Oh

Home changes as often as the strangers on the street.
(but then again each one becomes a friend once we meet.)
I kept coming back thinking I left something behind,
only to notice that I lost nothing the whole time.
That last walk along the brick streamed a whole movie in our heads.
We held each other's hands while the credits rolled at the end,
and I saw how this place made my heart grow up and wide.
And with each step towards the plane I said, "Thank you, Omaha. Goodbye."

Battle of Rock Springs Cafe

I have never taken a bullet, but I assume that falling for your best guy friend feels about the same. When it hit my chest, the tingles traveled all over my body and froze my smile as a way to prove that I was fine after such a surprising blow. The first shot rang out on one idle Friday night when he came into town to help his brother move into a new apartment. I thought we were going out for a friendly drink and late night pizza. Little did I know, my heart ordered a side of “should I have made a move?” I pondered the question as it brought me to the front of the battlefield; it was my very own Battle of Bunker Hill.

As he waved to the waiter for the check, I couldn’t help but notice how many times he twirled the chewed straw in his now empty Dr. Pepper cup. It was as if he was twirling his rifle in front of the dying casualty in front of him.

“Dessert?” I quickly asked, changing the subject in my mind.
Of course he doesn’t want dessert. He already asked for the check.
“Nah. Dessert’s not really my thing.”
“Not even pie?!”
You. Are a loser.

I thanked God that the dimmed lights in the pizzeria hid my blushing face. I forgot that not everyone shared my love of the flaky crust and fruit or cream-filled dessert.

“I mean, you’re right. We’ll wait. I’ll show you that great place tomorrow.”
“Sure. Whatever. Play you for the last slice?”
He held out his fist, ready for our usual game of "Rock/Paper/Scissors for the Last One." I ignored his recklessness with my heart and played along.

I lost.

That night, I buried my feelings and acted like I didn’t really want to bring him to my secret pie place – an hour outside of the city.

My eyes watched for the 65-mile speed limit as I waited for him to join in my awkward rendition of a Michael Jackson song. Suddenly, he opened his mouth.
“Okay, I’ve got to tell you about this dream I had last night.”
Was I in it?
“Yeah, sure go ahead.”
“So, I’m at a party on some cliff. It’s a clear day, perfect for swimming. There are drinks, all of my guy friends are there, some cute girls.”
Um, maybe I don’t want to hear about this.
“All of your guy friends, huh?”
“Yeah. We were jumping into the bay and everyone was chatting and having a good time. And then I see her.”
This little story is starting to sound a lot like a John Hughes movie. It better end with you bringing me a birthday cake with sixteen candles.
“You see ‘her’?”
“Yes. This girl. She is talking to everyone and everyone is talking to her. I’m completely drawn to her, like I want to tell her the truth about my feelings.”
Oh, God this is it. Ring the bell, the British are coming!
“Well, do you?”
“The thing is that every time I try to, she disappears or gets pulled away or distracted so I can’t tell her.”
For God’s sake, who is she?!
“Who is she? Do you know her?”
“No, I have no idea. But then something else happens.”
I know! She turns around and it’s me, right?!
“The suspense is killing me.”
“I make a jump off the cliff, almost hitting a bed of rocks at the bottom. It nearly kills me! I’m talking near-death experience. All of my friends help me out and when I reach the top, I see her again. I am determined to tell her how I feel, but when I finally get to her and I’m about to tell her - like the words are coming out of my mouth - I wake up.”

BAM!

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.“You’re kidding me.”
“No, I’m not. I just don’t know what it means.”

Suddenly, I’m very aware of the time my brother-in-law brought me to the shooting range as a graduation present. He wanted to show me how to load a gun and how to shoot it correctly, always aiming for a little above your bullseye. I looked down at the circle design of his tee-shirt. The center was just two inches below his chest.

What it means?! Well, that’s easy. Yes, that girl is me. Not “I wish it were me,” it actually is! You see, just because I have come in and out of your life for three years, it does not mean that I can be thrown into the heap of random girls! The odds of you having this dream when you were visiting your friend over the summer are pretty slim. This dream is telling you, “Hey! You might actually have feelings for her. Yes, the girl in front of you! Put down your fork and kiss her, you idiot!”

He looked away and admired the country air the café oddly captured: tables and booths made of oak wood, animal heads hanging from the walls, pictures of old patrons next to Sandra, the first owner.

“This place is pretty cool. Play you for the last bite?” He held his fist to his palm to challenge me.
"The last bite?"
That was it. I loaded my rifle.

One. Two. Three. Shoot.
“All right!” He cut my flat hand with his fingers.
“Best out of three?”
“Fine.”
One. Two. Three. Shoot.
“Rock will smash your scissors.” I popped my fist on his fingers.
One. Two. Three.
“Shoot!”
I picked up my fork and scooped the last bite of pie into my mouth. He was crazy to think that he was going to get my heart and my chocolate cream.

The devil, Angel

“Thou shalt not lie. Especially you, Kimberly Stein.” I haven’t seen the sacred stone Decalogue in person, but my guess is that God added that footnote, circa 1995, once he saw how I started to live my life. I am generally a truthful person. I’ll always tell you when you’re being nice, if you look pretty, if you look like a fool dancing, or if I think you should get rid of those Coach shoes that make you look like you have your head up your ass. I’ll tell you all those things.

However, there are those things that should never be told. Lies must be taken in their place as a matter of survival. And as I sat in that passenger’s seat, completely lying to myself to survive the heartbreak of him not saying it back, I couldn’t help but remember the last time I felt the pains of guilt after a lie.

I was seven and she was Angel. Even with my young mind and my sarcasm still developing, I knew that this was a heavily ironic coincidence. The girl who prided herself as being the principal’s Third Eye is named Angel? The girl who tattled during recess time is named Angel? The girl who spit on my perfectly cleaned tree stump house is named Angel?! I knew better than that. Even in first grade.

It was raining that afternoon. I was standing with Jonathan, someone I thought of as a friend. Watching her walk away from the principal’s office – for the fifth time that lunch recess – was the last straw.

“She is the biggest brat in the entire world! Why would anyone want to be her friend?”
That’s right. I said it.

Little did I know, Jonathan decided to say it, too…To her…Some friend.

Coming in from recess into our daily Cool Down session, Mrs. Manos pulled me aside.

“Kimberly. Can I see you outside please?”
Outside? I never get sent outside. Outside is for hair pullers and foot trippers. And nose pickers.
“Okay.”

Angel pretended to rest her head on her desk when I passed. I could’ve sworn I heard her hiss.

Mrs. Manos leaned towards my innocent face and asked me the question:
“Did you call Angel a ‘brat’ today at recess?”
Well, many times, but at today’s recess?
I thought for a good minute before I answered with a response that would haunt me until my early 20s.
“No.”
I did. And I meant it.
“Are you sure?”
What’s with the third degree?
“I did not call her a ‘brat’.”
“I think you’re lying to me.”
What the heck, lady?
“You’re not supposed to lie. You know that.”
“I know.”
Oh God. Here come the tears.
“I want you to sit on the bench during afternoon break.”
“Okay.”I can do that.
“But first I want you to go inside and apologize to Angel.”
WHAT?!?!

Through the dimness of our classroom, I begrudgingly walked up to Angel’s desk, passing the group of goldfish swimming freely in their five-inch deep bowl. Lucky bastards. I quickly spouted a “sorry” before running to my own desk to cover my face with humiliation. My best friend, Kristen patted my back as I sobbed uncontrollably in the back of the room. Kids would look back as I heaved oxygen into my mouth through the wails of sorrow. Snot dripped to the top of my plaid jumper but I buried my face even deeper into my sleeve. I peeked above my arm to catch a glimpse of Angel in peaceful contentment as “Puff the Magic Dragon” played for the second time.

Bitch.

Looking back on it now, that devil Angel gave me a gift that day. A sleeve soaked in my own nasal mucus, as well as the mortal sin of lying. I never really lied before that and after experiencing the shame of being tagged a Liar for the rest of my short first grade career, I couldn’t bear to do it again. Too strong was the vision of me sitting on a bench, coloring inside the lines as I heard others sing, “Liar, liar, pants on fire!” It killed me -- but she helped me speak the truth.

That is, until this moment - the moment when I had no other choice but to tell a lie that deep down I knew I couldn’t pin on anyone, not even her. On that Wednesday afternoon, I sat there as he offered a sympathetic laugh in response to the lame-ass joke about balloon animals I heard my little brother recite.

“Where is that from? A popsicle stick?”
“No.”
Yes.“
I could teach you a thing or two about comedy.”
“Yea, sure.”
Please teach me things.

Slowly, my head made its way to the reflecting window and I lied straight to my face:
You don’t love him.
If Angel were here now, she would, without hesitation, tattle to Mrs. Manos about my inappropriate behavior. But I’m not afraid of some Third Eye. I’m not afraid of a chorus of children singing to me that I'm a liar. I’m 23-years old now and I’m not afraid to say I'm not at all in love with him. I’m going to lie my ass off, Angel, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Go puff some magic dragons.