I don't remember the first time I met her. Maybe it was art class, maybe drama. I was in eleventh grade, though. I do remember that.
(It was art class, Leverett. First period, first semester. You sat way on the other side of the table drinking Coca-Cola and laughing with Bryan Bennett.)
I also remember that she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.
(What about Kim Thompson? I thought she was the most beautiful girl you ever met.)
No, no. Kim couldn't hold a candle to Elisa Soriano. Kim was good looking and everything, some would go as far as hot . . .
(I wouldn't. I thought she looked like a slut, really. Too much make-up and the whole fluttering eyelash thing whenever a guy so much as glanced at her. Honestly, Lev, I never knew what you saw in her.)
You didn't know her like I did.
(And you didn't know her like every other male on campus did, so what do you know?)
Shut-up. I'm not interested in Kim Thompson right now.
(That's a first.)
May I continue please?
(By all means.)
It was, indeed, art class. I sat next to Bryan, right across the room from Elisa. If memory serves, Bryan was giving me unsolicited advice on my love life. He always blamed my insistence on wearing black berets and denim jackets for my lack of popularity with the fairer sex. Bryan, who worshipped the ground Prince walked on, felt I'd do much better with some "uptown threads" favoring the color purple.
(Hah.)
I remember looking up at one point to see the olive complexioned girl across the room smiling at me. Her long brown hair hung over one eye as she slowly lowered her head and continued to smile at me over her glasses. She wore a full-length white dress made of some flimsy material under a denim vest, and she had braided dried flowers into her hair. She looked for all the world like a little wood nymph. I smiled back; then she turned and said something to the girl sitting next to her and giggled. I can't for the life of me remember the other girl's name.
(Jesus, Leverett, it was Amanda, Amanda Byram. She was only your first real girlfriend. What's the matter with you?)
I can't really remember a time when Elisa wasn't laughing or smiling.
(I can. Several, in fact. You never heard the screaming and yelling that went on in that house. The drunken father yells at his wife. The wife yells back. The inevitable crack of flesh hitting flesh. The brother yelling at the father. Another slap. The daughters hide out in the bedrooms playing music to drown out the screams.)
After that first day, I was smitten.
(You talked about the new girl all night long and drove your folks crazy. It was always "Elisa this" "Elisa that." You waxed poetic for a full hour about her smile alone. Your dad was convinced that you'd kill yourself if this Elisa person so much as stared at you cross-eyed.)
Which she did quite a bit, I remember.
(It was fun, shut-up. So, if you were so "smitten" why didn't you do anything about it?)
I asked her out a few of times. I took her to a couple of movies. I bought her dinner. Hell, I drove ten miles out of my way every morning to give her a lift to school.
(You never so much as held hands.)
She could have reached for mine just as easily as could hers.
(Leverett Belton Butts the Fourth, now that's just a cop out, and you know it. I was a good Catholic girl; I could never be that forward. Admit it; you were scared.)
I was not! I just didn't think you were interested in me that way. You never gave me any indication.
(I gave you my rosary.)
Big fucking deal. You gave me a crucifix with some beads on it. So what?
(You don't remember why, do you? Well, let me refresh your memory. You and Stuart Perry and Rob Cole crashed some party, and you all decided to steal something from the house before you left. Stuart stole a hair brush, Rob took a bottle of bleach, and you snuck into one of the bedrooms and grabbed a rosary of the dresser. Remember?)
Yeah, I remember.
(Do you remember what happened the next Monday when you came to pick me up?)
. . .(Do you?)
Why don't you tell it. You're doing it better than I would.
(You bragged about it! Like it was some kind of honor to have stolen someone's religious icon. For a while I thought you were the biggest asshole God had ever given a body to. I began to cry and you stopped the car.
("Elisa, what's wrong?" You kept asking it over and over, btu you never tried to hold me.)
I didn't think it was appropriate.
(Like it was appropriate to steal the rosary?)
Well, you were obviously pissed at me; I didn't think I was the one you'd really want comfort from.
(You just didn't think. You never did. I'm not sure you've learned that lesson yet. Mandy, Monica, Genevieve. They've all told you the same thing, but you never listen.)
We were talking about the rosary.
(I told you to give it back. We skipped school that day and you drove out the house and put the rosary in their mailbox. I told you that you couldn't just go around stealing people's faith because it was fun. I said you could only have someone's rosary if it was given to you in love. Then I reached into my pocket and gave you mine. So don't sit there and tell me I never gave you any indication that I cared for you. I gave you my fucking rosary because I loved you and didn't want you to burn in Hell for something so stupid as a childish prank.)
If you were so in love with me, then why'd you tell me you loved Stuart?
(I thought I did.)
Well, there you go then. How could you love me and Stuart?
(Did you love Kim Thompson?)
No.
(Leverett.)
Alright, Yes I did, but what does that have to do with the price of eggs?
(Did you love me?)
With almost every fiber of my being.
(Well, there you go, then. I loved both of you. And I tried to explain this, but as usual you wouldn't listen. All you heard was "I'm in love with Stuart Perry," and you tuned me out. You took me home, and you never, ever asked me out again. You didn't try to understand; you just turned your back on me and retreated into your shell.)
What else could I have done, Elisa? You seem to know so Goddamned much! You liked Stuart; he liked you. Stuart was one of my best friends. What chance did I have?
(More than you could ever know.)
I knew Stuart was seeing someone else, but he didn't like her. I couldn't come between my best friend and you. Tell me, Miss Soriano. Just what exactly were my options?
(You could have kept trying. You could have listened to me. I was fifteen years old, Leverett. You could have hung in there and shown me that you cared.)
That's asking a lot of me.
(No more than you're capable of no matter what opinion you hold of yourself.)
On the day they buried you, I felt my whole world disintegrate. I watched your casket lowered into the ground, and I couldn't stop screaming. I was like some old Jew at the wailing wall. I was a wild animal. I fell to the ground writhing and screaming.
(I remember.)
It was as if I suddenly realized my time was up. I had waited too long and now it was over. I shouted to Heaven at the injustice.
"Don't let her go in!" I screamed. "I haven't said good bye, yet." Over and over, it was all I could get out between gasps for air and the sobbing.
(I heard you.)
Finally, Becky and Stuart had to carry me to the car.
(But you came back later. After you had calmed down and the other mourners had left. You knelt by my grave and cried silently.)
I told you again, how much I loved you, but it was too late.
(No it wasn't. Then you reached into your pocket and pulled out the rosary.)
I said a "Hail Mary" . . .
(Well, a reasonable facsimile thereof.)
I did the best I could under the circumstances. When I finished, I dug a small hole over your grave, scratching the loose dirt with my fingers, and I placed the rosary there before re-filling the hole and driving home.
(You can only have someone's rosary if it's given to you in love.)
Too bad, it was too late.
(It wasn't too late, Leverett. I keep telling you that, and you keep not listening.)
Of course it's too late; you're dead, now.
(But you're not.)