Passengers She sits alone. In art, senior seminar, lunch, on
the train. She always sits alone. If I was alone I’d find something to do.
Read or work on homework or doodle, fake it, so if I was alone it’d look like I wanted to be alone. Not her. She sits—slumps—in her seat on the train
and stares out the window, down the aisle. She watches me getting on. I don’t look away. Every day we have this stare
down. Ten, twenty seconds. We never talk or say hello. Never, How’s it going?
What’s up? I’m not sure she even knows my name. I sit with my group, always. Becca
says, “Did you hear what happened at Ozzy’s party?” I have to force myself to listen. Or care. I have
to concentrate hard on not looking at her. “Ozzy and Laura hooked
up.” People talk about her. Guys mostly. They call her
a dyke. Girls call her a guy. She isn’t a guy. Or a girl, really. She’s
“questionable.” Gender fluid. She’s not committing one way or the other, let’s
just say. Who says you have to? Why do we have to? If I want to dress like a
guy, so what? I don’t, but if I did. “They’re together now.” She wears shapeless clothes—long-sleeved men’s
shirts and baggy pants. A loose vest over the shirt occasionally. Scuffed
leather shoes, like Marten’s, but not label. She’d never wear labels. She
defies labels. I wonder what she’s covering. Or covering up. My eyes glue to the back of her head. She used to have shaggy short hair that someone
had taken dull scissors to and hacked off in a rage. This year she’d come
back from summer vacation with orangey-platinum streaks, clumps all over her
head. Angry, but colorful. The tiny hoop in her left earlobe and three studs
up the rim of her ear are the most feminine things about her. Besides her
lips. Her lips are wide, puffy, unnaturally large, overly ripe lips. And—get
this—she wears red lipstick. Not cherry red or ruby red. More like brutal,
nasty red. Not glossy. Matte. Guys make smooching sounds behind her back.
Girls go, Slut. She’s not a slut, or jock, or stoner. People
don’t know what to label her. You have to be a token, you know, to have a
seat on the train. On a whim, I get up and slide into the seat
across and behind her. Becca calls, “Tam,” and I
wave her off, like maybe I want to sit alone for once? Better view. The lips.
God, they’re huge. Like a slow-mo close-up, they part and her tongue extends
and circles the outlined oval of her mouth, moistening every millimeter of
lip skin. Her head slowly turns and her eyes raise
to meet mine. She fixes on me, suggesting something lewd with her tongue. I jerk and CRASH! the
stack of books on my lap fall to the floor, jolting everyone on the train
awake. She looks back over my shoulder, to my group, impassive. “Where are you going?” Becca
asks when I stand up at lunch and lift my tray. I don’t answer. It’s crazy. I don’t know why I’m
doing this. The sight of her sitting alone at the table on the cafeteria
patio when it’s below zero out. What’s that about? No one would think to eat
outside today; no one’s even gone out to smoke at the wall. A suction, a force, a magnetic pull draws me to
the outside door. She startles a little when I slide in the bench across from
her. “Anyone sitting here?” I ask. She blinks. Doesn’t say anything for a long
minute. Then, “Yeah. I’m saving it for Mr. Right.” That makes me laugh—almost. She pushes up to leave and I lunge across the
table to grab her arm. “I just want to talk to you.” Her gaze hovers over my hand. It rises slowly to
my face. Stare down. I’m not letting go. I’ve gotten this far. She shifts her
eyes over my head. Hold, hold, What’s there? The wall. A dead tree. Freezing is the operative word here. “Could we go
inside?” I ask. “It’s like fifty below. Your lips are blue.” It’s meant to be a joke, but I’m the only one
laughing—inside. Her head swivels to take in the crowded
cafeteria. “I know a place,” I say, “where we can be alone.” That gets her attention. I didn’t mean it like
that. Did I? She eyes me again, up and down. Slowly, with that mocking
sensuality, she smiles. I release her arm and hug myself in my thin hoodie. If I’d known I was trekking to the “Why?” “What?” She’s smiling at me. Like her face is stuck. Her
eyes are surgical probes. Why? It’s a good question. Why now? The train
wreck. That’s why now. The train wreck in A train wreck in It jolts me awake and my heart pounds. A long
time has to pass, lying awake in the dark, for that vision to dissipate. In
that blitz of time, the interminable instant before certain death, do people
reach out for each other? Do they embrace or hold hands or hang on to each
other? Or do they die alone, not knowing the person sitting next to them? Not
even knowing their name. I mean, they’re going to be spending eternity
together. They should say hello. Always in the vision she’s there. We’re falling. Our train clatters over the I meet her eyes and say, “I just want to talk to
you. Is that okay?” I don’t say, I want to know you.
Who you are. I don’t say, I want to get behind your
façade, throw back your cover and reveal you. I want to see your lips move,
watch them part, understand how they connect to the rest of your person. I
want you to know my name. Between a slight gap in
her lips, I see her teeth chatter. Most of all I want to understand this
power you have over me. This…surge. Her inner lips are a bruising shade of
purple. Mine must be too. We’re both shivering. “Come on. You made your point.” “Which is?” she asks. Okay, that’s it. This isn’t worth it. This is so
not worth it. Stupid train in “Just a minute.” My charge for the door slows. She breaks up the rest of her sandwich and tosses
it toward the wall. Four or five sparrows flitter down off the tree, hop
over, chitter, vie for
choice pickings. Retrieving her backpack from beside her on the bench, she stands
and says, “I’m ready.” Oh she’s
ready. I’m derailed and she’s ready. I feel a sense of relief, though. A shiver
of…excitement. (To be continued…) |
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