that. Keep it.
Adam looked down at the ground and kicked Roewer’s floor with his foot. He suddenly had the dejectedness of Douglas and I wondered briefly if everyone I kissed was turning gay.
“I just”–he made some sweep with his arm–“I just have a lot going on right now. I’m sorry. I just have all this…
stuff
to deal with.”
Understanding sunk in me like a stone in water, settling me, making me heavier. He had a lot going on. “Hey, that’s OK,” I said. “I just wondered where you were, that’s all. It’s a rough year.”
He looked up. “That’s it exactly,” he said like I discovered penicillin. “It’s a rough year. I guess I’m sort of a mess.”
“Well, unfortunately, my life is perfect right now, so I can’t relate at all,” I said, and he smiled and put his hand on my shoulder, warming me through. I stood on tiptoe to kiss him, but he didn’t stop smiling. It was just one flat kiss against his cute grin, but it was enough. No kiss of fire, but it was enough. “Call me soon,” I said, and he nodded. The bell rang and I scooted off to homeroom, but even over the rush of all the other latecomers I heard him sigh with what I thought, back then, a naive little high school student, was fondness and not relief.
Dr. Tert: Flannery Culp wanted her life to be a bed of roses. Winnie: Don’t we
all
want our lives to be beds of roses?
Dr. Tert: Yes, but Flannery didn’t know how to stop and smell the roses that were in her bed.
Peter Pusher: What I think was wrong with Flannery Culp–what I think is wrong with all delinquent teenagers Flannery’s age–is that there is anything–or
anybody
–in her bed at all.
Thunderous applause.
Tuesday October 5th
V picked me up from the bus stop this morning, just as I was considering skipping another day. “Thanks,” I said, and V gave me a kiss on the cheek as she pulled out. I
put V ’s elegant little purse and silk scarf on my lap so I wouldn’t squash them flat when I sat down. “Good morning.”
“Good morning to you,” V said primly. “I can’t finish the croissant on the dashboard. It’s yours if you like.” I peeked in the paper bag: almond, my favorite. I looked down at my enormous jeans.
“No thanks,” I said, “I’m stuffed.” I’m still hungry as I’m writing this down in Calc. I should have eaten that croissant.
Q.E.D.’s
Gurgle and Buzz
album, a record I really like, was playing quietly as V headed toward the faculty lot as usual. “I wanted to ask you something,” she said, motioning to the nervous freshmen who were craning their necks to see if they could walk safely in front of the car or if V was going to run them over.
“Ask away,” I said.
“Well, I have something of an unrequited crush on my hands, and I thought you might have some advice for me.”
“Who’s the crush on?”
She looked down at her parking brake, putting it in place and keeping her hand on it. “Steve Nervo.”
“Really?” I squeaked. Steve Nervo is this gorgeous leather- jacketed guitarist who has a permanent hold on Most Popular every year. The stuff written about him in the first-floor girls’ bathroom stalls would make Peter Pusher’s hairpiece stand on end. I’d always assumed V , elegant V who wears real pearls to school, was above having a crush on the boy everybody has a crush on.
On whom everybody has a crush
.
“I can’t see it,” I said. “I picture you with some well-dressed gentleman.”
“Like Douglas?” she said.
“
No
,” I said. “Definitely
not
like Douglas.”
She looked at me curiously. “Why’d you say it like that?” “Um, nothing,” I said. “Actually, thinking about it for a second,
it could work. The gritty rock star putting the nice girl from the nice family on the back of his motorcycle and riding away.”
“Well, not on a
motorcycle
,” she said with a look of distaste. “And would Satan approve?” No, no, Mrs. State, we called
V ’s mother Satan, remember?
“Well, probably not, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s not going to happen. That’s why I thought you might have some advice for me.” She opened the door of the car and put one perfectly toned leg out gingerly onto the asphalt.
“What do you mean?”
“
You
know,” she said, taking her elegant little purse from me and glancing behind her at the backseat, looking for something. “You have an unrequited crush and I thought you might, I don’t know, have little exercises that you do or something, to get your mind off it. Did you see a scarf lying around here?”
“I’ll have you know,” I said stiffly, “that my love life is anything but unrequited. I had a date with Adam this week-end.”
“You
did
?” she said. “Well, that
is
exciting. I can’t believe I didn’t hear about this. How did it go?”
“Fine, fine,” I said quickly. Oh, Lord, strike me down now. “I don’t really want to talk about it, I’m afraid I’ll jinx it. Don’t tell anyone, OK?”
“Of course not, of course not,” V said vaguely, and too quickly. Shit. “Did you see a scarf when you sat down? Real silk? I forget the label.”
“No,” I said, opening my door and getting out of the car. “You know, I think I’ll eat that croissant after all.”
“
Bon appétit
,” she said. “Maybe I put it in the trunk? Who knows? I’m so spacey this morning. Hold on a second. That’s
great
about your date, Flan. Oh, but won’t Gabriel mind? Where
is
that scarf?” V flitted around, finally getting out of the car and going to the trunk. I grabbed the croissant bag and shut my door. The trunk sprung open but there was no scarf inside, of course.
“I could have
sworn
I had it this morning,” V said. “I always wear it with this outfit. It
brightens
it. Has it just fallen off the earth, or what?”
“This is a big trunk,” I heard myself saying, suddenly. “I bet you could fit a whole person in here, if you scrunched him in.”
V looked at me blankly. “I have to go,” she said. “I’ll see you later.” In a whiff of some expensive floral perfume I was left alone with my pastry. Now, as Baker babbles about some difficult problem–“Do
something
,” he’s saying, as if it’s always that easy–I’m regretting eating that pastry. My legs seem to have bloated even since this morning, even considering the bulge of wadded-up silk in my right-hand pocket.
LADDER
If you think about it,
later
and
ladder
are really the same word because time is straight up and down, like a later. I mean,
ladder
. Douglas is sitting on the couch, and you probably won’t believe this but I’m realizing that even from here on the floor, lying on my stomach, I can see his fibers. I mean, his
suit’s
. Plus I can see the fibers of the upholstery, merging with the fibers of his suit. It’s all held together by fibers, I’m realizing. In fact, if you think about it, strands are fibers too, like DNA strands. I guess
Jim Carr has taught me something. Actually, he’s taught me a lot. I guess that’s why he’s a teacher. Douglas’s eyes keep getting wider and wider, which is a little freaky. What time is it? Time is like a ladder, oops wrote that already. It’s just that this lepre- chaun juice is making me feel time so acutely, curling around me like a smooth snake, squeezing out my breath before I know it. Or like a silk scarf, ha ha.
Wednesday October 6th
Ron Piper announced the play today, finally. We were all lounging in the auditorium, making our seats squeak and talking about nothing, when Ron Piper walked to center stage and clapped for our attention.
“Shouldn’t that go the
other
way?” Kate asked, and Ron smiled and rolled his eyes at us.
“If I waited for
you
to clap for me…” he said, and everyone laughed. He put his hands on his skinny hips as he began his speech, and for the first time I realized that Douglas is really thin, too; is that some genetic thing? Maybe I’ll ask Douglas. Oh, God, that’s so tacky:
Maybe I’ll ask Douglas, my gay friend
. If Douglas died in a car accident they’d probably put up a mural triptych of him with, I don’t know, Oscar Wilde and Plato. Was Plato the gay Greek?
“In the years past,” Ron said, “we’ve been doing drawing-room comedies and standard mysteries, and those always worked well.
Very
well, in fact. I think you all have really grown as actors.” Here I looked down at the auditorium floor, modestly eyeing the ancient gum. I had played the murderess in last year’s mystery, hiding my evil with such skill that the audience always gasped when Kate stumbled upon the crucial clue that incriminated me. “I think you’re ready for something more
important
. You
might be intimidated by this choice, but if you let me work with you”–this is a phrase he always used–“I know we can do it. Some of you
won’t
be intimidated, I know”–here Kate looked
pseudo
-modestly at the floor–“because some of you have been
itching
to do something like this.”
“I wish he’d just announce it,” Douglas whispered.
“Give him a break,” Natasha said, leaning way back in her chair, her perfect hair spreading out in a perfect fan. “He’s a high school drama teacher. This is as thrilling as it gets for him.”
“That’s not nice,” I whispered. “I think he’s great. Besides Millie, he’s our only ally in this loony bin.”
“So, without further ado, I will announce our play for this year’s fall season. People have been begging me for Shakespeare forever now, and I’m happy to announce that the Roewer Drama Club’s fall production will be William Shakespeare’s
Othello
.”
I thought everybody would clap, or at least
ooh
and
ahh
, but you could have heard a pin drop–providing it didn’t land on any of the wads of gum. I didn’t understand why.
Othello
sounded good to me, and I wondered who it didn’t sound good to.
To whom it didn’t sound good
.
I scanned the faces of the Eight who were around: Natasha, Douglas, Kate, V , Jennifer Rose Milton who was wrapped around Frank Whitelaw and why-is-she-in-our-lives-if-no-one- likes-her Flora Habstat, but they were all looking at me. Or
behind
me, as I turned around and saw Gabriel, who was looking like he’d swallowed something the wrong way. I realized suddenly why it was so quiet: everyone knew that Gabriel and I had kissed but that I hadn’t actually talked to him since Friday. Kate had probably told him everything, and even though I have no idea how much Natasha told Kate–you can never tell, with Nata- sha–everybody probably knew
some
version of the story. But why were they suddenly concerned with this drama, in the middle of Drama? Didn’t anyone care about the drama of a black man’s jealousy for his white girlfriend?
Oh
. That’s when I realized why they were looking at him.
Gabriel is the only black guy within five miles of Drama Club, and Othello is the only black guy within five miles of Shakespeare. Well, that isn’t true–I think there’s some African prince in what’s- it, the anti-Semitic one, but
still
. It’s a little weird to announce a play with a black man in the lead role when there’s only one black man who’s going to play it.
If Ron was aware of the tension he didn’t show it. He said there’d be auditions next week, even keeping a straight face when he said that anyone could try out for any part. He ended the meeting, and the auditorium cleared in seconds, leaving me and Gabriel and all that ancient gum.
“So,” Gabriel said, his voice trailing off into nowhere. “Flan- nery.” His tone suddenly flashed me back to fourth grade, staring at my little empty school desk as Mrs. Collins, an evil woman with an immense nose, said the same thing. “Flannery.” It was my turn for my class presentation, and I was staring at the space on my desk where my diorama was supposed to be. Instead it was at home. I knew I was going to die.
“I don’t know if I have anything else to say to you,” he said.
Directly above my head, on the auditorium ceiling bleached from unchecked leaks, a lightbulb burned out with a crackle. “Well, I have something to say,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
Gabriel blinked, his eyelids moving through all that ice. “That would be a lot more convincing if you weren’t
saying it when I finally caught you alone,” he said. “Like if you were saying it to me on the phone. Like if you’d
called
me.”
“I’ve had a hectic few days,” I said. “And before that?”
“What?”
“You know,” he said. “All weekend? Like maybe we could have seen each other?”
“You have to turn everything into a joke, don’t you?” I found myself saying, for no reason. I was thinking dimly how I’d break ice, in real life. By throwing rocks at it until it cracked.
“What?” he said. “What’s happening, Flan? I can’t go on like this. You’re making me wish I’d never brought this whole thing up.”
I looked down at the ground and kicked the gummy floor with my foot. “I just”–I made some sweep with my arm–“I just have a lot going on right now. I’m sorry. I just have all this stuff…to deal with.”
My rock made a perfect arc, and worked. I felt understanding sink in him like a stone in water. I had a lot going on. “Hey, that’s OK,” he said. “I just wondered where you were, that’s all. It’s a rough year.”
I looked up at him and saw his hands move, just slightly, like he had a minor tic or wanted to touch me. “That’s it exactly,” I said like he’d discovered penicillin. “It’s a rough year. I guess I’m sort of a mess.”
“Well, unfortunately, my life is perfect right now, so I can’t relate at all,” he said, and I smiled and put my hand on his shoulder. I could give him that. He leaned in and kissed me and it was enough. It was no kiss of fire–I couldn’t give him
that
, not anymore–but I could give him that. It was enough. He smiled at me. “Call me soon,” he said, and I nodded. He walked off
and I was alone, looking at a bare stage and stepping in gum.
Maybe It’s Friday October 8th
I have no idea what time it is, but all I’d have to do is check the almanac, because it’s exactly sunrise. My handwriting is getting neater and neater as the gray sky gets lighter and lighter. Even howmanywhatever hours later, the light looks greenish. Everything is magnanimously beautiful. I mean
magnificently
.