Eliott

You always see her sitting on that plastic seat in their backyard. Well, it is technically not a backyard but I cannot find the word for that small area behind connected to that backdoor. Is porch meant for the front only? Do you get my drift?

The problem with our area of town is the lack of privacy between houses. If she does not close the curtains you can see straight to her closet. She has many sweatshirts. The problem with the lack of privacy between our houses is also my mother. Snoopy little woman with glasses you would think are binoculars by their ability to zero in on their target, that is, her. Her name is Elliott. I heard her father use it on her. Elliott. A boy’s name. Maybe she is the son her father always desired. I wanted to use it on her too. Call her and see her look up with a slight smile on her face, and her dimples would show.

My mother often nudges me with her elbow, lower lip pushed out, loudly whispering (gossiping), “see her! Always buried in that phone. Aaah, this generation. You know, yesterday she was there at midnight, crying. And I can bet your inheritance it is that damn phone!”
I rarely say anything back. I want to tell my mother how when she plays her music loud I stand at the kitchen sink listening and watching her nod her head to the music. You know it is her happy music when she loudly plays it and sings along sometimes. You know it is her sad music when her head is lowered, earphones plugged and sleeve turned to a hanky. I sometimes want to take her a hanky and a glass of orange juice. My aunt Lily says orange juice solves all troubles. My mother ensures we have an endless supply of handkerchief because of how prone we are to common cold.

I want to tell my mother how she curls up on her plastic chair, in her blue and white striped shorts and a sweatshirt, staring at her phone screen, her sleeved hand holding up her head. Sometimes she smiles and sometimes she dashes away a tear. I want to tell my mother that Elliott reads. That when she is on her phone, it is mainly because of her books. I know that because in school I have walked past her numerous times holding a novel to her chin. She is not much of a talker, preferring the worlds and dimensions in the heavy novels she holds. Their house internet does not even reach their backyard. I heard her yelling it to her mum. I guess, like my mother, her mum was concerned about her being on her phone too much, on social media. They are always worrying it is too much social media. “See George, it is why this generation of yours complains of depression, anxiety and all that. It is that phone, social media! Aaah, a devil!” I never say anything back.

I do not know if Elliott knows about me, us; her neighbors. I’m terribly shy, otherwise I would have already introduced myself. But I think she knows us, as nameless neighbors rather than people her and her family can befriend. It is kind of sad. I do not know if she has friends. I hope someone gives her a hug in school in the days after she has spent the night crying in her backyard. I worry about it but then remember I also curl up and hug the teddy bear aunt Lily bought me and sob. And I’m okay after. Is she okay after? Does she have anything to hug in bed when she sleeps? I wish I could cuddle her and watch the ceiling with her. My ceiling is plain white yet I stare at it like I can see through it to the night sky. There is just so much that your mind can map on a plain canvas. I hope she would not be bored watching ceilings with me.

Mother is nudging me again. “Why do you look like that? You think too much George. Come, help me cut up the fruits before your father swallows us for the delay.” She has already cut up the watermelon and the oranges. How much fruit do we really need?! All I want to stand here by the kitchen sink forever and stare at her and fantasize on her and I being friends.

A few days later while playing in the yard, my brother threw the football too far and I went to fetch it. It was right at her feet. Huh! Kismet! The stars probably aligned.

‘I will say hi. No, hello is cooler. Or is hey better? Probably mention the weather and the humidity. Yeah, probably…’

I’m still thinking when suddenly, out of nowhere, without the okay from my brain, my mouth embarrasses us, “Hiya.”
Worst of all, I sound like a mouse. I go to clear my throat but she is not looking at me. Her earphones are plugged in, her sleeves pulling to cover even her hands. I instinctively shove my handkerchief in her face. She is startled and looks up at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed. They are also very beautiful. Dark and huge, fanned by long tarantula eyelashes. I am sorry I used tarantula. But her eyelashes are that thick. I got the name from a show on transforming brides and the stylist said he would give the bride tarantula eyelashes. She is still looking at me, expressionless. I stutter out a, “sorry” and go to stuff the white handkerchief back into my pockets but she snatches it and wipes her eyes.

I do not remember what I said next, I just know I stuttered. I remember bending to pick the football and my feet mechanically moving away from her. I don’t know if it was the right thing to do. Maybe I should have stayed and sat next to her. The internet says that is the best way to help someone handle sadness. To say nothing unless they ask you to, to hug them and just let them let it all out. All I know is if I had stayed there another minute, my sweat would have been rivers digging a valley down my face.

The next day I go back to retrieve that goddamned football my brother has thrown too far again. That is my rehearsed answer if it somehow comes up. She is reading a paperback. A thick paperback whose title I cannot see. It is dog-eared and the pages have turned from white to brown. She looks up as I near her and I stupidly point to the football very quickly. She smiles faintly and I swear my heart will beat itself out of my body. I bend to collect it and clear my throat. ‘God, what am I doing!’ is all that is going through my mind as I stand up and ask her what book she was reading. And embarrassingly, it is that squeaky voice from yesterday!

‘Guardian angel, if you are listening, tell your master I want a dose of confidence for my next birthday’… he better do his job! Is it in his job description though? Passing wishes and prayers? I hope it is.

She turns it so I can see it. I love Dean Koontz. I have read a few of his books. She is reading False Memory, a personal favorite. I tell her this and wow! I am talking. My voice is not shaky, not squeaky, and she is listening and laughing and saying things back. I do not even know how I end up sitting beside her on the floor, talking. Just talking. And she is smiling. And she is glorious!