Ari

Diary Entry

August 31, 2009

Maccabe Arts Fest

Orange County, California

We united over Coldplay, the way every romance should start, him sitting comfortably behind the piano, fingers on keys, effortlessly playing out the chords that made up Lost, and myself, eyes peeking up from behind my music folder and bangs, meeting his own and muttering, quite simply and perfectly,

“Coldplay.”

--

Day One:

We sat in a circle around the classroom, I on one side and him directly across.  When my turn came I shyly announced that my favorite color was green, my favorite ice cream cookie dough, and my musical experience nill, except for the singing I did in the shower and the lyric writing that stayed in my notebook with their accompanying tunes only in my head.  I couldn’t play an instrument, I admitted, but was just beginning to teach myself guitar.  And then a ways around the circle of 26 teens, we finally arrived at him—

— “Ariel Joseph Tuckachinsky.”

Slouched in his chair.  Unruly dark hair.  What is he doing here, I thought.  Aside from the sad truth that guys and cool people don’t really do Vocal Music section, this guy just looked out of place at this moderately religious festival. 

“I don’t really have a favorite color,” he said.  His voice was soft spoken, rough.  “And—uh—I don’t really eat ice cream.” 

“I like this guy,” I heard someone mutter across the room. 

“And I’m self taught piano, drums, and guitar,” he finished. 

My interest peaked. 

He’d seemed like a druggie so far, what with that cool vacant look in his eyes and all, but I had to give it to him.  A guy with talent like that really stood out.  I was curious. 

And he was hot. 

--

After that I’d sometimes lose focus from the choral songs we sang, and as I spaced out  my eyes would drift lazily to his face, his rugged hair, his too-tight skinny jeans and rough fingers.  Occasionally, I’d focus in for a second to realize his eyes had locked with mine.  Then I would casually look away, drifting them around the room as if it had been an accident, as if it were just a coincidence that it was in his easy direction I was staring.  He was so unreadable, so stoic, and I wanted to know just what he was thinking in that bored looking head.       

Does he wonder the same things?

Does he notice me?

I am a helpless love-at-first-sight kind of girl.  I fall hard and quickly, and if the earnest flames of my passion are fed with even the smallest baby carrot, the most wilted leaf, they become wild, obsessive, and uncontrollable, lasting sometimes for years on end. 

And so, when my seat moved across the room to the tenor section due to my low voice, which once had only been embarrassing but was now starting to look a huge perk, Ari—sigh—, Alec—that kid with the Jew fro, and Yosha—the fourteen year old boy whose voice hadn’t completely matured and who had daily love affairs with his candy bars, became my new friends.  Or rather, we sat next to each other and exchanged the occasional word.  This was as close to friends as I expected to get with any guy, as I was shy and didn’t even talk to the other half normally.  And as far as the three sentences I exchanged with Ari, I was in no position to put a stopper on this developing intrigue. 

And so it continued.  Day two was Lost.  Day three, and I heard the gentle and beautiful notes that were The Scientist. 

B minor 7.                                       

I looked up.  So intent, those eyes. 

G major. 

Should I say something? 

D major. 

Probably not.  What good would that…

And on D major suspension 2—eye contact. 

“Scientist,” I said, louder than I’d expected. 
                After that, it was sealed.  I watched as he slowly built up the courage to speak to me.  Cool?  Ha.  Just shy, even if I was the only one who noticed.

 But still,

darling. 

And so I spoke.  Me, the one who thought she never could.  I asked about music, and about his preferences.  I mentioned Muse, and when he told me that it was his favorite, I wasn’t surprised.  I was, however, impressed.  A fellow alternative rock fan is hard to come by. 

White stripes?  An acquired taste, yes. 

The doorbell song, I responded.  This I know.  This… This—music—I can do. 

Death Cab For Cutie?

Heard of.  Okay. 

Hmm…

Weezer?

Beverly Hills?

Haha….yeah, I suppose, but not my favorite. 

Break over.  Back to our seats. 

But wait. 

“I’ll bring my ipod tomorrow and show you Death Cab for Cutie.”  Was I speaking these words?  It seemed so. 

Two days later, he promptly labeled them a “girl band.”  He asked, “Is this one of those bands you have to listen to the lyrics and stuff?” 

Um.  Duh?

Anyways,

--

“Draw and picture for me.”  I demanded of him.  We were sitting outside on a break, munching on fruit rollups by the wall in the hallway. 

“Your such a girl,” he’d said, followed by

“You like details? You’d be horrible at chess.”

I suppose that was insightful.

“tsk tsk.  Such a girl.”

Yeah, definitely an insightful person. 

--

(Official Definitions:

Defenestration:  The act of throwing someone out of a window. 

Defenestrapetion: The act of raping someone while throwing them out a window.  There is no one specific way to defenestrape.  Creativity in the matter is a positive thing. 

Reverberation:  My favorite pastime.

Reverberapetion: Doubly great.)

--

The kid was inappropriate and took pride in that. 

--

And when he quietly told me, suddenly and wonderfully, that I should be a night club singer, and with my abilities consequently turn every guy in the room on, my heart lurched. 

--

“It’s so hard to draw pretty people,” he said on the hill outside while repeatedly drawing and erasing my eyes. 

--

Day Four: 

At the swimming party, as I removed my towel to reveal my swim suited body, he looked over me, from my head downward, pausing for a while at my legs, saying, “yeah!  Show us those legs.” 

So enthusiastic, he was. 

He told me that I had a lovely delicate little thrust I did when I got really into a song.  It involved my hips moving forward and one of my legs bending.  I’d later knock against him at the party trying to get him to stop mocking me, though I really didn’t want him to stop.  When he mocked me it happened to look both hilarious and sexual, and my protests only caused him to continue further. 

               

                --

               

                End of Day Four:

                Now we were here, at the rock party, and music blared loudly and unprofessionally all around us.  Here he was, laughing at my attempts to rock out and there I was, wearing his sunglasses.  “They aren’t safe on me,” he said, jumping up and down, arms in the air, to prove it.  “And they look good on you.  You look like a movie star.” 

                Miriam assented, jumping up and down beside me, as well, to the beat. “You two look like a famous couple.”  I looked over at Ari in his jeans leather jacket and perfect messy hair.  She was sorta right about that. 

                Ari interrupted my thoughts.  “What do you think about that girl with the dread lockes?”

                “Who?” I asked.  Oh no.  Shoot.  What?

                I was confused.  Firstly, did he like another girl?  Secondly, was it the girl across the room he was pointing to that looked like a guy?  She had given Ari a message earlier and I’d thought she was a man. 

                Miriam clarified.  “That tall girl there will the long dark hair.”

                “Oh.  Message girl,” I placed together verbally.  “Seemed nice enough.”

                “Well, she just asked me if I wanted to hook up.” 

                My mouth opened. 

                “Huh,” was all I managed. 

                “What did you say?” Miriam asked. 

                “Yes Ari,” I repeated forcefully, jokingly.  “What did you say?”

                “Well I wanted to ask what exactly she meant by that.”  He took in a deep breath and looked intently at me.  “But instead I just told her I was tired and sweaty and not in the mood.” He huffed, annoyed. 

                “Must be a hard life,” I nudged him on the soldier and my fingers felt weak and electric from it.

                When I moved around he followed me, and when I walked away from the stage, there he was, beside me. 

                “I don’t like hugging people,” he told me in conversation once. 

                But when we said goodbye that night, he held me tightly and for a long moment.  He was wearing my spare t-shirt because he’d sweated off his other one.  And as he touched me through it, I didn’t want to let go, didn’t ever want to stop the electricity and desire and…

                It was done. 

He stared into my eyes, about to say the only words he possibly could in a moment like that. 

“Ok.”  A determined look passed over his features.  “Last chance,” he seemed to tell himself.  “Would you freak out if...” He paused.  “If I told you I liked you?”

“No,” I blurted out too fast and awkwardly.  “Um I’d be embarrassed but I wouldn’t freak—”

But before I could finish myself, before I could say anything in response, a conclusion, a good bye, a “me too”, he was gone, down the steps.  Out the door. 

But wait, here he was again.  He’d forgotten his stuff in the theatre and so had I and we were waiting for the door to be on locked and it was a second chance it was perfection and it was fateful more so than anything I’d ever felt or experienced. 

He’s holding my hand now.  I’m leaning into his face, the magnet is pulling me forward.  The light from the street lamp above us separates us from the world and as our lips touch he doesn’t attack me.  He doesn’t thrust himself at me or push himself onto me.  We’re apart before I realize we’ve touched. 

“That was officially my first kiss,” I murmur. 

“Really?” He’s surprised. 

                I lean into his body and rest my head on his shoulder. 

                “My heart is beating like crazy right now,” I admit. 

                “You know,” he says.  “For a low voiced singer, you’re absolutely adorable.”  I take this to be a loving insult and ignore it, smiling. 

                “They’re waiting,” I say, beginning to walk away.

                He goes in the other direction.  “When will you be in Boston?” He yells on the dark street, stepping further from me. 

                “In about a week,” I say. 

                “I will find you.” 

                And now he’s gone. 

               

                --

Ari is immature.   He’s two years younger than me, a young sixteen to an old seventeen.    I over look these things because I have to.  Sometimes it’s all you can do to get through it all. 

Ari isn’t real.  He’s in my head, my head being a little town called Holden, Massachusetts and if you go there you won’t find him.  There isn’t a Tali, his cute little sister, or a small house where they live, and in the school the people he swore were his friends won’t have heard of them.  Go on face book and he’s not on my friends list and he never was, I swear.  Ignore those mutual friends just don’t look at them.  But you’re looking anyways, aren’t you.  Miriam Geiger.  My best friend what’s she doing there?  He doesn’t exist I swear it. 

Ariel Joseph Tuckachinsky. 

I wish you hadn’t gotten my number from Miriam and called me that first time, after the end of the story, after the “I will find you.”  And when you lost me, like the chords of that song, alone and lovely the first day, it made me wish that you had never looked over at me, never locked eyes with me, and never said my name in the night, under the isolating streetlamp.  I wish you’d never looked for me in Boston and never found me.  I want to be lost.  I want to float alone in the sea like I used to but I can’t.  Because of you, I never shall.