Scripture
Mark Jensen kept a bible by his bedside. He’s atheist. Every time Mark brings a new girl home, he tears out a page. Then he slips the girl’s photograph into the scripture and slides the book back.
“You know that’s pretty wrong,” David Foley said.
“No, just nostalgic,” Mark held the book up to the window, the sunlight grazing the pages. David and Mark grew up together. Mark never had anyone except David. David had everyone.
“I just don't get it. It don't feel right,” Foley continued. He fidgeted in his seat. Mark placed the bible down and stared at Foley.
“What does it matter? At least I remember,” Jensen slammed the window shut and fiddled with the lock. The window lock had a bird-shaped mark on it’s side. He wiggled the lock and imagined the bird’s navigation across the Atlantic. It was one of those grey and white birds; Jensen wasn't sure what type. It had a wide wingspan and a sharp beak.
“At least I remember,” Jensen murmured. The bird was flying to the Atlantic because it didn't know what else to do. It just did it.
“You could at least give them a little distinction,” Foley continued. “How else do you know which one matters more?” Jensen looked up at Foley with a cold, sad stare. “Yeah I know. We all know. Forget it.” Jensen didn't say anything else. He just sat there on the bed with that same sad stare and thought about the bible and Paul and Luke and the photographs and about her and about that grey bird.
Flight
Jensen had a scar on his right cheek, just below his eye. It was thin and dark. When he cried, tears gathered in it. He only cried over three things: polo, death, and Allie Cross. We sometimes joked with Jensen about Allie. We were careful not to go too far though.
Jensen dated this girl Allie a while back. She was alright. She was tall and dark, with striking eyes that you always forgot about afterwards. One time, we all drove up to Jensen’s parents house in Long Island for the weekend.
“You know darling, I’m not quite sure I get the whole city craze,” Allie repeated to Jensen. She always called him darling. We joked with Jensen that she didn’t even know his name. “I just like it better when people live close enough to you so that they know you.”
“You can’t get any closer to people than the city,” Reilly Davidson half said, half sighed.
“You don't get it,” Allie persisted. “In the city no one really knows you. If you want to really know someone you have to make sure you don't get too close to them.”
Davidson rolled down the window and pushed his head outside like a dog. We were going 75. He kept his head out and screamed “You can’t hear me now.”
“Sit down before you get yourself killed,” Harrison Thurmer scolded.
“You can’t hear me Thurmer,” Davidson laughed. Harrison sighed and focused back on driving.
Jensen and Allie went off every night after dinner and didn’t get back till one or two in the morning. Until the one night they didn’t. That morning Jensen barged into our room at seven. Sweat dripped down his back, tears dripped down his eyes, into the scar.
“That whore,” Jensen muttered. Davidson sprang upright. Jensen wrapped the comforter around him. He started to spin in slow circles and let the blanket fan out like a cape.
“Jensen what happened?” Foley pried. Jensen started to hum. He let out his arms so that the blanket looked like a flag. He spun faster. “What the hell are you doing? Mark for the love of–” Jensen hummed louder and blocked out Foley. Jensen moved his arms up and down, spinning faster with each movement.
“The kid’s snapped,” Davidson sighed.
“No, he just wants to spin,” Thurmer said.
“Are you looking at him? He looks like a mental patient.”
“He looks fine. He just wants to spin,” Thurmer smiled and watched the blanket float on the air. Jensen couldn't hear them. He was in the sky, over the Atlantic, away from Long Island and the city and Allie, following the bird because he didn't know what else he should do.
Aces
Allie disappeared that night. Just like that, gone. She disappeared with his heart and his mind.
“Poof,” Foley said. Jensen didn’t tell us if he knew where she went or not.
“Gone,” Jensen stared at the wall, hands shaking. “Gone.”
“Poof. Just like that,” Foley sighed. “You know Jensen, it’s really not,” Foley stopped. His eyes met Jensen’s, which were wet and blue and sincere and pathetic. “Never mind.”
Allie Cross ran away with some guy from town named Austin Marshall. No one was surprised except Jensen. Word got around pretty fast. When we told Jensen about Marshall he just smiled and laughed.
“Poof. Gone. Just like that,” he said. He slammed his head into the table. Thurmer picked up some Chinese takeout. We all sat at the table, eating the noodles out of paper bowls because Jensen didn’t want to clean, staring at each other and at the bowls and at our palms, already understanding everything that could be said. Someone knocked at the door. Jensen sighed and lifted himself off the table. Before he got to the door, Heather White let herself in.
“Hi Jensen,” she almost whimpered. She wore a pink sundress and a gold daisy around her neck. Her legs trembled. It was eighty degrees outside. She raised her eyes, stared at him, dropped her gaze, then shook her head and stared at him again. “If you don’t want to talk that’s fine,” she blinked five times fast. She had light skin and bright eyes. Jensen stared at her and smiled. He didn’t say anything to her for a while; he just smiled and watched her stare at the floor and breathe and tremble.
“Thank you, come on,” Jensen grinned and winked at her, leading her inside to the guys. Jensen should have asked her why she would come to see him or tell her he missed her, but all he could do was sit there and stare at her and smile. “You mad?” Jensen leaned towards her. She looked up at him, batted her eyes five times, shook her head, and dropped her gaze.
“Not mad,” she finally got out. She wasn’t mad. She never got mad at him. I still remember how she used to sit there and watch him throw himself at Allie. No one liked it when they were together, including Heather. But she would just sit there and watch him and smile when he looked her way. She never got mad. We all told him that she was crazy for him, which she was. I mean real deal, heavy-duty physco.
He would grin and raise his eyebrows and say, “Well can you blame her?”
“But seriously Jensen,” Foley said.
“No,” Jensen shook his head. “Just really good friends, I mean it.” Davidson laughed. Jensen wasn’t “friends” with girls. Not just friends. Especially not with Heather White.
I remember he was out on a date with Heather one night when Allie called him up. It was a double date with this girl named Haley Collins and I. Allie called Jensen up and, no joke, he ran back in, kissed Heather, apologized, said he needed to go see Allie, and left. Heather didn’t get mad. She just smiled and laughed and looked down at her lap and brushed her index finger against her lips.
“What a pig,” Haley groaned.
Heather smiled and shook her head. “No. You don’t get it,” she sat there and grinned and felt her lips and waited for him to call her up and tell her all about Allie.
Jensen and Heather just sat there for a while, not saying anything, staring at the floor and at their palms and at each other. Davidson started a game of poker.
“Aces,” he screamed. Haley looked up at Davidson and grinned. She shook her head, smiling, and wiggled her nose. She looked up at Jensen, opened her mouth, shook her head and looked down. She tapped her foot. “All in,” Davidson screamed.
“Are we good?” Haley’s voice cracked.
“Better than ever. Best of friends,” Jensen winked. He grabbed her knee. She smiled and blinked five times fast.  She got up and walked over to the bathroom, tears dripped down her face. Foley stared at her when she walked by.
“What a nice little martyr,” he murmured.
“All or nothing,” Davison laughed. Jensen got up and paced the room.
“So Jensen how’s your safety?” Davidson grinned. Jensen glared at him. “Lighten up for Christ’s sake.” Foley c***ed his eyebrows at Davidson. Heather sat in the bathroom paralyzed on the floor, her legs shook as she wiped her cheeks and smiled at her palms.
“Don’t call her that,” Jensen got up and walked over to the card table. Thurmer shuffled the deck. Davidson held the Ace of Spades in his mouth. “She’s not mine.”
Doubt
Allie came back to town probably a week or so after that. We were out at a bar when Jensen got the call. The phone rang while Jensen was kissing Heather.
“Sorry. I need to take this,” Jensen sprung up. “Ill be right back,” he looked back at Heather. “I swear.” Jensen came back a few minuets after, sweat dripping down his forehead. Heather sat there and breathed heavily. She stared at him and blinked fast.
“So,” Heather said. Her voice wavered and her legs shook.
“It’s nothing,” Jensen smiled at her. “I promise. Don’t you trust me?” He sat back down and kissed her. “I love you,” he kissed her again and put his hand on her leg. She stopped shaking. Annie Reid grabbed Davidson’s hand and left. Annie was Heather’s good friend from a while back. Thurmer got up and sang three karaoke numbers. Heather rested her head on Jensen’s shoulder and listened to Thurmer sing and held on to Jensen’s hand tight. She sighed and shook her head and stared at his chest; it moved up and down in slow, mechanical beats.
“I trust you,” she whispered. He didn’t hear her. “I really do.”
The Shadows at Dawn
Heather White stared at her reflection. Tears streaked her cheeks and red stained her lips. Music played from her bedroom. It was a jazz number on a record player. Her dad had given her the record.
“It’s me,” she said. “It’s me. Don’t you recognize me?” She cried and stared at herself. Her legs shook. Her hair fell on the ground and gathered in piles. She looked up from her reflection at the photograph tucked halfway behind the mirror and loosened it from the wall. Her tears fell on the picture.
Jensen left Heather for Allie three days before. Gone. Poof. Just like that.
A few of us were out at dinner at Jensen’s country club the night of the picture. “Would you be a dear and take a picture of us?” Allie asked Heather. Heather smiled and took the camera. She steadied her hands and waited for Jensen to take Allie into his arms. He smiled at the camera, staring into Heather’s eyes. His eyes were wet and blue and sincere and pathetic.
“It’s still me,” she told herself.
Jensen never explained why he left. Not one apology. Not one rude comment. He vanished just like that. Gone. Poof. We ran into him one time when we were out at lunch. Jensen just stared at Heather and smiled. He followed Allie out of the restaurant slowly. She walked ten paces ahead of him. He passed our table and tapped Heather’s knee and winked.
The sun was setting from behind. It was warm and clear and calm. A shadow of a girl in a pink dress and a gold rose covered the right corner. She held a camera and her hands were steady. Her legs shook.
Heather kept the photograph. It was the only proof that Jensen cared. He had Allie in his arms, and stared at the camera with sad eyes, and at his feet was the shadow of a girl with steady hands.
“It’s still me,” she sighed and took one last look in the mirror. Her face was dark and her eyes were bright. Tears stained her cheeks. She walked over to her bedside and reached into her nightstand. She took out her bible, tore out a page from Mark and placed the picture inside. Nostalgic, she thought. Her window let in the winter air. Her breathing slowed and she closed her eyes and exhaled. She smiled. Slowly she put the book down on the bedside table and took off the pink dress and the gold rose.
“It’s still me,” she said. She passed the mirror and smiled, her legs were steady and tears stained her face. Heather nodded to herself and turned away from the mirror, she walked back to the bedside table and into bed. She shivered.
“Are you okay?” Austin Marshall asked. She leaned into him and smiled and shook her head. Tears dripped down her face. “Good,” he kissed her and lay back down. She stared at him and at the window, thinking about the snow and where birds migrate to when it’s cold and about freedom. The birds are still birds after they migrate, she thought. She smiled and sighed and looked back down at Marshall. I’m still me and I’m fine, she told herself.
“This is fine,” she said, looking down at Marshall. He didn’t hear her. She pulled the blanket over her shoulders, resting her head on his chest, and fell asleep, dreaming that she was thirteen. It was her birthday party and she was riding a pony. Her mom started to sing “Happy Birthday.” She ran inside in hysterics, blood stained her skirt and tears stained her face. She got her first period on a pony, her mom sang and her friends watched the horse. Her dad fidgeted and laughed and threw a towel at her. He winked and nodded his way. Annie Reid called Heather’s name from outside. Her mom started to sing.
“Maybe an early present would be good,” her dad smiled and set up a jazz album on his old record player. Heather sat down on the towel and wiped her nose. Annie called her name again. The jazz band played a smooth number. Heather smiled at him with bright eyes. They sat on towels and ate cake with two forks and listened to jazz.
“Heather,” Annie screamed.
Her dad grinned and whispered “Shhh.” Heather giggled and batted her eyes five times fast.
“It’s still me,” Heather smiled in her sleep. Austin didn’t hear her.