All the People in the World

Chapter 8: Charades

I remember having one good kiss in my life. Marco Valtores. In the ninth grade underneath the bleachers. He did not miss, or bonk my nose, or rush too quickly to grab my ass. He was experienced. He was professional. He was controlled. I thought this was as good as I was going to get.

Kissing Marco Valtores felt nothing like kissing him. Nothing felt like that. I had kissed a handful of boys, out of obligation or curiosity. And no kiss in particular had made me disappear like they do in the movies. None had blurred my vision or made me shiver. I had no idea what weak knees felt like. When they kissed me, I was always aware- of where my hands were and where theirs were, how long we had been kissing for, how long I calculated we ought to keep going, whether or not I was enjoying it, whether or not I was doing it right. I was present for every moment. I had begun to think maybe that's how it always was. The films had lied to me. There was no such thing as getting swept up. Perhaps I was destined to live my whole life never experiencing the sweet release from reality through someone else's lips... That sounds dramatic, but it was a genuine concern of mine.

Kissing him hurt. It hurt like nothing else. Because as soon as it began, you knew it would also have to end. To be with him, was to at some point be without. And I was furious at him for this. I laid awake touching my hands to my lips, surveying the place he had been, thinking of how furious I was at him for this. I was sure he slept soundly, peacefully. He had won. He had gotten what he wanted and now I was forced to lay awake caressing my lips like a fool as I ached for him. I ached.

I didn't speak to him the next morning. The only thing I had to use against him was myself. I'm sure he must have thought he performed poorly. This was not the case at all. He had performed far too well. The bastard. We ate breakfast with his family and behaved civilly. Marina must have noticed our lack of chatting because she eyed us curiously, though she said nothing.

He made his attempt to break the silence while we washed our plates in the kitchen. I had been alone at the sink. He saw his opportunity and appeared beside me.

"Hi," he said quietly. His tone implied that nothing was wrong, nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. But his volume gave him away. He had no reason to speak softly yet he hardly mustered more than a whisper. I did not respond, instead focusing on scrubbing the egg yolk off of my plate. He tried again. "Do you hate me?"

I turned to him, scowling at the cute grin he had plastered onto his face. Did he think this was cute? This was amusing to him? I could not put my disdain for him into words. I set my plate down in the sink and stalked off. He did not attempt to speak to me again for some time.

Being at odds with him did present an issue for my scholastic endeavors. I had been left with no one to paint. Not only had he attacked my peace, he had attacked my education.

"Is there a bike I could take into town? I have to get some supplies for my painting." I said to Marina as we neared lunch.

"What do you need? You should check Nonna's studio first. I'm sure she has plenty of whatever you're missing."

"Oh, you don't think she'd mind?"

"Of course not, come on."

Marina led me through the house, up to the room I had spent many days in as a child. At first I would just come to sit and watch as Nonna birthed masterpieces from white canvas. Then there was the day when she offered me my own canvas and a "give it a try". I asked her what I was supposed to paint. She told me I was not supposed to do anything. That's the beauty of it, she said, you can paint whatever you want. Anything you think of, you can create.

The studio looked as I remembered. A bit dustier, less lived in, but the bones were the same. I set up shop on an easel near the window. The sun streamed in and lit up the dust in the air. It reminded me of Vin's bookstore back in Barcelona. I felt guilty for thinking of him, and banished the thought.