Crush

5

“You were scammin’ on my woman?” David asked, mock anger edging his voice as it rolled over the phone line. “That’s cold, brah.”

Jonathan laughed. He rolled over on his bed and stared at the ceiling, glad his friend wasn’t really upset. “Yeah, well, I’m a chick magnet. They can’t stay away.”

“Whatever. The important question is what did she think of me?”

“She thinks you’re a god. Way out of her league.”

“True,” David said. “Too true. I knew she was way into me. SWIM, baby, SWIM. So, what’s this Kirsty like? Tell me what I’m missing.”

That wasn’t an easy question. Jonathan still didn’t know what to make of the girl. She seemed nice, certainly not a geek, and no way was she stuck up. It was that feeling he had when he was with her—the sense that he was forgetting something—that totally messed with his head. And he knew it was probably just being full-on freaked out by speaking with a member of the opposite sex, a rare occurrence at best. But it wasn’t like he thought she was hot. She didn’t intimidate him in that way. He didn’t really know what to tell David.

He settled for “She’s okay, I guess.”

“I’m translating that to mean freak, and not the good kind.”

“No,” Jonathan said. “She’s cool. I mean, I was all pissed off with Mom, so I bailed. Then I saw Toby the Scab at Perky’s, reminding me why my life sucked so thoroughly. Kirsty just kind of showed up. It wasn’t like anything was wrong with her. I just didn’t have my mojo flowing.”

“Jonny Boy,” David said, “you have no mojo. I say that as a friend. You are mojo-impaired. You’re mojo-less. You lack da MO…JO.”

“Like you’re any better?”

“I am the Mojo Master. Kiss my ring, bitch.”

Jonathan broke up laughing. He could picture David standing in the middle of his room, one hand on a hip and the other extended, palm down, presenting his fingers and a ring.

“You’re totally deluded,” Jonathan said.

“I paint pretty pictures of an ugly world. So, what’s the story? Are you going to ask her out? Is Kirsty going to be Jonathan’s she-slave or what?”

“No,” he said. “I’m not into her like that.”

“Good,” David said. “You keep feeding the undying flame of Emma worship, and I’ll handle Kirsty. That way you won’t get hurt when she realizes she can’t live without the David.”

“She’s all yours.”

“All is going according to plan.”

“You’re disturbed,” Jonathan said.

“You don’t know the half of it,” David replied.

Jonathan lay in bed, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. Unable to sleep, he thought about Kirsty, her plain face somehow more complete, more attractive at night, and he thought about Mr. Weaver. Since Kirsty was in his English lit class with Mr. Weaver (and they did talk about the guy a little), it wasn’t a big stretch, this connection. It was, however, strange. In his mind he was walking with Kirsty, listening to her speak: I couldn’t go in either…I didn’t really like the people I saw…My dad scared them away…Strange so many people are out…after what happened to Mr. Weaver. Then Jonathan pictured Mr. Weaver in his living room—he had no idea why; he certainly didn’t know what the teacher’s house looked like—and the pudgy Weaver was watching television, drinking a beer from a tall glass. The next moment Mr. Weaver was gasping silently, clawing at his face. Strange so many people are out…Then Mr. Weaver was outside, soaring through space, but it wasn’t a pleasant flight. He scratched and kicked at the air, his mouth was open as if to scream, but no sound emerged. He hit high up on a tree, his body bending back slightly with the impact. He fell forward, arms and legs dangling, his body perfectly balanced on a thick tree limb.

Jonathan shook the reverie from his mind. It was just too unpleasant, so he decided to think about something else.

That was easy enough.

He thought about Emma O’Neil. Imagined holding her, and this time it wasn’t just to comfort her while she mourned their late English teacher. No, what Jonathan imagined was having met Emma by accident at the mall instead of Kirsty. He saw her smiling, almost mischievous face, hanging before the neon tubes of the ice-cream parlor.

She wore the short red skirt she’d worn two Mondays ago, the fabric smooth and tight to her hips. With the skirt she wore a snug white sweater with short sleeves, a top Jonathan had seen her wear half a dozen times, to breathtaking effect. She didn’t say anything at first, just looked at him, noticing him. Finally.

Hey, Jonathan said, as he had to Kirsty.

Hi.

What’s up?

Just hanging out. I thought I might find you here.

Emma stepped up to Jonathan and wrapped her arms around his neck, leaned in close to place her lips against his.

Even imagining such a moment made Jonathan blush. He smiled to himself.

He shifted in the bed, rolled over to look at the window.

The wonderful image fled, and Jonathan froze. Eyes open and staring. His heart beating fast.

A man-shaped shadow fell over the glass. Its darkness was deeper than the night. Somehow solid, it was framed between his open curtains. This wasn’t simply a shadow though, because Jonathan could make out eyes, nose, and mouth. They seemed painted on the form. They also seemed furious with him. The lips moved silently, their edges low in a disapproving frown. The smoky eyes darted back and forth, scanning the interior of Jonathan’s room.

Childhood fears of the bogeyman flooded back. He felt like a little boy, paralyzed by the knowledge that monsters did exist, and they lived close. This wasn’t how he pictured the bogeyman, though. It looked more like the robe of the Grim Reaper, inhabited by a spirit instead of a skeleton. Whatever it was, it scared the hell out of him.

He closed his eyes, attempting to blink away this angry phantom, but it remained on the glass. Sweat popped out on Jonathan’s neck. His pulse sounded in his head, a staccato thunder.

Against the glass the shadow rippled. It spread out like liquid, smearing the facial features, making them transparent, so Jonathan could see a corner of the apartment complex through the form. With another rippling wave it rose, like a manta ray climbing through an ocean current.

Then it glided skyward and was gone.

Jonathan leaped from the bed. Every muscle and nerve sprang and sparked as if he’d been coiled up for hours. His fingers and toes tingled badly, and his stomach felt as if it were filled with ice water.

“Crap,” he said in a high whisper. “Crap. What was that?”

He paced the room, trying to burn off some of his nervous energy, hoping motion would bring some sense, some logical explanation to his frightened mind. He wanted to believe he’d been asleep. It was a dream. A nightmare. A trick of his overactive imagination. But no, he was awake. No foggy remnants of sleep were on him. There had been no moment of time unaccounted for.

He paced faster and ran his hands through his hair, scratching his scalp furiously to release a tingling shower of anxiety down his back.