We've taken up small talk. Since our other conversation didn't go as well he's been careful to steer us toward lighter things.
I tell him about Shay and her job. He laughs when I tell him how she called herself, 'a grape among raisins,' because she works with so many old men. He listens when I relay all my best TJ stories, and nods when I explain how much of an older brother he is to me. Noah is a brilliant listener. He knows how to appear interested. I try to return the favor.
He explains that his father lives in Europe. He never sees him except on significant occasions. Christmas being one of them. He could go live in Paris and go to a fancy school but he would rather jab his eyes out than learn French.
I decide that the curve of his mouth is gorgeous. It is difficult not to stare while he talks. Even in the flickering light I find myself mesmerized.
Stupid. Stupid hormones. Stupid emotions.
The palm of my hand is on top of his knuckles. Somewhere when he was going on about his best friend, Tate, I moved it subconsciously.
He beams at me, I beam back.
We watch two movies. Though, we spend the whole extent of time blabbing about ourselves. By the end we are starving. Burgers have never sounded better. He drives us to the train station. His music taste is classy. All of the CD's in his glovebox are oldies. The Beatles, Billy Joel, etcetera.
His car is an old convertible. I've never been any good with cars. Taxi's and subways are my expertise. I never got a license. It wasn't worth the trouble for me.
He hums along to, Yellow Submarine. I don't know the words, but do my best to catch his deep voice in the wind.
I don't care that my hair is wind-blown, or that I scuffed up my boots. He makes everything feel smaller. Even when we get to the train station, being with someone is reassuring. Going back into the bustle of the city isn't as daunting.
He opens my door for me and bows slightly.
"The train awaits m'lady." He jokes.
"Why thanks you good sir." I curtsy back.
The seats next to us are occupied by a man who appears to be homeless and a woman with a rat's nest of hair. Noah ushers me in the seat first. I sit closer to the window, he shades me from the strange people. It's odd. The only other person who has ever cared enough to protect me was TJ. Of course Shay too, but she's just as vulnerable as I am. I sink my shoulders into the seat, making myself comfortable with the feeling of belonging next to him.
I can see stretching buildings across bridges from the window. Blurred colors create picturesque beauty. I watch it all behind the small square pane, a feeling of contentedness settling over me.
"What about your parents?" He wonders. I pretend not to hear him, though he spoke directly into my ear. "Shilo?" He pushes.
"Hmm?" I snap. He notices the tenseness in my stare and switches gears.
"Er. What's your best childhood memory?" He rushes. With a quizzical look at him I swallow.
"Um. I don't know..." I ponder, flitting through thoughts like pictures in a scrapbook. Quickly I remember the small gem of being a kid. "Oh. I grew up in Portland. We lived in this little shack of a house. It was yellow with flowers that always looked dead in the front yard. But, it was right on the beach. I spent every day looking for sea glass. Something about it was so special to me. I taped it to string and hung it all over my room. On windy days they would clink together. The melody they created was beautiful. I would sing made-up songs and sprawl out on my floor painting. That was a good house."
For a minute I'm caught up in the ecstasy of happy places. I think of Shay and how she would splash in the ocean then complain about how cold it was. We were happy kids. We really were.
"What's yours?" I ask.
"Mines not as amazing as yours, but when I was young I went to California one summer to visit my cousin, Ryon. He ended up stuck somewhere, so, somehow, my 11-year-old-self had a whole house to myself. I spent the day jumping on beds and eating whatever I wanted. That was a dream of mine I guess, to be alone." He answers.
"That sounds like any kids dream." I respond, giggling, then hating myself for giggling.
He nods with a laugh. "I guess it was."
YOU ARE READING
Museums
Teen Fiction"we are all museums of fear" -charles bukowski Shilo has always faded. Like a small detail in a large painting, she considers herself insignificant in the universe. Noah is full of confidence. He's always been on exhibit for the world to see. When...
