I'm Sort of Okay with This

Ten: Ian

I'd never heard of James Dean until I met Abigail Tate.

We slipped into the dim, muggy movie theater. Warmth hovered in my armpits from the humidity. Light beamed from the projector at the back of the theater. An old movie was being shown, from the 1950s. I hadn't seen it before, but Abby told me she had.

"What did you say this movie was called?" I whispered.

"Rebel Without A Cause."

We found two seats at the back. The theater was half-empty, and I was sure we were the youngest people there.

"What's it about?"

"Just watch it."

I leaned back in my seat. Abby's hair was tucked behind her ears. I fought the urge to touch it, run my fingers through it, to feel the softness.

I couldn't tell if she was far less beautiful than Cheyenne, or far more. She lacked Cheyenne's delicate bone structure, her femininity, her elegance. She wasn't as sweet or ladylike, certainly far less pretty, at least in the traditional sense.

But there was something in the grungy way she dressed, the eye makeup she painted on, the way she scrunched her dark eyebrows when she was thinking, that drew me in. She sat in a relaxed, slouched manner, like she didn't have a care in the world.

The movie wasn't awful. I didn't completely understand the plot, but it was nice to relax and listen to James Dean's voice. I rarely got the chance to do absolutely nothing. I was constantly in motion, doing schoolwork, playing baseball, arguing with Dad. And I'd never seen a vintage movie before, aside from The Wizard of Oz, which I'm pretty sure everyone has seen at least once.

When the credits rolled, we left our seats. My muscles were stiff from sitting. The air outside the theater was crisp. A gust of wind slammed into my cheek.

"That was pretty good," I said as we strolled to the car. "Can't believe I've never heard of James Dean before."

"You know he died really young, right?"

"What?"

"When he was twenty-four. Car crash."

"Oh," I said, my stomach dropping. "That's awful."

"It's real shit, isn't it? When good people die."

"Yeah."

We climbed into the car. I started the engine and the car filled with warmth.

"So, what do your parents do?" I asked, trying to start a conversation.

"My mom's a second grade teacher. I don't really know what my dad does. Something to do with finances."

"At least he doesn't make car commercials."

She snorted, but didn't say anything. The radio was off, but she reached for the volume dial. A song came through, one I wasn't sure if I heard before. The singer was a guy, talking about some people named Jack and Diane. The song sounded old, like something my parents would listen to.

We took off toward her house. "I ought to get you home. But I had a lot of fun."

"Yeah," she mumbled.

We drove in silence for a minute or two, before she spoke again. "This song is such bullshit."

"What do you mean?"

"When he says, 'hold onto sixteen as long as you can.' You know, he's acting like being a teenager is so fun and great and all. But it's not. It's fucking awful."

"I don't know," I said. "It's sort of nice, because..."

She cut me off. "No, it isn't. Nothing about it is nice. I haven't felt good since I was twelve, at least not for longer than a couple hours."