Psyche

By the afternoon Jamie is at Alexandria’s apartment. He sits in her room with Celebrity napping on his lap. Alexandria pulls up the beanbag close to her bed and plops onto it. She has fake, Buddy Holley glasses on, and her fingers are rubbing her chin like a beard’s there.

Jamie has this sudden burst of amusement she would still be nice looking as a bearded lady. She could make a career out of it if she wanted to.

”So how was last night?” she asks.

“Fun.” He thinks for a bit, and decides to add, “It wasn’t awkward.”

“Was Jean a douche?”

“No, he was cool. So was Zay, this girl who came with us.”

Alexandria keeps rubbing her chin and even stops to fix her glasses on her nose, before tossing the cheap plastics the trashcan. “Eh, if you say Jean was cool, then I guess he’s cool with me. As long as he doesn’t hit on me anymore.”

“Yeah,” he laughs, and he really wants to say I hope so too.

(Somewhere along the line the jealousy died. He still envies the way she looks, but it’s in an admiring way. For the most part.)

“You wanna go to the movies? Dad says he’ll drop us off and then we can wander in the mall in boredom afterwards since we’re broke kids on a budget,” she says. Jamie agrees to it, and with a huff Alexandria gets up and grabs Celebrity.

“Time to go back in your cage, dear,” she coos. Celebrity makes this weird yawn, squeal-type noise and glares at her for waking him up.

*****

Once the movie’s over – some confusing remake of a Taiwanese horror film – Alexandria and Jamie head over to a fast food burger joint. When they reach Jamie’s home Alexandria stretches from the front seat and gives him a clumsy hug. Content emits from it that leaves him mellowed out.

Girlie and Zack are at a restaurant and will be home later. Tonight the internet is boring and there’s nothing on TV, so Jamie goes up to the attic. A few blank canvases sit one corner, and he picks out a medium-sized one. He somewhat misses painting the first thing to come to mind. Maybe tonight he’ll paint something decent and he won’t have to smear it black.

He changes into a purple shirt ridden with tiny holes and gathers his paint supplies. He doesn’t know what he’s going to make, only takes a swab of light blue and runs the first stroke.

When he thinks he sees a pattern he hears a door slam and Girlie calling his name from downstairs. He shouts back even though he’s sure she can’t hear him.

It’s late and he’s only painted a bleak blue background with black emerging from the corners. If he closes his eyes, Jamie can see the inside of his head still looks like the painting, despite what he wants to believe.

He hasn’t been in the attic since he painted a person with its head splattered on a stark-white wall. It took two and a half hours and the day’s heat made his skin sticky and his odor musky. It was last summer, and Zack came up and saw it.

The attic was his second favorite place beside his room. Now he tries to avoid it when Zack’s around. He’s learned his mistake the first time and doesn’t want to repeat it.

Girlie saw it too – the painting, not Zack – and she wouldn’t have found it disturbing had Jamie’s personality not turned deep south. Jamie was prescribed a higher dosage of all of his meds and it’s been so since then. He thinks it should change. He’s fifteen and better. He can handle himself.

Then he hears the footsteps coming up behind him and he has no one to blame but himself.

“What are you painting?”

Zack stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame. His shoulders are lax and hair is mussed, the action reminding Jamie of Jean in some twisted way. But Jamie can think of

Jean and feel his chest burn pleasantly. That’s where the difference lies.

“Nothing,” Jamie answers, looking from Zack to the blocked door. Keep his eyes on Zack or turn back to the painting, which will end better?

“Everything been okay lately?” Zack asks it so strangely, like a new stepparent trying to become more of a parent to their stepchild.

“Yeah, I’m gonna go to bed. I’ve been up since eight.” Zack stays rooted to his spot and Jamie wonders how long it will take before the hollowness in him becomes flooded with fear and he’ll have to run.

Zack continues to speak. “We worry about you sometimes. Girlie and me.”

“I’m fine, really. It’s okay.”

“I care about you like you’re my son.” A splinter forms from the paintbrush Jamie’s holding and scraps the inside of his palm. It pokes through the thin skin; he feels the blood underneath leaking.

Jamie puts one foot forward. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Zack opens his mouth to say something else, but then Girlie calls Jamie’s name again.

“Excuse me,” he says hurriedly, and slides in-between the space of Zack and the doorframe, trying not to touch him.

Zack doesn’t say any more. He lets him go.