Picturesque

Chapter 22: Van Buren

"Don't like movies," she said bluntly.

"Why not?"

"Gotta sit still for so long." She sighed and reached into her pocket, taking out a tiny bottle of white powder. She looked around a bit before she opened it and poured a little of it onto her fist.

"Jo, what's that?" I whispered. I had seen her do it at the club before, but I didn't know that it was something she did even at movies.

"Wake-up snow," she said with a giggle before she turned to look at the concerned look on my face. "What?"

"That stuff's not good for you."

"Yea, you told me that about cigarettes, too," she countered before bringing her fist to her nose and quietly snorting it, turning away from me to wipe her nose.

"No, really," I said, a little concerned. I could see how Jo was—impulsive and reckless, too carefree to see the dangerous things in front of her. Invincible, as Marty said.

"It's fine," she said, her nose and eyes red now as she tucked the bottle back into her pocket. "Everyone does it."

"Can I do it?" I tested her.

She looked at me in surprise. "No."

"Why not?"

""Cuz..." she trailed, looking around for something to say. "You're not that type."

"You're not that type, either," I argued, getting a little loud.

"Becks, just drop it."

"How often do you do it?" I asked her, the colors of the cartoons flickering on her face.

She rolled her eyes and rubbed them, taking a deep breath before speaking. "Just sometimes, okay?" She looked at me again, her expression softer now. I didn't like how big her pupils were. "I don't plan on doing it forever. It just... helps me."

"Helps you what?"

She laughed with her ivory smile. "Get through this thing called life, haven't you heard?"

I just stared at her, but she turned away from me to look at the screen, an elbow on the door of the car as she ran her hand through her hair repeatedly. I decided to just give it up, focusing instead on the soft skin of her jaw and the plumpness of her lips.

"Oh, happy birthday, Becca!" Bobby suddenly said from behind me, and I turned around to look at him a little confused.

Jo cut her eyes to Bobby. "Bobby! It's tomorrow, not today!"

"Oh, sorry," Bobby said, a little deflated.
How had I almost forgotten my own birthday? I hadn't even really thought of myself at all, nor the fact that I was turning a year older the very next day. I suppose I had just been so caught up with the kids and with Jo.

"How did you know?" I asked Jo, whose face was a little red.

"I asked my dad if he knew," she quietly answered, messing with her hair again. "He said on your papers it said that it was tomorrow."

I suddenly became sickly aware that Jo was Marty's daughter, and that I did not converse with them as totally separate people. I talked to Marty, I talked to the kids, and I talked to Jo, and they all talked with each other. Why was she talking about me with Marty? What had compelled her to ask him when my birthday was? What else did they say to each other about me?

"Jo, move your big head, I can't see!" Delores said from behind Jo's seat, and the conversation was ended as the lamplights encircling the arena dimmed, and the movie started to play.

Jo huffed and moved closer to me so that Delores could see, reaching down into her other pocket to get out her pack of Marlboros. As the space around us grew dark, I could only see the flicker of her lighter's flame that glowed on her face as she lit the cigarette, the way she looked down so concentratedly to light it, and then all I could see was the reflections of the screen's light on her face. She looked bothered, like Bobby had ruined something for her by telling me happy birthday, like some plans of hers had been spoiled.

Naturally, Tony had also brought alcohol, and they all started to drink. I only had a little, too fearful of myself when alcohol is in my system. Jo drank steadily, but somehow never got drunk. I wondered—how often did she drink? When did she start drinking? It must have been at a young age, because she took it so well now. When did she start snorting cocaine? Was it when she dropped out of high school? Was it even sometime before? Was it because of influence from her friends? They might have been just as heavy partiers as her, but I had never seen them do it. Another question really bothered me: Was she high around me a lot? Was she high the week before when we climbed the tree? Was she high that night in the pool?

The film was pretty good, though my taste in movies was more cheerful and this was a cold-cutting neo-noir crime film. Jo would get entertained anytime violence happened, but during all the talking she got bored. She would shake her leg or bite her lip, looking like she was ready to jump right out of the car and start running a mile.

At one point, near the middle of the film, she started tapping the middle console repeatedly. It was a little distracting, hearing her tapping and seeing it out of the corner of my eye as I was trying to watch the film I was invested in. I tried to ignore it, but I just couldn't, so I slapped my hand over hers to make it still.

She looked over at me in surprise, and I stared at her under the dim light. Something changed in her eyes as she looked at me. The rest of the world faded away—the car, her friends, the talking of other people in cars, the sounds from the movie. She looked so beautiful—like some sort of fallen angel with her darkened eyes that were teary from the coke.

She stared at me like I was the first person she had ever seen, as if throughout the movie she had been imagining my death, going through cycles of grief in her hand until my touch brought her back to life and reminded her that I was still alive.

Her eyes flickered down my face, and I felt the hot realization that she was staring at my lips. I felt like she was leaning towards me—I'm pretty sure she was. I think if it had been just in the car, she would have kissed me right then, but I squeezed her hand. She stopped.

"You're fidgeting," I whispered with a little smile, knowing that the head seat blocked the others in the backseat from view.

Jo's chest was moving like she found it hard to breathe. She looked down at our hands, mine resting on top of hers. She moved them so that hers was on top of mine, our palms pressing together as she tangled her fingers through mine. She held my hand firmly, her thumb stroking over mine with the gentlest touch.

I caught a smile on her lips before she turned and looked back at the movie. She was shyer than she made herself out to be—I could see the blush on her cheeks even in the dark. I smiled too, eyeing our hands that stayed together throughout the rest of the movie.