My hands shake as I read those words again. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I crumple the paper, uncrumple it again, then rip it into tiny pieces.
Realize that now I have to describe something else for tomorrow.
Open viola case. Write lame description of viola. Close viola case.
Realize that I will spend the rest of the night staring at the ceiling.
Last year, during Guys and Dolls, I was stage manager. I had to help Rachel, who was playing Sarah, with her costume change before the Havana scene. It was a quick change, so I held her fancy dress while she wiggled out of the skirt and unbuttoned the jacket of her Salvation Army uniform. Standing there in her lacy underwear and bra, she looked like a pinup girl from the forties—the kind of girl who’d be painted on the side of an airplane that shot down Nazis.
She stepped into the fancy dress and pulled it up, and I went behind her to zip it. “Oh my god this is tight,” she said. “Does it make me look fat?”
“No,” I said. “You look beautiful.”
She kissed me on the cheek and said, “You’re such a sweetheart, Nic!” before sailing out onto the stage.
Margaret, who’d been putting the props in order, came up behind me and mimicked, “Ooh, you’re thuch a thweetheart!” Then in her real voice: “I saw you staring. You’re just a little thespian lesbian, aren’t you?”
I think I said, “Fuck off,” or something equally brilliant, but the words kept echoing in my head, and I almost missed calling three light cues in a row.
But that’s not the whole story.
I see beautiful Rachel in my head, but then I see shy, smart André—the boy I spent all last year in Geometry trying desperately to attract.
It doesn’t make sense. Thespian lesbian, thespian lesbian. How can I be a thespian lesbian when I filled up a whole notebook with ways to impress André?
Then André’s face turns into Battle’s, and I wish I could stop seeing her, wish I could stop thinking about what it would feel like just to touch her hair or hold her hand.
But I can’t.
field notes:
i tried to press that flower battle brought me from the hike, but it didn’t dry, it just squished like a dead bug. i hope this is not an ominous sign from above.
Sometimes I think the reason I like archaeology so much is that it’s all over. I can analyze artifacts for the rest of my life, and in the grand scheme of things, if I put a clay pot together the wrong way, or decide that something was a weapon when it was actually a hairpiece, it won’t matter. Not to anyone alive.
Dealing with people is messier.
The seating chart, clockwise: me, Battle, her mom, her dad, Katrina’s mom, Katrina, Isaac, Isaac’s mom, Isaac’s dad, my dad, my mom.
(Kevin’s parents couldn’t come, so he’s probably off composing twelve-tone chants. Or playing Hacky Sack. Or both.)
It makes my stomach hurt to see Isaac’s parents. They look alike, two short, dark, lumpy people, more like brother and sister than husband and wife. And they both look exhausted, as though they haven’t slept well for months or even years. They don’t look at each other. They don’t speak to each other, either, unless it’s absolutely necessary.
I look at Battle’s parents, instead. Her dad’s hair is a deeper gold than hers, his eyes are hazel, and his skin is weathered—he could be the illustration for “distinguished” in the dictionary. Actually, he looks exactly like an actor playing a minister in a movie, which I guess isn’t far from the truth, except that presumably, he really does have some kind of calling.
Battle’s mother is perfectly put together. Her makeup is so artful you can hardly tell it’s there, but there’s a kind of sheen and polish to her features. Both of them are dressed as though they’re in church, which of course is not surprising.
What is surprising is Battle.
Her hair is pulled back into the tightest French braid I’ve ever seen, and she’s wearing a staid long pink dress that I’ve never seen before. She keeps peeling the skin from around her fingernails, and she’s paying more attention to her napkin than to anyone at the table.
My parents look like they’ve been on the road for a month, which they have. Dad is wearing jeans and one of his trademark black T-shirts (they don’t show the inkstains), and Mom is wearing what I have christened the Sack Lunch Dress: it’s shapeless and the exact brown of a brown paper bag.
Katrina and her mom look alike, except that Katrina’s mom has a lot of gray in her hair and dresses slightly less flamboyantly.
Before anyone starts talking, Battle’s father bows his head, laces his fingers together, and speaks very quietly for a while. It takes me a minute to realize that he must be saying grace, and then I feel sort of sheepish for being such a heathen. But no one except Battle’s mother seems to be paying any attention to him, so I don’t either.
Our first topic of conversation, courtesy of Isaac’s father, is the ham croquettes.
“This is a slap in the face!” he says.
“Dad, we’ve never kept kosher in our lives,” says Isaac.
“Hey, that means more for the rest of us! They look great!” says Katrina’s mom amiably.
“Probably even better with ranch dressing, Ma.” Katrina takes a croquette.
After a moment, so does Isaac. He eats his croquette with exaggerated relish, and I find myself thinking about the cigarette he tried to smoke for her. At least there’s not a wrong way to eat something.
“Hey, do you think they have cheese sauce for these?” Isaac asks of no one in particular.
“I find fruit salad so refreshing on hot days like this, don’t you?” asks Battle’s mother, passing the chilled bowl to Isaac’s dad, who scowls at it.
“Oh, yes, I do,” says Isaac’s mom, taking the bowl away from her soon-to-be-ex-husband. “Isaac, take some fruit, you never eat enough fruit.” She heaps some onto his plate and adds in an undertone, “He’d have scurvy if it wasn’t for Tang.”
“Didn’t you say you’ve got a younger sister?” Katrina demands. Isaac’s mother says, too cheerfully, “How sweet of you to ask! She’s staying with their aunt—she’s having a hard time just now, you know how it is—do you have brothers and sisters?”
Katrina shakes her head. “They broke the mold.”
My mom says, “Nic’s also an only child.”
“Wow! Well, aren’t we just the poster table for zero population growth! You, too?” Katrina’s mom looks at Battle. Battle opens her mouth, and her mother says, “That’s right.”
Battle shuts her mouth, so abruptly that I can almost hear her teeth click together. Then she pulls the pink elastic band out of her hair and spends the next several minutes carefully obliterating all traces of the French braid.
“Goodness, I wish you wouldn’t do that while people are eating,” says Battle’s mother softly.
Even more softly, Battle says, “There are things I wish you wouldn’t do, too.”
I’m the only one who hears.
“What’s that, dear?”
“I said I’m sorry, it was giving me a headache.”
For a while, everyone eats quickly and silently, as though it’s our last meal.
Then my dad starts telling lame stories about things that have happened while he and Mom have been traveling, and at the same time that I’m wincing and saying, “Oh, Dad,” I’m realizing that his stupid jokes are putting the focus of the table’s attention on him, and because everyone’s focusing on him, it’s diffusing all kinds of tension, and thinking about Dad doing that, on purpose, actually almost makes me want to cry.
After the brunch finally ends, Mom and Dad insist on driving me out to some big used bookstore they found on the way here, so I can pick out a present.
I can’t think of anything I want.
Anything they can buy for me, anyway.
I scan titles, trying desperately to find one that I can pretend to be excited about. The science fiction section is lame. The only mystery that looks good is Death Comes As the End, but I’ve already read it.
The next section after Mystery is Pets. Why? Do all the little old ladies who pick up mysteries then feel compelled to get cat books?
Suddenly I see it—face-out on the shelf, with a photograph on the cover that could have come straight from Battle’s wall. All About Corgis, it says in big friendly type.
“This one,” I say, holding up the book for Mom to see.
“Really? Are you sure? I thought you hated dogs,” Mom says.
“Positive,” I say.
July 3, 8:47 p.m., My Room
field notes:
mom and dad left about an hour ago, and since they’ve been gone, i’ve been sitting on the bed, feeling homesick.
i think it’s because i saw them that i’m homesick now. the siegel institute is its own, more intense world, and the intensity hasn’t left me any time to think about home.
the most intense thing in my life has always (all right, for the last two years, anyway) been theater. i feel so much responsibility for every show. even back when i was just on props crew and the only thing i needed to do was make sure the typewriter case was prepped for act two in glass menagerie, i still felt like if i messed up, the entire show would be a disaster.
the times when i don’t make any mistakes, when the actors are all on, and all the light cues and scene changes are going smoothly, there’s a special quality to the air, like everyone on the show is getting twice as much oxygen with every breath.
but that feeling is nothing next to what i feel now about battle.
and it’s stupid. i can’t believe how mind-bogglingly, earth-shatteringly dumb it is. dumber than my crush on andré, even. at least with andré, i had every reason to suspect that i was of an appropriate gender to be involved with him. it’s so dumb i can’t even cry. all i can do is sit here on the bed with my knees drawn up to my chin, wondering what on earth i’m going to do with a giant stupid book about the kind of dogs she has.
There’s a knock on my door. It’s Katrina. “You’re not doing anything, are you? I didn’t think so. Listen, Mom brought me a ton of new and exciting chemically processed snack products, and I feel the need to share them with my loved ones, so come with me, we’ll get Battle, go back to my room, and have a women-only riot!”
“Okay,” I say, contemplating whether I should bring the dog book with me to give to Battle. It will reveal that I was thinking about her, which could be bad, but on the other hand, she seemed upset before and maybe the book will cheer her up. And it’s a book, not a dozen roses, so it’s not like I would be making some big declaration of love. I put it under my arm and we head to Battle’s room.
“Who is it?” Battle calls through the door. Her voice sounds a little shaky.
“It’s the Procrastination Police! Officer Lancaster and I are here to make sure you don’t get anything done tonight!” Katrina calls back.
“I’m so glad it’s you!” Battle opens the door and crushes Katrina and me into a hug. I can barely breathe, mostly from nervousness, but I can tell that Battle smells like lavender. My favorite scent.
“Who were you expecting?” Katrina asks, plopping down on Battle’s bed without a second thought.
My ankle only twinges a little when I sit down in the same spot on the floor as last time. “They said they were leaving, but I wasn’t sure I believed them,” Battle says.
“Your parents?” I ask. She nods.
“What was up with you this morning?” Katrina demands.
Battle shakes her head, and gives me a “don’t say anything” glare.
I wasn’t going to.
“They broke another promise,” she says. “I don’t know why I was even surprised. And then when Mom put my hair up—well, that’s the way she wants me to be, all the time. Perfectly in order, and completely confined.”
“What promise?” Katrina asks.
Battle shakes her head again. “They said it cost too much. I told them weeks ago that I’d pay. I told them how important it was to me. Money was just their excuse. It was really that it was inconvenient for them.”
“What was? Oh, by the way, Mom and Dad took me to this bookstore and, uh, I thought you might like this.” I hand the book to Battle.
“Thank—oh my god. How did you know?”
I gesture toward the dog-picture-covered wall.
“I mean about today—you didn’t know about today?” She flips through the pages, then closes the book.
“Spit it out, Battle. We need some nouns here,” says Katrina.
“The noun is dog. Plural, dogs. My parents promised they would bring Dante and Beatrice, and they didn’t. Instead, they brought that dress.”
The dress, I notice, is on the floor in a heap. It’s the only piece of clothing I have ever seen on her floor.
“And not only that.” Battle gets up and walks over to her dresser. “Mom happened to let it slip that since I’ve been gone, they’ve been boarding them. Dante and Beatrice aren’t even home.”
She puts the book down on the dresser, opens the top drawer and digs around in it. “I’m glad y’all are here, because I might need help with this.”
Something metal flashes in her hand. “Battle?”
A wisp of her hair floats to the floor. Scissors, she’s holding scissors—
“I’m shaving my head.” Another wisp.
“Stop it!” I hear myself say.
“I want to do this, Nic, I’ve thought about it a lot,” says Battle, cutting off a third wisp.
I go over to her, grab her wrist with my left hand, and take away the scissors with my right. “It can’t be all random like that,” I say, realizing that I’m using my stage manager voice. “You need to braid your hair first. Then you cut off the braid.”
Battle rubs her wrist. “That hurt,” she says.
Katrina jumps up from the bed and says, “Rock on, Nic! I wish we had a camcorder so we could capture it all on the magic of videotape! She’s right, Battle—don’t you think she’s right?”