The third time was completely different. I’m not saying that I didn’t connect with Maya the first time or look into her eyes and drift off to another place, because I did that, as much as anyone can in a storage room, but this was different. We could actually study each other in daylight. It was just the two of us with no interruptions from anyone, including my imaginary friends, and I’m still not sure why they gave us privacy.
I’m not supposed to say this, but she’s not always as beautiful as she was that afternoon. I’m supposed to say that she is always beautiful and that it doesn’t matter what she’s wearing, but that’s one of those things that men say because it’s the most correct way to lie. There are moments when Maya sort of looks like a newly hatched iguana with squinty eyes and puffy cheeks, like in the morning when we’re sitting outside our first-period class, waiting for the bell to ring.
But that afternoon, she looked more beautiful tangled in my sheets than she’s ever looked in clothes.
We never stopped touching each other. I developed an appreciation for body parts that don’t normally get much attention. Like her wrists or the really tender spot on the back of her knee. I liked knowing I was the only one who got to touch her. There were long, comfortable silences where she ran her fingers across my stomach and let me twist my fingers in her hair. She smelled incredible, not like perfume or lotion, just like her.
I felt like I could tell her everything, like what I actually saw in church when I had to close my eyes or why I had horrible headaches and couldn’t sleep sometimes. Every fear I’d ever had. In those moments I felt like she would understand and nothing would change between us, but I didn’t want to tell her like this. I didn’t want to tell her all that stuff when I was feeling happy. It would’ve ruined the feeling for both of us, and then the afternoon wouldn’t have been the day I opened my heart to Maya—it would be the day she found out I was broken.
When she said she had to leave, I wouldn’t let her put her clothes back on, which led to a wrestling match that gave me an unfair advantage. Poor Maya.
Mom and Paul came home about half an hour after Maya left. They’d brought pizza, and Paul and I politely ignored my mom when she insisted that two extra-larges were way too much for us, even though she finished most of one herself. Thank God for Paul or we could’ve starved.
That night, Maya climbed through my bedroom window, but instead of climbing into bed with me, she tilted her head toward the window and climbed back down. I followed her into the driveway and then toward the small park on the corner of our neighborhood. It was chilly out and I thought she looked cold without a sweater. She glanced back at me, flashed a grin, and started running toward the line of trees on the far side of the park. When I was younger, I wasn’t allowed to venture this far alone, and for some reason that old boundary tugged at me.
I followed her to the other side of the trees, where the street curved out of the neighborhood and toward the freeway. Maya hadn’t stopped running. She was ahead of me, far ahead of me, and when I called out, she didn’t stop. I ran after her.
Until I saw her veer straight into traffic.
I screamed her name, but she just turned into vapor as a truck plowed through her.
It took a while before my mind could process what had happened. There had been no warning in my head that she wasn’t real. I hadn’t thought it was strange that she was running away from me. She was wearing her school uniform, and even that hadn’t seemed out of place. The only thought in my mind had been to follow her.
What if Maya wasn’t real? I climbed back through my window and spent the night thinking I had invented her. Everything in my body hurt because I was so fixated on the idea that she might not exist. I was afraid to talk to my mom about it because I didn’t want her to know if my girlfriend was made up. I was almost positive my mom had asked about her before. She’d come to the house for dinner and studying. Mom knew Maya existed. She absolutely knew. The little voice in my head kept asking, Are you sure?
I got to school early and waited for her to show up. My head was pounding. When Maya finally arrived, I waited for someone to say something to her. Anything. I needed someone else to see her first and respond to her. Luckily, Sister Helen came into view, and I heard her say, “Good morning, Maya.”
“You’re going to get us in trouble if you kiss me like that at school,” Maya said when I finally put her down. “There are rules, you know. You can’t just go touching me whenever you want.” She smirked and twisted her hand into mine.
I’m not sure what you got out of this entry. Probably that I shouldn’t be left on my own and maybe that I need stronger meds, but I’d actually prefer that you thought I was just a horny teenager. If you could just pretend that’s all I am, I’d really appreciate it.
DOSAGE: 3.5 mg. Same dosage. No change.
APRIL 24, 2013
Look. You don’t have to try this hard. You could probably take a nap during these sessions and nobody would notice. I won’t tell anyone.
I’m touched that you went out of your way to try, yet again, to connect with me, but even if I was, you know, normal, an art exhibit was a risky move. So you could have wasted your time.
My mom was really glad you took me. You should have heard the way she went on about your innovative therapy style and how you really seemed to be reaching me. I think I have to care about the art itself, though. The fact that the paintings were done by someone like me doesn’t make them more beautiful and it doesn’t make the artist less crazy. I almost ruined everything as usual by not appreciating the first exhibit you dragged me to. To be fair, it was full of bent penis flowers. Huge paintings of bent, flaccid penises with crowns of petals around the tips making them look like the saddest flowers I’ve ever seen.
I really want to say the right thing about this stuff, so if you could just tell me what I’m supposed to be feeling, that would be awesome. I assume that I’m supposed to be comforted by the fact that these artists are able to show people what they see in their heads. Right? And because they are all schizophrenic, I’m supposed to be moved by their ability to reach beyond the limitations of their disease to create something beautiful.
The painting of the cat wearing glasses in the garden is supposed to teach me something about embracing the crazy. But what I really think is, Who cares about this cat? The answer is no one. No one cares about this cat. The artist barely cared about this cat.
I think I know what happened. My last entry worried you. You seemed different when you read my stuff this week. Like you were afraid I was losing my grip. But I’m not sure showing me art from other people like me is the way to go.
It’s creepy.
Why do they paint so many misshapen penises with flower petal hats? And that one guy, the one who painted all the cats. That guy is seriously messed up. The thing I really want is for the artist to stand in front of his painting and tell me what the hell he was thinking. If the cat is actually a submarine and the penises are actually people, then I’d like to know about it because looking at them on their own without any explanation is stupid.
And I seriously hate when other people tell you what the artist was really trying to say. Like the museum curator standing in front of the painting with the bent penis flower telling everyone that it symbolizes his detachment from the world of academia after he was diagnosed.