Chapter 5 #2
“It’s … good,” I say carefully. I wanted a better word but couldn’t find one.
Not without saying too much. “That last line: ‘I’ve known about you for the longest while.’ That’s clever.
To everyone else, it sounds like you’ve known about him with the other woman, but to us and to anyone else who wants to read into that, it’s so obviously more than that.
It’s so obvious that you’re clearly in love with her. ”
Cassie’s face pales, and her eyes widen. “It’s not too obvious, is it?”
“No, that’s my point. It’s almost so obvious that people won’t see it. You know, like it’s hiding in plain sight.”
“Right. Okay.” Cassie doesn’t sound reassured, but a little colour returns to her cheeks.
“You’re fucking good at this.” I find my packet of cigarettes and pull one out.
“You’re a really good lyricist, better than any man I’ve written with.
” The pink in Cassie’s face deepens. So fucking pretty.
“So, I guess we should write this down.” I throw the pen at Cassie, and she fumbles to catch it.
“Really? You want me to do it?”
“Well, I’m smoking and about to go order some room service. I need to eat.” I stand and walk to the phone by my bed. I have the receiver in one hand and my fingers on the dial when I notice Cassie is frozen in place. “Are you okay?”
“I think you should write it all down,” she says, and she casts the pen aside like it’s just burnt her.
I return the phone to its nook and take a long drag on my cigarette as I return to the table.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Cassie replies, far too quickly.
“You can’t bullshit a bullshitter,” I say, pointing my cigarette at her. “You’re freaking out about this. Are you changing your mind?”
Cassie looks up at me, her eyes bigger and bluer than I’ve ever seen them.
“No, it’s not that,” she says, holding my stare. “I’m just … I struggle with writing.”
A frown pulls my eyebrows forward. I look at her hands, checking for some disability or injury I’ve missed. She must follow my gaze because a second later, she tucks her hands out of sight, under the table.
“It’s not a physical thing,” she says. “It’s hard to explain. I just … I make a lot of mistakes when I write. Like a lot. And reading is hard, too.”
I sit back down opposite her. “Tell me more.”
“There isn’t anything to tell. That’s it. I make mistakes when I write, spelling mistakes, and I’m not very good at reading. I have a learning disability, that’s what my teachers called it.”
“You’re dyslexic,” I tell her.
“What? No, I just didn’t do well at school. I’m not naturally academic, not a good pupil.”
I tut and nod at her. “That’s what they told you, isn’t it? At school? Maybe your parents too?”
“Well, yes. There had to be an explanation. That and I spent too much time in my own head making up songs.”
“What you’re describing is dyslexia,” I tell her firmly. “My brother has it.”
“Dyslexia?” she says slowly like she’s scared she’s saying the word incorrectly, or maybe she doesn’t like how it feels on her tongue. “What does that mean?”
“It means your brain struggles with reading and sometimes writing. Letters get confused. Words are hard to read. While my brain and others create shortcuts to help us read quickly and efficiently, yours doesn’t, not always. Same for my brother.”
“How old is your brother?”
I have to think about this. I’m not exactly close to him or any of my family these days. “He’s twenty-seven. Two years younger than me. But he was diagnosed in school.”
“In school?” Cassie jolts forward in clear shock. “By his teachers?”
“Yes, or maybe by a school doctor or therapist or something. I don’t know,” I say, and I lean forward too.
“The point is, it was never about not being academic or a bad pupil or whatever you said. It was about your needs not being met when you were struggling. There are ways to help your brain read and to write too. But if you don’t know about them, then of course it’s going to be one big struggle. ”
“I … I…” Cassie can’t seem to close her mouth, but it takes her a moment to actually speak. “I don’t know any different. All I know is that I just try to avoid reading and writing as much as I possibly can.”
“Well, that’s fucking stupid,” I say, and I stub my cigarette out. Then, lifting up my chair, I move around the table to sit next to her. Reaching over the table, I slide the song sheet I haven’t touched yet over to us and flip it over to the blank side. “Let’s start at the beginning.”
“What are you doing?” Cassie shifts back in her chair, away from me.
“I’m helping you.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought,” she says. “But why?”
I blink at her. “Why wouldn’t I help you?”
“Because … because you’re you,” she says. “And I’m me. We hate each other. We’re the Battle of the Bangs.”
I search her face for more information. Does she really think that little of me? Does she really think that I let magazine and tabloid gossip define me? Does she not see that we’re all just playing a big game that ultimately and depressingly lines rich, old white men’s pockets?
It’s while my eyes roam her creamy white skin, the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose, the pink in the apple of her cheeks, that I see her own gaze dip. It dips down. To my mouth. And then it pulls back up again. When I start to smile, she does it again.
“Oh, Cassie,” I say very slowly.
Her throat works as she swallows without making a sound.
“You don’t hate me at all, do you?”