Hold Me Too Tight (previously Angel of Music; ON HOLD)

Chapter Five

Mom orders pizza for dinner. It’s Thursday night finally. As we sit on the couch in the living room, we don’t talk much. We’re watching Jeopardy, and it’s a family tradition to try and answer as many questions as you can before the end of the show. We wager pennies, or M&M’s. The show flips to commercial and my mother turns to me.

               “So,” she says, “what do you think of Jonathan? You two have been spending quite a lot of time together this week.”

               “He’s really great,” I say, and I mean it, “I’m sorry I didn’t want to meet him.”

               Mom pushes my shoulder, “It’s all right, I’m just glad you like him. I’m glad you have a friend, Claire.” She confesses how she was starting to get worried. So was I.

               Jonathan and I have had the same routine all week, and it’s been working quite well for the both of us. I enjoy his company, especially in the evenings when I wait for my mother to get home. It gets lonely here with Sugar as my only real companion. Mom likes to spend time with Mary, too, so it isn’t often that Jonathan and I aren’t together.

               Alex Trebek is wearing his contacts today and he’s squinting to see the contestants. “Alan, it’s your turn,” he says. The screen flashes to a young man named Alan who chooses the category ‘Things That Rhyme with Yellow’.

               Alex Trebek reads as a little blue square appears on the screen, “A word referring to the pleasant smoothness of something; free from harshness.”

               “What is mellow,” I chime in. I’m right.

               My mom gives me a high-five, “Nice.”

               My dad used to be really good at this game. He died in Afghanistan on December seventeenth when I was just ten. He tripped on an electrical wire and was electrocuted, and he was pronounced dead before he could be admitted to any sort of medical care. He would’ve come home the next day for Christmas vacation. One more day made all the difference in my life.

               “I really miss dad,” I say, and I can’t stop the tears.

               She takes my hand, “Me too.”

               The next night, the doorbell rings. It’s Jonathan, and he’s surprised me. He has a bowl of popcorn in one hand and three movies in another. “Hey, beautiful,” he says, “I was thinking movie night. Sound good?”

               I nod in agreement and allow him in. Mom is glad to see he’s here. She’s going on a date tonight and she likes that I’ll have someone here to keep me company. When she leaves, I look through the movies he’s brought.

               “I brought classics,” he says, looking at me, “Can’t go wrong with a classic.”

               I agreed. I love that Jonathan has a soft side. I hand him Titanic and he pops it into my DVD player. “I have to admit,” he begins, “I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic.”

               That makes me laugh. “So, what do you think of Leonardo in this?”

               I study his face as he thinks a moment. “I would have to say that Kate Winslet is what really makes the movie.”

               “No way!” I argue, throwing popcorn in his face, “It’s Jack’s undying love for her that really makes it. He’s so sweet.”

               “Oh yes, the woman in the picture is me,” says the old woman Rose in the movie.

               “How many boys have you kissed, Claire?” asks Jonathan suddenly. His question catches me off guard and I stutter when I speak.

               “W-What? What do you mean?”

               He smiles at me, “I mean exactly what I asked.”

               I pop a few pieces of popcorn into my mouth to buy time to think up an answer. “Why?”

               He looks away from me, “It’s just a question.”

               I’m silent for a moment. Why would he ask me that? Unless.

               “How many girls have you kissed?” I ask, hoping to turn his question back on him.

               Jonathan raises an eyebrow and grins, “One too many.” My heart sinks and I’m forced to look away. I know he sees right through to my heart. He knows I’m hurt by his response. “I am a senior, Claire,” he adds, “I have some experience, you realize.”

               I nod and fix my eyes on the screen. Jonathan reaches over and brushes my hair behind my ear. “Claire,” he murmurs, “how many boys have you kissed?” His eyes have me hypnotized. They’re so dark and so beautiful, and he looks up at me beneath his eyelashes.

               “I haven’t,” I confess, “I’ve never kissed a boy.” I look into his face to see his reaction. He just stares back at me and doesn’t say anything.

               “Never?” he asks, “I have a hard time believing that. A girl as beautiful as you, never been kissed? Ridiculous.”

               I beam at him. “You think I’m beautiful?”

               He rolls his eyes and hits me in the nose with a popcorn kernel, “Duh, what have you been missing, girl?” I just stare at him, clearly confused. My expression makes him laugh and he stands to leave the room, “Such a girl.”

               I’m not sure if I should be offended. I wait until Jonathan returns with two sodas before speaking. “Jonathan,” I say. I say his name with three long syllables.

               “Claire,” he replies in a sing-song voice that sounds like velvet. He bats his eyelashes at me sweetly.

               “What do you mean?”

               Jonathan grins, “I mean it’s time you sing for me, little angel.” He pushes my shoulder.

               “I haven’t—I can’t—”

               “You can,” he interrupts, “and you will, dear.”

               “What if I crack? What if I can’t sing like I used to? What if I sound bad?” I ramble. I can’t bear to mess up in front of him. What would he think?

               “Would you just listen?” he snaps, his gaze is intense, but soft. I hope he’s not angry. “It won’t matter what you sound like. I’m going to have an opinion of you either way, but it doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what you think of yourself.” He has a point. “Look, the thing is,” he continues, “Society has a way of conforming people. We’re born to judge each other. That’s all we know how to do. That’s what we’ve grown up doing, and that’s what we will do for hundreds of years to come. What matters is how you see yourself. If you would just stop comparing yourself to others, you wouldn’t know who is prettier, or who is stronger, or who has a better voice. Can’t you be happy with who you are?”

               “But—“

               “But nothing, Claire,” he takes my face in his hands, “I want you to be who you are, and I think you, Claire Collins; you’re already pretty great.”