Teaser Tuesday and Some Tunes: Daydream Believer

Posted on September 21, 2010 by Phoebe 3989 Commentshttp%3A%2F%2Fwww.phoebenorth.com%2F2010%2F09%2F21%2Fteaser-tuesday-and-some-tunes-daydream-believer%2FTeaser+Tuesday+and+Some+Tunes%3A+Daydream+Believer2010-09-22+01%3A45%3A04Phoebehttp%3A%2F%2Fwww.phoebenorth.com%2F%3Fp%3D398

I’ve been really missing Teaser Tuesdays since finishing up SEAS RUN DRY. What started as a fun way to share work turned out to be a really effective way to motivate myself to produce some reasonably polished pieces of writing. Now that I’m getting more immersed in my new project, TRIP, I’ve decided that it’s time to play along every week again.

TRIP’s a pretty complicated story. It involves aliens, time travel, multiple narrators, and a non-linear timeline (plus some other stuff that would be totally spoilerish if I shared but that is TOTALLY CRAZY YOU GUYS). But at its core, it’s really a story about adolescent longing. In order to not lose sight of that, I’ve been using music to help tease out my themes.

So I thought I might combine my teasers every week with a complimentary song. I recommend that you hit play just as you start reading, to properly set the tone. Today’s teaser is from the perspective of Francine, a bookworm living on the cusp of the 1970s who really doesn’t understand a lot of the cultural undercurrents of the day. But she is just beginning to understand cute boys. Her best friend Linda just gave her a poster featuring one of the Monkees. She never really watched the show, so she’s surprised to find herself a little, well, mesmerized by the image.

Fittingly, today’s tune is a Monkees cover by the band Shonen Knife.

After dinner, I hung Mike Nesmith up on the back of my closet door. I didn’t have any other posters. My room was still papered with bunnies—yellow bunnies, who were having tea in a rose garden, at that. I’d begged my parents to let me paint my room in middle school, but they hadn’t let me. As I stared down at the dark-eyed visage of Mike Nesmith, freshly unfurled, I knew that they would murder me if I put tape up over all those bunnies, hiding them. They needed to see them to know that I was still their little girl.

That’s why Mike went on the closet door. Really. It wasn’t so I could stare at him from my bed.

Eddie peeked in as I was taping him up.

“The Monkees? Really?!” he squeaked. His voice was changing, and he squeaked often. Momma said I wasn’t allowed to tease him about it.

“Really,” I replied, stepping down from my desk chair. I surveyed my work. The poster hung mostly straight; Mike’s eyes smoldered down at me.

“He’s sure got a big schnozz.” Eddie looked over to me, his tow-head tilted thoughtfully to one side. Then a wicked grin spread over his face. “But you like that, don’t you? You know what they say about men with big noses.”

“Big shoes?” I muttered. But I felt my cheeks heat up at the implication. Hastily I slid my chair across the wooden floor, avoiding Eddie’s gaze and the way he waggled his fingers at me.

“Francie’s in lo-ove!” he said in a sing-song voice. I tightened my hands over the chair’s carved back, but didn’t look up. “Aw . . . come on! Cheer up, sleepy Francie.”

I finally snapped my gaze up at him, glowering. Eddie lifted his hands. His laughter was snorted. “Okay, okay. I’ll leave you alone with your . . . lover.”

At that, I dashed after him. What else could I do? He clearly expected it, letting out a small squeal as he slipped through my bedroom door. I slammed it behind him. Then I winced as I heard the sound of the force reverberate through the skeleton of our house.

“. . . Francine!”

“Sorry, Daddy!” I called back, bracing myself against the door. “Eddie was teasing me!“

There was a pause. Daddy, I’m sure, was grumbling in his easy chair. “I don’t care! Don’t let it happen again.”

“Yes, Daddy,” I called, sweet-voiced. But my expression was not nearly as pleasant. Sixteen years in my house had taught me that I had to sound kind even when I wasn’t feeling very kind at all.

When I was sure that my father was placated—when all that answered was silence and the first steady creaks of crickets on the night air that drifted in from my open window, I turned back to the poster. In the dim light of my room, it almost looked like the face there could mov, at any moment, like he might lean forward and offer a hand to me. My eyes trained on the photograph, I went and rested against my headboard. “My lover,” Eddie had called him. What a ridiculous idea. I’d never even been kissed—had hardly even thought about kissing yet. But looking at the deep bow of his lips, at their soft corners and the slight smile there, it was difficult to think of anything else.

I closed my eyes, thinking of it. I wondered what was the right way to breathe while kissing—if you exhaled through your nose, or through your mouth, if the life force of your body entered the other person’s. Entered his. I wondered where you put your hands. On the back of his head? Or neck? Or did you let them fall to your side, your knuckles gracing his?

I reached over and flicked off the bedside light. In the darkness, his features were pale and strange. He could be anyone. Anyone with warm hands and lips. Anyone who gathered you into his arms and kissed you deeply.

It was there, in my bed, with my hands pressed between my knees and flushed from the first thrill of lust that my world lurched and shifted beneath me—and then abruptly disappeared.