D A I S Y
Frustration built up inside me. It had been for a while.
"This isn't funny. Come on, let me in," I said. This was ridiculous. So ridiculous, and yet, all I got was a shrug. A shrug and a no. Simple as that.
"Why?!"
"Because," Jason started, leaning further into his crutches, "I'm throwing a party to celebrate my team's victory and you're not invited. It's really simple actually."
I wanted to kick his bad leg. I was going to.
"You can't do that. This â"
He cut me off, pointing one of his crutches at me, all of him blocking the doorway. "I can't do what? Not invite you to my party? Of course I can. When have you ever invited me to your parties?"
"I don't throw parties."
"Yes, you do. Just last week, you had a movie marathon with Zoey. Where was my invitation to that?"
"Well, 1) that wasn't a party," I pointed out. "2) You hate romance movies, and 3) did I kick you out of the house?"
"1) It was absolutely a party, 2) I've seen The Fault in Our Stars, and 3) I don't care. I just don't want you home tonight."
"Did you like The Fault in Our Stars?" I asked. I was surprised he had even watched it. Jason's idea of good tv was adult cartoons.
"No, it was fucking stupid," he said. "Who the fuck buys cigarettes and doesn't smoke them?"
I looked at him like he was the stupid one, "It was a metaphor!"
"How pretentious do you have to be? Come on!"
"You know what? Fuck you."
"And who the fuck kisses at the Anne Frank Museum, Daisy?! What's next, they fuck at a concentration camp?"
"Right, we've gone on a tangent," I stopped him. "Just have your fucking party. Do whatever you want. I'll stay in my room. I promise."
"I don't know what a tangent is, but no, you can't stay in your room."
"Why not?"
"Cause I don't want people fucking in my room," he started. He didn't need to go on. I knew exactly what he was thinking.
I took a step closer, ready to just barge inside, even if that meant breaking his good leg, but he saw it coming, and smiled, a smug, smug smile. Then he closed the door on my face. I let out a scream of frustration and started ringing the bell. Again, and again, and again. At one point, I just kept my finger there, the buzz now a constant sound coming from inside the house. I didn't care what the neighbors might think. They had heard much, much worse. Zoey and I's movie marathons weren't exactly quiet.
Jason opened the door again.
"Do you want me to call the police?" he asked.
I frowned, "What exactly are you gonna tell them?"
"That you're having one of your manic episodes." He smiled. "How about that?"
"If anyone's manic, it's you. Now let me in. I have things to do."
I wanted to take a bath, eat a big bowl of cereal, and read my book in bed. Was that too much to ask?
"You're being such a spoiled little brat. Just go to Zoey's," he whined. He really whined. Like he was five years old. Mentally, he very well could be.
"She's not home."
"Don't you have any other friends?" Still wining.
"You know I don't."
"That's so sad." Now he was just making fun of me.
"Right," I stopped him. "Can I come in now?"
"No! Look, I've been feeling like a bag of shit for the past weeks. I broke my leg. I can't play football. Tell me, Daisy, how am I gonna get a sports scholarship if I'm not doing any fucking sports?"
He took a deep breath.
"Can't you just let me have this one night?"
I showed him my middle finger, "I'm gonna call mom."
"Yes please!" He begged. "Do that! Mom will know what to do. Now bye, I have to go get dressed."
He was right only about having to get dressed. He was wearing his boxer shorts, a t-shirt with a stain on it, and the cast on his leg. Nothing more, nothing less.
But he was wrong about mom. She wouldn't know what to do. Or she would, but it would always be in his favor, never mine. My parents had never been afraid of playing favorites with their children, regardless of how socially repulsive that might be.
Still, I called my mom. She picked up only after a while, at which point, she asked very seriously, "This better not be about your brother's party?"
I opened my mouth. Then closed it again.
"Yes, honey," she went on, "He asked us if he could have a party while we were gone. We said yes. What's the matter?"
"He locked me out of the house."
"Oh, honey, you're making it out to be something that it's just not. Your brother's going through a lot right now. Let him have this."
"He can have it all he wants. I just wanna be able to go to my room. I told him I would stay in there for the whole night. He's just being a bitch â"
"Daisy," my mom stopped me. "You know that's not reasonable. You're not gonna spend the whole night locked in your room at your own brother's party."
"Then where am I supposed to go?"
"Zoey's?"
"She's at a concert."
"Without you?" She sounded very surprised. If I didn't know any better, I would be too.
"It's a long story." Which I was still very much upset about. Except now wasn't the time.
"Well, go to your grandma's house then. I'm sure she'll be more than happy to have you."
"This is bananas."
"Well, I don't know what to tell you. Make some banana bread," she said. "Your grandma has a great recipe."
I hung up. Not before saying goodbye of course. And I love you. Mom always demanded I said it. I sat down on the side of the road. I was still in my stupid dress. Soon I would be cold in it too. I had to think. There was no way I was going to my grandma's house. I was still recovering from the last time I had been there.
She had pinched my stomach with her arthritis-stricken fingers and said, "Whoever's feeding you needs to stop."
I was pretty sure I had put on even more weight since then. She definitely wouldn't let me have any banana bread tonight. That day, she had also asked me if I had finally managed to get a boyfriend, and when I said no, she said, "Well, of course, no one likes a feminazi."
I had never heard the word feminazi before, but she had made a case of explaining that it was the coming together of the words feminist and Nazi. Then she had asked me what I planned to do with my future. I had meant to lie, but Jason hadn't let me. When my grandma heard I wanted to pursue a career in music, she threatened me with a heart attack and said something about girls naked on TV and living with my parents until I was fifty.
So no, I was not going to my grandma's house.
I took a deep breath and focused some more. Here were the facts of the matter:
1) I was starting to get really cold.
2) I had no place to spend the night.
3) Zoey was at a concert.
4) Zoey's mom was working the night shift.
5) I had no money to get a room anywhere.
6) It would be dark soon.
7) I did not own a pepper spray.
8) I could not fight to save my life.
9) Luke.
Fuck!
I grabbed my phone and opened my conversation with him. Half an hour later I was ringing the bell to this house. He opened the door after only a few seconds, looking very surprised that I was there, standing in front of him, on the front porch of his house.
"Fuck, you're actually here," he managed, eyes wide open.
I wanted to disappear into thin air.
"You said I could come."
"I thought you were joking!" he explained.
"How was that a joke?"
He pulled out his phone from the back pocket of his jeans and read the first message I had sent him, "Hi, sorry, this is really awkward for me, and I feel horrible asking you this, but is there a chance I could spend the night at yours tonight?"
I opened my mouth, but Luke kept on going, "I was really confused so I went: you wanna spend the night at mine? with me? To which you replied: yes. So I wrote, sarcastically: sure, come over."
"Right, I didn't get the sarcasm," I said. It seemed I would have to go and spend the night at my grandma's after all. I went on, "Well, okay then. I'm sorry, I'm just gonna go â"
He grabbed my arm before I could even turn around, "No, wait. You can stay, of course. I justâ I thought there was a punchline in there somewhere. I stand corrected. Please come on in."
He let go of me and made way for me to come inside, one arm stretched out in front of him in welcome. I walked in. One foot. Then the other. Was I really going to spend the night at Luke Martin's house? It probably wasn't a good idea. I should have just waited at the front steps of Zoey's house for her to come back. But then again, when was she going to come back? I hadn't heard from her in a while.
I turned to Luke and forced a smile, "Thank you, and hm, I'm sorry I put you in this situation â"
"You don't have to say sorry," he stopped me. "You're more than welcome to stay."
"Thank you." I smiled.
I had expected reaching out to him would mean having to deal with all of his jokes, probably something about me wanting to sleep with him, definitely something that would make me want to throw myself in front of a car. But except for that miscommunication at first, things seemed good.
I looked around. The entryway was full of photos of Luke and a man I assumed was his dad. No sight of his mom.
"Can I ask what happened?" he started then. "I mean, are you okay?"
I looked back at him. He was staring at my face, then the dress I was still wearing.
He pointed at it, "You were great by the way."
"Thank you." I smiled. "And yeah, everything's okay. The thing is, well, it's hard to explain. I would actually prefer not to explain it at all. If that's okay with you."
He nodded, "Yeah, sure, hm, do you wannaâ Do wanna go up to my room then?"
I wanted to laugh. Most days my answer would be no, fucking no, please no, but tonight was different. Tonight it would have to be a yes. I followed him upstairs and then across the hallway to the door with a poster of Luke Skywalker on it.
"Wow," was the first thing that came to my mind.
"My parents really like Star Wars," he told me.
"I never saw the movies," I admitted, and when he looked at me in shock I put on an apologetic smile, "Which star wins?"
"I'm not even gonna entertain you with an answer," he said, but he was smiling as he reached for the doorknob.
I opened my mouth to tease him some more, but we were walking in now and his room deserved my full attention. The walls were covered in posters from movies and tv shows, and there were bookshelves too, a lot of them. He had all of the books from the tv adaptations that featured his walls, of course, and then some more. A lot more. It went on and on. I kept looking around.
His bed, pushed into a corner of his room, was unmade in the full sense of the word. It looked like a very excited dog had been in it. Except I had seen no dog yet and I didn't think Luke had ever mentioned one. It was very likely that Luke was the dog.
I spotted the book on his bedside table. Slaughterhouse V, the reading for English. He had barely started it. I hadn't either. The bookmark was an old movie ticket. He had gone alone.
"Hot," I said, mostly to myself.
"What?"
"Cool," I lied. "I said cool."
"Right."
"I'm actually in shock," I admitted, and he laughed. "Your room is something else."
"That means a lot coming from you." I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not.
I looked at his desk next. He had been trying to do the homework for World History. I pointed at it, a smile already on my face. This was going to be good.
"That's totally wrong."
He walked closer and looked at it. His take was that it wasn't, of course. He had been working on it for an hour already and was very proud of how it was turning out.
"So you actually think Elizabeth of York was a witch? "
"Well, no, but that's what they thought back then. I've watched a lot of tv shows about the English monarchy. I know almost too much about England, trust me."
I laughed out loud, "That's fiction, Luke. Sure, some it is historically accurate, but most of it is made up for dramatic purposes. They give you a disclaimer and everything. What do you think creative liberties mean?"
He looked down at his notebook again, where he had written an entire essay in ugly writing about the causes of the English reformation. According to him, it had been because of Elizabeth York's prophecy that Henry VIII would bear no male heirs if he were to marry Catherine. Interesting, but just not true.
Luke shook his head, "I'm not gonna write it again."
I bent down, grabbed his pencil, and scratched the part about the prophecy, "There."
He looked over my shoulder, very unimpressed, "I still think the witchcraft version is better."
I pointed at all the posters of fantasy fictional worlds on his wall, "I can see that."
He jumped to his bed, "What? You don't agree?"
I collapsed on his desk chair, "Absolutely I do, but I like my grades like I like my men."
"How?"
"Above average."
He laughed, then he got very serious, "So what's your favorite?"
"My favorite what? Men?" I asked. "I actually don't like men. I'm just attracted to them."
He laughed, "I actually meant favorite book, or show, or movie, I don't know."
I leaned back on the chair and smiled, "Are you sure you're ready for this conversation?"
He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, a smirk on his lips, "Absolutely I am."
We started talking. And talking. And talking. And then talking some more. Eventually, the sky outside became pitch black, interrupted only by the streetlights, the occasional headlights of a passing car, and the lights coming from the windows of other people's houses. Luke had turned on the lights of his room at some point, but I hadn't realized it.
I was spinning in his chair, still talking, when his dad called him down for dinner.
I stopped spinning altogether, "I didn't even realize your dad was home."
Luke dragged himself up to his feet, "I didn't hear him get in either."
He was looking at me, waiting for me to get up and follow him outside the room.
"Are you sure he doesn't mind that I spend the night?" I asked him before getting up.
He smiled, a very big, very knowing smile, "Oh no, he doesn't mind, trust me."
"And your mom?"
Luke opened the door, "She definitely won't mind either. She doesn't live here."
"Oh," I managed, following him outside, "Sorry."
"It's fine. They've been divorced for a while. I've had plenty of time to get used to it."
I followed him down the stairs and then into the kitchen, where his dad was trying not to get burnt taking a meatloaf out of the oven. He almost dropped it when he saw me.
"Oh, hi!"
"This is Daisy, dad. We have a â" He looked at me for help.
"A group project for World History," I managed. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
His dad, a tall man with a receding hairline and thick glasses, put down the meatloaf on the table and stretched his hand out for me.
"The pleasure's all mine." He was smiling too much. I took his hand. "I thought Luke was gay."
I laughed. Luke said, "For fuck's sake."
"It would be fine if he was, of course. I've had that conversation with him already."
I turned to Luke and pretended to be confused, "You haven't told him yet?"
"Tell me what?" his dad asked, eyes very big behind his glasses.
"That I'm gay, I guess," Luke said before I could, rolling his eyes. He didn't seem to think I was funny. Shame. "I'm not, dad. Daisy's just trying to be funny at the expense of an entire community who's frankly had enough of being a punchline."
There was silence for a moment. Then I admitted, "Well, now I feel like an idiot."
Luke smiled, "When do you not?"
"Almost never." I smiled. "I really like myself."
"Right," his dad said. "Let's eat. I'm starving."
We took a seat on the mismatched chairs around the table. The meatloaf smelled delicious. It tasted delicious too. I wondered if he had made it from scratch, and how we hadn't heard a thing from upstairs all this time.
"So," his dad started, fixing his glasses on his nose bridge. "How's my son at school?"
"Oh, I'm sure most teachers would say he's a pleasure to have in class." They would absolutely not say that about Luke. Ever. He fell asleep every other day, and when he didn't, he was too busy being the class clown.
Mr. Martin turned to Luke then, "I like her. She's willing to lie for you."
I was confused, and he could tell, because he laughed, and said, "I've had enough parent-teacher meetings to know Luke's no pleasure to have anywhere."
"Wow, dad, thanks," Luke said, putting his fork down.
"I mean anywhere at school," his dad clarified.
I focused on the food on my plate. They went on.
Luke said, "For your information, Aida once said I was a good boy."
His dad ignored him with a smile and turned to me. They had probably had that conversation many times before. I tried to swallow the food in my mouth as fast as I could.
"So what are your plans for the future? College's right around the corner, isn't it?" he said, like I needed the reminder. I absolutely did not.
I swallowed hard, "Anywhere I could sing would be nice."
His dad made a face, the same my grandma had made that day. I wanted the chair to swallow me. He was about to ask: Can you really make a living out of singing though? You have to be really good to make it out there. It's not for everyone. Can you even sing?
Luke spoke before his dad could even open his mouth, as if he knew what was coming too and wanted to stop it. Was it for my sake? Probably not.
"Well," he started, "my dad wants me to be a doctor. How funny is that?"
"I don't think it's funny at all," his dad stopped him. He was looking at me. "He just needs to work a little harder. He can do it, right?"
I opened my mouth and then closed it again.
Luke went on, "I'm failing Biology, but sure."
His dad looked at him in shock, "You are?"
Luke laughed, "No, I'm kidding. I wish I was though. That way maybe you â"
"Luke thinks he can make a living out of making silly little movies," his dad stopped him, looking at me in search for support. "Please tell him that's not a thing people do."
"Dad!" Luke said before I could even open my mouth, his own almost full. We waited until he swallowed his food. Then he looked at me, and said, "My dad enjoys movies as much as the next one, but when I tell him I might wanna go to film school, he calls me crazy. Who does he think produces the stuff he watches? I don't know, maybe his dentist."
I laughed. I couldn't help myself. His dad just shook his head.
"Film school is not even a thing," he said.
"It absolutely is," Luke countered.
"It's true. Film schools are real," I agreed. I also thought that wanting to go to one was extremely hot, but I kept it to myself.
"We'll see," his dad said, and that was that. This was probably another conversation they'd had many times already. After that, the topic changed to the homecoming game.
Luke had been the water boy, like he was for most games. His dad thought he should be a quarterback instead, but Luke could barely make it to the end of gym class without having an asthma attack, so I doubted it. I didn't tell this to his dad though.
Instead, he told him about my performance. Said, once again, that it was great. Zoey had messaged saying she saw the live stream from her phone in a toilet stall at the concert venue. She said it was great too. She had even sent me a photo of her with tears in her eyes. Then she had gone back to the concert. Something about having to find them on the front row. She had promised to stay in the car, but apparently, things hadn't gone the way she expected. I wasn't surprised, but I was also trying not to think about it. She had messaged a while ago. Still alive, it said. That was enough for me.
Luke's dad insisted he took care of the dishes after we were done. Said he just had to put them in the washing machine. Easy as that. When Luke asked if I could stay over, he said yes without even thinking about it. If it had been the other way around, me asking my parents to have a boy spend the night, the answer would automatically be no. Absolutely no. Girls always had to be careful. Boys just had to have fun.
I didn't say anything. I just followed Luke into his bathroom, where he gave me a brand-new toothbrush, a t-shirt, and an old pair of shorts to sleep in.
I smiled, "Thank you."
"No problem."
He left so I could change. The t-shirt was from Harvard University. When I asked, Luke said it had been his dad's back in the day. He was standing next to me, brushing his teeth in his own pajamas, just shorts like the ones he had given me, and a plain t-shirt.
"He's a marriage counselor," he told me, mouth full of toothpaste. He spat it on the sink. "Ironic, right?"
"Why?"
"He's divorced," Luke reminded me. "He's a marriage counselor and he's divorced. He published a book about marriage and everything. He has clients booking appointments with him months and months in advance. He should be the best at being married, right?"
"I don't think it's that simple," I said, my own mouth burning with the menthol toothpaste.
"Yeah, I know," he admitted, watching me spit. "I just think it's funny. Life."
"Yeah," I said, watching him look for something in the drawers under the sink. He handed me face wash.
"To take off your makeup," he explained. "I brought it with me from my mom's house by mistake once. Never took it back."
I smiled, "Cause you thought one day you might bring a girl home?"
"No," he said. "I just like opening the drawer and seeing it there. Makes me think we all still live under the same roof."
"Oh," I said, and I thought that was the end of that, but I kept thinking about it, about Luke, the person, and Luke, the idea.
Later on the couch, under enough blankets to keep me warm for the entire winter, I decided Luke was like the songs I usually skipped because they were always playing on the radio and the lyrics seemed meaningless and repetitive every time, and then one day, like this one, I left it on, and I actually listened to it. I paid attention, and it turned out it wasn't so bad. Not at all.
I fell asleep after almost an hour thinking about this, only to wake up again a few hours later to the sound of someone screaming somewhere upstairs. At least it sounded like screaming.
I didn't move at first. I just waited. Maybe I had dreamt it. It was very likely that I had. Except I was awake, and someone was still screaming somewhere in the room right above the living room. Luke's room.
I got up. He was probably just having a nightmare. Should I wake him up? Cut the nightmare short? Maybe before he got killed in it? I went up the stairs, my phone's flashlight on, my feet naked against the floor. I called for Luke from outside his room, loud enough that only he would hear it, but nothing happened. Nothing new at least. He was still screaming stop, again, and again, and again.
I turned the doorknob. Nothing happened. It was locked. I tried again. Still locked. Then I realized the key was inside the lock. His dad had locked it from the outside. But why? Was he a werewolf? Was the moon full tonight? No. He was probably just a sleepwalker.
I opened the door and walked inside. Luke was sleeping upside down, his feet on his pillow, and his head at the foot of the bed. When I walked closer, I realized he was sweating too. Sweating and struggling against something only he could see.
"Luke," I called. "Wake up."
He didn't. I tried it louder.
"You're having a nightmare."
He still didn't hear me. I stepped even closer. He was crying. Not just crying, sobbing. I felt a pain in my own chest and reached for his shoulder. I would slap him awake if I had to, but he moved before I could, closing his hand around my wrist, so hard, I almost screamed.
"Fuck, Luke, you're hurting me, you bitch!" The grip became even tighter, and I wanted to scream even more. I was going to if he didn't let go soon. "Luke! Just let go!"
He didn't. Instead, he screamed again, his voice unrecognizable, a sob that brought tears to my eyes. He kept screaming stop. Again. And again. And again.
Where was his dad? Didn't he hear this? Was this something that usually happened? Was he used to this? Who would get used to this? This was horrible.
"Luke, please," I begged, but he still didn't let go. He just tightened his grip.
I took a deep breath and moved for the floor next to his bed. If I was going to be in pain, I better be sitting down for it. I took another breath.
"It's okay," I said. Both to myself and him. "It's just a dream. It's not real."
Except his fingers around my wrist were very much real, and I was sure soon I would stop feeling my hand. I started crying. I didn't know what else to do. Should I call for his dad? Should I fight my way out of his grip? What if he fought back?
I was crying even more. I had to calm down. Calm down and think. I breathed in. Then out. Then in again. I kept doing it until somehow Luke matched my breathing next to me.
"It's okay," I said again. "It's just a dream."
I kept saying it. Eventually, I was singing it. My head on his mattress, eyes closed, cheeks still wet. Luke stopped screaming eventually. But his hand never left my wrist. He kept holding on to it.
It was okay.
It was just a dream.