Better Than Running at Night Page 11

  Before I knew it someone else was negotiating her way through the window.

  It was Sloane Boocock. She was trying to hoist herself over the sill, but she kept slipping off. She made little-girl grunts at each attempt, as if she was carrying a heavy load. Nate went to the head of the bed and kneeled on my pillow by the window. Sloane picked up an object I couldn't see. Then Nate put his hands under her armpits to help her. She kicked and wriggled and finally got through, doing a face plant into my mattress. Then she rolled off the bed and onto the floor.

  In her arms was a bowling ball.

  Nate reached down to help her up to our level, and he told us to sit next to each other on the bed. She handed the big black ball to Nate. He slid his fingers into the holes. Then he took my fingers and pushed them in, too. He started shoving Sloane's in on top of mine.

  Nate and Sloane were smiling at each other, as if I wasn't in the room.

  I tried to scream, but instead I woke up.

  My subconscious obviously hadn't received the news yet; Ellie Yelinsky was no longer dealing with melodramatic symbolism.

  That ended in high school.

  Skeleton Room

  I saw Sam on my way to the nature lab. He was headed up to Main Street.

  "Aren't the stores closed by now?" I asked.

  "Not Dunkin' Donuts."

  "What's up with you and Dunkin' Donuts, anyway?"

  "Um, I've sort of got this plan."

  "A plan?"

  "It's, um, no big deal."

  "Come on, you can tell me."

  "Well," he said, glancing around nervously, as if to make sure no government officials were eavesdropping. "My goal is to try each doughnut, bagel, and muffin flavor by the end of Wintersession."

  "And all this time, I thought you were just a pig!"

  He winced, then looked at his shuffling feet.

  "I didn't mean that in a bad way," I apologized. "What I meant was, the real story is way more interesting."

  "Thanks, I think." He cracked a subtle smile.

  "Eat a Boston cream doughnut for me," I said. "They're my favorite."

  "I like those, too," he said, shifting his cap. "It's one of the first ones I bought."

  "Well, I'd better get going," I said, to avoid any awkward silence. "Good luck."

  I turned to look behind me when I got to the nature lab at the bottom of the hill. Sam was still standing where I'd left him, watching me. When he saw me look at him, he quickly did an about-face and sped up College Street.

  I settled down in the skeleton room at the nature lab. Along one wall was a glass case full of skeletons. There were seven of them, hanging slack-jawed from wires. The monitor took one out for me and hung it on a stand. This was one of the real skeletons. Some of the others were plastic, and had colors showing where muscles would attach to the bones. I could tell this one was a woman; her pelvis was wider than her rib cage.

  I wondered what she looked like when she was alive.

  I opened Human Anatomy for Artists to the rib cage section and started sketching. Ed wanted us to draw diagrams from three vantage points: front, back, and side.

  There were so many ribs, I had to keep counting my lines to make sure I had enough.

  I wanted this project to look like a mini version of a huge dinosaur rib cage. I'd set it on its back. The spaces between the ribs would be gaps to look through. If you put it outside on a clear warm night, you could peek at the stars.

  It would be a good place to lie down and think, to be alone, but to allow nature into your private world at the same time.

  I guess someone might say I was making a "chill space."

  If I Looked Like This

  "Why won't you sleep over here anymore?" he demanded one night. "It's like you don't trust me or something."

  It was around nine P.M. and I'd gone over to his apartment after working in the Garage for a few hours after class.

  "No, I just like sleeping at home. I can't sleep with that racket, anyway." I pointed at the radiator. I was smiling, but I didn't mean to be smiling. My lips were frozen in that position.

  I was looking at his paintings of Maura and Sloane. They looked radiant in the pictures, the way you might look after a night with a great kisser.

  "What's wrong," he said. "You don't think they actually pose for me, do you?"

  "How can I be sure?" I asked. "I've never seen you while you're working. You keep it all so secret."

  "You're the only one who knows the plan."

  "Right. The plan."

  He lifted the corner of his futon and pulled out several frayed porno magazines. He shook them at my face. "We're going to the computer lab," he said.

  When we got there, Nate dragged two swivel chairs over to a computer. Only a few other people were in the room, quietly clicking on keyboards.

  "I'm going to show you what I do," he whispered. "This is everything. But you have to promise not to tell anyone."

  "Okay."

  "No, 'okay' isn't good enough. Promise."

  "Okay, okay, I promise."

  "All through high school I tried to be a photo-realist," he said. "I'd go out and shoot pictures of brick buildings, crowded streets, anything with a lot of detail. Then I'd copy the photographs onto canvas with oils. I got really good at it. Some people can't tell the difference between a photograph of the painting and the original photograph."

  Then he opened Photoshop files of the Maura and Sloane images I'd grown to know so well. They did look just like the paintings.

  "With Photoshop, I don't have to take my own pictures," he said. "All I have to do is create something that looks like I took a picture. Here, watch this."

  He scanned each of our ID cards into Photoshop. He taught me how to use the tools, how to select facial features and change their size in proportion to the rest of the face. He showed me how to alter the colors.

  Nate completely distorted his headshot. He made it look like he'd been running at cartoon speed and landed splat against a glass door.

  "Would you fuck me if I looked like this?" he asked.

  "I don't think so," I said, laughing.

  It was my turn. I used the cloning tool to rub out my eyes, so they looked like patches of skin.

  "Would you fuck me if I looked like this?" I asked.

  It was fun using that word in this way.

  He laughed. "More girls would probably fuck me if they looked like that."

  He copied his mouth, which was open in the picture because he had been talking when it was taken, and pasted one mouth over each eye.

  "How about this," he said. "Would you fuck me if I looked like this?"

  "No way."

  "What about if I looked like this?" Now, in place of all his facial features was one gigantic mouth.

  "Absolutely not."

  "Then I guess I'm all right the way I am."

  "I guess so."

  "What'll it be this week?" he asked himself, flipping through the porn.

  He put his hand on my knee and looked at me.

  "I want you to know, I discriminate between good porn and bad porn."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I never use Penthouse or Hustler," he said. "That stuff is pure porn. The magazines I use have a hint of art in them. Like Perfect 10. See, they put their models in natural environments, and natural poses." He laughed. "Okay, maybe not natural, but they're definitely not as degrading as the poses in the hardcore magazines. And here in Gear" —he pointed to a picture of a naked woman clinging to a man in business attire—"they get creative. They actually make porn funny."

  The next one was Skin Two, a fetish magazine. He stopped, satisfied, on a page with a girl dressed in a cat suit. Actually, it wasn't much of a suit; she was wearing ears and a tail attached to garters, and nothing else. On her face were painted whiskers and she was stretching on the ground. Claws extended, ass in the air.

  "This is perfect," he said, tapping the cat girl repeatedly. "Purrrrr- fect." He gave me one of thos
e Get it? grins.

  "You know what really is perfect?" I said.

  "What."

  "Sloane looks like she belongs in one of these magazines."

  "Yeah, she's got a nice body, doesn't she."

  "Her breasts are too big for her head," I said. "It must be easy to transfer her face to the model's body without changing much."

  "Yeah, I guess it is."

  "Don't you think it's weird that her boobs are so big and she sounds like she's twelve?"

  He laughed. "I guess that's why she's so appealing."

  Later that night in my bed Nate asked, "What do you think: are Sloane's breasts real?"

  It hadn't occurred to me. I'd only known one person who had gotten a boob job, and that was because she was upset that her younger sister had gotten married before her. Apparently, a boob job was the answer.

  "I don't know," I said. "Why?"

  "People don't just look like that," he said. "There's work involved in looking like that."

  Of Course

  The next day, Ed ran into class panting.

  "Come on, Dalia, come on!" he called, still out of breath.

  He turned to face the door, bent his knees, and smacked the fronts of his thighs.

  A golden retriever came bounding in and pounced on him. At her full height, her paws practically reached his shoulders.

  "That's my girl!" he said. "That's a good girl!"

  We'd been waiting for around fifteen minutes for Ed. It was the first time he'd been late.

  "Dalia, meet my students!"

  Dalia sat at attention, drooling happily.

  "Meet Ellie! Meet Sam! Meet Ralph!"

  Dalia barked three times.

  "Sorry I'm late, folks!" he said. "I had to get Dalia from the vet this morning! She's been sick and I've been taking her back and forth from home to the doctor, but now she's all better! Right Dalia?"

  Another bark.

  Dalia responded to Ed so well, it must've been frustrating for her to not be able to speak English.

  "How's Dalia feeling?" Ed asked.

  She howled.

  "Aaooooooowww!" Ed chimed in with her.

  Behind me, Ralph was stifling a laugh. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sam shooting me a look. I couldn't turn to either one of them for fear of cracking up.

  "I hope you don't mind having Dalia here today," Ed said. "If I'd taken the time to bring her home, I would have been even later! And I've already skipped out on you because of her!"

  "No, Ed," Ralph said, letting out a laugh. "It'll be cool having a dog around."

  "Yeah," I said. "You seem to be having so much fun with her."

  "Right on," Sam said.

  "Ellie!" Ed shouted. "You've pinned the tail right on the donkey! Dalia's been living with me for seven years, and I've shared my best times with her! Isn't that right, Dalia?"

  Dalia panted and let out an enthusiastic bark.

  "Show my students how you shake hands," he said. "Ellie, put out your hand for her. Go on!"

  I walked up to Dalia and offered her my palm. Sure enough, she placed her paw on top of it.

  Then Ralph and Sam had turns.

  "Dalia, show my students how you roll over," Ed prompted.

  But this time Dalia stayed in place, looking up expectantly.

  "Roll over, girl!" Ed shouted.

  Still nothing.

  "Sometimes she needs some encouragement," he told us.

  With that, he got on the floor and rolled on his back.

  Then Dalia did the same.

  "There you go! That's a good Dalia!" Ed yelled, midroll.

  He got up.

  "Well, enough playing!" he shouted.

  Dalia sat up too.

  "Let's get to work! Today we will begin drawing templates for your final projects. I want to discuss materials. Everybody get out your notebooks!"

  We took our seats on the stools.

  "Are we all ready? Ellie? Sam? Ralph?"

  We nodded.

  "Dalia, you are exempt from taking notes, but only for today. Is that understood?"

  Dalia trotted over to Ed and nuzzled his leg with her head.

  Of course not a wife. Of course not a girlfriend. Of course not a boyfriend.

  A dog.

  Redefining Genetics

  Nate was leafing through my photo album. He laughed when he came to a picture of me in pigtails, lying on a giant inflatable ladybug in a pool. The next few pages included various baby shots of me with ladybug garments: a ladybug hat, ladybug sunglasses, a ladybug bib. Lord knows where my mother dug this stuff up.

  "Why ladybugs?" Nate asked.

  "That's my real name," I said. "Ladybug."

  "You have got to be kidding me."

  "No, that's really it," I said. "Hippie parents."

  "Ladybug," he said, grinning. "That's sexy."

  "You think so?"

  "Absolutely." He kissed me on the lips.

  A black-and-white photograph fell out from the back of the album. It was an autographed picture of Jim Morrison, addressed to my mom. It said:

  Marsha,

  You light MY fire, baby!!!

  Yours always,

  Jim

  "Who's Marsha?" Nate asked.

  "My mom."

  "Did your mom know Jim Morrison?" He was so excited, I felt bad letting him down.

  "No," I said. "It's just an autograph."

  "Too bad."

  "I found this picture in a shoebox under her side of my parents' bed when I was in sixth grade," I told him.

  We stared at the picture of the Lizard King for about a minute. Nate began to turn the page, but I held it in place.

  And then I added the part of the story I had never revealed to anyone.

  "The shoebox was filled with old photos," I said, "mostly of Jim Morrison."

  "Wow," he said, "I'd love to have a woman so obsessed with me, she keeps tons of pictures of me hidden under her bed."

  "Dream on."

  "Come on, you don't think it's possible?" he teased.

  "You're no rock star."

  "But a sex symbol anyway. I don't need a guitar."

  I put him in a headlock and gave him a nuggie.

  "Okay, okay," he said with a laugh. "Tell me what was up with the box of Jim Morrison pictures!"

  "At the time, I didn't know who Jim Morrison was, so I thought my mother was hiding the box because she had a secret relationship with him."

  "Didn't know who he was?"

  "I was too busy painting and making myself look artsy to think about old-school rock stars."

  "That would've been cool though," Nate said. "You know, for your mom to have had a secret relationship with him."

  "Well, not really." I was so embarrassed I didn't look at him. "I thought Jim Morrison was my father."

  "Just because you found the box?"

  "There was more to it than that," I said. "For years I suspected that something wasn't right. Then, once I figured out my parents were only married seven months when I was born, I knew I was onto something. And there were other things—like my mom always telling me to skip over the Father's History section when I was filling out forms at the doctor's office. I used to think, If only I can find some evidence that there was another man, I'll have it all figured out. I thought Jim Morrison was my proof."

  "So did you confront your parents?"

  "Not yet. I stuck the picture in one of my sketchbooks and didn't take it out for a few years. I mean, I'd look at it every once in a while, but I didn't show it to anyone else. I thought I needed more evidence before I told my parents I knew. My dad's a lawyer. One flimsy photograph wouldn't be enough."

  "What was enough?"

  "Genetics," I said. "Ninth-grade biology. That's what did it. When I learned two blue-eyed parents can't make a brown-eyed girl."

  Nate studied Jim Morrison's eyes. "They look dark in this picture," he said.

  "Yeah, well anyway, one day after school, I was doing my Punnett squares h
omework—those genetics charts that show you the odds of offspring inheriting dominant and recessive genes from their parents. I was working at the kitchen table and I had the Jim Morrison picture hidden under my textbook. My mom was in the kitchen, too, working on a project on the floor. I remember this so well. It was such a ridiculous project."

  "What was it?"

  "She was painting a metal cabinet to look like burned wood."

  "Weird. Why?"

  "Because the client wanted to be able to stick magnets to it."

  "Wealthy people have the most creative ideas!"

  "No kidding." I rolled my eyes. "But anyway, I was sitting there with my Punnett squares and I tried to think of a way to ask her why my eyes were brown, without making it too obvious what I was getting at. First I asked if she dyed her hair. She didn't. Then I asked if her contacts were tinted. She said something like, 'I'm all natural. Cosmetic technology won't be touching this body.' Whatever it was, she sounded like some commercial for post-hippiedom."

  Nate laughed.

  "I sat there, tracing my Punnett squares boxes over and over again. Finally I lost it. I started yelling all sorts of crazy things."

  "Like what?"

  "Oh, I don't know—like, 'Then genetics is a load of crap! If blue-eyed genes are recessive, like Mr. Skripsky says, they can't combine to create brown!"'

  "What else?"

  "Then I must've said something like, 'Just look at me! My eyes are brown! And they're not even light!"'

  "What did she say?"

  "Nothing yet," I said. "First I asked her what would happen to science, since I was about to disprove the foundations of genetic theory."

  "They'll have to rewrite all biology books because of you!"

  "Exactly. I probably said that, too. But she kept on painting. I wondered what Mr. Skripsky would think of her superficial change of a material's properties. I bet he never knew you could turn metal into wood."

  "Another reason to rewrite science books!"

  "It's true," I said. "What am I doing in art school, anyway?"

  "Come on, back to the story. Did she ever answer you?"

  "Yeah, she finally came over to talk to me. I shoved the picture of Jim Morrison in front of her and asked if this was him. She didn't know what I meant, and said 'Him who?' And that's when I yelled, 'My father!' She didn't even attempt to stifle her laugh. She said, 'Jim Morrison? Don't you know who that is?'"