Lovespell

August 23 —

Dear Ms. Dusk,

Or do you prefer Miko? Ms. Dusk makes you sound old, like my mean old principal, Ms. Bard. What about M? I know of a girl at school who’s called B. B for Beatrice. So simple. M is good with me, if it works for you. Well, M, you wouldn’t believe what happened today. The Funky Flea was having an end-of-summer sidewalk sale. I didn’t intend to buy anything, but since I was walking past, I stopped to take a look. The rolling rack on the sidewalk was full of options. Summer maxi dresses and t-shirts, mismatched bathing suit tops and bottoms, and a few sweaters and flannels. As the hangers scratched against the rack’s steel bar, faded perfume and skin-like, powdery musk of their previous owners wafted in the air. It wasn’t a bad smell, just kind of sad. Like when you check out an old book from the library that doesn’t have but one due date punch. Or none at all. These things that are in the world, just waiting for someone to claim them as their own. Something to be used again. Something to be loved. There were a few options I landed on, considered, and passed over. And that’s when I saw it. Or should I say, it saw me?

A cotton blend, butternut-colored, oversized sweater. A silk label at the neck, penned with marker that bled only subtly through the fabric. The label read M. Dusk.

Tortoiseshell round buttons lined the front. So large, I cupped them in the palm of my hand. They felt smooth and polished, like a half dollar. Two large pockets drooped sullenly, permanently deformed by the things they held. Perhaps a phone, or many phones. Sunglasses? Keys? Not sure why you would need keys. You probably have a driver. Your house is probably programmed by codes, not keys.

When I removed the sweater from the hanger, it swung carefree against the steel rod, as if shedding weight. I held the sweater into my chest, the silk label touching the skin of my neck. I pulled the collar up to my nose and inhaled deeply. You smell exactly like I imagine, M. Dry, crisp, succulent eucalyptus with notes of vanilla. The smell of sweet sleep. The scent of a pillowcase after falling asleep with damp hair. I imagine you waking up in the morning, your sheets as silky as the tag grazing my skin, wrapping yourself in this sweater.

Outside the Funky Flea, I extended the sleeve of the sweater to match the length of my arm, and began dancing. Lovespell. Your song. My favorite song. I hummed the tune, the words ran down like a projector in my mind. I closed my hand around the cup of the sleeve. The music continued to play, and we danced.

Then, a woman came out of the Funky Flea and asked me if I wanted to buy it. When I asked her how much, she told me to check the tag. $12.99. I told her I only had a ten dollar bill. She shrugged and waved me inside. She must not have checked the tag before putting it outside on the rack. Because otherwise, she probably wouldn’t have sold it. It’s a collector’s item. A rare find. How did they miss this? I followed her inside to pay, holding the sweater closely. She agreed to the ten dollars even. When she asked if I wanted a bag, I said no. She raised her eyebrows as I put my arms into yours and walked outside. Never mind the warmth of the day. The final days of summer that always seemed the longest. When the heat is relentless and the sun is the brightest. The final show before the turning of the season.

October 12 —

Dear M,

I’ve been searching. Mostly online. But I found a quiet corner in the Farmer Al’s after gathering every magazine I could. Farmer Al’s is our grocery store. I flipped through the glossy pages, searching for your photos. A blurb. Anything to tell me about what you’re doing. Where you are. Are you writing any new songs? I’m not sure you will ever write one better than Lovespell, but I’ll listen to anything you sing. I feel like we are connected now. We are one. By the way, I love your sweater. Nobody has approached me to ask about it yet, but maybe they just don’t know. And that’s okay. It can be our secret. I’d rather it be ours.

November 23 —

Dear M,

You would be so proud of me. I did it! I went to an open mic night at a coffee shop two towns over. I had to take two buses to get there, but I made it. When I arrived, I paced outside for a bit. There weren’t that many people inside. Amateur melodies collected in the air. I buttoned my sweater and found the courage to go in (thank you for that). A man at the door asked me if I was there to perform. I said “yes, I’m here to sing.” I had been practicing Lovespell for months. Not that I needed the practice. The lyrics of your song weren’t only in my head, they’re etched in my soul. If I was sedated, I would find a way to work them out as I fought deep slumber. Plus, you are with me here. Cradling me. Protecting me. Like a shield. Work through me, M.

December 26 —

Dear M,

Merry Christmas. I thought about you a lot yesterday. My mother told me I couldn’t wear my sweater at the table. She said the cuffs were too dirty. I told her that I’d rather starve than take off my sweater. Instead of making a scene, I was demoted to the kids table. Which was fine with me, until my cousin followed suit. She told me my sweater was ugly. I could feel the anger churning inside me, like a dormant fire beginning to wave its smoky ribbons in the air. I took off the sweater only to show her the tag, penned M. Dusk. Your name! Your handwriting! She wrapped her arms around her stomach and laughed wildly. It was vile and ugly. At first, she acted like she didn’t know who you were. Jealousy at its finest. She told me the sweater wasn’t yours at all. In fact, she recounted stories of people doing awful things to make others think that they found a treasure. She told me that people autographed books before donating them. They added signatures to the corners of paintings. Obnoxiously autograph a sports jersey before adding it to a pile of unwanted rags. I believe this is your signature, M. I have to.

January 12 —

Dear M,

I’m sorry I haven’t written. I didn’t know what to say. I guess if I have to be honest, I am avoiding you. The second open mic night didn’t go as planned. There were so many more people this time. People were standing in the back of the room, pressed up against the picture windows. Lovespell. I knew the words, but somehow, the performance was a disaster. The lights beamed blindingly into my eyes. Nobody was paying attention. And if they were, they were laughing. Smiling their wicked smiles. Nobody approached me like I’d hoped. Nobody asked for an autograph on a napkin, or a coaster, or even their arm. Anything within reach. The sharpie, straight in my pocket, was never put to use. I had to ride one bus home and then transfer to another. The buses with their dismal yellowing lights. So different from the spotlight at the coffee shop.

February 16 —

Dear M,

I saw that you got a pixie cut. It looks great on you. It’s the picture I took with me when I got my hair cut. I begged my mother to take me to the salon, but instead, she made an appointment with the town barber. It’s the same barber that cuts my dad’s hair and shaves my brother’s hair down to his scalp each summer. During the cut, I closed my eyes. I imagined your picture and your cut, and reveled in the anticipation. When the barber turned the chair to face the mirror, and told me to open my eyes, I saw what was left of my hair was layered unevenly. Lacerated without consistency. Straight, shingled layers on the sides. When the barber handed me the hand mirror to see the back, it was difficult. My eyes were canopied with hot, heavy tears. Too heavy to look through. I lowered the mirror onto my lap, and blinked widely, trying to hold them in, but my eyes were too weak to contain them. Tears fell to the mirror, leaving streaks of sadness on the glass. I’m not sure what happened. The barber seemed to be sure he could replicate your cut when I showed him the picture. When my mother saw it, she stared at me for a long time. Then she shrugged, and said “That’s the thing about hair. It grows back.” I tucked the picture of you with your pixie in the pocket of my sweater. You know, in case anyone says anything about it when I get to school.

March 3 —

Dear M,

My hair doesn’t appear to be growing back at the rate I’d hoped. Or at the rate I think my mother had hoped. Kids at school now call me “Justin” instead of Justine. How do you do it, M? Wear it so well? Many times, I have pulled the picture of you from my sweater pocket, thick white lines penetrating the delicate page of the magazine. But it’s becoming harder to see you. The print is fading. But none of this matters, because I saw on your tour announcement that you will be stopping here in Indiana! I already talked to my folks about a ticket. I’ve been babysitting on weekends, and helping around the house more, and I’ve even talked my brother into letting me take on his paper route. He hates how cold it is this time of year.

March 5 —

Dear M,

I usually don’t write to you so frequently, but I didn’t know who else to talk to about this. While I was on my brother’s paper route yesterday, I saw Patrick Hannigan. He was sitting on the front porch of his house, not busy, as if he was expecting the day to deliver something to him. He was bundled in his coat, leaning back in a rusted chair among the debris and discarded items on his porch, using the paint-chipped rail as a footrest.

“Hey, Justin!” he called to me, as I threw a paper onto his neighbor’s lawn. What must his neighbor think, such a tidy house next to the Hannigan’s, where five boys lived without a mother, their faces always dirty and their ears always caked with dirt in the folds. When I looked at him, my bike hit a patch of black ice and slid into a pile of hard snow, speckled with dirt and fall’s leaves that were left to perish in the winter. Patrick stood up from his chair. I shook my stinging hands, peppered with ice and tiny pebbles and street shards. The knee of my pants ripped, and blackened around the opening. Fresh blood welled in the middle.

I wasn’t sure why Patick hurried over to help me. Especially after he made fun of me. But he picked up my bike, and helped me to balance after I realized the pain of putting pressure on my leg. He picked up the newspapers strewn about the street, already soggy, and placed them back into the basket on the front of my bike. Then, he walked me to the chair and helped me to lower down into it. He went inside his house and brought out a few thin sheets of toilet paper and an old box of band aids that looked like they survived generations in the old Hannigan house. I daintily held the sheets to my knee, and they quickly absorbed the blood. Patrick was silent while I tended to the cut. He stood nearby, with the paper tape in his hand, the sticky part of the band aid held onto the tip of his finger, for when I was ready to take it and cover the cut. I wondered if he felt bad for yelling at me. If I wasn’t looking at him, I would have seen the black ice, camouflaged in the wet street like a snake in a pile of dry leaves. Ready to strike if you weren’t paying attention. Then, he finally spoke.

“I thought your brother did the paper route,” he said. I explained that he was happy to hand it over to me for the winter. Plus, I was saving money for the Miko Dusk show. That’s when he reached into his pocket and pulled a crumpled five dollar bill out. He asked me if I still needed money. When I said yes, he told me to follow him to the shed.

The inside of the shed was moist, like the wood had sunk its teeth into the ground and souped up all of the snow and water and wetness. The wood looked soft and wet, and I had the impression that it would collapse around us at any minute. Rusted bikes and old, deflated footballs and empty soda cans covered the floor. Patrick kicked some of them out of the way to make a clearing. We didn’t sit or lie down. He told me to close my eyes and put my hand out. When it wasn’t the five dollar bill, he put in my hand, I squeezed my eyes shut. The same way I do when I’m waiting for a shot. The warmth I felt in my hand radiated through to my shoulder, and then inside my chest, and down to my stomach. Achy and nervous. My stomach fell into my kneecaps. It reminded me of the time I rode the ferris wheel at the 4th of July carnival and the grotesque man with one tooth let us ride for a few minutes longer, increasing the speed. I only wished when it was over that instead of placing the five dollars in my hand, he told me to open my eyes to receive a kiss.

After we left the shed, Patrick went into the house without saying anything. Not even goodbye. I lifted my bike up, the water-soaked papers in the front shifting slightly. I winced at the pain in my knee when I had to put pressure onto the pedal to start moving. On the way home, my fingers grazed the palm of my hand. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to wash it away, or to hold onto it, the way that your fans probably don’t wash their arms or their shirts after you autograph them. My hand then moved to the five dollar bill in my pocket. Enough to buy a ticket. We did it, M. I can’t wait to see you.

May 23 —

M,

I was at your show. I stood outside, waiting for you hours before it started. I watched every car pulled into the alley behind the venue. Car after car, after car. Over the hours, more people showed up and stood with me. I was kind of annoyed by them, because it should have just been me. But when I saw it was finally your car, you rolled down your window only slightly and waved, but not enough to see that I was there. And once inside, when the show started, you didn’t recognize me either. Didn’t you see your sweater? Haven’t you felt this connection? I screamed louder than anyone at the show. I sang every word to every song. Not once did you look my way. Not once did you scour the sea of fans to look at your best fan. Your biggest fan.

August 12 —

M,

This will be my last entry. I peeled your sweater from my body, the fibers of the neck slightly discolored, pockets still droopy, like the jowls of an old dog. We are separated now. I cut the silky tag with a pair of sharp scissors, the stitched remnants of the tag remain, but the rest of it has gone.

To the next owner, it will only be a sweater. Something to keep them warm and comforted on the coldest days.

When we’re apart, it takes a toll on my heart. My soul, I will sell. To become a victim of your Lovespell.