This is the third installation to Yana and Jessie’s story! The first part is The Color of Forever, and the second is Yellow Rules. (The full work will be available in a mini-anthology next year, but this will be the last excerpt I post on the blog.) I hope you’ve enjoyed getting to know them so far!
I’m never leaving this place. Jessie readjusts the straps of his backpack, eyes wandering across the columns spaced throughout the lobby. Half dusty, stroked in sunbeams from the high windows. Not quite yellow, more like gold. Expensive and old.
“May I help you?”
The voice is throaty but sharp—the sound of a person who does not need to be bothered with yet another hassle. But Jessie thinks there’s something else to it too. Like the sound of someone trying not to care when they know they already will, or do. Like how Yana’s mom sounds, when she yells at him, Jessie realizes. He blinks and turns around.
“We were wondering if we could take a look around before the show? I’m doing a school report on theatre arts.”
He’s wearing his best pair of chinos and a dark red polo and the brown sort-of dressy shoes that his mother makes him wear for fancy brunches and long garden walks. He always wishes Yana and his mom could come to those—or if it could be just him and Yana—but his mother insists it has to be the two of them. It’s strange how she almost treats him like an adult, but maybe this time it pays off.
“You want to go poking around my house right before I invite all sorts of people over, sugar?”
They raise an eyebrow, elbow against their hip and hand splayed as if they’re holding an invisible serving tray. Their deep green eyeshadow looks expensive, but maybe that’s just the gold glitter. Brown lines arch from their eyebrows to their temples. Their dress is a similar shade—or maybe it’s a tunic of some sort. Green patterned leggings hug their calves, with the pattern that sounds like a mix of alligator and crocodile.
“Or do you have something I can read?” Jessie asked. “About the theater’s history?”
“Don’t nothing important get written down.”
The person’s voice is snappy, but not in a mean way. There’s a rhythm to it that reminds him of music and monologues. It’s the type of voice that could make Shakespeare sound like it makes perfect sense.
“You wanna learn anything bout this place, you gotta be here.”
“Aren’t we?”
Usually he’s not like this. He practiced what he would say, but this isn’t like talking to most grown-ups because he could say exactly what he wanted. Still, he thinks he should try to have a good story in case anyone else asks.
The person shifts their gaze to Yana, eyebrows still raised, looking them both over. They can’t know about the jeans and t-shirts folded in the bottom of his backpack, or the pair of tennis shoes. Not even Yana knows about that. Yana isn’t wearing his usual hoodie, just a dark blue polo and black jeans. Both are faded, making his caramel skin glow, cinnamon freckles rich. His grey eyes were never dim, but today they looked silver.
“And how, pray tell, did you two end up here?”
“My dad dropped us off.”
“Mhm—what your daddy do?”
“Justice of the peace,” Jessie says it with more confidence than when he’d practiced in the mirror. “He said he couldn’t get out of his meetings this afternoon, but he would be here for the performance.”
“He’s not coming and he didn’t bring you.”
Jessie blinks, unsure how to respond. His fingers close tighter around the straps of his backpack. He almost glances at Yana, but that would give them away. So he just waits, listening to the sounds of the place. It’s a hushed loudness—murmured voices mingled with heavy thumps. Equipment or furniture moving, uneven footfalls, half-shouts or sharp calls and snippets of sing-song.
Suddenly it clicks, what he sensed when he first walked in but couldn’t name. He swallows, eyes searching the lobby for flowers. Small bouquets are tied to some of the columns, maybe at eye-level if he were as tall as his dad. But there’s no long rectangle at front and center, there are no quiet sniffs. But there are those quiet murmurs, and something in the air like respect and waiting to speak.
“I’m not getting rid of you,” the person says. “Not because I’m being nice, but because I know I won’t be able to—not until you’ve had your fill. By that time, you might not be able to leave, but that ain’t on me. You hear?”
Even through he doesn’t totally follow the last part, he nods. The words will come back to him over and over, through the years, and he’ll understand them more each time.
“I’m sorry about your daddy, sugar. The spice of life ain’t always so nice. Now, you two follow me.”
They turn on their heel—heels that look blistered and cracked and painfully raw. But the person walks as if they didn’t feel a thing—and maybe that’s what it took, to live in the theatre. Maybe that’s what it takes to live at all.
Jessie finally glances at Yana, who meets his gaze. Is this what you want to do? As if Yana could see the changes of clothes in his bag, and the envelope of cash he’d grabbed from its hiding spot underneath the drawer in the bathroom counter. Jessie reaches for his hand and tugs him along before the person in the green dress could get too far.
Come with me. He doesn’t say it, but he feels it when he squeezes Yana’s hand, before he lets go. Jessie can’t look at him, because suddenly he has the feeling that Yana knows. Even though he hadn’t said anything, he’s sure that Yana knows. But they can’t talk about it now. Later, maybe over lunch, before the afternoon show starts. Yana grabs his hand and tugs him back a second before he runs into the person’s back.
“This here’s Bambi and Franco. Let them scurry around a bit, will you?”
“Long as they don’t get themselves stepped on.”
“Don’t make me punch your other eye out.” The tunic-person turns to them. “Mama Fawn says ze better not see you after call time.”
Jessie nods immediately, because something in Mama Fawn’s face says it doesn’t matter where they are, just that they aren’t caught being there. Ze’s off a moment later, and Jessie is half sure he sees a thin puff of smoke trailing after zem, or maybe a spray of golden sparkles. He glances at Yana, wanting to say something about fairy godmothers, but the person they’re left with—burly and old—is looking them over just like Mama Fawn had.
“Alright, rats. You heard your Mom. You break her rules, and it’s the streets.”
“Did ze really punch your eye out?” Jessie asks, glancing back down the cluttered corridor and then to the one-eyed man.
“You wanna find out yourself, Bambi?”
“What?”
The man with the black and white hair and bright red eye-patch wasn’t Franco. It’s only now that he realizes Mama Fawn had been introducing him and Yana—but why did he have to be Bambi? Jessie knew there was no use trying to argue about it. It was too late now. Mama Fawn had spoken.
“I got some wires to work,” the burly elder says. “You ‘fraid of heights?”
Before he knows it, they’re in an old-style lift, one with a pull-cord and a gate. The middle balcony doesn’t feel like it’s far off the ground. In fact, it offers a perfect view of the stage. Jessie sits in one of the upholstered seats at the far right, another at the far left, sampling views from the front and back and middle. But the level is perfect, no matter where he sits. Nothing obstructs his view.
There’s still the hush, but he has a feeling he would be able to hear everything just as well has he could see the stage, whether it was a whisper or a shout. He goes over to the railing, and his stomach drops when Yana’s shoulder nudges his.
“What do you think, Bambi?”
“You’re the one who’s all copper-brown and forest-y.”
Jessie glares when he says it, but can’t quite look Yana in the face. Yana is gorgeously handsome and Jessie tries not to think about it all the time, but it’s hard not to when Yana’s face splits briefly into a smile. It’s like being thrown into space, entering a different force field with a simpler atmosphere, but then Yana turns to take in the curtained stage.
“You’re braver than me.”
Jessie blinks, but his eyes are drawn to the tall reams of velvet. There aren’t any windows. The walls look covered in fabric, not paint or wallpaper. That sense of stillness stirs something in him again and he takes a slow, deep breath. The quiet speaks to memories that maybe he could deal with, if he could spend enough time here.
“How old do you think the dust is, all the way up there?”
“Older than Attiucs.”
“Atticus?”
Yana nods over his shoulder.
“I thought that was Franco.”
“No, I’m Franco.”
“Well, you are handsome.”
It’s out of his mouth, it hangs on the air, and Jessie suddenly wishes he was up a whole lot higher than the middle balcony. Say, on the roof. With a parachute. To just float away and never come back.
“He’s been here almost fifty years,” Yana says. “But it feels like this place has been here for a thousand.”
“I wonder what that’s like.”
Yana looks over at him, but he can’t bring himself to say anything else. His eyes are on the curtains, his ears are filled with the hushed commotion, and his heart— My heart has always been here. I just have to find it.
“You just gonna stand there gaping? No sense not getting your hands dirty.”
Jessie looks at Atticus, stares at him in something like disbelief. How can everyone here read his mind? Whatever—it doesn’t matter. Jessie readjusts his backpack, standing beside the giant control center.
“They call it a soundboard, but it’s lights too. Plus a few secret levers.”
Atty said it like Jessie would learn what those secrets were, one day. “Turn that dial over by the peacock.”
A third of the way through two out of four tiers of buttons and knobs and needles and panels, a sticker catches his eye. Jessie reaches, and then realizes there are five different dials to choose from in the row.
“Which one?”
Atty grunts something Jessie can’t make out. When he looks up, Atty huffs out a sigh.
“Don’t keep me waiting, now.”
Atty expects him to know. But why would he? He looks back at the control board, the faded peacock sticker, the scattered headsets and wires he’s just now taking in. He decides on the third knob, pinching it between his thumb and his first finger, and turns it all the way up.
The shrillness cores through every inch of his being, pulverizes his skeleton. It sears through his ear drums and scalds the back of his throat, although he doesn’t know how that’s possible. But Jessie doesn’t turn it off, he just stands staring, surprised that he can still stand.
o-o-o
By half past noon, Mama Fawn can be heard no matter where they are in the theatre. Jessie and Yana take that as their cue to make themselves invisible, which is fine since they should probably eat before the show anyway. Hidden on a ledge in the rafters, legs dangling over the edge, they eat peanut butter and honey sandwiches, sipping grape soda that Finnegan had sneaked them.
“This place is pretty cool,” Jessie says, eyes drifting across shadowed rows of seats. “It’s like a whole other world.”
“You fit here.”
“What?”
“You’re not so bottled up,” Yana says. “You’re relaxed.”
“Bottled up? You’re the one who’s a mystery,” Jessie says, glancing at him. “I’m just the kid whose dad died.”
“You’re a smart kid who gets in fights and skips school to run away so they can work in the theatre.”
How could Yana know that? Jessie looked down at his sandwich, chewing without tasting. He was halfway through it, which meant that the crust was gone—he always ate the crust first—but whatever is in his mouth feels stale and stiff. I’m not sorry for coming here.
“It’s always been your dream,” Yana says. “Kind of obvious, to anyone who pays attention.”
I don’t want to go back. Except he can’t say it, can’t say anything, because it’s too hard to swallow the next bite of his sandwich along with everything he’s feeling. Feelings there aren’t even names for. Just snatches of Shakespeare that mash together in his head.
“What’s your dream?”
For a long time, Yana doesn’t say anything. He finishes his sandwich, and his grape soda, and is still quiet while Jessie finishes the rest of his food.
“I can’t change the choices other people make,” Yana finally says, propping an elbow on his knee. “But I want to help people choose the things that make them happy.”
Usually he’s not the one to do it, but he slides his arm around Yana’s waist. Yana is a special kind of strength and stillness. Jessie has never thought it was easy for him, to be what he was—but he carried it well. Not in the mean way that his mother sometimes said that a woman carried her weight well, for her size. Not in the way adults always expected kids to be the bigger person when other kids were bullies.
Yana wasn’t invincible, but he had a way of knowing which hurts were his and which belonged to someone else. And he knew how hurt could spill and overflow and ruin everything. Would you stay with me? Jessie doesn’t want to ask it. Doesn’t want to twist Yana into making a choice that maybe he ends up stuck with forever, something he can’t get out of. Yana rests his chin on Jessie’s shoulder, and Jessie’s mouth opens anyway.
“What about you?” Jessie asks. “I mean, if you could do anything, what would it be?”
“Isn’t it weird how people expect us to have things figured out? They tell us we’re just kids but we have to have this whole plan for our lives, or else all of a sudden it’s too late and we’re wasted potential. It’s a lot of pressure.”
Jessie kisses the side of Yana’s head, because it’s what he would want Yana to do, if Jessie was the one saying all of this. But he gets it. People had expectations for him—for both of them. For a long time he just went along with it, because it seemed like what you were supposed to do. But after his dad died, something in him had changed. Yana hadn’t changed, though.
“I want time,” Yana’s voice is quieter than normal, and somehow clearer too. “Or maybe I want to be free from time, for a little while.”
“This place feels like that,” Jessie says. “Some place…”
Where we can have our own time, is what he thinks.
“With a time of its own,” Yana says.
Jessie nods, thinking it would make a good title for his career paper—A Place with a Time of its Own. But he’s not going to write about what he wants to do. He’s going to do it, first. And maybe one day he’ll write about it, but not until he’s actually done something. What is it like to really live? He always thought Yana knew the answer to that, but maybe that wasn’t really fair.
o-o-o
“Bad news, Kimberly.”
Kimberly glances up from tucking her cigarette case back inside her purse. Some days Candace thinks the woman is trying too hard; other days, she wonders if Kimberly might be on to something. She held out her hand, and out comes the case. Slim-teal-tin, lightweight, with a separate compartment that Kimberly used for a rotation of snacks. This week it was Reese’s pieces. Kimberly took three and handed the case back.
“Worse than Eric?”
Candace made a face, slipping her shades over her eyes. Sensible, stylish—but not designer. Unlike some, she didn’t need a logo to be confident.
“Him being sick isn’t the worst thing in the world,” Candace said, tucking a candy under her tongue.
“But when he dies—you and Jessie—I mean—”
“We’re making preparations,” Candace said, crunching the oval against her back teeth. “But we can’t leave.”
“But you’ve always wanted to get out of this town. You and me, we were going to—”
“The boys are smitten.” The coating is too sweet, and Candace scowls at the aftertaste. “We’re not leaving.”
Kimberly says nothing. Although her palms are pressed together, fingertips tapping against one another as if she were scheming some maniacal plot, she looks like she’s begging. It’s things like this that keep her from getting anywhere, Candace thinks. The better way to put it was that behavior like that had gotten Kimberly in one royal mess after another.
“I could keep him.”
“Why would you want to?”
“He’s—”
“If you say he’s a good kid, I will flick this candy in your eyeball before you have a chance to blink.”
“He probably doesn’t know how good he is.”
Kimberly’s soft voice carries a hint of smugness, Candace thinks. Or maybe she’s just annoyed at the way things are turning out. She should have moved, before the boys.
Eric wouldn’t have been able to stop her from moving when she was pregnant, even though he would have still been at every doctor’s appointment and shown up unexpectedly in the middle of the week to check on her. It had been easier to stay, but it wasn’t better.
“Did you know about it?”
“Yasir doesn’t talk to me, remember?”
Kimberly takes her turn scowling, her voice dropping flat.
“He’s a good kid though. Right?”
Kimberly’s eyes dart her way. Candace pops another piece of candy, shielding her face for a moment. Kimberly keeps looking, waiting for her to tell her what to do. There was no way Candace would offer to take care of both boys, no matter how well-behaved and self-contained they were.
“I want him to have chances—good chances—”
“Then you shouldn’t have kept him.”
“I wanted him,” Kimberly’s mouth pressed into a firm line. “I always wanted him.”
Candace reached into Kimberly’s bag for the cigarette case again. In another hidden compartment, she found what she was looking for. Candy could only do so much. She finished her trade and put the case back.
“Good for you,” Candace muttered. “There’s to your chances.”
“So the boys have to stay together,” Kimberly said, sighing. “And you’re too controlling to let anyone else look out for Jessie.”
“He doesn’t need looking out for. He needs to be responsible and self-sufficient, and I’m teaching him how to do that.”
“You’re an awful parent.”
“Blame Eric.”
“He would have let you walk away.” Kimberly pretends to fumble for another cigarette, but Candace knows she’s counting the money. “You should have walked away.”
o-o-o
“Do you think things will ever change?” Jessie asked.
“Things like what?”
“Anything.” Jessie shrugged, his shoulders slumping some as he made his way into the row of seats that Fawn had pointed out to them. “Everything is a mess, and I just wonder if things ill get better or if I’ll always feel like I’m suffocating.”
Usually he can breathe when he’s with Yana. Except right now his throat hurts and so do his lungs. This place, with its rows and rows of seats and high lobby windows and gazillion crawl-spaces and secret passageways and trap-doors felt perfect in a way he couldn’t explain. Perfect like falling asleep against his dad, or going to the store with him, or anything with his dad. Yana was another type of perfect, too. Perfect and brave and kind and maybe looking for clues for a better life, just like he was.
“Jess.”
When Yana says his name, he doesn’t turn around. But he realizes that he’s closer to the stage than the seats that Mama Fawn had told them to sit in. No wonder Yana sounded far away, but he didn’t talk all that loudly to start with. Jessie felt coolness against his face and glanced up. Dust motes floated, the high spaces behind the curtains creating a hint of a draft.
“I’m not going back.”
His face was hot, but the coolness helped him breathe again. His face was wet too, and he wiped an arm across it. Not that Yana had never seen him cry before, but he’d made up his mind.
“I’m never going back, not if I can help it. I can’t live there anymore. I can’t go to school and pretend like everything is fine. I can’t be a stupid robot without any feelings, I can’t—I don’t care about any of it. I don’t care about her, or anyone else—only you, and staying here. That’s all I want.”
“I know, Jess.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“For what?”
Jessie shrugged. “For being crazy, I guess.”
“If by being crazy you mean having feelings, don’t apologize for that.” Yana is perfectly serious, but there’s a little flicker of light in his eyes. “I would hate it If you were a robot.”
Jessie is suddenly sure that Yana is the only reason why he hasn’t turned into one yet. Even if he tried to shut himself down, he had a feeling the circuits would short and spark and smoke until all his insides were melted and he couldn’t function.
“Do you think Mama Fawn would adopt us?”
It’s a silly question—absurd—but Yana doesn’t laugh at him for it.
“Are you going to ask zem to?”
“Ze could let us stay here, couldn’t ze? We could work on the sets and as ushers and stuff, earn our keep, and it’s not like we won’t be learning.”
He’s still looking up at the stage, the curtains, the rafters. There’s something about this place. Everything makes sense here. The right things—the real things—matter the way they’re supposed to. He could never find the words before, but here they all come out of him in a rush.
“Plays are always about the kinds of things that happen to real people and how they deal with it, so it would teach us more about life than sitting through school. And who cares about school anyway? Who wants to work sitting behind a desk all day? If I’m going to do something with my life, I’m actually going to live. I’m not going to turn into a zombie.”
Adults said they had to go to school and get good grades so that they could go to more school and then get a good job. Adults said to follow the rules, as if that would keep bad things from happening. But bad things had already happened to him, so none of those rules would work. Yana squeezed his hand, and Jessie finally looked at him. He wasn’t going back. No matter what. Even if it meant losing Yana—or at least not seeing him as often—Jessie wouldn’t, couldn’t, go back.
I know.
The words echo in Yana’s eyes, are written all over his face. He still can’t tell what Yana is thinking though, and realizes that maybe he’s never known what Yana was thinking even though he was his best friend. If he was too full of his own feelings to ask about someone else’s, maybe it was better if he was by himself.
I love you, and I’m sorry.
His face is wet again. His throat hurts. And it’s hard to breathe. Yana puts his arms around his shoulders and pulls him into a hug. Jessie hugs him back as tight as he can. He doesn’t say thank you, even though he should. He doesn’t say goodbye, because that’s not what it’s supposed to be. But there’s no such thing as rules that work, or ways to keep your dreams safe. Life was a horror story and the world was a nightmare, no matter who or how old you were.
V. H. King's Ink 
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