dec 18 2008

At age 14, Tanner and I were basically attached at the hip. Wherever he was, I was following closely behind cheering him on from the stands. Wherever I was, he was at the forefront guiding me through a dark tunnel. At first, I was skeptical when he asked me to join him for lunch. I wasn't sure what his intentions were, so I was quite closed off--only answering his questions with a nod or a simple one word answer. I didn't know why someone as well-respected and athletic as him would bother talking to plain-old me. Besides, it wasn't like we had much in common. But once he gave me his only bag of Hot Cheetos, I gradually started warming up to him. Bribing me with food seemed to have worked wonders because we'd spend our spare period together in the courtyard, smack dab under the sun, trading Pokemon cards and playing checkers.

The greatest byproduct of our friendship, however, was that the bullying stopped. People liked Tanner enough, so as a result, they didn't mess with me either. I knew it, and he knew it too.

I try not to think about that, though. Especially since I was seated next to him, munching on some leftover vegetarian egg rolls my mother made yesterday. In front of me, Tanner inspected my High School Musical lunch box, dumping the contents onto the azure barbed table.

"Your mom cooks really good," he mused, poking around his wrapper full of gummies. "You're so lucky."

"I mean, she's alright, I guess," I agreed, shrugging, "not really a fan of the soup she makes me, even though she always forces me to drink it so I'm healthier."

"To be fair, we all have our own opinions about stuff, it's no big deal," he replied, claiming the remaining 3 eggrolls in the tupperware for himself.

"Hey, I'm not done with those!" I exclaimed, reaching to snatch the container from him, but he held it tightly.

"You already ate so many," he retorted, taking a bite out of the fried good.

I had to gnaw on the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from telling him off. This is how things were sometimes--I'd express something that made me uncomfortable and he'd deflect. I never pushed him because I was afraid he'd end our friendship and I'd be alone again, left to fend off the bullies myself.

So instead, I fiddled my thumbs and huffed out a semi-strangled breath. Though we were underneath the shade of a thin sycamore tree, San Francisco was unusually hot that day (yes, even though it was nearly winter), and the humidity washed over me like a second skin. I was almost certain that I was sunburnt on my neck.

Using my textbook as a fan, I desperately tried to cool myself down. A group of people I recognize as Jane's friends were laid around the flagpole picnic-style with trays of food settled on the steps of cement.

"Are you coming to our Christmas party this year?" I asked him. "My mom told me to invite you."

"I totally would, but me and my parents are going back to Thailand to visit some relatives, sorry."

"Parties aren't bearable without you," I whispered, fully giving up on my attempt to curb the sweltering heat. "I'm just gonna stay in my room, then."

At this, he pinched the bridge of his bumpy nose, sighing. "C'mon, Charm. You gotta get over this phobia of people you have. You sound like such a baby."

In retrospect, it was during moments like these that I realized if fate hadn't delicately wrapped Tanner and I in a thread of gold, we probably wouldn't have become friends. Perhaps somewhere in an alternate universe there would be a version of him that understood me--one where every Pokemon card he gave me held a bit of me that he had cherished and memorized.

That, as I thought then, was wishful thinking. Maybe what he was saying had a semblance of truth in it. Maybe I was being a baby.

"Jane will be there," I blurted in a last ditch effort to try to redirect the attention from my slip up. "I know how much you like her."

In response, he frowned while chewing the last bit of food. "There will be other opportunities to talk to her."

Averting eye contact, I swung my feet back and forth, letting my heels crunch against the asphalt. "I guess you're right."

"Charmander, look at me," he commanded, putting a hand on my shoulder.

Gulping, I forced myself to meet his gaze. He'd never agree when I'd tell him, but I always thought he had the prettiest eyes. Sure, they weren't anything special color-wise as they were dark brown (almost black), but there was so much depth to them. Shimmering and chilling like the depths of midnight, yet still warmer than the hottest cup of cocoa on a winter morning. "Yeah?"

"You know I care about you, right?"

"I do."

And that was all I needed.

***

Unfortunately, Christmas came a lot faster than I hoped it would. On the flipside, I got to pick my food before any guests arrived, so I escaped to my room upstairs, plate of noodles in hand. Mom would never admit it, but there's so much tension downstairs that no amount of tinsel and wreaths could cover up. Dad's parents are exactly too fond of her because she didn't finish college, and although they bite their tongue most of the time, the occasional subtle jabs don't go unnoticed. I'd rather not be in the middle of that when I can avoid it.

Poking my fork through the florets of broccoli, I chewed slowly on the remainder of the vermicelli while sinking further into my swivel chair. Truthfully, it was kinda lonely eating alone, but the white noise omitted from the TV downstairs was keeping me company.

Times like these made me realize how reliant I was on Tanner for entertainment. What would he do in this situation? Scratch that, he's a lot more social than I am, so he'd probably be downstairs, chatting away with a random stranger. Then again, he's also a lot more resourceful than I gave him credit for. All things considered, he'd likely be doing an activity to soothe himself.

Him in mind, I picked up my violin from its case, laying the instrument down on my lap. It's been a while since I've played it, and I kind of missed it.

Resting the violin on my shoulder, I glided the bow back and forth through the strings. Even after all these years, I somehow retained the muscle memory to play the song Hotel California. The melancholy melody grounded me, anchoring me away from reality. My mind drifted into a feverish state of pure bliss, surrounded by pastel pink afterglow.

The sound of the door creaking open commanded my attention. There, Jane stood, dressed in a simple floral A line sundress, wide-eyed. Not exactly a weather appropriate outfit, but then again I don't think I've ever seen her wear anything besides dresses.

"Oh, um," she stammered, smoothing her skirt, "is there a bathroom here? The one down the hall is occupied."

I couldn't pinpoint what exactly about her was different, but something was surely off. This wasn't the first time I've noticed it either. Ever since we ended our so-called cold war, her back slouched more and the mischievous glint in her eyes was no longer present.

"Yeah," I whispered, nodding my head to the right, "should be in front of the closet."

She muttered a quiet thanks and sets off toward her destination.

In the meantime, I busied myself by rearranging the stationary on my desk. Of course everything was extremely organized, I was just super damn nervous for no reason. Well, there was a reason--that having someone in your room is a very intimate thing. Bits of my heart were hung on the walls in the form of my favorite vinyls and snippets from my favorite poets. A window to my soul found in my bookshelf, where my favorite dystopian novels had worn out spines and the pages were stained with black coffee.

A stream of water pattered against the porcelain of the sink, stealing my attention. Wiping her hand with a towel, she reemerged from around the corner, a confused expression twisted on her face.

"The chorus is an F major, not minor," she muttered.

"Um, sorry what?"

"Hotel California. You're playing it wrong."

"Ah," I nodded, "thanks. Noted."

The awkward silence returned, somehow even more suffocating than it was prior. Though, it didn't seem like she was planning on going anywhere anytime soon, which was weird. I wasn't expecting her to just stand there, much less talk to me, and I wasn't sure what else to do. Tell her to leave?

"Why aren't you downstairs with everyone?" she asked, trying to make small talk.

I shrugged. "So my mom can try to pair me up with her Vietnamese coworkers' sons? Doesn't sound like a fun time."

"It doesn't," she echoed, taking a seat on my bed. "You're mom's nice though."

"Yeah."

"This is really pretty," she said, picking up a blush-colored silk hair scarf from the countertop. "Why don't you ever wear it?"

Good question. It was the same reason why I collected expensive vintage dresses, only to have them sit in the back of my wardrobe. It was the same reason I wore baggy neutral colored clothes. "Dunno. I suppose I don't like the attention it brings. I have enough things that do that enough already."

She scoffed, looping the scarf through a black hair tie. "That's a dumb excuse. No offense, but people don't care about you because you're not memorable enough." She scooted closer, gently running her fingers through my hair to mold the strands into a ponytail shape. "Do you think that in 10 years people will remember what you wore to school? In the long run, it doesn't matter, so it shouldn't prevent you from living your life the way you want to."

Harsh words, yet now I know she was right, and I needed to be told straight up, not to have it sugar coated. At the time, I didn't think that way. I thought she was overstepping her boundaries by trying to give my advice when she barely knew me. Little did I know that she probably understood me more than I understood myself.

Looping the hair tie around her fingers, she readjusted the way the scarf fanned out, pulling two tendrils to frame my face.

"There," she declared once she was finished, a satisfied smile forming on her lips. "So pretty. See?"

Glancing at the mirror, I played with the ends of my hair in shock. There have been countless times I have attempted a hairstyle like this, but it doesn't compare to what she has helped me with. "I guess it's fine," I replied, trying not to sound too excited.

Sheepishly, she grinned again, flashing me her pearly white teeth. "You know, pink is my favorite color."

"It's mine too."

For the rest of the night, we talked about absolutely nothing special, but for some reason, to this day, I remember every word spoken. All the while, I couldn't help but wonder if she had an ulterior motive when she opened the door to my room or if I was just overthinking things, like usual.