I`m too mortified to sleep. What was I thinking? I keep imagining Joe reading my ridiculous poem to his brothers, and worse to Rachel, all of them laughing at poor lovelorn Lennie, who knows nothing about romance except what she learned from Emily Bronte. I told him : I belong to him. I told him: My heart is his. I told him: I hear his soul in his music. I`m going to jump off of a building. Who says things like this in the twenty-first century? No one! How is it possible that something can seem like such a brilliant idea one day and such a bonehead one the next?
as soon as there’s enough light, I throw a sweatshirt over my pajamas, put on some sneakers, and run through the dawn to the forest bedroom to retrieve the note, but when I get there, it’s gone. I tell myself that the wind blew it away like all the other poems. I mean, how likely is it that he showed up yesterday afternoon after I left? Not likely at all.
Sarah is keeping me company, providing humiliation support while I make lasagnas.
She can’t stop from squealing. “You’re going to be first clarinet, Lennie. For sure.”
“It’ll help you get into a conservatory. Julliard even.”
I take a deep breath. How like an imposter I`d felt every time Marguerite mentioned it, how like a traitor, conspiring to steal my sister’s dream, just as it got swiped from her. Why didn’t it occur to me then I could dream at all?
“I`d love to go to Julliard,” I tell Sarah. There. Finally. “But any goof conservatory would be okay.” I just want to study music: what life, what living itself sounds like.
“We could go together,” Sarah’s saying, while shoveling into her mouth each slice of mozzarella as I cut it. I slap her hand. She continues, “Get an apartment together in New York City.” I think Sarah might rocket into outer space at the idea-me too, though, I, pathetically, keeping thinking: What about Joe? “Or Berklee in Boston,” she says, her big blue eyes boinging out of her head. “Don’t forget Berklee. Either way, we could drive there in Ennui, zigzag our way across. Hang out at the Grand Canyon, go to New Orleans, maybe-”
“Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh” I groan.
“Not the poem again. What could be a better distraction than the divine goddesses Julliard and Berklee. Sheesh. Unfreakingbelievable. . . ”
“You have no idea how dildonic it was.”
“Nice word, Len.” She’s flipping through a magazine someone left on the counter.
“Lame isn’t lame enough of a word for this poem,” I mutter. “Sarah, I told a guy that I belong to him.”
“That’s what happens when you read Wuthering Heights eighteen times.”
I`m layering away: sauce, noodles, I belong to you, cheese, sauce, my heart is yours, nooddles, cheese, I hear your soul in your music, cheese, cheese, CHEESE. . .
She’s smiling at me. “You know, it might be okay, he seems kind of the same way.”
“You know, like you.”
-The sky is everywhere.