Maybe it was Cara's version of darkness that told me she was empty. She didn't believe in letting light in through cracks or streams, and I'm not sure she believed in letting it in at all. Cara was the empty feeling in my heart, the offness of the drumbeat in a funeral song. She didn't believe in letting the light in through cracks because she didn't believe in letting the light in at all.
When I first met Cara, she was twelve and angry at the world. Her parents had split up, her brother was gone, and her mom was infatuated with some guy who was missing vowels in his unpronounceable last name. So I did what any other man in that situation would do: I came armed with gifts. I bought her things that I thought a twelve-year-old would love: a poster of Taylor Lautner, a Miley Cyrus CD, nail polish that glowed in the dark. "I can't wait for the next Twilight movie," I babbled, when I presented her with the gifts in front of Georgie. "My favorite song on the CD is 'If We Were a Movie.' And I almost went with glitter nail polish, but the salesperson said this is much cooler, especially with Halloween coming up."Cara looked at her mother and said, without any judgment, "I think your boyfriend is gay.