8. Chapter 8 Theo
Chapter 8 Theo
A n agonizing hour and a half in poetry class with Staley obliterated what was left of my ego. I’ve spent countless hours studying for exams, suffering under the tutelage of my mother, and stuttering to the point of embarrassment. Nothing has given me hot under-the-collar feelings the way Staley’s sudden proximity has.
Over the years, throughout the various forms of therapy, I’ve learned to live my life with a stutter. Slowing down when I speak helps. Poetry allows me to be intentional with my words. It requires me to dance with narratives and lyrics, bending to the will of the rhymes and tones, bringing out a playful side of me many are familiar with, but none would identify as me. It helps too, knowing what my triggers are:
Speaking in a new environment around people who aren’t familiar with my speech disability.
My mother.
Verbal discourse with women.
After putting my foot down and telling Jack and Alex to cool their jets or face the consequences today in class, I relished the clarity in my voice in such a triggering environment. A fleeting moment where I was the voice I long to be. The voice behind the microphone.
The voice I have when I am Luca Blue.
It’s why Staley landing at my podium on the first day of class playing my own body of work, albeit accidentally, out loud to those around us, was the first sign of this semester being a complete and total disaster. Staley is exquisite, and she knows what I sound like when I moan.
My commute home is weary. The residual thumping of a headache echoes how stupid I am for drinking too much bourbon last night. I allow the exchanges between Staley and me to replay in my head. I mainly focus on how the sun shrouded her, and how she exists in a body where she holds complete charge. In control and so assured, she was prose in the physical form. In class, she was all mouth, and if I allow myself to muse a little, a damn kissable mouth.
The ambiance of my space, where I create, is vital to how far I’ve come. That’s why my routine is the same each day when I get home from school and work. Shoes are left at the front door with laces still tied, and my sweater goes on the back of the writing chair. Kettle on. Sliced lemons and honey are ready. Read, write, and record. Repeat. Simple and predictable is the best way to manage low stress and somewhat smooth speech.
Willingly scheduling Staley for another cuddle because I have something to prove is unpredictable of me. Although we did not cuddle this morning, I fully hope to at some point. If I can invite her here while sober, then I’ll explain I’m not a complete asshole. There is only one person in the world who can help me not screw this up. My best friend, Maeve.
Maeve Sinclair has two moods: Standoffish Parisian model and let’s-burn-this-motherfucker-down. The two have never crossed paths, and I hope I will never live to see the day they do. Maeve and I met when we were both in a heavy regiment of speech therapy, her for dyslexia and me for my ability to add forty B’s to Big Bird. Thick as thieves ever since.
“Theo, there are only two reasons why you would call me.”
Maeve is my only friend—the person I thank the universe for daily. While backpacking across Europe one summer, I watched as Maeve charmed men by merely existing with her blatant disregard for their meager existence. She didn’t have to steamroll or put anyone down, her air of don’t-come-near-me-pal and love for the same sex made men fetishize her more. In the same way I protect myself by keeping quiet, Maeve doesn’t allow anyone to question her level of intelligence by being forthright and direct.
“M-maeve, what are those reasons exactly?”
The sound of a lighter comes through her end of the line. Clove cigarettes are Maeve’s occasional downfall, as spicy and aromatic as her personality.
“One: You’re in jail for punching someone in the mouth because you’re too beautiful for this cruel, cruel world, and you’ve had enough of the bullshit.”
I chuckle at her imagination because poets aren’t the violent type. I’m not, anyway. Laughing with Maeve is my favorite. In public together, someone without hesitation asks how long we’ve been an item, to which she falls over in hysterics, and I roll my eyes. We are the siblings the other never got to have, two halves to a whole, but never in the romantic sense. Maeve loves me and I love her, but platonically.
Asking me if I love Maeve really has no explanation. I just do, in the same way that Neruda dubbed green the color of love and henceforth wrote all of his love poems in green ink.
“Okay, well, I’m not calling you c-collect, I’m not in j-jail.”
“You could be on the lam, Theodore Sullivan! One day, I’ll bring the bad boy out of you, and we will run through the cities knocking over the trash cans of our enemies.”
We don’t have any enemies, and after a few months of trying out erotic audio to help strengthen my voice and my confidence, I confessed to her what I’d been up to. Thrilled and surprised, Maeve nudged me to upload it to some sites where my work would get traction and a possible income stream.
“I don’t need bail m-money, Maeve. This is about something else.”
Maeve and I have had endless conversations about love and romance. The focus is on how she hasn’t found the one and how I might never find anyone, let alone the one.
“Two: This is about a girl. Please tell me it’s number two. Dear God in Heaven, if you are listening, Theo needs to get laid. I promise I won’t give rideshare drivers bad reviews anymore because they refuse to play Neil Diamond when they drive me around. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good. Let’s get Theo some action.”
A sigh leaves my body because as ridiculous as Maeve’s speech is, she’s not wrong. Not so much about the action part, but in the way, I’d love to have a companion, a better half, someone who knows what I’m thinking without saying it. Someone to write about and bring hot water with lemon and honey to.
Silence triggers more profound words from Maeve. She’s in a burn-things-down sort of mood, which isn’t necessarily bad. I need her enthusiasm before I revert to complete introversion. When she found out her ex-girlfriend Jill cheated on her, she TPed her house to the point she couldn’t open her front door, filmed all of it for social media, tagged the toilet paper company, and received a lifetime supply for her efforts.
“Theodore Sullivan, do you like a girl?”
The way her tone lingers on the end of the word girl bothers me. Staley isn’t a girl. She’s all woman. Her curvy hips and the fullness of her backside and frontside and all of her sides say as much. But it’s her eyes. If I’ve learned anything from my speech disability, it’s how an entire conversation can be had through a casual glance. Give me ten minutes to stare into Staley’s ochre eyes, and she’ll know all the words I want to say but won’t have to.
“A w-woman. Yes, Maeve. There’s a woman, but it’s complicated.” I say the last part with so much emphasis.
She chokes on her cigarette smoke, and for once, I’ve rendered my best friend into a semi-permanent state of speechlessness.
“Maeve ... Are you still there? Are you kn-knocking over trash cans? I can call back when you’re feeling less st-stabby. I could use your h-help.”
The call drops as a text message pings my phone:
Say no more. I’m on my way. See you in ten.
Maeve doesn’t knock; hell, she doesn’t even take her shoes off at the door. The wind blows her through like a Mary Poppins degenerate—sans umbrella—ready to ship-shape my complications into a love story. Lavender streaks blend throughout her raven-black hair, leaving her grayish-purple bob to complement her violaceous eyes. She moves her sunglasses to the top of her head creating a makeshift headband and delivers a cheeky smile.
“Theo. This is the day I have been waiting for. I’ve written about it in my journal.”
“Maeve. Y-you do-don’t journal.”
She waves her hand at me casually, shooing away the truth.
“You joke all you want, Mister, but this is a pinnacle moment in our lives. We can go on double dates now, and no one will mistake you for my man. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“Tell me everything. The dirty details. What’s her situation?”
Maeve makes the shape of a silhouette with her hands, putting extra emphasis on the bottom.
“Sh-she’s a student in my class.”
“As in the class you TA for? I told you that taking this job would open some doors for you. Didn’t I tell you?”
“It’s messy.” I lean into a deep breath before I continue. “We got off on the w-wrong foot.”
I give her the details. How Staley is trying to waitlist my class, and how the dudebros tried to annihilate her when Luca Blue’s audio, my work, echoed throughout the auditorium, further fueling the two students into mockery. How me being her TA and her being my potential student is playing with some power dynamics I do not love.
“Let me get this straight. She’s into erotic audio? Your erotic audio?”
Maeve waggles her eyebrows at me and leans across the counter with her hand tucked under her chin. It’s not so much about it being my voice calling her a good girl but how Staley responded to it that mattered to me at the time. I’ve kept my identity anonymous as some voice actors do because, as confident as I’ve become in my performative work, I have no real-life experience to back it up. Staley was desperate to shut it off. Hot cheeks and a flustered disposition indicated one thing—Staley Monroe was turned on, and so was I.
“Luca’s.”
“Right, but you’re Luca. What exactly did you, I mean Luca say?”
Going into the details of my content with my best friend isn’t on my bucket list, but Maeve corners me to confess.
“F-fine. I said, ‘Such a good girl. You know exactly what I like.’”
I deepen my voice a little to mimic the recording. The words feel easy to say because I’ve practiced them many times. So. Many. Times.
Maeve blinks three times in rapid succession. I think I broke her.
“Shit. I dig her already. Okay, so what’s complicated? You know one of her turn-ons already. One less thing you’ll need to work out.”
Maeve places her hands on my upper arms and locks eyes with me. Her face says “we will get through this together, come hell or high water, and knocked over garbage bins.”
Maeve walks me to my writing desk, where she makes herself at home by tossing her crossed legs across the oak top as she leans back in the seat. The rest of it comes out of me. The session with Barb involved overindulging and accidentally sending the cuddle confirmation.
“So you’re telling me you drunkenly booked a cuddle session with the hot girl from your class. The girl who hugged you in gratitude even after all the embarrassing phone escapades went down?”
I nod. Staley hugged me so good.
“And she showed up to cuddle you, not knowing it was you, and you said maybe three words to her and then shoved her out the door?”
I nod again.
“You are a poetic genius, Theodore Sullivan. But W.W.S.S.?”
I don’t dare ask but try to decipher it in my head.
“You l-lost me.”
“What Would Shakespeare Say, Theo?”
“I wear my h-heart on my s-sleeve?”
“Didn’t he say, ‘speak low if you speak love’? At the very least, you could have brought your stutter to a dull roar.”
“Since when are y-you so well-versed in Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing ?”
Maeve swats at my face, all agape, mouth hanging open wide. My shock at her quoting Shakespeare, and with such specificity, is unmasked and blatant.
“I’m not in love with her; I hardly know her.”
“I know. But if you want more, you’re going to have to engage. When someone is important to you, you must speak words—out loud—even if it’s a whisper. How will she—or anyone—know otherwise what you fancy, or love?”
In a gesture of confidence, proud of herself, Maeve kicks her chunky black combat boots from the top of my desk to the floor in triumph. She leans back in the chair, swiveling back and forth. Clutter covers my desk, and Maeve is a stickler for details.
“How are the numbers?”
Bland disappointment paints her face. I know this look. It’s the look that says I’m her annoying kid brother who needs to grow up.
“They’re up there.”
“Theo, when will you realize that your greatness is far too good to be sealed up? No one is perfect. We don’t leave this place alive, so you might as well show up exactly as you are and love the hell out of your experiences, good or bad. You deserve joy. Hell, you deserve this firecracker. I don’t need to ask you the numbers to know the numbers are numbering. I’ve seen your sound clips on a few TikToks for the book girlies. You’re a sex symbol, and you can’t even accept it!”
“Does this m-mean you’ll hel-help me?”
“Only if you’re all in. ’Cause if you ain’t all in, you’re all out.”
“I’m all in.”
“We’re going to start with the one thing you do well. Writing.”