Status: ACTIVE
Two Cans and a String
one.
Will is already leaning outside by the time I reach my window. “Hey,” He smiles faintly, resting his elbows against his window sill. He’s clad in a running jacket and mesh basketball shorts, his inky hair pushed messily off his forehead. I grin in return, kicking one leg through the opening so I straddle the window frame, leaning my back against one of the sides of it.
This has been our routine since we were little, when my family first moved into the ratty white house on the corner of Baker and One-Eleventh. That first night I had tucked myself beneath my duvet on top of my new yet lumpy window seat, hoping to catch at least a glimpse of the full moon. Exhaust fumes stuffed my nose and the breeze was too cold, but I’d loved to stargaze when we lived in the country. In the city astral objects were a lot harder to come by. Still, I’d be damned if I didn’t try.
Instead, however, I’d been hit in the face with a metal can tossed over the gap separating my house and the next. Aloofly, I’d ignored it, dropping it back over the edge of the window. It clanked against the side of the house once, twice, three times before sailing through my window again. Except this time it landed directly into my lap.
“My name is Captain William Thorbes, the Third and the Best, and I want to be your friend.” I heard the voice not through the string, but because the young boy who it belonged to was yelling relentlessly.
He seemed pretty stupid to me, to be honest, but when I peeked toward his side of the yard I couldn’t make myself yell at him. He was so scrawny and small and I thought shouting might break him, so I only sighed and answered, “My name is Imogen Constantine and I want to be your neighbour.” I didn’t bother saying the words through the cup and he seemed a little disappointed by it.
“We’re already neighbours,” He replied innocently.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I knew that, that it was the point, that I wanted him to be quiet. So, I just listened to him continue talking. And it’s been like that ever since.
Now, I push my fists into the pocket of the hoodie that’s concealing my braless chest and glance toward the sky. It’s swirled with orange and lavender. If I focus hard enough, I can see the mosquitoes swarmed together above my house’s roof.
Then I look at him and I wonder if he takes time to mentally note the changes he’s seen in me over the past nine years in the same way that I do to him. His shoulders are broad, his arms twined with taut muscles. The body of a nineteen year old boy who’s accepted to university on a soccer scholarship. Relaxed instead of skittish. He’s a calm stream instead of the then tireless river. But there’s still that alertness in his gaze. That knowing curiosity.
I yawn. “How was your day?”
And then he unloads, describing the torturous drills he had to perform at his training session and how on the drive home he stalled his little pickup at one of the intersections. He tells me that when he got home his little brother, Jameson, asked him to help him with his homework but it was Chemistry so he lied and told him he was tired.
I like that he trusts me with his words just as I trust him with mine. His voice is low and fruity and could put me to sleep. I close my eyes and rest my head against the window frame, letting his experiences sink into my skin.
He stops too soon, and I unseal my eyelids to find him regarding me thoughtfully. When he notices my awareness, he cracks a toothy smile. “Tired, Mo?”
No, I want to answer, Your stories are just like one of those speakers that simulates oceans sounds.
A laugh bubbles up my throat. “Could you tell?”
This has been our routine since we were little, when my family first moved into the ratty white house on the corner of Baker and One-Eleventh. That first night I had tucked myself beneath my duvet on top of my new yet lumpy window seat, hoping to catch at least a glimpse of the full moon. Exhaust fumes stuffed my nose and the breeze was too cold, but I’d loved to stargaze when we lived in the country. In the city astral objects were a lot harder to come by. Still, I’d be damned if I didn’t try.
Instead, however, I’d been hit in the face with a metal can tossed over the gap separating my house and the next. Aloofly, I’d ignored it, dropping it back over the edge of the window. It clanked against the side of the house once, twice, three times before sailing through my window again. Except this time it landed directly into my lap.
“My name is Captain William Thorbes, the Third and the Best, and I want to be your friend.” I heard the voice not through the string, but because the young boy who it belonged to was yelling relentlessly.
He seemed pretty stupid to me, to be honest, but when I peeked toward his side of the yard I couldn’t make myself yell at him. He was so scrawny and small and I thought shouting might break him, so I only sighed and answered, “My name is Imogen Constantine and I want to be your neighbour.” I didn’t bother saying the words through the cup and he seemed a little disappointed by it.
“We’re already neighbours,” He replied innocently.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I knew that, that it was the point, that I wanted him to be quiet. So, I just listened to him continue talking. And it’s been like that ever since.
Now, I push my fists into the pocket of the hoodie that’s concealing my braless chest and glance toward the sky. It’s swirled with orange and lavender. If I focus hard enough, I can see the mosquitoes swarmed together above my house’s roof.
Then I look at him and I wonder if he takes time to mentally note the changes he’s seen in me over the past nine years in the same way that I do to him. His shoulders are broad, his arms twined with taut muscles. The body of a nineteen year old boy who’s accepted to university on a soccer scholarship. Relaxed instead of skittish. He’s a calm stream instead of the then tireless river. But there’s still that alertness in his gaze. That knowing curiosity.
I yawn. “How was your day?”
And then he unloads, describing the torturous drills he had to perform at his training session and how on the drive home he stalled his little pickup at one of the intersections. He tells me that when he got home his little brother, Jameson, asked him to help him with his homework but it was Chemistry so he lied and told him he was tired.
I like that he trusts me with his words just as I trust him with mine. His voice is low and fruity and could put me to sleep. I close my eyes and rest my head against the window frame, letting his experiences sink into my skin.
He stops too soon, and I unseal my eyelids to find him regarding me thoughtfully. When he notices my awareness, he cracks a toothy smile. “Tired, Mo?”
No, I want to answer, Your stories are just like one of those speakers that simulates oceans sounds.
A laugh bubbles up my throat. “Could you tell?”