Ghost Time

look at you, Thea, he said, putting his hands on my hands, pulling them away from my chest. He looked at every inch of my body, and I rolled my eyes back, trying so hard not to cry, and then he stood up, right in front of me, and he said, Beautiful… I think they’re beautiful. My scars—he meant my scars. I mean, there I am, so ashamed, I’m shaking, hiding myself, and there he is, telling me they’re beautiful, that I’m beautiful, and that’s when I started crying, asking him, How can you say that? Cam said, Because they’re part of you. And then, ugh , I don’t know if I’ve ever cried like that, and he just held me the whole time, smoothing my hair. Look at all my scars, Thee—we match, he said, and I said, You got those from skateboarding—it’s not the same. And he opened his mouth, about to say something, then he nodded no, tilting his head. Doesn’t matter, he said. When I stopped crying, he goes, Thee, I know I can’t stop you, but I don’t want you to do that to yourself anymore. Please, he said, listen, and he swiveled around, something serious to say to me, I could tell.
    Listen, he said, grabbing both my hips. Shit like that’s always bound to come up at you again, sooner or later, and I can’t stop you, no one can, I know that, Thee. But you’ve got to fight.Promise me, if you ever feel the urge to do that, to cut yourself, Cam made himself say, so I’d know he could say the words—he wasn’t afraid of saying what I am, really. Promise me that if I’m not there—. Where would you be? I asked him, suddenly worried, and he said, Promise, you’ll put up a good fight? Okay, I promise, I said. Good. Say it again, he said, and I said, I promise to put up a good fight, laughing and exasperated. And it felt so good, knowing that he could love me exactly as I am, who I really am, but the trick is, now I had to be that person. Real. I blushed, actually, realizing that as messed up as I am, he could love me, and as screwed up as I am, he would never judge me. And then he reached out, grabbing my wrist, pulling me to him.
    He sat right there in my computer chair, in front of me, pulling me forward, pulling down my underwear, leaving nothing, not a stitch. He still had his jeans on, it’s just me who was naked. What I remember most clearly is holding his head in my hands, how bristly soft his hair felt, and looking down, watching him, running his tongue down my right tit—watching the hairs on my arm stand on end, getting the chills, completely erect, when he sucked my nipple, and then slowly kissed his way across my chest to the other nipple. I didn’t even think I liked pretty boys, and watching his face—god, he’s so pretty—I had that spasm again, where I can’t believe how beautiful he is, and yes, I did want to take a picture of his face, slightly in profile, kissing across my chest. But I didn’t: I just watched him, thinking, You are so beautiful, and you are so… tender. I really had no idea what that word meant until then, tender .
    People always talk about your first time. The thing is, there isn’t just one first time, there are many first times, if you really love that person. I mean, there’s the first time between your legs, with your body, but there’s the first time inside your chest, in your heart, too. And that was our first time.

SUNDAY, MAY 22, 2011
    (SEVEN WEEKS LATER)
    10:37 AM
    I kept drawing. I kept working on Hubble, drawing and writing in it every day, because what else could I do? Who else could I talk to? Even if—even if Cam was dead, and I know he’s not, but even if he was dead, he’d still be the only person I could talk to. So I wrote like I always had, like he’d read it tomorrow, when I handed it back to him before first period. I told him everything he was missing, whether it was funny, or I was angry or scared or both. I told him, I wish you could see my face now. Every day, I wish you could feel what I feel, even though I know you can’t. And you couldn’t yesterday, or the day before that, or last week, and chances are, you won’t feel what I feel tomorrow or the next day, either. But I still can’t stop wishing that you could. So what is it, chemical? Really, is hope just another chemical? I don’t know, I really don’t. Whatever.
    You know there are videos of us all over the Internet? Or at least there are videos of people who look like us—exactly like us, you and me. Someone sent me a new one yesterday. From that night we