almost home
by
jessica blank
__________
memorable moments
__________
page 2:
When Dad and Linda weren't there Brian was never nervous and he made my insides twist around like butterflies in my stomach, except their wings beat so hard I was always about to throw up.
page 3:
I thought the whole point of being a misfit was you're always looking for other people like you. Loneliness is like a vacuum: it's supposed to suck the other lonely people in like dust till finally it fills up and you're not lonely anymore.
page 6:
When we got to the top the city spread out below us big as a whole country, lavender smog cloaking the whole thing like a blanket you could see through.
page 9:
But then of course Linda comes home, thinking she can just breeze in after working til practically midnight and start rearranging everybody.
page 10:
There is nothing more annoying than the exact sound of Linda's voice when she is saying my name to try and wake me up.
page 11:
She is perfect: every part of her fits together just the way it is supposed to and ever though my chest feels weirdly tight I just want to watch her forever.
page 12:
The next time I see Jenny Kirchner after that, in B hall before lab science, she makes this gross-out face, then leans in to the other Ashlees and starts whispering at exactly the amount of loudness that I can tell it's about me but the amount of quietness that I can't hear what it is.
page 14:
But then the fingernails pull out of my skin and the knuckles loosen around my wrists and the laughing gets quieter, like a car stereo driving away, and I crumple down to the ground and no one stops me.
page 17:
For practically thirty seconds she just watches me and I know I'm not supposed to look away so I don't.
She's beautiful. I can't really explain it... It's not anything about the pieces of her fitting together right like Jenny Kirchner or matching up with anything I've seen before. It's more about how Tracy's go all this metal in her eyes like she knows five million things I've never even heard of, but then she looks at me like I know all those things too.
page 19:
I feel like a grown-up next to Tracy waiting for our food. Or not like a grown-up really, but something different from a kid. I feel like it someone saw me they would think that I looked cool. I've only ever thought that about other people. But now I think that I could lean against the counter and look just like a picture.
page 23:
I never even heard of sleeping outdoors besides camp. And this is not camp, it's Hollywood.
page 24:
When Tracy's awake I can't watch her the way that I want to: I know she'd catch me. But now she's sleeping so hard it barely seems like she's breathing and I put my eyes on her and it feels like a kind of rest, like if I wanted to I could drink in some of her and make it part of me.
page 32:
I have never breathed a word of him to anyone and the words feel bizarre in my mouth: they've been coiled up somewhere so much farther down than that forever and now they're stretching out and up and I can feel them behind my teeth and it surprises me, like some weird food I've never tasted. I have no idea why I'm telling Tracy this or why I'd even think she'd understand. But for some reason I'm not scared. And after I get the first few sentences out from my mouth into the air she looks over at me with this kind of recognition I've never seen before in anyone, and she says "I know" and takes my hand. She holds it all the way to my house and she doesn't let me go, even when my palm starts sweating.
page 33:
When I get up close I can see her cheeks are wet and it's not from the shower because the rest of her is dry. ...and I say her name again, this time super soft like a whisper almost, and she snaps her head up and around to look at me and her whole face rearranges.
page 34:
...I realize the thing I was scared of didn't happen: I went back in the house without it changing me back to how I was... After that I decide I don't really want to go back. Or actually it's not a decision exactly, it's more of a realization. The whole last week I was procrastinating on going home like it was a math worksheet and every once in a while I'd hear Linda's annoying voice in my head yelling at me for putting things off and my heart would get all poundy knowing I'd have to do it eventually and the longer I waited the worse it would get. But now all of a sudden it's like my math teacher canceled the assignment and I just don't have to do it.
page 37:
That night and the next day and the next I keep trying to get Tracy to go to Del Taco instead of Benito's hoping we'll see those guys again across the street, but they don't show up and after a couple days I forget. Something in me is different, though, just knowing they exist. To me it means there's a whole bunch of people like her, which means the world is bigger than I knew. It means there's something out there that's not school or home or Brian but not Tracy either. It's like Tracy, but it's not exactly her. For some reason, that makes me feel a little more equal, like I could ask her questions without being scared that she'll get mad. I don't know why.
page 39:
...I look up at her and she's crying again, not like normal where you can hear it and the person moves their face, but in this weird way where her eyes are like a statue and she's hardly even breathing.
page 41:
After a minute I think we must look pretty weird, both sitting on the curb in front of Tang's picking at things and not talking, but then I realize nobody's looking at us.
page 42:
All morning I tried talking and it just made her weirder so now I've been trying to find her just by feeling it, like if I breathe the right way our breaths will touch and I can pull her close again.
page 43:
He's the only person who knows who I am in the places that you can't put into words, those places that are alive and raw and secret, and bigger than your regular life. We all have those places, I think, but we almost never see or touch them in each other because everyone is always scared.
page 49:
She elbows me at the end of her story like I'm supposed to say something. I don't know what to say, so I just go "Yup" and look up at the guy all dumb. Tracy laughs and says "He's really shy" and makes this face like they're on the same team and they're planning something about me. For a minute I get scared, and then Tracy leans back and pulls me toward her and I can tell it's really me and her on the team.
page 52:
When I open my eyes it's late and I'm confused like when you lie down for a nap during the day and by the time you wake up it's pitch black outside and the time in the middle just erased itself.
page 60:
That nervous feeling of not having something to do doesn't happen when there's another person there. Whenever the silence gets too long you can ask the other person questions and they'll fill it up for you.
page 62:
The girl says "Hey" to me, sort of too loud like she's trying to prove she's there.
page 63:
When she's not trying hard to stand up the tallest, you can see what she actually looks like: really young and like a baby bird, with all these soft spots that aren't covered up by anything. I know that feeling. I have them too. I want to tell her she doesn't have to put all that stupid hard stuff over them, that those spots are beautiful and the way to be safe is to find somebody who will touch them, not to cover them up. But she'd probably take it wrong.
page 68:
She has this way of saying the most ridiculous things like they are completely one hundred percent normal, so normal you feel stupid arguing with her or even asking questions.
page 69:
She's staring straight ahead with empty eyes; I'm afraid she's mad at me. But when I finally get beside her, panting, she snaps her eyes out of their stare and fills them up with herself again.
page 70:
If you look north you can see the curve of Malibu; the sunset silhouettes it, dark black mountains against the burning orange sky, and the pink ocean spread out in front of it forever, glistening and moving. If you look south it's all factories, some kind of chemical refinery: spidery towers stacked up all the way to the ocean, delicate and complicated as lace but ugly and stinky and made of hard metal... I feel like a different person depending which direction I'm pointed.
page 71:
Jim made me promise not to tell and I haven't, not the whole two months I've been here waiting. That's what keeps me tied to him: the cords from me to Jim, from here to Bakersfield, are made up of a million little sparkling threads like spiderwebs; those threads are built from promises between us, the only thing that keeps me from floating away. If I tell our secret I know I'll cut those cords, and come untied, and I don't know where I'll go.
page 75:
She sits up and looks a way I've never seen her look: sad.
page 79:
I watch him... and I think: I know what your breath feels like. I wonder if he ever thinks that about me.
page 82:
But Critter's just too f-ing good-looking to be considered reliable, so things never really quieted down for real.
page 86:
That's what guys like him do, guys like dads on TV who feed everyone and give you drugs and never admit that they need anything. But they always seem like the strongest of all if you don't know better. And she doesn't.
page 97:
...it's a little...weird that Eeyore has a house, especially one she can go back to. It sort of makes her not exactly one of us. And we all know it. And it looks like Eeyore just figured it out too. And there's this long pause.
page 106:
It's like a door slides across Eeyore's face and slams shut hard enough to lock itself.
page 108:
And then I turn around to Eeyore and I say "Wanna go?" and she looks at me with the surest eyes in the world and says "Yeah."
page 114:
Pretty quick the days start blurring together. It's weird how that happens here and I think it's the weather, seventy-five degrees each day and sunny like someone set the thermostat for the city and it just runs, like a machine.
page 121:
Everything is gray and blue and flooded, like the sky is washing out the city, and we just stand there watching it.
page 125:
I watch her strut around, pretending brave and looking stupid, trying to protect herself from me but not knowing how to do it right, and all of a sudden I can see what she is.
It's like when you wake up sudden from a dream, blink once and the whole world around you changes. Just like that, I can see her: the whole time she's been out her, she was only faking that she's one of us.
page 128:
Her eyes get all big; they fill up and spill over, but I don't care. I want to say something different to her, something like: You have something we all wish we did; stay away from us or we'll take it away; hard things are stronger than soft, and sooner or later your smooth skin will get cut through and you'll never not have scars again. But I don't know how to say that. So I just say "Go."
And she's gone.
page 138:
When you think someone's mind matches yours, when they tell you it does and you see that it's true, and then they go and do the opposite, there's gotta be a reason. Some force that pushes them to make them move the other way.
page 147:
That one night was different though, I think because she didn't really know me and when things happen with strangers it's different than with people you know. Or people who know you, really is what it is: Tracy thinks she can keep anyone from getting to know her, and she gets pretty pissed when you prove her wrong.
page 150:
But I don't know: every time she smiles, even if it's just a closed-mouth halfway smirk, I feel like I earned something.
It's weird how fast you can spill everything to a person if you think they're listening.
page 151:
...but this night isn't normal and I wind up walking along the lit sidewalk, telling her every single thing that ever happened to me practically.
page 153:
After that I kiss her. It's like water, the feeling of it, and also like sleep, the kind that comes when you've been up three days and your head finally hits a pillow and you can practically hear every single cell sign relief.
page 157:
It's just that we both have these edges that've always scraped up against everyone around us, but somehow with each other they line up so they fit together perfect and no one gets cut.
page 165:
It's weird how things can seem just like life when they're happening but when you look back later you see it was all part of some inevitable plan that's a thousand times your size.
page 170:
It's weird, hearing what I need and knowing that it's just a lie, like wanting to be touched and having someone hit you. It stills feels good even though you bleed. It's the best you can do. And sometimes it's enough: sometimes you settle, and you start to look forward to getting hit because at least someone's hand is on your face, at least there's something else touching you besides cold naked air, at least something makes the blood rise, and the tingling in your skin keeps you warm for a while.
page 175:
It's weird, the way so many things happen but the ground stays the same, how we turn inside out, molt, grow new cells while words endure: Hair. Celebrity Auto Body. Mel's. You could call them institutions but really it's just that here in Los Angeles signs are built to withstand earthquakes, and we are not.
page 177:
It was flat and June already, and my arms smelled like sweat, the kind that's still faint enough to be sweet; no salt, just skin and heat.
page 184:
She's real, the first real thing I've ever met, and she scares me just a little. Nobody's ever scared me before.
page 187:
It makes that day a bubble, contained in itself and fragile. Sometimes I look at her and I can feel it: the Formica of the table, sick-sweet of coconut donuts, the bitter black of sludgy coffee and the glare of buzzing light, all tucked in a pocket inside me. In that bubble she's still saying things nobody knows and I'm still wordless, not knowing how to fill the spaces she opened up, but wanting to and watching her and staying with her after, following her so she'll know that I won't leave. The bubble edge around that day makes it not just a memory but a secret, and I hold on to it like I could keep it safe.
page 195:
The third morning she gets antsy, though, and calls it homesick. She starts smoking lots of cigarettes and says the city feels too big, like it could swallow her.
Over the next few days the antsy gets worse. She's out of money, that's part of it; but there's something else too, and edge that keeps her broke because nobody will stop to give her anything.
page 198:
I could tell you that it all makes sense, but the trust is that it doesn't. It comes together, sure, in a way that makes the facts line up, provides an explanation. But it doesn't make sense at all.
page 200:
I don't think that places change you. They're too fixed, too solid to do much of anything. The things that really change you are the things that change themselves: ground opening up along a fault like and gulping down your house, people picking sides, their answers to your questions.
page 201:
It's easier to get a ride this time: I can tell which cars to hold my thumb out for and which ones will just keep driving. I know how to spot the blinders now, and I don't try to get the passersby to look my way. I just wait to see a set of eyes that's still open, unfixed, who'll stop and take me north, past home, and out of Hollywood, beyond what I can see or touch or travel, toward names I've always heard but never seen.
page 213:
I lie on the mattress a long time, eyes closed, heart pounding, before I finally drift off. Even then it's the kind of sleep that's only on the surface, skimming the tops of your thoughts while your mind's still working underneath.
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