(no subject)
Swings
He’s really quiet and this will probably be the last time I see him. Actually, everything’s quiet except for that incessant ticking of the clock on the wall and the occasional cough. The light’s dull and I’m having trouble focusing on him. I really don’t know if it’s the appropriate time to say everything that’s been on my mind for the past couple months, but all I can do is sit on this rigid wooden chair, rock back and forth, and wait for the silence to break.
I remember the lunch period when I had my first glimpse of him. The bell rang at noon and I was rushed to the cafeteria because all seven-hundred students of Westlake High were petrified of getting their hair wet. The weather was nasty that day. The weatherman had said, “81 degrees with a bit of morning fog,” before I had gone to sleep, but really it was raining cats and dogs. Every clone of the latest pop star feared that their eighty dollar haircuts and four coats of mascara would get ruined by a single drop of rain, whereas the jocks couldn’t take the chance to get pneumonia and die before the huge Westlake vs. Aurora championship game. As I grabbed my usual chocolate milk and roast turkey sandwich, I had difficulty getting to my regular table amongst my group of pop princesses because that’s when I saw him. He stuck out like a sore thumb at Westlake, at least on that day, because he was dripping wet. Completely soaked from the pouring rain, his grey shirt was plastered to his torso and a smile was plastered to his face. He grabbed an unsuspecting girl and enveloped her in long wet hug as she squealed and squirmed in protest. Everyone and everything in the cafeteria had come to a halt in my eyes and all I could focus on was him. The water from his hair trickled down his face as he released the girl and made his way through the doors and back into the heavy rain.
The clock says it’s 2:13. If I had gone to school today instead of come here, I’d be in history now. God, I hate that class. It’s almost as bad as sitting here, waiting for something to happen. He’s silent. I’m silent. It’s exactly like how my history class is. Completely silent.
His name was Dashiell. Dashiell Longbottom. As if he had been pulled straight off the set of the “Young and the Restless,” he was an unsolved mystery. I met him a few weeks later at one of those wild parties I go to every weekend. He wasn’t the hottest guy there, but somehow he could run his fingers through his cowlick, try to hide his braces, and fumble with his shirt buttons and I’d swoon. He didn’t dance or even try to bounce like the other guys. I liked that.
I have the urge to tell him how much I hate him. I want to make him feel the pain he transferred to me: the hours on end of tears and held back screams, but I can’t. Because in reality, I know I still love him. I’m still in love with him.
He asked me out the Tuesday after the party for that afternoon. He had casually asked me if I liked swings. Not exactly casually, but rather shouted his question from the opposite side of the theatre. I thought meeting on a Tuesday afternoon was strange, but from what I could see, he was sort of strange. I had watched him during lunch through the sea of blonde heads a couple times. I don’t think I ever saw him eat anything but bananas. He was very peculiar in the way he cut off the tip, bit down until he was barely at the end, then neatly stretched out the peel in front of him. I liked that, so I said “yes.” We swung like there was no tomorrow.
We became a “we” after that, but not an official “we” like Timnjessica or Dereknamanda. Dashiell used too many words to finally come down to the fact that we were semi-dating and that I was his semi-girlfriend. I remember the first time he took me out, the questions in my head were just waiting to come out. We were at the park and the sliver of a moon was our only means of seeing each other. On the cold wooden bench, we sat in thought. Or at least I did.
“You look really pretty tonight, Candice. If I died right now, I’d be the happiest guy on Earth, you know that?” he said, breaking the silence.
“Dash, about this whole semi-dating situ-,” I never got to finish what I had to ask because he answered all my questions with a kiss.
I really wish I could touch him, but I can’t. That’d be wrong. Wouldn’t it? I can’t even talk to him, but I all I really want is to touch his hand one last time. I shouldn’t though. I wonder what he’s thinking.
We knew each other’s secrets. I knew that his older brother had attempted a painful suicide using only steak knives and the ocean, and he knew that I was actually blonde. Dashiell would call me every night at ten o’clock, even if it was to tell me that he didn’t have time to talk. It was like clockwork: go to Dashiell’s after school until five, go home to work until ten, talk to Dashiell until midnight. I’d see my friends at school, but once the bell rang, he made sure that all there was room for in my life was Dashiell G. Longbottom.
I can’t stop shaking my leg. It’s this nervous habit I have. He used to do it too. It’s still only 2:24. Why has so little time gone by? I don’t think I can wait anymore. I wish I could just say what I have to say and leave before anyone finds us. Together. I shouldn’t have bought these new black heels. They’re uncomfortable as hell and I’m probably just going to throw them back into my closet and never see them again. I’m never going to see him again.
For our three-month anniversary, I remember I expected something glorious. Dash had always left me little notes in my binders or grape lollipops in my backpack, so I figured that he was planning a huge surprise. He forgot. That morning, I had woken up earlier, hoping that the extra half hour spent on my hair would make him swoon the way I did when I’d see the oceans in his eyes staring back at me. With four minutes to the first bell, I leaned in for our morning ritual.
“Where were you last night?” he said instead of giving me the usual kiss. “I called you at least four times. Where were you?”
“I went out with some friends.”
“Who? You were with that asshole, Jason, weren’t you? Jesus Christ, Candice! What the fuck were you doing with Jason?” The bell rang, masking his screams from the student body whose favorite pastime was gossiping. I hadn’t been with Jason. I didn’t even know which Jason he was referring to. The pop idols who I usually ate lunch with, surprisingly still called me their friend and invited me to an impromptu dinner. We gossiped as if I was still one of them. Jessica had broken up with Tim and Amanda was on the brink of failing history. How I didn’t know all of this was beyond me. I hadn’t realized how much life there was outside of Dashiell and now I was left there crying as he turned and abandoned me.
I remember that day. The issue of our three-month anniversary was lost with his screams. I still have the CD I burned for him. All of his favorite songs: the rap music that drilled into my head with its bass beat, that one Spanish song he loved to sing to as he gyrated in his car, Big Al’s Swing Kids entire collection, and the one acoustic song that always reminded him of me. It’s in the black purse that Jessica let me borrow. I have the urge to just get up, place it in his hands, and leave without saying anything. I don’t think I can leave without saying goodbye.
Dashiell never showed up to fifth period history. It wasn’t like him to miss school. He hated to be late for school by even five minutes, let alone be behind in any of his classes. I punched in the familiar numbers into my cell phone and was anxious as ringing continued.
“Hello?” The familiar voice made my heart slow down.
“Dashiell! I was so worried when A-”
“Sorry I’m not here. Leave your name and number, and I’ll call you right back.” I had hung up right before my tears could be recorded.
I’m crying. Why does he always have this affect on me? It’s not like he’s crying. He never cried over me and he never will. It’s too quiet in here. I’ve only been here for a half hour, yet I still can’t say anything. I want him back. I want his arm securely around my waist as we watch the sunset. I want the warmth of his breath on my neck as he describes the Big Dipper. I just want someone to say something.
By the time I could hear the howl of the wolves and the outside traffic die down, I hadn’t gotten a hold of him. I was a wreck. Rivers of mascara ran down my cheeks and my eyes were those of a drug addict. My room was a constant reminder of Dashiell and forced me to leave the house.
I don’t want to think about it. I’m just going to cry more or maybe I’ll be next. I still don’t get it. I was so happy, everything I had dreamed of came true. Now my world’s ready to self-implode. That’s exactly what happens when you don’t expect it.
It was chilly that night. The clouds trapped the moon, leaving the park in shades of grey. As I felt the cold plastic seat underneath me, the rusty chains groaned from my weight. I didn’t understand Dashiell’s outburst. I couldn’t understand it. I remember I pushed the tanbark in circles with my feet, and I was in a daze. The swing creaked again as I pushed off from the ground. I swung back and forth, never noticing the dark figure at the far end of the swing set. I pumped my legs harder, as if my distress would escape me the higher I went. The other swings creaked just as I was about to freefall, my body almost facing the ground. As I flew downwards, I saw him. His messy cowlick, the wrinkled shirt, and that glossy stare. The eyes that I had loved to lose myself in were staring back at me, suspended in the air, hanging from the swing set.