You Know Me Better Than That (A Short Story)

  YOU KNOW ME BETTER THAN THAT

  Jennifer Blackman

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 Jennifer Blackman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by StoryFront, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and StoryFront are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 9781477876855

  Illustrated by Michael Hirshon

  CONTENTS

  YOU KNOW ME BETTER THAN THAT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  YOU KNOW ME BETTER THAN THAT

  Hi Erin,

  I’ve attached the transcript of my interview with Miranda Davis for the Luke Wilson segment. Like I mentioned before, the conversation didn’t go quite as planned, but I would love to be able to use some it for the show. Fingers crossed! As always, I really appreciate your help.

  Thanks again,

  Jessie

  Jessica Beckler

  Production Assistant, Scuttlebutt

  89.5 KUT Radio 1

  Lavandou, Texas

  Jessie: Ms. Davis?

  Miranda: Please, come in. Just hunting for a word, one squirrelly son of a bitch. Pardon the language.

  Jessie: Ms. Davis?

  Miranda: Yes, you’re in the right place. Shut the door behind you. I’ll just be a moment.

  Fortuitous, fallacy, phallic. Where’s that piece of paper . . . ?

  Sit. Please. Just toss the books aside.

  [Silence.]

  You’ll have to excuse me, as it’s only the start of the semester, but who are you?

  Jessie: I’m Jessie Beckler. We spoke earlier this week.

  Miranda: You’re in Poetic Forms, then? A question over the haiku? They’re a puzzle, that’s all. Puzzle it out. Flibbertigibbet: there’s you’re first line. You’re welcome. Are you considering dropping the class, then?

  Jessie: No, I’m not dropping. What I mean is, I’m not a student here. Or anywhere anymore. I’m actually . . . I’m a reporter . . . actually, a production assistant, for the local radio show Scuttlebutt. I just came to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Luke Wilson, and the accident at the swimming pool.

  [Silence.]

  We spoke earlier this week?

  Miranda: So you said.

  Jessie: Is now a bad time?

  Miranda: Well, I have a dentist appointment that I need to leave for in half an hour. Our appointment was at eleven, Jessica. You’re fifteen minutes late.

  Jessie: I’m so sorry about that. I stopped for scones and—do you take cream in your coffee?

  Miranda: I’m teasing you, Jessica. It’s fine. You were late. “Life is a theater set in which there are but few practicable entrances,” as someone important once said.

  Jessie: Well, so Scuttlebutt—have you listened to the show before? It’s pretty new, a local Lavandou program telling local Lavandou stories. There are podcasts too. You can download them.

  Miranda: Yes, the tagline is familiar.

  Jessie: So, it’s not like we’re Wikipedia, but any unique details you remember about Luke Wilson growing up would really add to the story. Are you still in touch?

  Miranda: Scuttlebutt flatters me. That you would come to me for unique details when it was my younger sister, Lisbeth, who’s widely considered the Luke Wilson expert in this town. His first love, his first lay. That’s your segment’s title, right there: “First Love, First Lay.” Why now, if I may ask? And why me? Why me when there is a Lisbeth somewhere out there?

  Jessie: But you’re the one who saved Luke Wilson’s life at the pool. At least that’s what everyone says.

  Miranda: “Everyone Says.” Another good title.

  Jessie: I’m here to help you set the record straight.

  Miranda: Have you heard the one about the threesome? So unimaginative! That’s why Lisbeth and I don’t speak anymore, apparently. Of course, the truth is much more insidious. Do you know what that word means, Jessica?

  Jessie: I graduated from college, I’m a reporter . . . I mean, a production assistant . . . so I know what insidious means. As for why I want to talk to you: my little sister took one of your intro classes last semester, and she said you talked about Luke Wilson, that you’re a good storyteller. And I wanted a good story for my first interview. That is why I am here. Plus, celebrity sells.

  Miranda: High praise. I’ll take it, and what’s more, I will thank you for thinking of me. I’m happy to set the record straight, for Lisbeth’s sake. She’s got a reputation to uphold, as a society woman, married to that wannabe congressman. Please don’t quote me on that. My word choice is unforgivable. I am quite surprised you didn’t go to her first. Although society women don’t talk to the press, do they?

  I will tell you the story because I have a kind soul, Jessica Beckler. You know, you look like a reporter—sensible pantsuit and sensible loafers. But the pearl earrings age you. Why not take them off?

  Jessie: I don’t ever take them off.

  [Silence.]

  Shall we get started? Basically, half this town has already heard the story about Luke Wilson’s accident at The Springs, many from a friend of a friend, some from an actual eyewitness. Three elements always remain the same: Luke Wilson, the pool, and hero Miranda Davis. Still, no one can seem to agree on any of the facts leading up to the incident, nothing but the ending. Today, we’re here to get your story. The true story.

  Miranda: The true story or my story? Don’t answer that.

  You asked earlier if we still keep in touch. We do not. I think you’ll find that by the end of my story, there will be little wonder why.

  I’d be delighted to hear your ending, the one everyone agrees on.

  Jessie: Of course. But first, you knew actor Luke Wilson years before he rose to fame. Tell us, what was he like back then?

  Shoot, do you mind if I record this conversation?

  Miranda: By all means.

  Jessie: Great. So, how did you and Luke Wilson meet?

  Miranda: Aren’t you going to start recording?

  Jessie: I’ve been recording the whole time. On my phone, see?

  Miranda: That is terrifying. If I may, I think the move, next time, is this: You ask to record a conversation, you visibly begin recording. And if you’ve begun recording earlier, the least you could do is feign beginning.

  I knew him first, way before my sister, if that’s what you’re asking.

  He was Wil then, not Luke. We went to Lav Middle together and shared fourth-period geography. I remember I sat in the second row and he sat behind me, passing penis notes back and forth with friends until they got caught. Really careful anatomical sketches. Normal kid stuff. He was the first seventh-grade boy to get head from an A-squad cheerleader—it was a rumor, but that’s all it took to start a fire at our school. And he was a great swimmer, miles better than I ever was. Everyone thought he was headed for the Olympics before Lisbeth ruined things. But you already knew that. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.

  I remember I used to make a point of asking him if I could borrow a pencil before tests. The fact that I remember that, it’s kind of—

  Do you mind if I smoke? I removed the batteries from that smoke detector years ago.

  Jessie: Not at all, go ahead. So then what? Ho
w did your little sister ruin things?

  Miranda: So he usually gave me a pencil. What did I do with all those pencils?

  Wil had a job cleaning pools when we were freshmen. My parents had been talked into this saltwater setup in the backyard, one of the first of its kind, and it was slowly sinking and needed constant maintenance. Lisbeth and I were real friends that summer, for the last time. She was one grade below, with white-blonde hair down to her waist and boys’ legs. Everything about her was very straight and clean. We looked like twins except for that. I’ve always been fuller looking, messier, but I’m a natural blonde, not like you’d know it to look at me now. I started going gray—truly, silver—the day I turned thirty. I’m sure Lisbeth still dyes hers blonde.

  I remember the air conditioner kept breaking down that summer. I wore my hair in one long rope braid, because I’d sweat through my shirt if I didn’t. If Lisbeth and I weren’t in the pool or going to the pool, we’d spread out on the kitchen tile in our bikinis.

  One afternoon, Wil came by to scrub the pool and we threw ourselves a viewing party.

  Jessie: What girl wouldn’t? So it sounds like he was pretty crushworthy even back then.

  Miranda: Crushworthy. Does he sound crushworthy? I’m not saying you’re wrong, but what about “he drew penis pictures” led you there?

  Anyway, we planted ourselves in front of the big window in the computer room and played Spit on the carpet and Truth or Dare, but without the truth part, because Lisbeth already knew too much about me. I wanted an excuse to talk to Wil, but I was fourteen and old enough to know I didn’t want anything embarrassing or stupid getting back to school, not that I knew what stupid even looked like.

  I had to ease Lisbeth into taking my dares. Stuff like “Just pull the blinds up halfway. Do it real quick. He probably won’t even see your shadow.” She usually refused.

  “I’m not whistling at him, and I’m not winking at him,” she said before slapping the Spit pile. Her reflexes have always been spectacular. She said nobody whistled anymore and all the old movies I’d been watching were making me retarded. When she said that, about me being a retard, I slapped my hand on hers.

  “God, you’re such a sore loser. I slapped like ten minutes ago,” I remember her saying. “Okay, your dare was bad, so it’s my turn. I dare you to flash him from the roof.”

  “You mean like this?” I sprang up and hummed some sexy tune, probably “Bad to the Bone,” thrusting my hips as I lifted my shirt to show my bra. I only had two bras, baby blue and white. I was glad I was wearing the blue one, because it made me feel grown-up.

  I said I’d be right back, and Lisbeth grabbed one of my ankles, squealing. She loved to laugh at me. “Never, ever do that again,” she said.

  I obviously don’t remember exactly what was said, but I do remember that day. The ice-cream man circling the cul-de-sac. Lisbeth combing through her hair with her thin fingers. And then there was Wil flouncing around the shallow end in his blue shorts, flexing and studying himself in the water. We spent the entire morning watching him together.

  Jessie: So you almost flashed Luke Wilson?

  Miranda: Yes and no.

  Jessie: Meaning?

  Miranda: Meaning it seemed like a fine way to get his attention, but I was too prudish.

  Jessie: You were a kid.

  Miranda: I was afraid.

  Jessie: Well, most girls would be. I mean, was he just as handsome as he was in The Royal Tenenbaums? I’m sure our listeners would love to know.

  Miranda: Brace yourself, Jessica: he was.

  He had the same jaw, like he’d spent half an hour working it out every morning, the same halfway smile and swimmer’s shoulders. He was shorter back then but tan, and he kept his hair buzzed close, so you could see the slope of his cheekbones, and he had these hazel, faded-looking eyes. He’d look right at you when you spoke.

  At first, I was more curious about him than infatuated. The only other boy we’d ever had at the house was a neighbor named Ellery who used to babysit us and had just started at UT, but he didn’t make me nervous like Wil did.

  Jessie: Interesting. This is all so interesting. I really love . . . well, it’s great to get the backstory. It’s just . . . we want your side, but what our listeners would really like to hear about is how you saved Luke Wilson from drowning at The Springs. If you don’t mind.

  Miranda: You know what I think? I think the real reason you’re here has almost nothing to do with my side or my time lifeguarding at The Springs—where there was plenty of blood in the water, not just the thing with Wil. The real reason you’re here is because I’m the sister of the girl who took Luke Wilson’s virginity. And what you actually want to know is what he was like in bed, but for that, you should talk to Lisbeth.

  Lisbeth told you to get lost, didn’t she? I’d love to know what she said, verbatim. Then again, Austin is kind of a drive, much farther than the community college. She’s not as social as she used to be, my sister—with that husband and two soccer players to haul around. Not that we talk anymore anyway. I don’t hate her, though. I save all her Christmas cards.

  I used to bite Lisbeth on the arm when we were toddlers, when she’d steal my stuffed animals and copy me. It made our parents nervous, so they put me in anger counseling. By the time I was a teenager I couldn’t even remember feeling angry, just holding my breath a lot.

  Would you care for a cigarette, Jessica? It might help you relax.

  [Silence.]

  Okay, suit yourself, but it would help you relax.

  So I dared Lisbeth to bring Wil a can of Cherry Coke, on a metal tray with a red straw, like a maid. She was supposed to tell him she’d picked out the red just for him. That it was symbolic. No idea what of. And then she’d take a long sip through the straw before handing it over.

  I didn’t have to talk her into it that time. She ran downstairs, blonde hair flapping behind her, and was gone for the next ten minutes. I figured she was getting her presentation ready. I waited at the top of the stairs, writing Mira, my nickname, in the carpet with my finger. When she finally reappeared, her hair looked different and she was holding an unopened can of soda. She didn’t see me on the steps, but only because she never looked up. She just stood there, with one hand on the patio doorknob, touching the can to her neck. I remember wishing I had a cold can on my neck. Then she shut the door, plopped down on the tile floor, and chugged the whole can.

  Jessie: Were you able to see him or—?

  Miranda: I went back to sitting in front of the big window, watching him. He looked up once, his hand like a visor above his eyes, and I thought he was saluting me. What would I do if he waved? Flash him?

  He spread his arms and fell back into the water, floating, as aimless as a piece of driftwood. He’d only looked up to make sure no one was watching him.

  By the time Lisbeth came back upstairs, it had been half an hour.

  “You didn’t do the straw,” I remember saying. She told me to grow up, that she didn’t feel like playing anymore. Her lips were stained maroon at the corners, and her hair was in a loose braid that ran over her right shoulder and across her chest.

  “Did you braid your hair for him?” I asked. She shrugged, and it made me want to bite her arm, for old time’s sake.

  “Do you want me to redo yours?” she said, and she began plucking out bobby pins.

  Jessie: So when did you start working at The Springs?

  Miranda: How old are you anyway? You can’t be older than twenty-one.

  Jessie: I’m twenty-two.

  Miranda: Good for you. It was impolite of me to ask. To be fair, I bet you’ve got plenty on me: never married, no children, shut-in failed poet with one good story about a kid she knew in high school. It’s not self-pity—all poets are failures.

  What else is there to know? Two weeks ago I installed handicap rails in my shower. That’s important. I know, I’m forty-two, still young, but “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” becomes less of a joke when
you live alone. Write that down. I buy bundles of carnations every Wednesday that I throw out on Sunday, as soon as the petals brown. Then I make myself live Monday and Tuesday without flowers, just so I get to need them again.

  I’m sure you’ve done your homework, Jess, but you were only half-right earlier. I did save Luke Wilson’s life, but he wasn’t exactly drowning.

  Jessie: Go on.

  Miranda: Wil and I first spoke during my only winter at the pool, when I was training for summer guard. We were sophomores, and I spent Tuesdays and Thursdays on my lifeguard chair, swallowed by a red down jacket and rip-away track pants. I’d show up with my hair up in a knot, and with two puffs on my inhaler, just in case. It had never crossed my mind to dress up for work. That was a Lisbeth thing.

  Have you been to The Springs in the winter? The water is sixty-eight degrees all year long, fresh and dark, with turtles the size of small boulders asleep in the deep end. We were the only pool open in December, and we were the only pool open until eight. The air was too chilly for recreational swimmers by the holidays, so I spent hours watching triathletes and composing everyday haiku: “The pool can’t be held / responsible for your child’s / safety. Keep him close.” And I read trashy stuff. I loved Your World magazine, which was like Us Weekly but with more news and human interest.

  Wil came in around six and swam an hour of laps. Like the others, he wore a Speedo, Lav High purple and orange, and got straight to business. When he was done, he’d pat himself dry, working his way up: one foot, then the other, one leg, then the other. He was tall by then, the same height as now. I felt pretty lucky about how long it took.

  Then one day, the routine changed. It was February, and I was hiding my hands in my coat sleeves, pawing at the pages of Your World’s “Stranger Than Fiction” section, when Wil snuck up on me. I’d been watching him dry off a few minutes earlier, but I always made myself look away once he got to his chest.

  I swore and clutched my magazine.

  He said something like “That assembly today was pretty illuminating, huh?” He stood below my perch, his face in my knees. I shaved twice a week in the winter and thanked God I was wearing pants, even the rip-away ones.