Museums

2.2

His house is beautiful. It's outside of the city. I have to pay an arm and a leg for the taxi ride there. Once I pull up at his driveway I know it's worth it. Even if this whole night turns out to be a disaster the landscape is fantastic enough to make up for anything. The taxi driver, a lanky Haitian man, congratulates me on having such a beautiful home. Before I can tell him it's not mine he has sped off.

I knock on the oak door. It hurts my hand, pulling my thin skin over my knuckles painfully. My nails catch on the fabric of my sweater. I changed back at home. Now, I actually look presentable. Long chocolate-brown hair was brushed (for the first time in a few days) and I pulled on my doc martins paired with skinny jeans.

A short thumping sound echoes inside the house. It sounds like someone hopping down the stairs. Suddenly he's right in front of me. He yanks me inside and close the door sharply.

"Sorry. The gardener is a freaking banshee when people come over. She'll swoop down on you and tell you her life story every time. Be glad I saved you the trouble." He rushes. His hair is tussled to the side. He's wearing thinly-rimmed glasses. They complement the slope of his nose, his faint freckles are noticeable.

Even though he's out of breath from running down the marble staircase, he grins.

"So, this is home. The theatre room is downstairs. You want something to drink?" He asks. Theatre room? Clearly he's loaded, but theatre room? I avoid going to actually movie theatres to save money. What's the point anyway? You can illegally download any movie and watch it right on your computer in the safety of your bed.

"Just a water maybe." I say, feeling like I'm ordering something at a ritzy restaurant. I follow him into a kitchen shimmering with glossy marble. What is it about marble that just screams class? He opens the fridge and pulls out a beer.

"I've got booze if you're into that." He comments. I shake my head.

"Ah. Um. Not anymore. Thanks though." The way he's strutting around his house feels awkward, rehearsed. Like he's trying to own the place but doesn't actually fit in here.

We go down a level to the movie room. Immediately through the dim lighting I see his movie collection on the back wall. I find myself bouncing toward it.

"You have Goonies? Awe. I haven't seen that in forever." I smile, I've made myself comfortable in a cross-legged position in front of the plethora of movies.

"I love that one." He snorts, sitting down next to me. My eyes scan the rows of glossy cases until I see the next one that makes me exclaim. I pull out a few movies that bring me nostalgia. Funny, he has so many that I watched as a kid.

He sits there looking at the films I've found.

"We should watch one of these." He picks them up decidedly.

"Oh... what about that Frida documentary?" I ask. He scrunches his nose, looking more comfortable than he did earlier.

"I'm not going to lie. I've seen it a few times. These look better." He admits.

His honesty is refreshing. My legs don't feel like jello here. I remember that it was always like this before. I wasn't nervous around people, groups didn't terrify me, and I could be in one-on-one situations and never feel uncomfortable. I haven't felt this at ease with someone apart from Shay since my old friends. I never felt pressure with him. I don't feel any pressure with Noah. Maybe I've just been alone for so long that I don't care about making a fool of myself. Or maybe the way Noah is acting a bit nervous is helping me. He's human too. If I act like a fool he won't mind.

We start Goonies and we laugh hard. Genuinely laugh. My lungs hurt. He's funny. His jokes are unsure at first. I can tell he worries about saying the wrong thing. My expectations are low, so when he's actually hilarious I'm surprised. I hasn't been this euphoric since I smoked weed with Rudy and couldn't stop giggling.

Even the position we sit in is natural. My knees pulled up to my chest, him close enough for me to feel his warmth, but far enough to avoid touching. He keeps his distance.

"Have you ever heard of Humans of New York?" He asks suddenly.

"Hm? Oh. Yeah. I've always wondered what I'd say if the guy approached me." I respond. Shay is slightly obsessed. She checks his blog daily. From what I could remember, he talked to people on the street and found out their stories. Then he'd photograph them and post what they'd said on his blog.

"What would you say?" He questions. I can feel his eyes following me. He's actually curious about my response.

"Uh. I don't know. Depends on what he asks." I shrug. Noah thinks for a minute. His gaze narrowed, his chin tucked in.

"What's your greatest struggle right now?" He raises an eyebrow.

Where do I begin?

Perhaps I start with the fact that my social life is in ruins, or maybe that I'm probably not going to graduate High School, and what about the sad excuse I have for a mother? Any of the above would do. And I could even add my father to the answer. Though, I'd rather forget about him. Automatically my hand moves to my stomach. Underneath my shirt a long scar occupies my skin. That's it. That's my greatest struggle for now. And for always. That damn scar.

"I don't really sleep." I fib. It's not a total lie. I'm a diagnosed insomniac. But, the root of the problem goes so much deeper than that.

"Why?"

Oh why'd he have to ask that? Things are getting deep too fast. I feel my face flush. This is it. That familiar feeling of anxiety washing over me again. And I was doing so well too.

"I don't know." I say dumbly, "Where did this come from?"

"I was just thinking about it. That guy would have to be pretty ballsy to go up to strangers and ask them all that personal crap. I don't think I ever could." He ponders.

"Hey, you asked me and I'm essentially a stranger." I assure him.

"Naw I know you though. You're pretty easy to read." He scoffs. I laugh in a short spurt. Doubtful.

"Oh really? You think you've got me all figured out? Well, who am I then?" I bark. It sounds more accusing than I mean for it to. Luckily it doesn't faze him. Instead he's got that deep thinking look again. He keeps quiet for a long time before answering. I like the quiet. The only noise is the gentle hum of the voices on the projector.

"You—you're complex. That's important. You had a lot of friends at one time, but now you're really lonely. Like you said, you don't sleep. I knew that already. You've got tired eyes." He reaches forward and brushes my cheekbone with his thumb. I cringe at his touch. He pulls away quickly then continues. "You're used to taking care of yourself. Probably because you have had to for some reason."

He's spot on. At least mostly. A part of me wants to deny everything he's said, probably some mental defense mechanism. I don't. Instead I fess up.

"How'd you guess?" I shudder.

"You have confidence around people. But, when you came to the art showing you were alone. And the fact that you find it hard to sleep hints at some emotional turmoil, probably with friends or a neglectful parent. They are the reason you keep to yourself and don't allow other people to help you." He nods slowly.

I nod my head.

"I guess you're right in some ways." I mumble. He groans and his head falls in his hands.

"I'm so, so sorry." He gasps, muffled. "Why did I do that? I don't even know. That was stupid. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize!" I exclaim. "That was nice. It was real. I just... don't like to think about that stuff."

"I know. No one does." He sighs. His dimples disappear into a prominent frown.

He's got me thinking, though, now I can't stop. My stories are pounding at the base of my lips. I wish I could say it all. Scream it all. Cry it all. Unload it all.

But I can't. And he's now staring at the movie again. His ears are pink from shame. I decide to drop the subject and focus on Goonies.