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Writing Exercise #1
Place: An abandoned fairground
Dialogue: "They told me it couldn't happen"
Object: A mug
Silence is a beautiful thing in small doses. Necessary even. When I’m reading or sleeping or on the toilet, please give me quiet. For the love of god please say something.
“Did you hear me?” I ask him in a choked whisper. My mind contemplates then the horrible things that dwell behind his beautiful sea green eyes. I remember the first time I looked into them. I knew then that I would likely let him go all the way, or at least get to third base. There were times when I could tell exactly what he was thinking from his eyes. They spoke volumes when he never would. It is one of the things that I love about him. Now I see only a faint reflection from the light that illuminates his skin.
He looks around like he is expecting someone else to tell him how to respond. Please say something. Anything.
“I love you,” he says to me, his brows furrowed deeply. I’ve seen similar expressions on the faces of those alien-looking men in weight lifting competitions or when athletes try to come up with witty comebacks. It's not attractive and most definitely not a face that you want to see coupled with the words ‘I love you.’ He sighs then and looks down at his worn converse sneakers. I see the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth when he sees the note I wrote to him last month on the sides of his soles. The smile vanishes before my heart has a chance to find It's way out of my throat.
“Is that it?” I ask, trying my hardest not to sound irritated. I love you to death Andy, but sometimes you have the emotional range of a dish towel. I don’t say that to him of course. It wouldn’t help anything.
“What else do you want me to say? They told me it couldn’t happen.” He turns and starts walking past the broken down tents toward the abandoned carousel. I pause for a moment before following. In truth I’m not entirely sure what I expect him to say. Maybe a little excitement or support.
“I don’t know,” I say once I’ve caught up to him. I don’t want to put him on guard so I walk beside him. “You could be a little supportive. Who told you it couldn’t happen?”
“My church group.” He stops at a movement in the grass and reaches for something too dark for me to see. I strain my eyes against the darkness to make out the small object in his hands. I see the rubble from the shattered tent. There are stuffed bears and old trinkets all around. It's the sort of place I would imagine to be in a post apocolyptic film with Edward Norton, directed by Michael Bay or the guy that made the movie Hostel. He offers the mug to me and I take it. It's a small ceramic mug, the kind you might get as a prize for popping the most balloons or picking the right duck from a row. It's a black mug with a magnifying glass. Underneath in ornate gray writing are the words Get a Clue. The irony makes me laugh out loud.
“What is it?” he asks with an amused look on his face.
“Why do you like it here so much?” I ask, avoiding his question. Best not to damage his ego too much in one night.
“I don’t know. It's quiet. I like to imagine that where I’m standing could be the happiest memory from someone’s childhood.”
This is why I love him. He isn’t vapid or sanctimonious. He is just himself and he makes no effort to be anything else. It's also what I hate most about him.
“I’m pregnant,” I say to him again, this time avoiding his fierce and uncomprehending stare.
“I heard you,” he says. Nothing else.
“And?” My heart is pounding now. Naturally I assume the worst.
“And I love you.” He smiles.
“You don’t have anything else to say about it?”
“What else do you want me to say?” I don’t know, maybe that you will stay with me or that we can do this together…even some choice insults would be better than whatever it is that I’m getting now. Andy is a doll, but sometimes he’s oblivious. Now is one of those times.
“I don’t know,” I lie. What else can I do? If he doesn’t want to help me raise a baby, no one is going to force him.
“Have you told your mom yet?” he asks.
“No.” The reply is filled with more sobs than I expect. “I don’t know how.”
My mother is Catholic. As far as she knows I don’t even know what sex is, let alone how it feels. When I turned fourteen, my older sister brought her gay friend to my birthday party. My mother couldn’t stop talking about it to all of the other moms. She started by asking my sister’s friend when she decided to become gay and mentioned how appropriate it was that she grew up in Detroit, which is what she imagines hell to look like. It was awkward.
“Make sure to bring plenty of tissues,” he says.
My heart sank. There was so much in that seemingly insignificant statement. That’s it then. He wants me to do this alone. Of course he does. He is only seventeen. What high school boy will volunteer to raise a child with a girl you’ve only slept with four times. We’ve only been dating for five months. I don’t know what I expected. My eyes swelled and stung with salted expectations.
“I will,” I say, trying to sound stronger than I felt. He looks at me and I see sympathy written in decorative letters on his forehead. His eyes are wet too, but he will never mention it. This is it then. We had a good run. Five months in high school is like two years in the real world. It will be good for him in the long run I think.
“I love you,” he says again. There is no irony in his voice and I know that he means it.
“I know.” It's all I can think to say. “I should go.”
“Yeah.” He kisses my forehead.
I look at him for what I know is the last time. He looks at me and smiles a bittersweet smile. I wave at him and remember the old dirty mug that is still in my hand, which are covered with mud from the cup, but I don’t care. I turn away and slowly walk through the wreckage of brightly colored hot dog stands and giant rotating tea cups. I suppose these things happen to everyone, I think as I make my way home, wondering how on earth to tell my mother.
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