Between You & Me - By Marisa Calin Page 0,38

to believe them but remember that we can’t ever help giving away a little of how we really feel.

When we play the scene again, I give myself the freedom to say everything I’ve wanted to. The words are the same but I stop repressing every self-conscious gesture that gives me away. I let my eyes express what I pretend not to feel at every moment. When we reach the end of the scene, she nods, suspended, engaged. And in that second, I wish she knew everything that I feel. She smiles breezily.

MIA

Excellent! See how interesting it becomes?

As she turns away, I reach out and touch her arm. She looks back at me, her eyes wider than usual, waiting for me to say something. I don’t speak. I haven’t thought of what I would say.

MIA

Phy?

My hand is still on her arm. I search for words to go with the gesture. After a second, she puts her hand gently over mine, moving it from her arm, but holding it warmly for a second.

MIA

You okay?

ME

Yeah. Fine. I … Thanks, for your help.

MIA

Need a ride home?

MAIN SCHOOL HALLWAY. SOON AFTER.

We stop by the teachers’ lounge so she can pick up her bag. I’ll just be a minute, she says, smiling over her shoulder as she pushes open the door. I peer after her into the empty room: the view from the door, the only view I’ve ever had. I picture the other side that I’ll never see. A place becomes so much more fascinating when you can’t go in. Then you have to imagine it. I’m sure that imagining is sometimes a lot more exciting than the reality. The hall is deserted and the door is still open a crack. I wonder what she would do if I just followed her in. There’s nothing to stop me, just the little voice in my head reminding me I am not supposed to. I wonder how different I would be in a world with no consequences. Will the voice telling me what’s right always be so loud? I’m still wondering when she reappears, her bag over her shoulder, and we head toward the gate.

THE ROAD. LATE AFTERNOON.

Watching the trees rush by behind her, I wonder how vividly I’ll be able to relive this moment—if I’ll be able to remember exactly how I feel right here, right now. I lean against the window of Mia’s car, my head turned so I can look at her. Cassiopeia twinkles in the light. The golden afternoon sun makes her narrow her eyes sleepily against the glow, and in the unfiltered light her white shirt is semi-translucent. From this angle, I can see the length of her collarbone to the curve of her shoulder. Music is playing quietly on the radio. There’s no need to talk. She sees me watching her and smiles with sincerity. Being with her makes me feel like an adult, like we’re stealing away together. Seeing the blur of streets go by, I imagine the possibility that she won’t take me home. That she’ll keep going. She’ll drive away with me to a place where we can be together and she can tell me how she really feels. So soon, it seems, she pulls over in front of my house. She’ll be gone in a minute, it’s happened too fast. I sit in the car for a moment, and when she looks at me again, I don’t look away. Shall I tell her I love her? Mom waves from the window. Mia waves back warmly.

Standing at the curb, I stoop to say my thanks through the open window, and in the cover of a blinding sunset, I watch the taillights of the car pull away. I wonder for a second if she’s watching me in the rearview mirror. Blinking away the sun spots from my eyes, I walk up the path to the front door with one thought. Mia knows where I live. I’ll feel differently every time the doorbell rings because of the new 1 percent chance it could be her.

MY BEDROOM. THAT EVENING.

I flop onto my bed. My heart is still somewhere between the drive home and the rehearsal under the trees. I close my eyes to imagine my way back there, like when you wake up from the perfect dream and squeeze away awake in favor of asleep. The phone rings—I pick it up and it’s you. Hey, I sing, lightness and heaviness balled up together in my heart so it doesn’t know whether