Hands, · Like · Secrets, · Are · the · Hardest · Things · to · Keep · From · You

I needed someplace I could put this and access it later- but if you want to read it, I'd love the feedback.

I
Something was wrong; something beyond the usual residual anger of a fight between friends pressed like a headache into my skull, and it worried me. Nicole and I hadn't spoken since our text-message argument: venomous volleys shot back and forth over a whole lot of nothing. But even when I called her, leaving messages of apology, and sent emails and texts asking if everything was okay, I didn't expect her response, not in a million years; "No, everything is not okay. I am reassessing our friendship, and whether I want to be friends with you anymore." I remember getting that text while driving to school and the shock of it almost sent me swerving, my composure shaken and the drivers around me in danger by my proximity.

But this little exchange was nothing, and did nothing to brace me for the calamity that followed. When Nicole decided to end our friendship, she sent me a list of reasons in an email, a declaration of independence from me, and each one ripped me further to shreds. I can so vividly recall the quality of the gray light, that afternoon, slipping in through the blinds of my bathroom window, as I sat on my shower floor, unable to support myself against the weight of grief that overwhelmed me. The hot water was more for convenience than comfort; it washed away the tears and snot, and covered the sound of my sobs, which escaped my throat without asking. I was too undone to control them, coming apart under the force of despair and confusion I felt in that moment. Nicole had become my dearest friend, closer and more precious to me than my own sister. To lose her now, by her choice, was a blow I was not prepared to receive. I'll never forget that sharp ache in my chest, my grief manifesting into physical pain. I've never cried so hard in my life.

II
I was pretty confident that at 17, I could handle being home alone for a weekend while my parents took a trip up North. I could make my own food, I knew where the dog's things were, and the house had an alarm, so I was safe. So when I had taken care of everything and closed up the house for the night, I wasn't too frightened by the darkness, or the sound of leaves shuffling outside, or being the only one there.

I had just drifted off to sleep on that quiet Sunday evening, when I was violently ejected from my bed by the loud, rapid pulse of the alarm, my body acting on instinct before I knew what was going on. Without stopping to think, my veins flooded with the hot sting of adrenaline and fear, I grabbed my phone from my dresser and shot myself across the room into my closet, closing the door and fumbling to flip open my cell, as I attempted to stifle my terrified gasps. I was horrified to realize that the closet door had no lock, and I hadn't stopped to lock my bedroom door- there was no barrier, however ineffective it might have been, between me and the unknown. My heart must have traveled up into my ears, the beat was so loud, almost loud enough to drown out the alarm, which continued to chase fear into ever corner of my mind. It knew it couldn't be coincidence, that I was home alone the night the alarm went off- it only made sense that someone knew I was alone, had been watching me and just waiting to pounce....

Opening my phone was an ordeal, the screen and buttons lighting up like a beacon, and irrationally I thought Too bright! Too bright! They'll see it and find me... Tears leaked out of my eyes, so that the keys of my phone were blurred, but I knew the positions of 911 by heart. How odd it was, to see the screen turn red-orange, the word EMERGENCY appearing above the three numbers I had pressed, once I hit the call button- as if to remind me that I was in danger- while the evidence of it reverberated unceasingly in my ears. The woman who answered my call sounded calm; much, much too calm for the circumstances. In a wobbly, terrified whisper, I told her I was home alone, and my house alarm had gone off, but she seemed unimpressed, asking me questions like "Can you hear anything, like glass breaking, or voices?" and I would try to listen, over the blood storming my hears, and the piercing alarm, and the voice inside of me that was screaming, just screaming....but I heard nothing. She asked, "Do you know of anyone who could be playing a practical joke on you?" And I thought of my friends- but none of them would go beyond TPing my yard, I was sure. The woman told me she had sent out a dispatch call, but that it could take a while for an officer to get there, since it was a busy night downtown - something was going down that needed more attention than some girl hiding in her closet, I surmised. I asked if I should call my parents and let them know what was going on- the detachment in her voice causing me to crave comfort and familiarity, but she told me if I did, I wouldn't get her back on the phone. So I sat there, silently praying- praying I wouldn't die, but even more that I wouldn't be raped, asking God to take my life quickly before that happened. For forty five minutes I sat there, shaking, crying, and too afraid to talk to the cold woman who was my lifeline, lest intruders hear me. My mind turned every tiny sound into the opening of my door, of someone walking through the house. And then--- the house alarm shut off. This scared me nearly as much as its going off had. I struggled to listen for anything, but the silence was complete...and this bothered me. Why weren't the dogs barking? Shouldn't they be? Worry further tangled with my fears, and it was another anxious 20 minutes before the doorbell rang. The woman told me it would probably be the police officer, and that I should go ask who it is. Stumbling over my numb leg, which had fallen asleep long ago, I cautiously made my way to the door, with wild eyes darting to every corner, but I saw nothing. I pushed the button of the intercom and asked who was there, but no one answered. The woman told me that I shouldn't answer the door then- as if I needed another reason to panic. Finally, the woman told me she'd confirmed that it was a police officer, and I could open the door. He looked around, but could only offer the explanation that there was an electrical short that set it off, or the wind jingling the doors. For months afterwards, I had night terrors, or was too afraid to sleep, and came to my parents room like a child after a nightmare, seeking comfort when I was so sure someone was coming for me. The sound of the alarm still sends a jolt of pure fear through me.

III
It was a good, long summer I was enjoying, nearly halfway done by the time everything started. Maybe three weeks had passed since I had known Jake Darin as more than a boy who went to my high school, but things had moved quickly- too quickly for my emotions to keep up. I had been amused when he wrote in my yearbook, "If I forget to call, or you get bored first, or if that's not really your number you gave me and it's an animal shelter, here's mine." I was cautiously optimistic about being friends with him when he sent me the text, "Cory O'Born, it's summer. And I'm bored." I was pleasantly surprised when the first couple of awkward times we hung out, he would so easily dispel the tension of getting-to-know-you chit chat with lines like, "Well, I was born in a log cabin that I helped my father build." But as the time we spent together lengthened, and our friendship expanded as quickly as those Watch It Grow! Dollar-store toys, my feelings had a hard time catching up. I knew he liked me, and it was certainly flattering. He was nearly perfect, too; clever, smart, funny, sarcastic, and interested in art and philosophy as well as basketball and karate. But I couldn't find reciprocal feelings inside me. I could be this boy's best friend, but I couldn’t like him as anything more. Yet, contrary to this resolution, I flirted, and missed him when he wasn't there, and invited him over to family parties...

Three weeks after the first text message, he came to one, watching fireworks and marveling that my family was so big that an anonymous boy hanging out with their daughter-niece-sister-cousin didn't have to be introduced to each person we passed. We played Uno with my cousins, his sock-covered feet brushing my bare ones under the table, and our laughter the loudest in the house. But time slipped by much too quickly, and before we knew it, everyone had left. Yet I wasn't ready to say good night to Jake, so I took him for a walk to my favorite place: the playground behind my elementary school. The summer air was heavy and warm as we walked beneath the intermittent light of orange streetlamps, and I was conscious of how frizzy my hair must be. Our conversation was teasing and light, but our arms brushed occasionally, a reminder that something weighty hung between us. I could feel it, something building up, a cataclysm- but there was no way to stop it, and I denied any such occurrence to myself. I was on a downhill path, with no breaks, and only a vague idea of what lay at the bottom, so I pretended that I didn't know it was happening.

We reached the gate, padding across cool sand to the jungle gym. I stood on a platform below him, and we played a game of tic-tac-toe on the swiveling faded plastic blocks. In a flash, he had won, using the trick I always forget about, and I stood motionless, fruitlessly attempting to gather my thoughts amongst the quickening currents of tension I could feel. "Do you want to play again?" Jake asked. I said no, and as I raised my eyes to meet his, my stomach inside out, Time itself seemed to stretch, deep breathes infinitely long, and a thousand thoughts flitting through my mind, slippery as fish, not a one I could hold on to. Unable to fight the pull, I succumbed to the inevitable, and closing my eyes an eternity later, let him lace his fingers with mine and kiss me. It couldn't have lasted for more than a few seconds, but every quickened heart beat roaring in my ears took millennia, before our awkward lips parted. Then, like the snap of a rubber band, time smacked back into place, and my brain went into overdrive, just a step below panic mode. I sucked in gasps of air, and to avoid looking at him, tilted my head to the sky. More than anything that night, I remember how clear and bright the stars were, looking down passively on a human exchange they'd seen trillions of times, and the hot summer air suddenly felt chilly. I couldn't think, I was thinking so much. Desperate to say something, I stuttered "Is it weird to tell you that was my first kiss?" The stars still caught my gaze, my face upturned, so he mumbled no, and kissed the side of my face- and WHAM, the reaction I had been waiting for from myself slammed into me, a massive wave of wrongness. It felt like driving up the WRONG WAY ramp. A sense of panic and the need to back peddle had me pulling away, the words out of my mouth before I knew what they were, "Is it weird to tell you I don't know how I feel about this?" At that point, I really didn't. I liked him enough to want to stay friends, for sure, but here, there be dragons.

Months later, I know that that feeling of wrongness was right.

IV
Some people are deathly afraid of bugs- the crawling legs, the feelers, the shiny exoskeletons and massively-proportioned mandibles, the clicking. I myself don't fear them to the point of irrationality, but I do count them among a list of things I hate, just above black olives, but below sore throats. They serve their purpose in the food chain, a necessary element of nature- but I don't think they need to pinch themselves beneath the walls of my house and hide in shadowed corners, laying eggs or, it seems, lying in wait to attack the unsuspecting. For instance, I really believe that when I was watching TV with my mom in her bedroom a few months ago, it was entirely reasonable of me to expect no attack from the insect world. It was a relaxed evening, and we lay reclined, warm under the covers and the atmosphere of mother-daughter bonding, when I felt that funny scalp itch tingle on my head- you know, the one where you feel like there's something moving through your hair, but really it's only nerves? So I reached up thoughtlessly to scratch it away, my focus on the TV show.

I was not prepared to feel the slick body of a large cockroach burrowing though my hair- in all honesty, it must have been three inches long. The realization took milliseconds, my fingers pulling the vermin off of me in one swift movement. I scrambled out from under the covers, rocketing off the bed to the floor where I furiously combed my fingers through my locks, shaking my head like a wet dog, desperate to rid myself of even the memory of spinney legs and moist, probing jaws. It was about this time that I heard the sounds I was making- deafening shrikes and an undulation of sound I am certain I have never made before or since. My mother, Iron Woman that she is, had recovered from the shock and killed my attacker by the time I had turned around. But even the thought of roaches still makes my scalp itch, and I shiver every time I tell that story.

V

Family vacations are an annual tradition that I’ve come to expect. Since I had grown a little older, my parents had started including me in the discussion of where to go each summer. At first, when the Grand Canyon was suggested, I was apathetic- I’d seen pictures, and it sounded like the sum of available activities was to ride tired donkeys and get sunburned- no thanks. But months before our plans were finalized, I saw a program on the travel channel about Zion National Park in Utah, and I was sold. It became an addition to our Grand Canyon vacation- but to me, it was the main destination.

The park is laid out in an interesting manner, with flat or gently sloping plains of grass and groups of trees interrupted by great slabs of red rock rising abruptly out of the ground. In some places, these walls stand alone, distant from their brothers, but others climb closely together, forming corridors hundred of feet high. It is one of the most beautiful parks in the nation, famous especially for its hiking path through the Narrows, one such close canyon with a shallow river cutting through it. This was our chosen path.

We rented river boots and strong walking sticks, necessities if you planned on hiking seriously. The day was blisteringly hot and dry, but the river, fed by snowmelt, was icy. The combination was both refreshing and exhilarating, driving us forward, deeper into the 16-mile canyon. In some places, the water trickled gently over smooth stones, and each step we took clip-clopped them together; in other places, the jade water pooled deeper, knee-high, thigh-high, each dip a thrilling adventure, and saturating me with energy, the push to go further. The curves of the Narrows weave in and out of the path of the sun, in some places lit brilliantly, so that stone and water sparkle, and in others shaded, so intensely colorful that I no picture I took could do it justice.

I am not an athletic person. I don’t really enjoy the burn of using muscles to their limit, or achieving physical goals; but that day, drawn past walls of dark green moss on ochre stone, around great boulders and little islands of sand and trees, I could have gone on walking forever. It killed me, when eight miles in, our allotted time ran out and we had to turn around in order to stay on schedule. In all the amazing places I’ve been, all the interesting and unique experiences I’ve had, none ever made me feel as alive as that river and those walls of rock did. Some day, I will go back and follow the path to its end.