Emily Ann Imes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
memorialrainbow) wrote2012-06-13 11:44 pm
memorialrainbow) wrote2012-06-13 11:44 pm
Entry tags:
061311 -- Scene Shifts There
Scene Shifts There
a really creative nonfiction
I wake up to a sound I haven't heard in a long time.
It's a melody, repeating over and over, a bright cascade of notes in primary colors. I roll over, batting for my cell phone, but instead, my hand meets the wall. My eyes snap open. The wall is supposed to be to my right side, not my left. Facing me on the wall, to my left, is a sign, written in my handwriting, torn out of a sketchpad.
It reads: "I mean it. Get up. NOW."
I bolt up and it is all real to me: the scattered clothes around the room, the pictures on the wall, the amusement park posters over my head. This is my room, but it's not. Because the door is at one o'clock, facing me in that slant that means somebody didn't give it enough care when they built this townhouse, and the twin bed I'm in isn't mine, and the desk to my right isn't mine.
OhmyGod -- I stop myself. Those words feel weird coming out of my mouth now that I'm here again. It's okay. I'm dreaming. It's cool. I'm cool. I breathe out a sigh, then inspect myself: I feel pretty much the same, wearing a white t-shirt and those blue and white boxer shorts that my parents got me for some holiday one time. That and the fuzzy socks on my feet, and the black and blue --
Holy shit.
OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod -- and I know exactly where I am. It's April, and it's my junior year at Miami. I catch my breath, because I know that this black and blue hoodie that sits on my bed belongs to someone I hold very special to me, someone who in a month's time won't even exist in my life. (Not for another few years, anyway. But that's a story for another day.) I grab the hoodie from where it is sitting on the bed next to me and inspect it. Yeah; it's the same one. I can't even think straight. I can't even tell if being back here, in this place and time, is a good turn of events or not. Because I have grown so much as a person since I lost my friend.
My mind goes back to another event during my career at Miami. If it is April of 2009, that means I haven't met Dylan yet. That means -- and my breath catches again. That means he might not even be here. I remember what he told me a long time ago, what he swore I should keep as a secret. I have kept that secret for a long time, shushed and hidden under the carpet, but I have never forgotten what it means. But have I learned from Dylan's mistake? Is any of this real? Or am I just hallucinating because I drank too much Mountain Dew again last night while writing Rhythm Buster?
I am figuring this out, and then I am calling Stacey, I think to myself. And I know exactly what to reach for: Mugen. He's a prettier red now, two and a half years before I trade him for Thunderbolt, mostly out of necessity. I still have Mugen, actually. He sits on my iHome, chilling with Threej. Someday I think my Samsung Rant and my third generation iPod will collaborate and take over the world. I think they'd just have a long way to fall from twenty three stories.
If I ever get back to Normandie. I reach for Mugen and unplug him, finally silencing the alarm. I wonder if I've woken Spadz up. Probably not. That girl slept through Hurricane Ike, so she's probably cool.
The alarm is off, and there's already a text message waiting for me. I read it and smile. Long ago, I took all of his texts and wrote them down, wiping them one by one from Mugen so I could move on. But that time hasn't happened yet. Those texts are still here. He is still here.
"Oh, Len." I roll my eyes and text him back, letting him know I'm up. What is today? I don't even know what my class schedule should be. For all I know, I've slept through another class. Not that it matters, if this is a dream. I look around the room, the clothes and pictures I've got piled up underneath my desk, the textbooks that I'll never care about again in a few years, save for Mr. Bauer's which I still have in a box in Ohio. Ringo is on top of the desk, sleeping, still with his original plug, and I recognize those headphones. Ringo's bag is at the foot of the bed, and I pick it up and leaf through it. Thank goodness -- my license, my debit card, and my student ID are all here, as well as the MetroCard I would give Dylan a year from now. If I remember correctly, the Red bus leaves every fifteen minutes for campus. I still have no clue what today's schedule is, but I think I'll live it up.
I grab my phone and text Len again. "Meet me at Shriver for lunch?" Thursday lunches are our usual thing, though we used to eat at his dorm if I remember correctly. After what happened, I'm not comfortable with that anymore, even now, before chaos has hit.
I forget about classes completely and pack my bag, taking Ringo with me. After getting an iPhone, the constant need to be plugged in has finally overtaken me, but Mugen doesn't have that many smartphone capabilities. If I get the sudden urge to look something up, I'll need Ringo, and I get a lot of those urges. From there, I just shoulder the bag and put on my trusted jean jacket and walk to campus in the jeans I got at Walmart my sophomore year.
Mugen says it's April 9, 2009. If it is, I'm going to enjoy it. Oxford and Miami are a blaze of color and activity as I walk the thirty minutes from the townhouse to Shriver. I pass the Buick and laugh because, in a few years' time, I'll be riding trains every day instead; Kroger hasn't gone through its remodel yet; I pass the train tracks and remember the special event for Kings Island's Diamondback hasn't happened yet, which reminds me that there is no orchestra today. I breathe a huge sigh of relief, then realize that I do have Mr. Bauer's class today. I wouldn't miss that for the world, even if I have no freaking clue what's going on. Perhaps I'll just tell him I'm a time traveler. I think he'd actually believe me.
Shriver is busy for a Thursday, and I'm in luck: corn chowder is on the menu. I don't know how much is on my meal plan, but I get to use the card for it, something i wish I could still do. I take the soup and sit in the fishbowl, windows surrounding me in a medium sized room with tables and chairs. The fishbowl is slightly quieter than the rest of the student lounge because there are no televisions, just students studying. I'm reminded of Miranda, but not in a good way. If I look behind me, through the glass, I can see the Center for Performing Arts and the fountains. My main building. Then I look to the right and see Hiestand Hall. Dylan's building.
I feel a hand on my shoulder. "Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?"
I want to scream. Instead, I take a deep breath and face Len, giving him back his hoodie. "This would be yours."
He raises an eyebrow, and for a second, I see how we could have really come across as brother and sister, twin siblings. Oh, how wrong everybody was. "You okay, sis?"
I want to scream. I want to scream, to make sure I don't cry, to make sure I don't just rush forward and stop time and keep everything the way it is right here and right now, before May hits and my world shatters just like reality. I take another deep breath and remember something else, something I won't find out for another two years, something that just flashes by my mind. "Since then, every single day...from that day on, I've been here! So you don't have to be alone!"
I smile. I know something Len doesn't, something that will take me to the city we both wanted so badly to go to. And I know it's okay. I can let this moment be what it is. "Yeah, I'm fine. Writing?"
And we sit and we write. I don't even know what he's working on, probably another installment of his serial. To be honest, I'm not sure how it ended, or if it even ended. I hardly keep up with him anymore. I recently learned the entire truth behind his disappearance. I hate how I blamed him for so long, but the truth isn't so easy to find sometimes. It's a tricky, complicated web. Some people say truth is simple, but the fact about truth is that since it is so precious, those who are in control of it try to hide it. Prying truth from watchful mouths is kind of like taking penguins away from Jesse.
I laugh to myself. I know Jesse here, in this world of 2009. He's the one constant in my world of craziness and insanity, though he hasn't changed yet. I bet he's hanging out with Jeremiah. I'll have to call him later. I know he'll stop by.
I open up Ringo. On the desktop is a picture of the Kagamine twins, Len and Rin. That's me, and that's Len, and the picture's not mine, but we're together on this desktop picture, happiness and power and something that's not truth but might as well be it. March of 2008. Empire State Building. One little muse, one little truth, and they are more connected than anybody thinks, but for right now, he is still my secret.
"...Rin?"
I jump. In this dream, that's what Len is calling me. He had another name for me, but that's my secret. "Yes, Len?"
There's that damned smile again. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "I was asking if you were free tonight. I was going to see the play at Gates-Abegglen. Do you want to come?" And there is that glimmer in those eyes that asks if, yes, I will come, because in this moment he loves me as his sister and I love him as my brother and this is all just so fucked up and wrong and -- wait.
My eyes widen. I haven't even opened TextEdit on Ringo yet, though I don't even know what book I'll work on. At this point in my writing career, most of my books will never make it out of first draft mode. I've learned to be okay with that, considering that Cosmic kicks so much ass and that Rhythm Buster makes Dylan a very happy camper.
But Dylan --
oh, Dylan...
"I'm coming," I say to Len. "But I might have business to take care of."
And I do. I go to Mr. Bauer's class, though I have to remind myself which floor it is on. I take Ringo in and do my best to listen and try to follow along because I am just clueless but I love every minute of it. I run over to the CPA and consider myself lucky because there is no piano forum tonight, which means there is an extra hour and a half of my time that is mine. I walk around the fountains, through the band field, through the basement of the CPA. I reach into my bag and pull out the grand piano practice room key, go into room 8, play. I go into room 35 and cry.
I don't know what I am going to do. I really don't. But I know one fact for sure: I can't give up. This is a one act play, and the scene shifts here. In a way, my entire life revolves around this night, even though I had no clue at the time. I don't even know if it has happened yet. I sit at the proctor's table, try not to cry again, look at the posters and the bad paint job that hasn't been painted over yet. I swipe my card and get a Dew from the vending machine. Ringo says that the play is being directed by Smolder, which I am stoked about since he helped direct Paul Bunyan back in November, back when the moon turned blue and everything was as perfect as the stars themselves.
Ringo also says the play opens tonight. That means he is here. I have less than one chance for this, but I catch myself. I can't do this. I really can't. Because I have spent way too much time in this continuum and I think I might actually not be dreaming. And if I'm not dreaming, that means I really have traveled back in time, somehow. And if I've traveled back in time and Dylan sees me -- he doesn't know who I am yet. He just knows me as that hipster chick who walks around campus with headphones on. I know him as Scenes from an Italian Restaurant Boy. I don't even know if Scenes from an Italian Restaurant has happened yet! I think it has! I don't know for sure!
But I have to rack my brain. How could Dylan not recognize me?
And then I have an idea.
The night falls and I sneak back to the CPA, minus Ringo, minus my bag. Len drives me, half because I want him by my side and half because I look like an idiot. "I don't get it, Rin," he said as he pulls into the parking lot.
"That's okay," I say. "Just let me do my thing." And I almost jump out of his car and into the CPA, but before I go, I pull him close one last time before the clock strikes twelve and he disappears. "I love you, Len. Don't forget that. More than anything."
The sigh is happy. "I love you too, Rin." And then I am up and gone and embracing my destiny as the morning star.
The theater department is a mess as they get ready for the evening play. Len thinks I will be meeting up with him in the audience, considering he bought my ticket ahead of time. But I know, somehow, that's not true. I duck into the green room for a split second, surrounded by makeup artists and actors getting ready. They all probably think I'm an idiot as well, but whatever. Let them think that. I've got bigger issues to deal with. I take a deep breath and see the coast is clear, then dart out of the green room and down the steps.
He is down here somewhere. He. The real person I love, the one whom I wish could be my real twin. The one who annoys me to no end, but the one I love nonetheless. The person who finally was the one to pull me out of my hole. In part, the reason I moved to New York City, because of eighteen crazy shit days and a cake and a midnight rave and a -- I hold back tears. Where is that stupid boy?
And then I pause, because there are ushers and they are dressed all in black and there he is. I totally forget what he is supposed to be doing tonight, but I remember the story Dylan told, how he was working backstage at this play. If I remember correctly, history happened differently, too. Len went to go see the play first and then dragged me along to see it, but I took a liberty because I knew I had to be here, looking at this boy with the blonde shaggy hair and the blue eyes of wonder and the furrowed lines across his forehead. I duck around another corner, as I'm not supposed to be here at all. Nobody is, really. But I wait until everybody passes and watch as Dylan walks down the hallway all by himself.
This was Miami for him. All by himself, while I was surrounded by friends and Jesus and happiness. I come out into the dark hallway. "Dylan."
He turns. I can't see his features, but I know he's surprised. This is my boyfriend, after all, a year before we've actually met. He strains to see me through the dark. "Who are you? And why --"
I stay put. "I don't have much time, mostly because you've got to be wherever it is you're supposed to be."
He pulls out a flip phone, eons before he gets his Blackberry, I'm sure. In the present day, his Blackberry makes Mugen look good, and I know he's aware of that. But right now, he just uses the phone to see my white shirt with the black collar, my black shorts, dark arm and leg warmers, blonde hair with the white ribbon in it. "Just who are --"
"Who do you think I am, tiger? Don't run away from me. I know more about you than you think I do."
Dylan stops. I know if I don't make my case, he'll run. It's just the two of us in this dim limestone hallway now. "Who do you think you are?"
I laugh. "Your guardian angel."
Dylan laughs. I know at this point in his life there is no way in hell he would ever believe in anything like this, but I've got him beat. "Prove it."
"Your jersey number is 28 in club football. To honor your father, who served twenty eight years on the police force. You went to New York City in high school as part of a class trip. You work for IT services, which will be something you remember fondly years from now. You drive a Toyota, or drove." I have to laugh; I don't know if he's wrecked his Toyota or not at this point. For all I know, he has the Taurus already. "I get the present and your future mixed up sometimes."
He's skeptical. "You know my future? Tell me."
I cross my arms. Now I've got him for sure. "I know what you're going to do, Dylan. I don't know if I have a chance at stopping you. I don't even know where you've got them hidden."
His eyes widen. Aw, man. I've got him hook, line, and sinker. Before he gets a chance to run, I step forward and put one gloved hand on his shoulder. He just looks back at me, his little mirrored twin girl, although he doesn't know it yet.
"Give them to me," I tell him. "Give. Them. To. Me."
He shakes his head. "I don't have them here. But how did you -- how did you know?"
"Because I'm your guardian angel. You have got to keep yourself from staying so closed off, Dylan Craig Digel. I don't even know everything about you, but I do know one thing for sure." I lean forward and whisper into his ear. "It's a kitchen!"
He jumps; embarrassed, I'm sure. "What? How did you --"
"I told you." I smirk. "You haven't forgotten, have you? What it's like to have that innocence and that fancy about you? Remember that." I become more serious. "And don't do anything drastic. Some short time from now, there will be someone very special, someone very powerful, who will need you just as much as you need her. She will teach you this innocence, and you are to take it and make it into something beautiful. Make it into a kitchen. Color. Take the crayons to the walls of your lonely little apartment and create rainbows and butterflies and bubbles and --" I laugh. "And penguins!"
"So you're a penguin," Dylan says. "It makes sense with the black and white colors."
"I told you. I'm not a penguin. I'm your guardian angel."
"Okay. Then fly."
I stop. "I can't fly in this enclosed space." That much is true, but at least it buys me time to think of another excuse. "But flight is merely an illusion. We are able to stay airborne because we live in creativity. You can do the same, Dylan. Live." At least long enough for me to finally meet you.
I take both of his hands in mine. "One more fact I know about you. When you went to New York City, you went to Chinatown with your friends and you bought a fake Rolex. Do you still have it?"
I already know the answer. "I do," he says. He is quieter now, and I think he's actually close to semi-believing me. "It's back at my apartment."
"When you go home tonight, put that inside your pocket instead of...well, you know. That Rolex will still be ticking when you meet that someone some time from now. I'm sorry I can't be more specific than that. But just keep going, Dylan. Just like that Rolex." I smile. "I think you should get up there before the play starts."
I don't have a chance to speak, because Dylan has wrapped his arms around me and is holding me close. And I smile and I tear up and this is normal, not the rest of the Miami bubble that has been this trip back in time. Right now, there is Dylan, and I am his morning star, and I am flying.
"You knew," he says. "You knew. You know everything. Who -- who are you really?"
I pull away from his hug. "Kagamine Rin, silly. Your guardian angel. Just keep going, okay? You might forget this entire experience, but you still have to keep going." And that's true. I don't know if I'm stuck in the past forever or not. I might be.
"Kah-gah-mee-nay Leen," Dylan repeats. I'm reminded he has no knowledge of my second language. "Do you have to go? Wait -- you can't just leave me here, alone." And I know he suffers from the same illness that I will suffer from when Len leaves me: distrust of self.
I look down and see the yellow ribbon hanging from my neck. I take it off and tie it around Dylan's own neck. "Someday, she will give you this same ribbon, and you will tie it on your shorts," I say. "Because you will love her. I promise you will. Until then, don't let go!"
He rushes toward me with his arms outstretched, and for a minute I feel as if the world might go to chaos. All I see are his eyes, and then, I see the harsh sound of the buzzer.
I keep my eyes closed. There's a reason I picked the Digital ringtone for Thunderbolt's alarm; it looks like shit, synesthetically. Mugen's was a delightful little melody in comparison to this white fuzz. But eventually I reach up with my right hand, and Thunderbolt is right where I put her last night, on my nightstand, and I switch her off. We're back to June 14, 2012, and I'm back in a messy bedroom, but my Kagamine Rin outfit is gone, packed up several states away. Rin shines on my nightstand, however, the figure I bought at Ohayocon who smiles back at me still and knows secrets I'll never tell anybody. Mugen and Threej are across the room, still chilling.
I call Stacey. I can't remember if I have work or not. I pull myself together and go to writing group. I eat curry. I try not to cry or belittle myself. I call Jesse and tell him I love him. I almost decide to contact Len, but stop myself at the last moment when I see the red and blue baseball cap on my floor. I am reminded that I have everything I need here.
Finally, I take my violin from home and take the one train up to Washington Heights. I pray Dylan doesn't ask why I have my violin on me. That is something I must do on my own. The train takes much longer than I thought it would. For someone who wanted so desperately to ride the two train when she first came to town, to abandon Dylan and everything we had fought for, the one train is a harsh reminder of the world I could have left behind. And what? To move somewhere else and start all over, to ditch the boy I just saved in my dreams? That would mean we wouldn't be a team anymore.
I have the yellow ribbon somewhere. I don't know where it is, though. Somewhere in that pile of tankoubon and Ribon issues and shoes, shoes, shoes. But it's okay. I haven't forgotten what it's like to start dreaming. In fact, I think I'm just remembering again.
I dart into his building as somebody lets me in, muttering a "Gracias" as I take the elevator up. I open the door, and there is the loud sounds of Nick's music and the smell of God knows what because there are five men living here, and him. He is here, and alive, and I know that it was just a dream, and that he doesn't know the secrets I told him in that underground hallway so long ago. That never happened. We happened, yes, but that was more a miracle than something done on my part. Long ago, a boy and a girl met and the scene shifted there, and it shifts here, now, in my heart. And I know that this is the final curtain, that I will be seeing this smiling face until hopefully years and years from now, and nobody else's, I pray.
"Are you okay?" he asks, and I nod.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Well, come on in." He reaches for my hand, and I take it, and I walk over the threshold and into possibility, into color, and into the sun. This is where I work best, in this apartment with creative people and craziness and Chinese food and things I can't even talk about. Because my dream was to create with people, and even when I am on that same computer, writing my stories, I am among friends who really get what it's like to color. This is utopia, and Dylan is the one who leads me in and comforts me, restores my balance. He's the new water, and I remember the last time I made that comparison.
"I love you, Len," I whisper to myself, in my head, not saying a real word. For Dylan is my Len now, and I am his confidant, and we are New York City and magic and wonder and everything that goes with it --
From the echoes of space and time, I hear the answer. "And I love you, Rin." But it's not the past at all.
We don't have enough data to call it alcohol abuse --
uh, we have no way of knowing, um,
if these are the only two incidents that have ever occurred
in the history of the HyperSong corps
or if there is the tip of a very large iceberg.
a really creative nonfiction
I wake up to a sound I haven't heard in a long time.
It's a melody, repeating over and over, a bright cascade of notes in primary colors. I roll over, batting for my cell phone, but instead, my hand meets the wall. My eyes snap open. The wall is supposed to be to my right side, not my left. Facing me on the wall, to my left, is a sign, written in my handwriting, torn out of a sketchpad.
It reads: "I mean it. Get up. NOW."
I bolt up and it is all real to me: the scattered clothes around the room, the pictures on the wall, the amusement park posters over my head. This is my room, but it's not. Because the door is at one o'clock, facing me in that slant that means somebody didn't give it enough care when they built this townhouse, and the twin bed I'm in isn't mine, and the desk to my right isn't mine.
OhmyGod -- I stop myself. Those words feel weird coming out of my mouth now that I'm here again. It's okay. I'm dreaming. It's cool. I'm cool. I breathe out a sigh, then inspect myself: I feel pretty much the same, wearing a white t-shirt and those blue and white boxer shorts that my parents got me for some holiday one time. That and the fuzzy socks on my feet, and the black and blue --
Holy shit.
OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod -- and I know exactly where I am. It's April, and it's my junior year at Miami. I catch my breath, because I know that this black and blue hoodie that sits on my bed belongs to someone I hold very special to me, someone who in a month's time won't even exist in my life. (Not for another few years, anyway. But that's a story for another day.) I grab the hoodie from where it is sitting on the bed next to me and inspect it. Yeah; it's the same one. I can't even think straight. I can't even tell if being back here, in this place and time, is a good turn of events or not. Because I have grown so much as a person since I lost my friend.
My mind goes back to another event during my career at Miami. If it is April of 2009, that means I haven't met Dylan yet. That means -- and my breath catches again. That means he might not even be here. I remember what he told me a long time ago, what he swore I should keep as a secret. I have kept that secret for a long time, shushed and hidden under the carpet, but I have never forgotten what it means. But have I learned from Dylan's mistake? Is any of this real? Or am I just hallucinating because I drank too much Mountain Dew again last night while writing Rhythm Buster?
I am figuring this out, and then I am calling Stacey, I think to myself. And I know exactly what to reach for: Mugen. He's a prettier red now, two and a half years before I trade him for Thunderbolt, mostly out of necessity. I still have Mugen, actually. He sits on my iHome, chilling with Threej. Someday I think my Samsung Rant and my third generation iPod will collaborate and take over the world. I think they'd just have a long way to fall from twenty three stories.
If I ever get back to Normandie. I reach for Mugen and unplug him, finally silencing the alarm. I wonder if I've woken Spadz up. Probably not. That girl slept through Hurricane Ike, so she's probably cool.
The alarm is off, and there's already a text message waiting for me. I read it and smile. Long ago, I took all of his texts and wrote them down, wiping them one by one from Mugen so I could move on. But that time hasn't happened yet. Those texts are still here. He is still here.
"Oh, Len." I roll my eyes and text him back, letting him know I'm up. What is today? I don't even know what my class schedule should be. For all I know, I've slept through another class. Not that it matters, if this is a dream. I look around the room, the clothes and pictures I've got piled up underneath my desk, the textbooks that I'll never care about again in a few years, save for Mr. Bauer's which I still have in a box in Ohio. Ringo is on top of the desk, sleeping, still with his original plug, and I recognize those headphones. Ringo's bag is at the foot of the bed, and I pick it up and leaf through it. Thank goodness -- my license, my debit card, and my student ID are all here, as well as the MetroCard I would give Dylan a year from now. If I remember correctly, the Red bus leaves every fifteen minutes for campus. I still have no clue what today's schedule is, but I think I'll live it up.
I grab my phone and text Len again. "Meet me at Shriver for lunch?" Thursday lunches are our usual thing, though we used to eat at his dorm if I remember correctly. After what happened, I'm not comfortable with that anymore, even now, before chaos has hit.
I forget about classes completely and pack my bag, taking Ringo with me. After getting an iPhone, the constant need to be plugged in has finally overtaken me, but Mugen doesn't have that many smartphone capabilities. If I get the sudden urge to look something up, I'll need Ringo, and I get a lot of those urges. From there, I just shoulder the bag and put on my trusted jean jacket and walk to campus in the jeans I got at Walmart my sophomore year.
Mugen says it's April 9, 2009. If it is, I'm going to enjoy it. Oxford and Miami are a blaze of color and activity as I walk the thirty minutes from the townhouse to Shriver. I pass the Buick and laugh because, in a few years' time, I'll be riding trains every day instead; Kroger hasn't gone through its remodel yet; I pass the train tracks and remember the special event for Kings Island's Diamondback hasn't happened yet, which reminds me that there is no orchestra today. I breathe a huge sigh of relief, then realize that I do have Mr. Bauer's class today. I wouldn't miss that for the world, even if I have no freaking clue what's going on. Perhaps I'll just tell him I'm a time traveler. I think he'd actually believe me.
Shriver is busy for a Thursday, and I'm in luck: corn chowder is on the menu. I don't know how much is on my meal plan, but I get to use the card for it, something i wish I could still do. I take the soup and sit in the fishbowl, windows surrounding me in a medium sized room with tables and chairs. The fishbowl is slightly quieter than the rest of the student lounge because there are no televisions, just students studying. I'm reminded of Miranda, but not in a good way. If I look behind me, through the glass, I can see the Center for Performing Arts and the fountains. My main building. Then I look to the right and see Hiestand Hall. Dylan's building.
I feel a hand on my shoulder. "Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?"
I want to scream. Instead, I take a deep breath and face Len, giving him back his hoodie. "This would be yours."
He raises an eyebrow, and for a second, I see how we could have really come across as brother and sister, twin siblings. Oh, how wrong everybody was. "You okay, sis?"
I want to scream. I want to scream, to make sure I don't cry, to make sure I don't just rush forward and stop time and keep everything the way it is right here and right now, before May hits and my world shatters just like reality. I take another deep breath and remember something else, something I won't find out for another two years, something that just flashes by my mind. "Since then, every single day...from that day on, I've been here! So you don't have to be alone!"
I smile. I know something Len doesn't, something that will take me to the city we both wanted so badly to go to. And I know it's okay. I can let this moment be what it is. "Yeah, I'm fine. Writing?"
And we sit and we write. I don't even know what he's working on, probably another installment of his serial. To be honest, I'm not sure how it ended, or if it even ended. I hardly keep up with him anymore. I recently learned the entire truth behind his disappearance. I hate how I blamed him for so long, but the truth isn't so easy to find sometimes. It's a tricky, complicated web. Some people say truth is simple, but the fact about truth is that since it is so precious, those who are in control of it try to hide it. Prying truth from watchful mouths is kind of like taking penguins away from Jesse.
I laugh to myself. I know Jesse here, in this world of 2009. He's the one constant in my world of craziness and insanity, though he hasn't changed yet. I bet he's hanging out with Jeremiah. I'll have to call him later. I know he'll stop by.
I open up Ringo. On the desktop is a picture of the Kagamine twins, Len and Rin. That's me, and that's Len, and the picture's not mine, but we're together on this desktop picture, happiness and power and something that's not truth but might as well be it. March of 2008. Empire State Building. One little muse, one little truth, and they are more connected than anybody thinks, but for right now, he is still my secret.
"...Rin?"
I jump. In this dream, that's what Len is calling me. He had another name for me, but that's my secret. "Yes, Len?"
There's that damned smile again. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "I was asking if you were free tonight. I was going to see the play at Gates-Abegglen. Do you want to come?" And there is that glimmer in those eyes that asks if, yes, I will come, because in this moment he loves me as his sister and I love him as my brother and this is all just so fucked up and wrong and -- wait.
My eyes widen. I haven't even opened TextEdit on Ringo yet, though I don't even know what book I'll work on. At this point in my writing career, most of my books will never make it out of first draft mode. I've learned to be okay with that, considering that Cosmic kicks so much ass and that Rhythm Buster makes Dylan a very happy camper.
But Dylan --
oh, Dylan...
"I'm coming," I say to Len. "But I might have business to take care of."
And I do. I go to Mr. Bauer's class, though I have to remind myself which floor it is on. I take Ringo in and do my best to listen and try to follow along because I am just clueless but I love every minute of it. I run over to the CPA and consider myself lucky because there is no piano forum tonight, which means there is an extra hour and a half of my time that is mine. I walk around the fountains, through the band field, through the basement of the CPA. I reach into my bag and pull out the grand piano practice room key, go into room 8, play. I go into room 35 and cry.
I don't know what I am going to do. I really don't. But I know one fact for sure: I can't give up. This is a one act play, and the scene shifts here. In a way, my entire life revolves around this night, even though I had no clue at the time. I don't even know if it has happened yet. I sit at the proctor's table, try not to cry again, look at the posters and the bad paint job that hasn't been painted over yet. I swipe my card and get a Dew from the vending machine. Ringo says that the play is being directed by Smolder, which I am stoked about since he helped direct Paul Bunyan back in November, back when the moon turned blue and everything was as perfect as the stars themselves.
Ringo also says the play opens tonight. That means he is here. I have less than one chance for this, but I catch myself. I can't do this. I really can't. Because I have spent way too much time in this continuum and I think I might actually not be dreaming. And if I'm not dreaming, that means I really have traveled back in time, somehow. And if I've traveled back in time and Dylan sees me -- he doesn't know who I am yet. He just knows me as that hipster chick who walks around campus with headphones on. I know him as Scenes from an Italian Restaurant Boy. I don't even know if Scenes from an Italian Restaurant has happened yet! I think it has! I don't know for sure!
But I have to rack my brain. How could Dylan not recognize me?
And then I have an idea.
The night falls and I sneak back to the CPA, minus Ringo, minus my bag. Len drives me, half because I want him by my side and half because I look like an idiot. "I don't get it, Rin," he said as he pulls into the parking lot.
"That's okay," I say. "Just let me do my thing." And I almost jump out of his car and into the CPA, but before I go, I pull him close one last time before the clock strikes twelve and he disappears. "I love you, Len. Don't forget that. More than anything."
The sigh is happy. "I love you too, Rin." And then I am up and gone and embracing my destiny as the morning star.
The theater department is a mess as they get ready for the evening play. Len thinks I will be meeting up with him in the audience, considering he bought my ticket ahead of time. But I know, somehow, that's not true. I duck into the green room for a split second, surrounded by makeup artists and actors getting ready. They all probably think I'm an idiot as well, but whatever. Let them think that. I've got bigger issues to deal with. I take a deep breath and see the coast is clear, then dart out of the green room and down the steps.
He is down here somewhere. He. The real person I love, the one whom I wish could be my real twin. The one who annoys me to no end, but the one I love nonetheless. The person who finally was the one to pull me out of my hole. In part, the reason I moved to New York City, because of eighteen crazy shit days and a cake and a midnight rave and a -- I hold back tears. Where is that stupid boy?
And then I pause, because there are ushers and they are dressed all in black and there he is. I totally forget what he is supposed to be doing tonight, but I remember the story Dylan told, how he was working backstage at this play. If I remember correctly, history happened differently, too. Len went to go see the play first and then dragged me along to see it, but I took a liberty because I knew I had to be here, looking at this boy with the blonde shaggy hair and the blue eyes of wonder and the furrowed lines across his forehead. I duck around another corner, as I'm not supposed to be here at all. Nobody is, really. But I wait until everybody passes and watch as Dylan walks down the hallway all by himself.
This was Miami for him. All by himself, while I was surrounded by friends and Jesus and happiness. I come out into the dark hallway. "Dylan."
He turns. I can't see his features, but I know he's surprised. This is my boyfriend, after all, a year before we've actually met. He strains to see me through the dark. "Who are you? And why --"
I stay put. "I don't have much time, mostly because you've got to be wherever it is you're supposed to be."
He pulls out a flip phone, eons before he gets his Blackberry, I'm sure. In the present day, his Blackberry makes Mugen look good, and I know he's aware of that. But right now, he just uses the phone to see my white shirt with the black collar, my black shorts, dark arm and leg warmers, blonde hair with the white ribbon in it. "Just who are --"
"Who do you think I am, tiger? Don't run away from me. I know more about you than you think I do."
Dylan stops. I know if I don't make my case, he'll run. It's just the two of us in this dim limestone hallway now. "Who do you think you are?"
I laugh. "Your guardian angel."
Dylan laughs. I know at this point in his life there is no way in hell he would ever believe in anything like this, but I've got him beat. "Prove it."
"Your jersey number is 28 in club football. To honor your father, who served twenty eight years on the police force. You went to New York City in high school as part of a class trip. You work for IT services, which will be something you remember fondly years from now. You drive a Toyota, or drove." I have to laugh; I don't know if he's wrecked his Toyota or not at this point. For all I know, he has the Taurus already. "I get the present and your future mixed up sometimes."
He's skeptical. "You know my future? Tell me."
I cross my arms. Now I've got him for sure. "I know what you're going to do, Dylan. I don't know if I have a chance at stopping you. I don't even know where you've got them hidden."
His eyes widen. Aw, man. I've got him hook, line, and sinker. Before he gets a chance to run, I step forward and put one gloved hand on his shoulder. He just looks back at me, his little mirrored twin girl, although he doesn't know it yet.
"Give them to me," I tell him. "Give. Them. To. Me."
He shakes his head. "I don't have them here. But how did you -- how did you know?"
"Because I'm your guardian angel. You have got to keep yourself from staying so closed off, Dylan Craig Digel. I don't even know everything about you, but I do know one thing for sure." I lean forward and whisper into his ear. "It's a kitchen!"
He jumps; embarrassed, I'm sure. "What? How did you --"
"I told you." I smirk. "You haven't forgotten, have you? What it's like to have that innocence and that fancy about you? Remember that." I become more serious. "And don't do anything drastic. Some short time from now, there will be someone very special, someone very powerful, who will need you just as much as you need her. She will teach you this innocence, and you are to take it and make it into something beautiful. Make it into a kitchen. Color. Take the crayons to the walls of your lonely little apartment and create rainbows and butterflies and bubbles and --" I laugh. "And penguins!"
"So you're a penguin," Dylan says. "It makes sense with the black and white colors."
"I told you. I'm not a penguin. I'm your guardian angel."
"Okay. Then fly."
I stop. "I can't fly in this enclosed space." That much is true, but at least it buys me time to think of another excuse. "But flight is merely an illusion. We are able to stay airborne because we live in creativity. You can do the same, Dylan. Live." At least long enough for me to finally meet you.
I take both of his hands in mine. "One more fact I know about you. When you went to New York City, you went to Chinatown with your friends and you bought a fake Rolex. Do you still have it?"
I already know the answer. "I do," he says. He is quieter now, and I think he's actually close to semi-believing me. "It's back at my apartment."
"When you go home tonight, put that inside your pocket instead of...well, you know. That Rolex will still be ticking when you meet that someone some time from now. I'm sorry I can't be more specific than that. But just keep going, Dylan. Just like that Rolex." I smile. "I think you should get up there before the play starts."
I don't have a chance to speak, because Dylan has wrapped his arms around me and is holding me close. And I smile and I tear up and this is normal, not the rest of the Miami bubble that has been this trip back in time. Right now, there is Dylan, and I am his morning star, and I am flying.
"You knew," he says. "You knew. You know everything. Who -- who are you really?"
I pull away from his hug. "Kagamine Rin, silly. Your guardian angel. Just keep going, okay? You might forget this entire experience, but you still have to keep going." And that's true. I don't know if I'm stuck in the past forever or not. I might be.
"Kah-gah-mee-nay Leen," Dylan repeats. I'm reminded he has no knowledge of my second language. "Do you have to go? Wait -- you can't just leave me here, alone." And I know he suffers from the same illness that I will suffer from when Len leaves me: distrust of self.
I look down and see the yellow ribbon hanging from my neck. I take it off and tie it around Dylan's own neck. "Someday, she will give you this same ribbon, and you will tie it on your shorts," I say. "Because you will love her. I promise you will. Until then, don't let go!"
He rushes toward me with his arms outstretched, and for a minute I feel as if the world might go to chaos. All I see are his eyes, and then, I see the harsh sound of the buzzer.
I keep my eyes closed. There's a reason I picked the Digital ringtone for Thunderbolt's alarm; it looks like shit, synesthetically. Mugen's was a delightful little melody in comparison to this white fuzz. But eventually I reach up with my right hand, and Thunderbolt is right where I put her last night, on my nightstand, and I switch her off. We're back to June 14, 2012, and I'm back in a messy bedroom, but my Kagamine Rin outfit is gone, packed up several states away. Rin shines on my nightstand, however, the figure I bought at Ohayocon who smiles back at me still and knows secrets I'll never tell anybody. Mugen and Threej are across the room, still chilling.
I call Stacey. I can't remember if I have work or not. I pull myself together and go to writing group. I eat curry. I try not to cry or belittle myself. I call Jesse and tell him I love him. I almost decide to contact Len, but stop myself at the last moment when I see the red and blue baseball cap on my floor. I am reminded that I have everything I need here.
Finally, I take my violin from home and take the one train up to Washington Heights. I pray Dylan doesn't ask why I have my violin on me. That is something I must do on my own. The train takes much longer than I thought it would. For someone who wanted so desperately to ride the two train when she first came to town, to abandon Dylan and everything we had fought for, the one train is a harsh reminder of the world I could have left behind. And what? To move somewhere else and start all over, to ditch the boy I just saved in my dreams? That would mean we wouldn't be a team anymore.
I have the yellow ribbon somewhere. I don't know where it is, though. Somewhere in that pile of tankoubon and Ribon issues and shoes, shoes, shoes. But it's okay. I haven't forgotten what it's like to start dreaming. In fact, I think I'm just remembering again.
I dart into his building as somebody lets me in, muttering a "Gracias" as I take the elevator up. I open the door, and there is the loud sounds of Nick's music and the smell of God knows what because there are five men living here, and him. He is here, and alive, and I know that it was just a dream, and that he doesn't know the secrets I told him in that underground hallway so long ago. That never happened. We happened, yes, but that was more a miracle than something done on my part. Long ago, a boy and a girl met and the scene shifted there, and it shifts here, now, in my heart. And I know that this is the final curtain, that I will be seeing this smiling face until hopefully years and years from now, and nobody else's, I pray.
"Are you okay?" he asks, and I nod.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Well, come on in." He reaches for my hand, and I take it, and I walk over the threshold and into possibility, into color, and into the sun. This is where I work best, in this apartment with creative people and craziness and Chinese food and things I can't even talk about. Because my dream was to create with people, and even when I am on that same computer, writing my stories, I am among friends who really get what it's like to color. This is utopia, and Dylan is the one who leads me in and comforts me, restores my balance. He's the new water, and I remember the last time I made that comparison.
"I love you, Len," I whisper to myself, in my head, not saying a real word. For Dylan is my Len now, and I am his confidant, and we are New York City and magic and wonder and everything that goes with it --
From the echoes of space and time, I hear the answer. "And I love you, Rin." But it's not the past at all.
We don't have enough data to call it alcohol abuse --
uh, we have no way of knowing, um,
if these are the only two incidents that have ever occurred
in the history of the HyperSong corps
or if there is the tip of a very large iceberg.
no subject
no subject