Nothing but Your Skin - Cathy Ytak [4]
You said, “My name is Matt.”
I said, “I like that.” But I didn’t tell you right away what my name was, because I hate my name. I thought about it, probably for too long, and then I murmured, “Call me Lou.”
It came to me just like that. Lou. Because it sounds like Louella. And it sounds like “lupine,” which a teacher at school told me means like a wolf. I thought that since we were talking, maybe I should tell you that I was the one who howled sometimes in the valley. But I kept quiet.
“Lou? That’s not very common,” you answered. And I don’t think we said anything else that night. On another night, I apologized. “I don’t talk much, Matt. People say I’m stupid. But if you talk, I’ll listen.” You seemed surprised. You stayed silent for a moment, then you just mumbled that you didn’t talk much either… But actually, you can be a chatterbox. I’ve noticed it. It’s just that you were shy. And that, I understood.
How do people talk to each other? And what do they talk about? I didn’t know anything about you, or you about me. I didn’t know where you had come from or where you were going. I didn’t ask you those questions. But the night you stopped on the path, when you made a sign to me to stop walking and be quiet, and you pointed at a tree where a robin was singing, I understood. I understood that you liked birds, that you liked the forest, that you weren’t one of those guys who go chasing after animals on the weekends with a rifle. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. I hadn’t known, until then, that any other kind of guy existed! I remember that day really well because that afternoon, at school, I had a “traumatic incident” or, at least, something really horrible happened. I got trapped in the hallway by a boy who wanted to kiss me. A big boy, with hands like tennis rackets. He pushed me up against the lockers where we keep our gym clothes. He managed to force his tongue into my mouth. I struggled, I freed myself, and as soon as I got far enough away, I slapped him.
He whined, “I’m going to tell the supervisor.”
I said, “Go ahead and I’ll tell him what you did to me.” I grabbed my things and I went outside to wait for the bus, not saying anything to anyone. I was amazed that I had reacted so quickly.
Because they always say to me, “Hurry up, hurry up.”
My dad says, “Make up your mind, you’re driving me nuts dithering like that.”
My mom says, “It doesn’t matter if you wear the blue one or the red one. Just decide which color sweater you want to wear today and stick with it, I’ve got other things to do.”
My grandmother says, “Good lord, that girl is indecisive! She’ll never be able to pick someone to marry.”
My mom says, “Well, she’ll have lots of time to think about that.”
I don’t like it when my family talks about me. It always ends with my dad yelling, “It’s not my fault I have an idiot for a daughter!” And my mom replying, “Oh, are you saying that for my benefit? You know very well that we don’t know if…” She doesn’t finish her sentence, and I don’t know if she wants to say “if she’s an idiot” or “if it’s my fault.” One day, I told you the whole story, Matt. When my mom was pregnant, the cat scratched her arm and she got a little sick from it. When they told her I wouldn’t be very normal when I was born, my dad was sure it was because of the cat,