I’ll Give You the Sun(54)
Author: Jandy Nelson

He raises an eyebrow when he sees I’m lying on the floor like a corpse but doesn’t comment. “White flag,” he says, holding the mostly unwhite towel up. “I come in peace.” I hoist myself onto my elbows. “Look, you were right,” he says. “Well, partially. It is an act. I am an act. Totally full of it. About ninety-eight percent of the time anyway. My intentions are rarely honorable. It’s not terrible to be called out for once.” He walks over to the wall. “Watching? Ladies and gents: The Lean.” He presses one shoulder into the wall, crosses his arms, cocks his head, squints his eyes, mugging James Dean better than James Dean. I can’t help but laugh, which was the point. He smiles. “All right then. Moving on.” He breaks the pose and begins pacing the small room, trial lawyer style. “I need to talk to you about those oranges and the red ribbon around your wrist and that unbelievably large onion you’ve been carrying around for days now . . .” He gives me a gotcha look, then reaches into his front jeans pocket and pulls out a chipped conch-shaped shell. “I wanted to let you know I don’t go anywhere without my mum’s magic seashell because if I do I will die, probably within minutes.” This makes me laugh again. It’s alarming how charming he can be. He tosses it to me. “Furthermore, I have conversations in my dreams with my mother, who passed away three years ago. Sometimes,” he says, “I go to sleep in the middle of the afternoon, like I did today, just to see if she’ll talk to me. You’re the only person I’ve ever told this, but I owe you for eavesdropping before.” He walks over, snatches the seashell out of my hands, grinning boyishly, adorably. “I knew you’d want to pinch my shell. Not happening. It’s my most beloved possession.” He slips it back into his pocket, stands over me, his eyes glinting, his smile headlong, anarchic, utterly irresistible.

Lord. Have. Mercy. On. My. Boycotting. Soul.

The next thing I know, he’s at eye level and then lying down on the filthy floor next to me. Yes. A sound comes out of me that could only be described as a squeal of delight. He’s crossed his arms over his chest and shut his eyes as mine were when he walked through the door. “Not bad,” he says. “It’s like we’re at the beach.”

I resume the position beside him. “Or in our coffins.”

“What I like about you is how you always look on the bright side.”

Laughing, again. “I do like that you came down on the floor with me,” I say, looking on the bright side, feeling on the bright side, knowing there’s no one in my life who’d lie on the floor with me like this. Or who carries a shell in their pocket so they don’t die. Or who goes to sleep so they can talk to their dead mother.

A comfortable quiet falls over us. Really comfortable, like we’ve lain on filthy floors corpselike together for several lifetimes now.

“The poem was by Elizabeth Barrett Browning,” I tell him.

“‘How do I love thee?’” he croons. “‘Let me count the ways.’”

“That’s the one,” I say, thinking: He’s the one. And some thoughts once thought are very hard to unthink. “It is kind of like being on the beach,” I say, growing more and more elated. I roll onto my side, cradle my head in my hand, and secretly stare at Oscar’s madhouse face. Until he pops open an eye and catches me admiring him—you are so busted, his smile says. He closes the eye. “Shame you’re not interested.”

“I’m not!” I cry, falling back down on the sandy beach. “Artistic curiosity is all. You have an unusual face.”

“And you have a mind-blowingly beautiful one.”

“You’re such a flirt,” I say, effervescing.

“It’s been said.”

“What else has been said?”

“Hmm. Well, unfortunately, it’s been said very recently I stay away from you or I get castrated.” He sits up and spins his hands in the air like Guillermo. “Castration, Oscore! Understand? You have seen me use the circular saw, yes?” He relaxes into being himself again. “Which is actually why I’ve come in here waving the white flag. I have this way of ruining things and I don’t want to ruin this. You’re the first person besides me who’s made G. laugh in years. That he’s teaching again is a miracle. We’re talking loaves and fishes, CJ. You’ve no idea.” A miracle? “It’s like you’ve cast this spell on him. Around you . . . I don’t know . . . he’s okay again. The guy’s been bloody ferocious for a very long time.” Is it possible I’m Guillermo’s meadow like he’s mine? “Plus we now know you both converse with invisible mates.” He winks. “So”—he presses his hands together—“per your request and his, this is how it’s going to be from now on. When I want to ask you to abandoned buildings or kiss those lips of yours or stare into your otherworldly eyes or imagine what you look like under all those baggy drab clothes you’re always hiding in or ravish you on some grimy floor like I’m desperate to this very minute, I’ll just bugger off on my Hippity Hop. Deal?” He holds out his hand. “Friends. Just friends.”

Talk about mixed signals; he’s like a roller coaster that talks.

No deal, no way. “Deal,” I say, and take his hand but only because I want to touch him.

Moments tick by, our hands clasped, electricity jolting wildly through me. And then he’s pulling me slowly toward him, looking into my eyes even as he just swore he wouldn’t and heat’s bursting in my belly, radiating everywhere. I feel my body opening. Is he going to kiss me? Is he?

“Oh man,” he says, letting go of my hand. “I should probably go.”

“No, don’t. Please don’t go.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“How about I sit over here, then, where it’s safer,” he says, scooting a few feet away from me. “Did I mention I have impulse-control issues?” He smiles. “I’m having a particularly strong impulse, CJ.”

“Let’s just talk,” I say, my heart rate off the charts. “Remember the circular saw?” His laugh cartwheels across the room. “You have this great laugh,” I blurt out. “It’s like wow, it’s—”

“You’re not helping things. Please keep all compliments to yourself. Oh!” He’s coming toward me again. “I know! An idea.” He pulls my hat down so it covers my entire face and half my neck. “There,” he says. “Perfect. Let’s talk.”