke it herself.
"That's mine," he said.
And Maria just chuckled again because she knew Frankie didn't really give a damn anyway.
She rolled off him and sat back against the wall, studying him as he studied her. Frankie had been slowly tanning ever since they arrived on Hallister Island a few weeks ago. It was not a result of conscious effort, but of all the times she insisted they all explore the island; of rowboating every couple days after he found out he was stronger than he thought, discovering a reserve of energy set loose by good times and better company; of getting stoned at the base of the old willow tree in the backyard before racing through the neighborhood to the beach - sometimes clothed and sometimes in swimsuits - and throwing themselves into the surf. Kids being kids and loving summer vacation. Not that they were really kids anymore, anyway.
The beach when stoned is an experience not to be missed. She remembered how, one time, Doug swam beneath the surface and ran his hands over her legs as she treaded water, how she had shrieked, had filled her lungs with air, and dove underwater, swimming after him like the world was a strange aquatic pastoral scene. Instead of sky, you have the water. Instead of humans, you have merpeople, strange creatures stuck between being one thing and another, spliced figments of your imagination, rendered ethereal by dreams and the glitter on the surface of the water. When Maria caught him, she kissed him amid the blue-green depths.
When they had surfaced again, she saw Frankie splashing around some distance away, gallantly ignoring the fact that he had become the third wheel once more. Doug had yelled something funny and obscene, which Frankie reciprocated, and then the three of them would be a family again.
Doug had dark curly hair that clumped, and Frankie had russet-colored hair that was getting long and stringy. That might as well have been the only way to tell them apart. Doug may have been more centered and inwardly turned than Frankie, but not by so much that it made a significant difference. They both had a way of slouching and shuffling their feet. Shrouded in baggy clothes and an innocent apathy, they braved the lonelier edges of life and had adventures their way, living on their own level of simplicity. Maria had been taken by Doug's vast store of knowledge, off-kilter anecdotes, and precocious articulation. Then she met Frankie when she stayed at Doug's for Thanksgiving break, and there was something about him that wouldn't leave her mind, and it bothered her that she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Because if it wasn't him, then it was her, and she didn't want to know what this sort of thing said about her.
They passed the cigarette back and forth between each other, and when it was done Frankie crawled on top of Maria, kissed her neck, and whispered a sweet nothing in her mouth before he kissed her lips. They made love again. Frankie's body was warm, pliant, and soft, but not as soft as Doug's. And the sex wasn't as frantic. They savored every kiss, every touch. To feel Frankie's body move against hers was a pleasure Maria never thought she'd have the gumption to experience.
The sheets were cleaned, the bowl of ramen washed, and the room sprayed with deodorant to rid of the smell of sex. They showered in separate bathrooms.
At Maria's suggestion, Frankie rolled a joint and they smoked it on the roof. Doug's summer house was located right near the center of Hallister Island, and from the roof they could see the shore on all sides. All the summer cottages, the playground near the center of the island, the small shops in the distance, and the row of summer cottages on the mainland: they were all bathed in summer light whose paleness belied its heat. When the joint was done, Frankie was pink. Maria giggled when he wondered if they would fall off the house and then couldn't stop giggling, so Frankie giggled at her back, and so it continued until falling of the house seemed like a real possibility. Then:
"What the fuck are you guys doing?"
Doug's voice from the front yard brought forth the clichés: Maria's heart skipped a beat and her blood ran cold. She and Frankie traded nervous looks, and when they looked over the edge of the roof, there was Doug, unknowing and smiling and squinting up at them. He was laughing that his girlfriend and best friend were stoned on the roof of his house, not angry and accusatory that they had just had sex. The grocery bags lay at his feet and Maria could see a bag of Doritos peeking out.
Doritos. Would be so good right now.
"Nothing," said Frankie, and Maria could hear the relief in his voice. "What are you doing?"
"If you fall off, you're not suing me, is all I'm saying," said Doug. He picked up the bags and walked to the front door, disappearing from view. "If you burn yourself, you buy your own bottle of aloe vera."
"Doug," Maria giggled. "Dooooooouuuuuug."
"Yeeeeeees?" came the reply.
"Dooooooouuuuuuuug. Woo!"
Frankie giggled. "What the fuck."
"Fucking psychos," said Doug, and then they heard the front door closing.
They were climbing back down off the roof onto the balcony when Frankie said, "I thought you loved him."
"Who?" said Maria.
"Doug."
"I do."
"Oh," he said, nodding with comical sagacity. "I see." Then, "'Cos... Good, 'cos I don't, like, then I don't think you should fall in love with me. Or--"
"What?"
"Or whatever." He shook his head, as if confused by what he just said. "I dunno. Whatever." Then, "Let's raid the groceries."
From the doorway of the bedroom, they could hear Doug bustling around downstairs. They paused, faltered, and almost simultaneously stole glances at each other. There was a sense of waiting that hung. But Maria, perturbed by Frankie's words, made a point of taking off at a canter, leaving him behind. No kiss, no touch, no nothing. The waiting dissipated into air out of necessity and pride.
I wonder how fucked up this will turn out, Maria wondered as she hugged Doug from behind.
"Yo," said Doug, and turned around and kissed her.
Maria kissed back and closed her eyes.