The Sky is Everywhere(35)
Author: Jandy Nelson

He stops walking. “That’s it? That’s the explanation? For her leaving? And never coming back?”

Yes, it’s nutso, but this Walker nutso has always made sense to me.

“Gram says she’ll come back,” I say, my stomach knotting up, thinking of her coming back right now. Thinking of Bailey trying so hard to find her. Thinking of slamming the door in her face if she did come back, of screaming, You’re too late. Thinking of her never coming back. Thinking I’m not sure how to believe all this anymore without Bailey believing it with me. “Gram’s Aunt Sylvie had it too,” I add, feeling imbecilic. “She came back after twenty years away.”

“Wow,” Joe says. I’ve never seen his brow so furrowed.

“Look, I don’t know my mother, so I don’t miss her or anything…” I say, but I feel like I’m trying to convince myself more than Joe. “She’s this intrepid, free-spirited woman who took off to traipse all around the globe alone. She’s mysterious. It’s cool.” It’s cool? God, I’m a ninny. But when did everything change? Because it did used to be cool, super-cool, in fact – she was our Magellan, our Marco Polo, one of the wayward Walker women whose restless boundless spirit propels her from place to place, love to love, moment to unpredictable moment.

Joe smiles, looks at me so warmly, I forget everything else. “You’re cool,” he says. “Forgiving. Unlike dickhead me.” Forgiving? I take his hand, wondering from his reaction, and my own, if I’m cool and forgiving or totally delusional. And what about this dickhead him? Who is it? Is it the Joe that never talked to that violinist again? If so, I don’t want to meet that guy, ever. We continue in silence, both of us soaring around in the sky of our minds for another mile or so and then we are there, and all thoughts of dickhead him and my mysterious missing mother are gone.

“Okay, close your eyes,” I say. “I’ll lead you.” I reach up from behind him and cover my hands over his eyes and steer him down the path. “Okay, open them.”

There is a bedroom. A whole bedroom in the middle of the forest.

“Wow, where’s Sleeping Beauty?” Joe asks.

“That would be me,” I say, and take a running leap onto the fluffy bed. It’s like jumping into a cloud. He follows me. “You’re too awake to be her, we’ve already covered this.” He stands at the edge of the bed, looking around. “This is unbelievable, how is this here?”

“There’s an inn about a mile away on the river. It was a commune in the sixties, and the owner Sam’s an old hippie. He set up this forest bedroom for his guests to happen upon if they hike up here, for surprise romance, I guess, but I’ve never seen a soul pass through and I’ve been coming forever. Actually, I did see someone here once: Sam, changing the sheets. He throws this tarp over when it rains. I write at that desk, read in that rocker, lie here on this bed and daydream. I’ve never brought a guy here before though.”

He smiles, sits on the bed next to where I’m lying on my back and starts trailing his fingers over my belly.

“What do you daydream about?” he asks.

“This,” I say as his hand spreads across my midriff under my shirt. My breathing’s getting faster – I want his hands everywhere.

“John Lennon, can I ask you something?”

“Uh-oh, whenever people say that, something scary comes next.”

“Are you a virgin?”

“You see – scary question came next,” I mumble, mortified – what a mood-killer. I squirm out from under his hand. “Is it that obvious?”

“Sort of.” Ugh. I want to crawl under the covers. He tries to backtrack. “No, I mean, I think it’s cool that you are.”

“It’s decidedly uncool.”

“For you maybe, but not for me, if…”

“If what?” My stomach is suddenly churning. Roiling.

Now he looks embarrassed – good. “Well, if sometime, not now, but sometime, you might not want to be one anymore, and I could be your first, that’s where the cool part comes in, you know, for me.” His expression is shy and sweet, but what he’s saying makes me feel scared and excited and overwhelmed and like I’m going to burst into tears, which I do, and for once, I don’t even know why.

“Oh, Lennie, I’m sorry, was that bad to say? Don’t cry, there’s no pressure at all, kissing you, being with you in any way is amazing—”

“No,” I say, now laughing and crying at the same time. “I’m crying because … well, I don’t know why I’m crying, but I’m happy, not sad…” I reach for his arm, and he lies down on his side next to me, his elbow resting by my head, our bodies touching length to length. He’s peering into my eyes in a way that’s making me tremble.

“Just looking into your eyes…” he whispers. “I’ve never felt anything like this.”

I think about Genevieve. He’d said he was in love with her, does that mean…

“Me neither,” I say, not able to stop the tears from spilling over again.

“Don’t cry.” His voice is weightless, mist. He kisses my eyes, gently grazes my lips.

He looks at me then so nakedly, it makes me lightheaded, like I need to lie down even though I’m lying down. “I know it hasn’t been that long, Len, but I think … I don’t know … I might be…”

He doesn’t have to say it, I feel it too; it’s not subtle – like every bell for miles and miles is ringing at once, loud, clanging, hungry ones, and tiny, happy, chiming ones, all of them sounding off in this moment. I put my hands around his neck, pull him to me, and then he’s kissing me hard and so deep, and I am flying, sailing, soaring…

He murmurs into my hair, “Forget what I said earlier, let’s stick with this, I might not survive anything more.” I laugh. Then he jumps up, finds my wrists, and pins them over my head. “Yeah, right. Totally joking, I want to do everything with you, whenever you’re ready, I’m the one, promise?” He’s above me, batting and grinning like a total hooplehead.

“I promise,” I say.

“Good. Glad that’s decided.” He raises an eyebrow. “I’m going to deflower you, John Lennon.”

“Oh my God, so, so embarrassing, quel, quel major dork.” I try to cover my face with my hands, but he won’t let me. And then we are wrestling and laughing and it’s many, many minutes before I remember that my sister has died.