Ghost Time

out.
    I got on my bike, and I knew exactly where I was going: the grocery store. To buy razors. And then the gas station, on my way home. To use their bathroom. I wanted it out, I wanted the pressure out, I had to get it out, and I didn’t even realize I was talking to him, until I heard my own voice say, Motherfucker, you mother fucker! No more—you lie to me, I’ll lie to you! And then my foot slipped, and I almost fell. I banged my shin on the pedal so hard, I had to get off, pull my bike over, off the street, then I just threw it down, on somebody’s yard, kneeling down on the sidewalk, and I bawled. Heaving, shaking, on my knees, the sobs couldn’t even find their way out. An old man wearing suspendersand a madras shirt stopped watering his lawn, watching me, not knowing what to do, and I didn’t care. I didn’t care about any of it. Really, the one, the one person… Jesus Christ, the love of my life, that’s what I thought he was, and it was all a lie.
    I lay there, on the ground, for I don’t know how long, but almost until sunset. And then I sat up, balancing on my elbow, looking around, and then I saw something, icing on the cake. Just down the sidewalk, about five feet away from where I was sitting, they’d just poured new cement in the sidewalk; it was fresh, and someone had written—not my writing, some little kid, someone who must have seen it on TV, they wrote TD + CC = TLA in a big heart with an arrow shooting through it. Looking at it, I grabbed my left shoulder, where my tattoo had been, and part of me wanted it back to keep. But another part of me wanted it back just so I could cut it out. I looked around in the grass, trying to find a stick, and I did, then I crossed it out. I had to really scrape, because it was almost dry, and I don’t know why, really, but I drew an anarchy symbol over the heart, and then I picked my bike up. Go to hell, I said.

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 2010
    (SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER)
    8:14 PM
    We were watching something on TV. I don’t remember what. I didn’t even care. I was sitting at the end of the couch, with my sketchbook open, remembering the moment I felt him standing there, behind me. I was thinking about the moment I felt him standing over me, watching me draw. I was thinking how odd it was that someone was standing over me, and I couldn’t imagine who, but I didn’t feel scared, either—no, I felt… I felt like he knew me. Like instead of waking into a dream, where you know everything that’s going on, but you don’t know how? For the first time, I felt like that, but waking into my own life, you know? Weird.
    Honestly, it felt more like I’d been waiting for him all this time, so long I couldn’t remember when, and then, at that moment, when I finally looked up: seeing his face, his eyes. I swear, he is the most beautiful boy I have ever seen—like how can a boy be that beautiful? Thea? Mom said, and she startledme. Like she’d been saying my name, but I didn’t hear her. Maybe she had. What? I snapped, then Rain Man goes, You’re smiling. He wasn’t teasing me, really, more like he’d never seen me smile before. Still, I go, Shut up , closing my sketchbook. Ray goes, What did I say? That’s when I knew my mom knew something was up. Not just because I’d been sitting there, staring at the television with some goofy smile on my face, but because she didn’t scold me or use that stern voice she puts on, when she’s saying, Don’t push your luck, kid. I think she knew I was thinking about a boy, and I think she was happy.
    Just as I was leaving the room, we heard something, the strangest sound coming from my bedroom. Leave it to Ray to open his big mouth and insert his big foot again: What’s that? he said, looking around the room. I go, My phone, even though my back was turned, and Mom goes, It’s Thea’s phone, and I couldn’t see her, but I could tell she was giving him the eye: Tell you later . I didn’t even care what look she was giving him at that moment. It was all I could do not to sprint into my bedroom. I have a text, I have a text , I thought, closing my doors, rattling my fists to silence the squeal in my throat. And only then, shoving my hand in my bag, fishing for my phone, did it occur to me: What if it’s not him?
    My heart stopped for a second, then it started again: because I knew. Of course it’s him: ha! I blew on my knuckles: ha, and I wiped them against my chest, and then I wiped my hand against my tights,