I’ll Give You the Sun(44)
Author: Jandy Nelson

“Got lucky,” I say, trying not to trip over my own feet as I pass him, my hands deep in my sweatshirt pockets, one wrapped around the onion, the other around a bag of herbs that promise protection. I say, “You should really trade in that thing for a Hippity Hop. Much safer.” For the female gender, I don’t add.

“What’s a Hippity Hop?” he says to my retreating back. I don’t notice how incredibly cute the words Hippity Hop sound coming out of his mouth with that accent.

Without turning around, I reply, “A large, round rubber animal you bounce around on. You hold on to the ears.”

“Oh, of course, a Space Hopper, then.” He laughs. “We call them Space Hoppers in England. I had a green one,” he yells after me. “A dinosaur I named Godzilla. I was a very original thinker.” Mine was a purple horse I named Pony. I was also an original thinker. “Well, nice seeing you again, whoever you are. The photos of you are brilliant. I stopped by the church a few times looking for you. Thought you might want to see them.”

He was looking for me?

I don’t turn around; my cheeks are burning up. A few times? Be cool. Keep cool. I take a breath and with my back still to him, I raise my hand and wave bye exactly like he did that day in church. He laughs again. Oh Clark Gable. Then I hear, “Hey, wait a minute.”

I consider ignoring this, but can’t resist the impulse (you see?) and turn around.

“Just realized I have an extra,” he says, pulling an orange out of the pocket of his leather jacket. He tosses it to me.

He’s got to be kidding. Is this really happening? The orange! As in, the anti-lemon:

If a boy gives a girl an orange, her love for him will multiply

I catch it in my open palm.

“Oh no you don’t,” I say, tossing it right back to him.

“Odd response,” he says, catching it. “Definitely an odd response. Think I’ll try again. Would you like an orange? I have an extra.”

“I’d like to give you the orange, actually.”

One of his eyebrows arches. “Well, yes, that’s fine and good, but it’s not yours to bloody give.” He holds it up, smiling. “This is my orange.”

Is it possible I’ve found the only two people in Lost Cove I amuse rather than disturb?

“How about this,” I say. “You give it to me and I’ll give it back to you. Sound acceptable?”

And yes, I’m flirting, but this is necessary. And wow, it’s like riding a bicycle.

“All right then.” He walks up to me, close, so close I could reach up and trace his scars with my finger if I wanted to. They’re like two hastily sewn seams. And I see that his brown eye has a splash of green in it and the green one a splash of brown. Like Cezanne painted them. Impressionist eyes. And his lashes are black as soot, exquisite. He’s so close I could run my fingers through his shiny, tangly brown hair, run them across the faint spidery wrinkles that fan out at his temples, across the dark worrying shadows beneath. Across his red satiny lips. I don’t think other guys’ lips are this red. And I know their faces aren’t this colorful, this vivid, this lived-in, this superbly off-kilter, this brimming with dark, unpredictable music.

NOT THAT I EFFING NOTICE.

Nor that he’s regarding my face with the same intensity I am his. We’re two paintings staring at each other across a room. A painting I’ve seen before, I’m sure of it. But where and when? If I’d met this guy, I’d remember. Maybe he looks like an actor I’ve seen in a movie? Or some musician? He definitely has that sexy musician hair. Bass player hair.

For the record, breathing is overrated. The brain can go six whole minutes without oxygen. I’m at three airless minutes when he says, “Well, then. The matter at hand.” He holds up the orange. “Would you like an orange, whoever you are?”

“Yes, thank you,” I reply, taking it, then say, “And now I’d like to give you an orange, whoever you are.”

“No thank you,” he says, slipping his hands in his pockets. “I have another.” All holy hell breaks loose on his face as it erupts into a smile and then in a flash he’s up the path, the steps, and in the studio.

Not so fast, buddy.

I walk over to his motorcycle, slip the orange into the helmet.

Then I use all my self-control not to burst into song—he went to the church looking for me! A few times! Probably to tell me what he meant that day when he said, “You’re her.” I head home, kicking myself because I got so flustered I didn’t even think to ask what his relationship to The Rock Star is. Or his name. Or how old he is. Or who his favorite photographer is. Or—

Snap.

Out.

Of.

It.

I stop walking. Remembering. The boycott is no lark. It’s a necessity. I can’t forget that. I can’t. Especially not today on the anniversary of the accident.

Not any day.

If bad luck knows who you are, become someone else

What I need to do is make this sculpture and try to make things right with my mother.

What I need to do is wish with my hands.

What I must do is eat every last lemon in Lost Cove by morning.

• • •

It’s the next afternoon and I’m hurrying down the grimy fungal hallway in Guillermo Garcia’s studio because no one came to the door when I knocked. I’m sweating and nervous and reconsidering the last sixteen years. Under my arm is my CSA portfolio of broken blobs and bowls. The only reason I even have a portfolio is because we’re required to take a progression of pictures of every piece we make. My progressions are insane, certainly not an advertisement of ability—more like an accounting of a ceramic shop after an earthquake.

Right before I enter the mailroom, I hear the English-accented voice and a whole percussion section bursts to life in my chest. I back against the wall, try to silence the pounding. I was hoping he wouldn’t be here. And hoping he would be. And hoping I’d stop hoping he would be. However, I’ve come prepared.

Carrying a burnt candle stub will extinguish feelings of love should they arise

(Front left pocket.)

Soak a mirror in vinegar to deflect unwanted attention

(Back pocket.)

To change the leanings of the heart, wear a wasp nest on the head

(Not this desperate. Yet.)

Alas, perhaps I’m not prepared for this: sex noises. Unmistakable sex noises. Moaning and groaning and obscene murmurings. Is this why nobody answered the door? In an English accent, I hear: “Holy Christ, so good. God, soooooo damn good. Better than any drug, I mean any. Better than anything.” Followed by a long drawl of a moan.