This Is What I Want to Tell You Read online

  For Luke.

  Not my twin but my brother and my mirror.

  Woodbury, Minnesota

  This Is What I Want to Tell You © 2009 by Heather Duffy-Stone.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.

  First e-book edition © 2010

  E-book ISBN: 9780738722740

  Book design by Steffani Sawyer

  Cover design by Lisa Novak

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  Acknowledgments

  Writing is in many ways a solitary act, but there are some people without whom this book would never have happened.

  Hillery Stone is not just a poet, brilliant in her own right, of a brilliant lineage, but she has also been my best friend since we were eleven and my tireless supporter, critic, reader, and right hand in the telling of this story, and all stories.

  Elissa Haden Guest wrote a book called Over the Moon that I read when I was twelve or so, and I’ve wanted to write this book ever since. She remains an inspiration.

  Darci Manley has been with this book since Parker had a different name and all along she has pushed me harder, pulled me forward, and flooded me with the details and inspirations that made this book whole. Micol Ostow and every one of my MB writer friends also brought this story from an idea to a reality.

  I wrote much of this book after returning to New York from Rome. The students I taught in Rome—the reluctant members of my English Comp class—inspired me to tell this story; in part, it belongs to them. My friends and colleagues there, and especially my roommates, gave me the belief in possibility that let me think this book could happen.

  Of course, I thank teachers, peers, friends, and editors—lifelong supporters of my writing who believed this was possible long before I ever did. My Tribe, especially.

  Andrew Karre, who weathered my neurotic ramblings and guided this manuscript into the kind of book it could be with his brilliant vision and an absolute understanding of my intentions. Jenoyne Adams, who came to me through dozens of fortuitous connections and advocated tirelessly on my behalf to bring this book to you.

  My sister-in-law Braeden Stone, who said to me, “I don’t know how you do it, but you write the things I felt yet didn’t know how to express when I was a teenager.” This is the greatest compliment I’ve received yet.

  My father, who always let me be a writer and pushes me still to be everything else he thinks I can be, who reminds me that I can do all of it. And Deb, who always has faith. Aunt Karen, who never made me walk too far and taught me to appreciate the finest things.

  My mom. Who is my other half. She is the strength and power in everything I do. And everything I write is because she told me I could.

  I can’t tell you exactly what happened, but I can tell you part of it.

  My part.

  I once read that you should always write about what you know, that what you know will tell the best story. What I know now is that the stories people tell are always about our insecurities, about the things we left behind, and about the things we wish we could do again. The real story isn’t about what you know; it’s about what you wish you knew then.

  The story I want to tell leaves some stuff out, because to tell all of it is too true. And some stuff needs to be kept secret.

  Here is something true. I met him at a party. His name was Parker. The party was at Jessica Marino’s older brother’s loft in the city. It was loud and dim and dirty, the way lofts are in your imagination. Jessica and I both wore black eyeliner smudged in thick clouds around our lashes and tore our tank tops into jagged pointy Vs. Jessica’s brother mostly ignored us and we hung in the corners of the room, trying, without admitting it, to make our faces pout and suggest, like all of the faces we saw around us, like all of these faces who seemed older and better and barely noticed us.

  I saw Parker when he came in; he was taller than everyone else and wore a black hat tilted low over the left side of his face. He swaggered. He knew people. His eyes pierced even from far away.

  He looked like everything I wasn’t.

  The whole room was dirty and a little bit faded. I felt like I wasn’t supposed to be there. I felt like in that moment I wanted to be the kind of girl that he’d want to talk to. I felt like I wanted to be a rock star.

  Then it happened. He started talking to me. He came up to me when Jessica was in the bathroom and I was hugging the perimeter of the room.

  Hey, he said, and it felt like I was dreaming.

  He asked me who I knew. Up close his eyes were cold-water blue. Everything about him was long and lean. He was wearing a black T-shirt and right here in front of me I could see it was faded and thin and his shoulders pushed through it, straining the thin fabric. His hair was a million kinds of brown—pushed up on one side like he’d been sleeping, or like the hat, now gone and forgotten, had shaped the hair it left exposed.

  He asked me where I was from and I said something about Jessica’s brother and I wondered why he was still talking to me.

  Damn, you’re beautiful, he said. I saw you right when I walked in. What’s your name?

  Noelle, I whispered.

  No-Elle, he said, and I watched his tongue pause against the back of his teeth at the end of my name. It had never sounded like that before.

  No-Elle, he repeated, as if it were something different. As if it were his.

  I can’t even tell you, that feeling when someone calls you pretty, your whole face feels hot and then the rest of your body gets hot and then everything around you turns blurry.

  How come I’ve never seen you before, he said.

  And I knew he was older but it suddenly occurred to me that he wasn’t that much older. And that I had him completely fooled. That all of it, everything, was in my hands. I’d never felt that way before. I leaned my head to the side so a piece of hair fell over my eye.

  * *
*

  The thing I need to tell you is that before this night, Keeley Shipley was my best friend. All summer she’d been away from home. I got a job that summer at the Cree-Mee stand and I worked with Jessica Marino. I knew Jessica from school where she wore black eyeliner and corduroy miniskirts and seemed to know a secret that nobody else in Geometry knew. She was the kind of person who makes you feel like there is a whole other life out there and it is way better than the one you are living. That summer I rode around in Jessica’s car after work and we smoked joints and felt bored and waited for something to happen. The whole time I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was happening in Keeley’s life and it had nothing to do with me.

  Keeley was my first friend—besides Nadio, my twin brother. We had this thing that a lot of kids don’t have—this connection where we just got each other. Like we were meant to be friends. For ten years the only person who understood anything about me was Keeley Shipley. For most of those ten years I didn’t even notice how our lives were different. How her sweeping house on the hill shadowed ours. How she was so beautiful everyone just stared at her. How everything near her seemed to turn the color gold—really. But the thing was, the thing that made it all okay, was that Keeley never seemed to notice any of this either. But then she went away. Then she started to live this whole life outside of our life. Then my brother Nadio and Keeley Shipley fell in love and that was the end of everything I knew.

  The night I met Parker, Keeley and Nadio weren’t in love yet, but I think I knew it was coming. The night I met Parker was the last real night of the summer. The night I met Parker I was almost the same age as our mother was when she bought a one-way ticket to Italy and met our father on an overnight train. The night I met Parker was the night Keeley was coming home; but when Jessica called me and asked me to go to this party with her, it was like I just knew I had to go. I didn’t leave Keeley a message or anything, I just went. Like I forgot that was the night she was coming home.

  Except I never forgot.

  My brother only remembers a photograph of the three of us meeting, but I remember the real first time I saw Keeley. She had pale, pale skin and millions of freckles and I thought her face was the most amazing thing I had ever laid eyes on—so many tiny painted freckles, and white-blonde hair—it turned gold as we got older but that first day it was almost white. Keeley didn’t hide behind her parents the way other kids did around us. She was never intimidated by the fact that there were two of us. She just walked right in, and she fit.

  Before that summer everything was quiet. Everything was Nadio and me and Keeley, everything was the orchard where we lived and the hiking trails around us and our bikes along the road and sleeping in between our houses in tents. Through sophomore year, most of the time it was like we had the world to ourselves. Then Keeley flew to England for the summer and Nadio started running all the time and Jessica Marino started to drive me around in her car. That world we’d had to ourselves wasn’t there anymore. There was a whole new one.

  When I met Parker I thought I could make him fill in all those spaces and gaps that my brother and Keeley left behind, even though the shapes were all wrong. I’d never seen anyone like him—no one like him had ever paid attention to me.

  He had tattoos. Not just a few but a lot. Up and down his arms and across his shoulder blades. I only saw some of them that first night, but I could see their points and edges beneath the sleeves and above the neck of his shirt. I tried not to stare.

  Hey, it’s okay, he said. Look at them.

  And he turned his arms over and pointed at them and told me where he was when he got each one—it was like a whole history of his life, right there on his skin, carved in with needles and ink and painting him from one place to the next. And there were so many places.

  My first one, he said about a huge Celtic symbol on his right shoulder. I got this one in Boston when I was visiting my cousin. You know, Celtic warriors used the art on their bodies to intimidate their enemies.

  I didn’t know that.

  On the back of his hand, a symbol that looked like swiftly painted lines. He put his palm down on my thigh and that tattooed hand was framed by my jeans, his fingers sending chills through the fabric.

  It’s the Chinese symbol for fire, he said, nodding down at his hand. You know, its warmth, its danger all at once, and it’s my—you know you need fire to cook, and that’s what I do.

  You cook? I asked. I could barely concentrate.

  Yeah, he said.

  He turned his hand, lifting his fingers from my jeans, letting the breath out. On the inside of his wrist a spiral starting small, wound tight at the veins at his wrist and then unwinding, snaking all the way up to the inside of his elbow. A serpent.

  You know, temptation, he said.

  He had a tattoo that ran in a column down his spine—it said

  what

  does not

  destroy me

  makes me

  stronger

  in straight, black heavy script.

  What almost destroyed you? I asked him.

  But that was later. That was a different night. I didn’t see the one on his back that first night.

  * * *

  My brother and I are telling this story because we realized that it wasn’t one story, but two. For the first time, the things that happened to us looked so different. Even Keeley, who had always been there in both of our eyes, suddenly became two different people. I always thought I was the only one who knew who she was exactly, but last year I realized I didn’t really know who anyone was—Keeley, Nadio, much less me.

  Keeley had been in England all summer and the night she got home, I wasn’t there. I was meeting Parker. She and I had never been apart for more than a few days, not since we were five years old. But what was I supposed to do? Was I supposed to just sit and wait for her all summer?

  It is hard to picture what last summer felt like. I know I was someone else then and I probably couldn’t have imagined who I’d become—who we’d all become—but now that I know, part of me wants to remind myself what it was like before. I told Noelle about the way I’d written to our father, on invisible pages but with permanent ink. We need to do that, she said, we need to tell this story, even if the pages are invisible.

  Before, I only knew Keeley as an extension of my sister. She was the blonde half to Noelle’s brown—they were like daytime and nighttime—each in need of the other one but living as perfect opposites. Keeley was the quiet part and Noelle was the bold part. That was how I saw them. I knew Keeley in a way that didn’t tell her and my sister apart, like each of them was only who she was with the other one. But the night she came home from her summer in Oxford, that night I couldn’t even see how they had fit together. Suddenly, that night, Keeley was all her own.

  I always thought I remembered the first time I saw her, but Noelle says I’m remembering a photograph and not the actual meeting. She says the photo was taken later, after we knew each other, but I can’t help wondering who took it; Lace never thought to take pictures, she wasn’t that kind of mother, and I’d never seen the Shipleys with a camera. Maybe they really did watch Keeley grow up, or maybe there never was a photograph. Noelle just tells me there was one; I’ve never seen it. What I remember is a darkened entryway in the Shipleys’ living room, the white border of the doorway framing Keeley and my sister—my sister in an orange dress and Keeley in a green dress—and they were laughing and reaching out to each other. I was in the background. I was the same color as the carpet. I was watching them.

  I’ve lived at the bottom of the orchard my whole life. The place where we live is strange in a dozen ways. For one, we live in the gatehouse of a sort of run-down estate. There is no such thing as a groundskeeper for the estate, though that was probably who lived in our house once. It belongs to the college now, and the big house and its land a
lways goes to the chair of the Languages and Literature department. Our mom has worked in the college bookstore since before we were born, and a long time ago the chair of the Lit department saw her carrying me and my sister and two bags of groceries up the porch steps of her apartment near campus and said, why don’t you move into the gatehouse? There’s a lot of land, it’s great for kids, and it sits empty. We were living there when he retired and Keeley’s dad moved in to take his place, but the Shipleys wanted us to stay and even asked our mom to help take care of Keeley. To me, this land has always felt like all of ours, although later I realized my sister didn’t feel that way.

  It’s strange here too, because in the orchard there is absolute silence, far from everything. Down the hill is the village, where the college claims square houses and brick buildings and a public high school pulls together handfuls of students from spread-out small towns. But if I run far enough, to the end of the orchard, I can see the dim tired landscape of the city. Our teachers and the Shipleys always talk about how the city was once this great industrial capital, but now it isn’t much more than boarded-up windows and gray streets. If I get on a sputtering public bus from the college, I can ride it into the city and walk the spray-painted sidewalks to a few cafés and restaurants and a record store and tall buildings with filmy glass windows. All of these businesses look a little scared to me—their polished windows cowering in between broken glass and plywood.

  In the orchard, we’re sort of perched between gatehouse and big house, city and country … but even the country is on the brink of being bigger, and even the city is basically on the edge of falling apart.

  Sometimes I feel like I know the orchard better in the dark than in the daylight. That summer I started running at night; there was always some light from the stars, but I didn’t need it. I could feel the ground almost better than I could see the path. The field sloped gradually down to the first row of trees and then, once I entered that first row, I’d hold my arms out, falling a little bit, pushing off from one tree to the next. After I ran, I’d rest, leaning against the crumbling edge of the stone wall—the stone was cool and smooth. I loved this part of night—the darkest part. Some people were scared of it. Some kind of light always filtered through, some kind of sound always reminded you that life was moving around you. Sometimes I’d feel around me for a stone or a twig and throw it deeper into the woods, just to wake up, just to connect to something.