Twice Told by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2006-04-06T00:00:00+00:00

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As we’re driving to Caroline’s house to drop her off, she’s playing a CD she made of John Coltrane songs ripped off vinyl. I don’t like jazz, but I like Caroline, so I’m nodding my head to the frantic soaringness of the saxophone, and the saxophone seems to be pleading, praying, praising while the CD faithfully reproduces the popping and scratching of the vinyl. I’m staring at the road rushing toward us, and in my peripheral vision, stands of tall, lanky pines are interspersed with strip malls, the kind of strip malls that led to the closing of those old diners with the hand-painted signs. And I’m trying to remember if I ever even ate at one of those diners with my parents or my grandmother, or if I only remember them from the outside. Caroline’s hand is above my knee suddenly, her perfect fingers tight against my pants. I glance over at her and she looks sad.

“What?” I ask.

“It was nice at the flea market,” she answers, as if “at the flea market” occurred twenty years ago or something.

“What the hell does that mean?” I ask, defensive. And that starts us off, because she doesn’t like my tone, and I don’t like her implication that what was nice is over, and can’t she ever just say anything without me flying off the handle, and I wouldn’t get mad if she weren’t constantly complaining about what a crappy boyfriend I am, and who said anything about crappy boyfriends. And as Coltrane’s solo crescendos, so does our argument, this seven millionth fight about absolutely nothing.

It’s so frustrating. I am in love with her, and yet. I feel myself crying. There aren’t any tears, but I can feel it in my throat and behind my eyes—this aching sadness. I’m screaming, my voice catches and breaks. “Can’t we just start liking each other again?! We liked each other five minutes ago!”

“All I meant is that I love the flea market.”

“And all I meant is that I want you to love me,” I say, rushing the words out, and the words “you” and “love” and “I” and “me” hang in the air. I look over at the drawing in her lap. What gets me is the distance between us. The distance between our bucket seats, between us and the drawing, between the artist who drew the girl and the girl herself, between me and Jimmy, between me and 1963. It’s the distance that makes everything so impossible. It’s impossible to know what anyone wants, when anyone is telling the truth, what the truth is anymore. What was true then seems so obvious: everyone should vote; everyone should go to an all-right school; everyone should have half a chance. But I guess it wasn’t obvious then, or else there wouldn’t have been bombings and marches and fire hoses and dogs.

“You think that guy Jimmy was full of crap, don’t you?” she asks me, because she knows the best way to end the fight without saying those three little words in the right order is to change the subject.

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