A sigh, grand and drawn out. A hand raised to touch her forehead, her figurative headache bound to morph into a tangible migraine; she didn’t have time to deal with a migraine right now, she was out of pills, and dealing with her spotty insurance to get her prescription refilled would only make the stabbing in her head worse.
A pause. Give it a moment. A tapping of her foot, the sound of the methodical thumping of a heel on the carpeted office floor making her frustration known to the world.
“Couldn’t she have waited another day?”
One day. Less than that. Seventeen hours. The bigshot just had to wait seventeen hours for his article to be published—“Talent on the Rise: Up-and-Coming Broadway Director Whose Work You Won’t Want to Miss!”—then he would have been free to do whatever he wanted.
“I doubt it was his choice to get in a car crash.” Her coworker said as he gave her a stare, eyes widened ever so slightly, a blend of shock and pity directed toward the source of the apathetic comment who sat at the desk in front of him. “Whatever the case, choice or not, the article is being pulled.”
A sigh, deeper than the first. She worked on that article for a month. She was proud of it too. A pause, a finger tapping on the desk, the thud of manicured nails hitting wood resounding throughout the room. She’d been idle for too long, her month’s worth of work now equating to nothing.
“What can I work on next?” She asked without hesitation.
Her coworker’s gaze shifted from her eyes to the side, suddenly finding the wallpaper very interesting. His aversion to her gaze told her all that she needed to know.
She hated doing interviews.
Throughout her career writing on theater she avoided taking on such a task whenever possible. And when she had no choice but to suck it up and meet with some actor, director, or whatever position was deemed important that week, she got it over with as quickly and methodically as possible, doing her best to avoid any sort of emotional connection.
Ask her question. Write the answer. Look at the forehead. Avoid eye contact. Rinse. Repeat. Say goodbye.
The past two years she had been clean, weaseling her way out of any interview, effectively navigating her career with little to no reminders of the one she was trying to forget. She always made up for each interview she avoided with three new reviews in its place. Lady luck adamantly decided not to be on the writer’s side today, deciding that granting her two years of freedom from interviews was more than enough generosity. When your department is as small as hers, sometimes the previously avoidable becomes an infinitely spanning stone wall with no way around it.
It was a long weekend, some national holiday in honor of some long dead white guy’s birthday. The actress booked for an interview was only available to meet on said holiday, and as the only one in her department with no plans for the day off, the honor of interviewing the little star fell upon her shoulders.
Slamming the door of her one bedroom New York City apartment open, kicking it in with her high-heeled foot, and hurling her purse onto the tiled floor wasn’t the cathartic release she hoped it would be. The minimalist space in front of her was suddenly too bare, too understimulating. She rushed with a composed agency, rummaging desperately, yet carefully, through her drawers to find and light the candles that then flooded the once sterile space with lavenders and blueberries.
The scent of the various candles she lit overwhelmed her sense of smell as she forced herself to focus on the discomfort of the strong scents attacking her nostrils and the constant buzzing of the fan she had turned to the highest setting. As she set upon washing and drying her dishes her mind refused to stay still, only freezing upon hearing the distinctive sound of a mug breaking on the cool, tiled floor. With a frantic frustration she swept up the shards, forcing herself to focus on nothing but the ceramic fragments in front of her and the buzzing of the city outside.
Researching and preparing for the interview could be done tomorrow. For tonight, she would escape. Tonight she would sing as she biked and re-watched shows from her childhood. Tonight she would reread Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights for the second time this year. Tonight she would fervently dust the framed photo of her parents, whose eyes bore across her living room, and the unopened chest under her bed.
On the day of the interview she sat in a coffee shop, sunlight pouring down onto the empty chair across from her, drawing her attention to it no matter how hard she tried to look away. Her leg had been bouncing up and down in an anxiously rhythmic manner for several minutes now. When she finally noticed, she paused. A hand brought down to slow a shaking limb. A breath, deep and grounding.
A tap on her shoulder brought her back to reality suddenly. She barely caught the words of the woman now standing before her, asking her for her name.
She answered wordlessly, pointing to the nametag on her blazer that displayed in delicate blue letters: “Eloise.” The woman laughed at her own lack of observational skills as she sat in the empty seat across from Eloise, now bathed in sunlight.
Speaking with a determined and controlled excitement, the woman introduced herself as she offered her hand: “My name’s Wren.”
Eloise knew that already. She was a diligent worker; she did her research; she at the very least knew the name of the Broadway actress she was interviewing. Taking Wren’s hand, Eloise shook it, instinctively shaking with small motions, barely moving her hand. She became unable to control this movement when Wren joined her second hand around Eloise’s, shaking with the eagerness of a hopeful youth.
With the formalities done Eloise was one step closer to getting this interview over with. Steeling herself she raised her eyes to Wren’s forehead, avoiding direct eye contact. The spiel she had prepared rolled off her tongue with little thought as she explained how the interview would proceed and laid out her materials, finishing with a curt: “Does that all make sense?”
Wren replied with an unearned level of excitement in a hearty but nonetheless nervous “Okay!”
A breath, a clicking of a pen, and it began.
“This is your first major role, correct? What was the casting process like for you?” Write down her answer. Look at her forehead, avoid eye contact. “What is it like working with this director?” Write down her answer. Look at her hair, it was red, avoid eye contact. “Were there any moments of frustration during your journey to Broadway?” Rinse, repeat—
Pause.
Eloise froze, physically and mentally. She could remember neither her question nor Wren’s answer. A click, a memory unearthed, its shackles removed. She’d heard those words before.
A worried voice broke her from her haze, a soft and earnest “Are you okay? Sorry, was I speaking too fast, I tend to do that when I start talking about theater. I’ll try and slow down. Do you need some water?”
“I’m alright.” A heart string pulled. “Let’s continue.”
“What is it like being on stage eight times a week, is it draining?” Write down her answer. Look at her sweater, it was blue, she was picking at it, avoid eye contact. Ask her a question. Write down her answer—
“Oh no, I wouldn’t say it’s draining at all. Maybe physically, but never mentally. It’s a dream for me to be on that stage, to step into other worlds, to connect with so many people. How could a dream be draining?”
It happened again.
Slapping her cheeks lightly, Eloise forced herself to focus, engraving Wren’s familiar words in her mind, writing them down, forcibly ignoring the emotions trying to escape from within.
“What have been the highlights of your experience acting and working in this show so far?” Write down her answer—
“Huh…Well…Hm…Sorry, I need a moment to think on that one. Sometimes I just wish I could burst into song to convey how I feel like my character does, that would make things much easier.”
Again.
Eloise looked at Wren’s forehead, then to the words that dotted Eloise’s notebook. Suddenly the world was silent except for the words on those pages. Wren’s words seemed to create a new world, one that enveloped just the two of them as everything else stood still.
A breath, deep and contemplative. She was scared, scared to look up, to meet Wren’s eyes, to see if the passion of her words reflected in her very being. A pause. A breath, deep and steeling. A raising of a head, and a stare.
When Eloise met Wren’s eyes she traveled back in time. She was met with the same look she saw in college, when her friend talked her ear off about acting class, the same look she saw in high school, when her friend took the stage in their senior show, the same look she saw in middle school, when her friend, full of hopeful youth, proclaimed she would one day make it to Broadway, and that Eloise would be her first audience.
In front of her, hope and passion took a liquid form in Wren’s eyes. Eloise looked at the questions she had prepared, deciding in that moment to ignore them and satiate her longing curiosity.
“What do you love about theater?”
Wren paused for just a moment, before answering as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Theater is magic. Through theater I get to leave this reality. I can become whoever and do whatever. When I’m on stage I am transported into a new world, into a new plane of existence, one that I can’t help but stare at with awe and wonder each time I enter it.” Wren tapped her fingers on the table. “Reality can be beyond exhausting, draining even, and it can often feel like we’re sinking in a bottomless pit of despair. But when I’m on stage I’m suddenly free, and through the work and passion of us on stage we get to help free everyone in that audience from the shackles of their reality as well. The escapism and hope that theater provides is magic, and it’s a magic that I want to share with you, and with the entire world, and—oh shoot, are you okay? Sorry, did I say something wrong? Once I get going I tend to just yap until I’m stopped.”
Wren stared at her, Eloise stared back. Oh. Eloise raised a hand to her face, she was crying. She laughed, a soft smile gracing her features. “No, you…you didn’t do anything wrong. Your answers…they just…they reminded me of something an old friend once told me.”
Her voice had a melancholic tinge to it as Wren’s words overlapped with those of a friend long deceased, the emotions unchanged, yet the sentiment matured and developed, Eloise’s new disposition evidently did not go unnoticed by Wren, as she began to bounce her leg and bite at her nails. Eloise, unsure how to continue, suddenly overwhelmed by memories of the past, went silent.
“Hey…” The silence broke. “Would it be alright if I asked you a couple questions? Y’know…interview the interviewer?”
Eloise paused, looking up once more to meet Wren’s hesitant gaze. A nod. “Ask away.” Wren’s eyes widened, as if she hadn’t expected Eloise to say yes—
“I’m gonna be honest, I wasn’t really expecting you to say yes.” A scratching of the head, an embarrassed chuckle. “I kinda just asked without thinking, so I don’t really have any questions prepared.”
Eloise paused. She smiled. Her friend always planned ahead, never speaking without thinking. The difference should have made her sad, at least she thinks it should have, and yet, she can’t help but be endeared. The world had once taken a friend from Eloise in an instant, and it now presented her not with the same soul in a new body, but a mirror image—one that could just maybe help her experience the wonders of human connection once more not with a replacement of a friend lost, but with the promise of something, someone, new.
Her contemplations were interrupted when Wren jolted upright in an “Aha!” moment.
“You asked me something similar and listened to me ramble, so I’ll return the favor. What’s theater to you?”
Wren looked proud of herself for coming up with her question, clearly trying to put on the airs of a confident, curious reporter. Eloise replied, quickly and casually: “A form of entertainment.”
Eloise gave it a moment for her answer to settle in, laughing lightly as Wren’s mouth opened and closed in shock, struggling to cope with the answer. “I was just kidding.” Eloise hesitated for a moment before continuing, unsure of whether she was ready to cross the line she had drawn for herself, but when she saw Wren’s relief and felt her endlessly curious gaze bare into her soul, Eloise paused, breathed, and spoke.
“Well, my parents met doing theater together in college, so I suppose it’s always been a part of my life. They would drag me around to all variety of performances when I was young, and I admit, as a little kid I grew restless and annoyed at having to sit still for hours at a time. But…” A glance into her coffee. “As I matured I began to notice how much passion poured out of not just the performers, but also out of my parents as they gushed for hours or even days after witnessing just a single play; it was as if the passion and emotion of the performers had been shared with everyone in the audience.” A glance across the table, Wren’s eager nodding encouraging Eloise to continue. “I eventually got involved in theater myself, after the incessant pleading of a close friend of mine, though I only did backstage work. Acting as witness to these moments of pure passion on stage is what led me to theater journalism in the beginning, I think. I wanted to document each performance, each emotion I saw on stage so that it may never be forgotten, preserved even long after the curtains have closed or the lights have dimmed. So, to answer your question, theater is, to me…emotion and passion in their purest forms.”
Eloise met Wren’s gaze, confident that she had delivered an answer that she herself had previously forgotten, an answer that she had once locked away in the box of memories she kept in the trenches of her heart, and underneath her bed.
“That was…beautiful”. Tears formed in Wren’s eyes as she gently reached across the table to put her hand tenderly atop Eloise’s. Eloise stiffened, then relaxed, the touch flooding her senses with a once familiar warmth. Wren lifted her sleeve to dry her face. “Sorry, I cry pretty easily.” A quick slap to the sides of her face with both her hands had Wren refocused and re-energized.
“Okay, next question!”
“Aren’t I supposed to be the one interviewing you?” Eloise inquired, half serious, half joking.
Wren replied without a moment passing: “Then we can just take turns interviewing each other.”
The two laughed together, Eloise smiling against her will. And so, they spoke. Eloise wasn’t sure for how long, all she knew was that the words flew from her before she could attempt to chain them down. When the sky outside the window began to darken there was a pause, and a breath, calm and peaceful, filled with the beauty of nostalgia and the hope of new memories to come.
Meeting Wren’s gaze once more as they finished their encounter, Eloise spoke, voice soft.
“Can we…continue this conversation again some day?”
Wren smiled, her teeth seeming to reflect the sun itself.
“I’d like that very much.”
Eloise gently closed the door to her apartment, the space feeling like home. The gaze of her parents in the photo on the other end of the living room above her simple white couch and its blue throw pillows pulled her in, inviting her back into the comfort of her younger days. A soft smile pulled at her lips uncontrollably as she glided over the blue and white geometric design adorning her carpet, as if her heart had temporarily taken over for her brain.
If she closed her eyes she could still see it—that shine, that spark, that pure unadulterated joy and naive hope for a bright future that embedded itself in Wren’s eyes. Upon opening her own eyes, Eloise found that said shine still lingered everywhere she looked.
Walking into her room the world itself seemed to pause with Eloise. Under her bed sat a chest, freshly dusted, but unopened for countless years.
A deep breath. A steadying of shaky hands.
She kneeled down and labored to drag the chest, no larger than a kettle, out until it faced her and bore into her soul. Closing her eyes, she opened the chest. Upon opening her eyes the world grew warm.
The stare of her friend long passed faced Eloise in the form of dozens of pictures and mementos untouched by time. Eloise could never forget the moment when she was informed of her friend’s passing all those years ago. It didn’t feel like a nightmare, no, she was wide awake, feeling that the news had to be wrong. All of the joy that she had known for all her life had been, in her mind, stripped away the moment her friend died. Yet, today, the stare of her deceased friend in the photos in front of her revealed itself once more in the form of Wren.
The past stared at Eloise, and she stared back.
Bracing her heart, she lifted the photographs and began to weep. Gingerly, she placed them under her pillow. She slept that night hoping that the beloved friend of her past would follow her into her dreams, where a fantasy of performing on stage, Eloise as her first audience, would begin and never end. And even if that dream never came, Eloise knew that when she woke up to the world her friend of days passed would be with her again, in a new form, in a new life.
When Eloise returned to work her heart was full, and her mind sharpened. Sitting at the same desk she sat at each day without change felt more fulfilling than ever as she typed, impassioned, with a fervor born of rekindling with a soul she thought was lost to the whims of the world.
It took five knocks at her door to whisk her away from her writing and return her to reality. A “come in,” uttered with a gentleness she didn’t know herself to still be capable of, brought in the same coworker who had informed her about the interview with Wren, Embrie, that was his name; she’d make sure to remember it from now on.
“Hey.” A pause, a breath. His eyes scanned the room, seemingly desperate to look anywhere but at Eloise. “About the interview, I hate to be the bearer of this kind of news again but…”
The world went silent, his words scorching themselves in Eloise’s mind before fading into complete obscurity.
This had to be a joke, a prank, a twisted hoax the world decided to play on her for the second time in her twenty-seven years of life.
A breath, quick, sharp, and silent. A hand brought to cover her mouth, agape with a silent scream. A pause. A body frozen in place, unsure how to make sense of the sudden anguish it faced.
“Couldn’t she have waited for me?”
Stephen Brown: 1 out of 3 | I AM ATHLETE
I looked up at my family, Mom, Dad, Nana, Rumi, and Caden, all standing for me. It was the closing set of the final round of the two-week-long tournament. My mom held her fist up from the player’s box and Rumi and Caden say “Oh yeah! Right here!” a mix of basketball slang and tennis terminology they’ve picked up over the years. This tournament not only bumped up my national ranking but put me in the hat for The US Open wild card. That means home turf.
Rumi’s face is still a snapshot in my brain from the month after that last match. Dad told him and Caden “It’s time to lock in and support your brother. He’s not choosing y’all’s path. I don’t wanna hear no nonsense either.” Immediately Caden put himself halfway in my doorframe. “How the fuck do Mom and Dad breed a 6’5 guard, and you’re telling me your ass wants to play on some stupid court with no hoop?” I leaned back on my wrists at the end of my bed, my neck locked into my shoulder blades, and my eyes rolled under their lids.
It’s not that I didn’t like ball anymore. I still play pickup with Quan and Marr when I have Sundays off. If I stopped any sooner I’m sure Caden would’ve tried to jump me. But he’s only 6’2 and he knows I could knock him if I wanted to. AAU just felt like a chore and practice was a grind that I dreaded. I can only have Coach Brown in my ear for so many hours of the day. It’s bad enough I have to hear him talk my ear off about how I’m always sleeping and don’t fuel my body. My mom has always been supportive even though she hates watching tennis practices when it’s mid-summer. “You’re telling me no courts were free at the club today?” This is when she wished she was in the air-conditioned stadiums that my brothers play in at their state schools. My dad picked North Carolina for Rumi and Michigan for Caden very strategically. ACC and Big 10 mean no overlapping till the NCAA’s. At home in Queens, whether at school or if I ran into a family friend, it’s always been the same question, “How are your brothers? Is your family going to catch any games soon?” then it follows with “You’re still playing tennis right? Everything good?” I know I’m the youngest, but damn was I just always the afterthought?
When I was growing up my mom would hear about dudes knocking up girls in high school and going off to college to play ball. She didn’t want me or my brothers following that “trash behavior.” I think she only let my brothers play in college because they were older and Dad coached the tournament leagues in the area. But being the youngest and the closest to my mom, she made sure I tried other sports. I just chose tennis because we would see people playing as we walked home from my school when I was little. It was the same path I took with my friends as we got older, but most of the time we would walk past those courts to hoop. It was never a question to hoop after school. Especially when I had Marr with me who would always keep a ball, a notebook, and two mechanical pencils that were low on lead in his book bag.
It wasn’t until my brothers started posting about my national ranking that people cared what I had going on. My friends would pull up to my high school matches, but they knew I was gonna win so they always came to the end to obnoxiously cheer and drive back with my family for dinner. The only thing that ever really bugged me forreal was when people would get mad that I couldn’t or didn’t want to go out or try to go to the club because I had to stay in the tennis club. Inner city, black, and tennis don’t mix. I’ve always had to put in extra work for the combination to taste good to me. Even when I felt the most confident about my athletic abilities and decisions, the world that I saw around me always pushed questions on me. It felt like every time the word “tennis” came out of my mouth, a shock was zapped. It wasn’t a little shock either, more like an electric chair. Or at least that’s what people in my neighborhood made it seem to be by the countless cries of “Whyyyy?” that followed.
My dad never pressured me too hard about ball. Nana always told him “2 out of 3 followed your path. Let the boy live.” So he did. He’s always been supportive. Even when I got tired of serving we would go hoop and talk about everything on my mind. He usually told me what’s on his too, but it was mostly just “You know you’re brothers need to tighten up on these grades before your mother gets on a flight and straightens them out herself.” My mom didn’t play about education. Sports were cool, but “education is the one thing the world can’t take away from you” she always said. I’ve never had a problem with my grades or concussions from fights on and off the court. Rumi and Caden got all that. I think that’s why my mom always tried her hardest to support me through it all. She saw how hard I worked when no one else cared.
The same week my trophy shipped to the house from the tournament, I received my US Open letter. “Dear, Stephen Brown” it read with the official letterhead at the top. It didn’t feel real till I got a call from my coaches midway through reading the email. It was time to work. Yes for myself and for my family and to prove it to my friends, but I just wanted to get past the first round and maybe warm up on a practice court next to Kyrgios or Joker, two very controversial pros, the two players that remind me of Rumi and Caden. As I listened to Coach G on the phone explaining the schedule that I would have to commit to preparing for the Open my notifications went off. “Caden.Brown tagged you in a post.” He and Rumi couldn’t even wait till I made a fucking decision to post “US Open BOUNDDDD!” with flames and a brown skin muscle emoji on their stories. I shook my head and answered “Uhuh I hear you” to Coach G. Stomps and screams of “C’monnnn!” with aggressive claps came from the living room from Rumi.
When the US Open came around that August, I only made it to the second round, but at the age of 19 I was beyond proud of myself. I gained the respect of my parents, brothers, and friends for sure. When I look back at it now as a 22-year-old pro, I’m proud of the way I chose to use my upbringing and support system as motivation to push myself to the highest level of play. The push never ends either. I’m top 100 players in the world, but still no title. I’ve gotten close, but Kyrgios and Joker are still at the top beating me in straight sets. Reposts from Caden and Rumi have evolved a little too. They consist of video compilations from my match wins with “Another one” written in the corner of the Instagram stories. They haven’t made it to too many matches this year because Rumi is always traveling for the Charlotte Hornets and Caden is doing his last year at Michigan before declaring for the draft. Luckily my mom travels with me for tournaments so Dad can focus on helping Caden get put with a good NBA team. But yeah to answer your question yeah I haven’t really had the most conventional tennis upbringing coming from a basketball family. It’s been cool though. I feel very blessed with the people around me and appreciative ya’ll taking the time to have me on ya’lls podcast.
“Yeah! Without a doubt Stephen! Alright with that all being said we would love to hear more about your initiative to push for these inner-city tennis courts in Queens…”
Harlen Mitchell
ENG 125
Fiction Piece
Ivory Veil
She had a strict morning routine which left little room for error. Shower every other day. If it was a shower day she’d need to wake up thirty minutes earlier. After the shower, she sat at her desk chair and dried herself, the friction warmed her skin, the towel’s fibers catching on goosebumps. She did her hair and makeup, brushes gliding across her face. This was not the only mask she wore. She prepped her original skin for the day before putting on another layer: The suit.
It was the most important part of her routine.
She pulled her skin suit off the hanger in her closet and slipped into it like a latex jumpsuit. First, her legs, then her stomach, then her arms, and then her shoulders until the entirety of her was concealed. The daily ritual never became any easier, hands trembling without fail each time she stepped into her second life. The second epidermis clung to her body cool and seamless, like being embraced by another being. She aimed to be a perfect imitation, as the pale suit conformed to every contour of her body, not a crease or wrinkle in sight. The suit’s fibers interlaced with her nerves, sending shivers down her spine as it began to rewire and reprogram her into this familiar yet alien being, forced to perceive the world from another lens. The way it hugged her frame made it so that her real flesh and blood became indistinguishable from the synthetic skin. She looked in the mirror, inspecting her appearance for the day to ensure that her counterfeit features were similar to the original ones but smoothed over in a way to be what people wanted her to be: Paler, bluer eyes, straighter hair, smaller lips, smaller nose, smaller frame. Paler. As she moved her hand up to her cheek the suit moved with her, like a silent partner in a bizarre dance. Her breath became shallow as she deemed herself ready to begin her day of gliding through the halls as an intruder.
She began her day, going through it much like a delicate ballet. She pirouetted through lectures, her answers sharp and precise. The words of professors were like incantations, both powerful and enigmatic and she hung on every word. Present but unseen. Heard but not acknowledged. While it appeared effortless, maybe even natural to others, every hallowed step she took felt heavy with the weight of expectation. The students around her, across the stark manicured lawns, moved with a sense of belonging, their laughs like a language she couldn’t quite decipher, wandering through the libraries with towering shelves of books that whispered the musings of old philosophers and poets. If it weren’t for her exceptional disguise she would be afraid that they were questioning her right to belong. She was a wildflower in a garden of curated roses surrounding a fortress of knowledge, but for her, the drawbridge remained up; that was until she found her skin suit. On her walk back home she looked up at the spires of the old buildings reaching up taller and taller, stretching for the heavens as if to claim kinship with the gods, and she was reminded of her nighttime routine.
Every evening, while everyone else was in the depths of their sleep, she searched for the small door that led to the roof. She stumbled down the hallway, carefully pushed open the door, and crept onto the shingles finding herself perched at the top behind a thin black railing. Somewhere she shouldn’t be. Under the cloak of twilight, wind whipping through her hair, this is where she found solace. The campus seemed like a distant memory below her. The cool breeze was a gentle caress against her synthetic skin as she stood at the precipice, gazing at the stars that pierced the darkening sky. With deliberate movements, she reached for the edge of her skin suit, the synthetic layer that had been a second skin, a facade she wore to blend into a world that demanded conformity. Fingers trembling with anticipation, she peeled away the suit, starting at the neck, the fabric retracting with a soft hiss of released seals. The suit was designed to mimic those around her, something thought to be a salvation, but to her, it was a prison. As she shed the artificial skin, it felt like shedding a lifetime of expectations and pretenses. The suit sloughed off, revealing the true form beneath, brown melanated skin—nothing like her peers. Free from the confines of her disguise, she stretched, feeling the liberation in every fiber of her being. The stars above bore witness as she was no longer bound by the limitations of a human guise; she was something more, something ethereal.
Lacuna
We discovered the swim hole one summer when we were 13. We had wandered farther down the little river in the woods behind our house than we normally go when we found ourselves in a small clearing. There, the river widened into a perfect swim spot. We ran all the way home, faces sweaty and flushed with elation, until we burst into the door of the run-down farmhouse where Dad was pouring over his books again and Mom was painting. I begged Dad to let us swim and to put up a swing on the tree that leaned out over the water while she backed me up with silent, pleading eyes, a quiet smile, and a whispered “yeah” here and there. A few days later we tried out the swing for the first time. I jumped off into the glowing water and shouted at her that it was perfect even as my lips turned purple and my skin prickled with goosebumps. When I was finally close to frostbite, I resigned myself to baking on a rock in the sun, and she climbed timidly onto the swing. It swayed back and forth slightly as she clutched the ropes with wide eyes that peered down into the green-blue water below. “Are you going to jump?” I asked her. She shook her head and sat down, swinging lightly as her legs dangled above the water. She watched the fading sunlight filter through the fir trees and reflect, sparkling, off the river’s surface for almost an hour, but she never jumped in. “Deep,” was all she said.
We were 16 when she vanished. She told me she was going on a walk. I was reading a book so I didn’t offer to join her, and she didn’t ask me to. “Remember to take your umbrella, it’s s’pposed to rain this evening,” I told her. Those were the last words I ever said to her. She nodded and walked out the door. And just like that, she was gone. Reduced to nothing but a cold case and a framed photograph on the mantel.
At first, I was just numb. One minute she was smiling at me from behind a veil of dark brown bangs, the next she was a lacuna: a blank space, a missing part. I had never been without her before. When our parents, who had met during a Greek studies class in college, found out they were having twins, they decided to give them matching Greek names: Calypso and Atlas. She was born first, and besides those 47 seconds until I followed behind her, I had never known a world without her in it. That must be why, after she vanished, it was as if I was walking around without one of my legs or arms. But even as a half-real shell of a person, I never stopped looking for her. Sometimes it would be intentional – I started skipping school occasionally when I got a feeling she might be somewhere, but she never was. Sometimes it was just in passing, like when I found myself looking for her face in a crowd at the State Fair or while I stared out the window of the car hoping to see her standing on the side of the road, a bunch of wildflowers in her fist. But once again, I seemed to be just a step behind her; she was always slightly out of my reach.
Growing up, however, she was a mystery to everyone but me. At least, that’s what I used to believe. We were both quiet, reserved, turtles in our own little shells, but her more so than me. Her dark, shadowy eyes and ever-serious expression either scared people or intrigued them, but I knew that she just had a lot of thoughts that she didn’t say out loud, that was all. Even Mom and Dad could never really figure her out, always casting sidelong glances at her over the dinner table in the flickering candlelight as she separated her vegetables, proteins, and grains into neat little sections with her fork. I knew she just needed to organize her food on the plate so that it would be organized in her stomach after she ate it, that was all. Mom even tells me that for a few months when we were five, she even stopped speaking altogether and I had to interpret for her until she decided that she wanted to use her own voice again. We were attached at the hip; two sides of one coin, two halves of a whole. I thought maybe it was a twin thing, but sometimes now I start to doubt it.
When I graduated high school, they announced her name along with mine, and handed me two diplomas, fake plasticky vinyl tacky under my fingers. I looked out at the rows and rows of identical black-robed, square-capped silhouettes with puppy-dog-pity eyes gazing up at me, empty. I wanted to strangle my entire graduating class. Apparently, the school did it to honor a “would-be graduate.” I wanted to strangle the entire administrative staff too. I held the extra diploma to my chest and thought how this was the stupidest thing ever. I sat in my seat and stared at her printed name inside her fake diploma. I felt hot, stupid tears threatening to betray me at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked twice, set my mouth in a firm line and refused to look at the empty chair beside me. That was the first time I felt it, sitting in my folding chair at my high school graduation, pretending to ignore the unsubtle glances and deafening whispers being shot in my direction. I felt scalding, suffocating hatred burning like coals in the pit of my stomach. That was the first time I resented her for disappearing, for marking me forever with this gaping wound that doesn’t ever seem to close.
I stopped telling people I was a twin after I graduated. It was easier that way, but every time someone asked if I had any siblings and I told them “no” so that I didn’t have to explain the whole ugly story, I felt the bile rising in my throat, her voice whispering shakily in my ear, “what about me?” I decided to go to community college since my high school grades were messed up from the year where I failed all my classes because I was too busy being angry to do my homework, but really it was because I wanted to still be here in case she turned up. A year and a half into community college the nightmares got worse – the ones where she was calling out to me and I was running toward her but right as I was about to grab her hand she dissipated before my eyes and I would wake up sweating and crying. I wondered again if it was a twin thing, if maybe she was trying to reach me through my subconscious, desperately trying to point me in the right direction, begging me not to give up even though Mom and Dad already had a funeral for her. The day after my roommate woke up to me half-asleep with my leg out the window ready to jump, I applied to transfer to NYU because staying in Vermont any longer was a sure death sentence.
I stare out the window at the gray-brown forest of buildings, watching the flurries of ivory-white snow sway and twirl down from the gray skies towards their fate below: the mountains of gray-black plies of sludge leaning up against the filthy gray sidewalk, spilling over into the slick gray road.
“Do you blame yourself, Atlas? For Calypso’s disappearance.”
Tearing my eyes from the window, I cross and uncross my legs on the hideous purple velvet couch and glance at the clock on the wall.
“Of course,” I challenge the thin-lipped, bug-eyed woman sitting across from me, yellow notepad in hand, pen hovering above the paper, chomping at the bit to tear me apart on the page as she nods, sweet as Stevia.
“And why do you think that is?”
In my head, I curse the image of my mother with her eyebrows knit together in worry as she hands me the voucher to a free therapy session. I sigh.
“I’m her twin. I’m her twin and I didn’t see any signs. I was the only one who could’ve seen the signs but I didn’t. I failed at the only job that ever mattered.”
Her frog eyes stare unblinking at me for a moment before she tilts her head and scribbles something in her crazy person journal. She looks back up at me and smacks her lips, chalky red lipstick so bright it hurts to look at smudging on her stubbly chin.
“For our next session, I want you to start thinking about what you can do to start to let Calypso go. If we’re going to move forward, we need to break you out of this obsession, Atlas.”
She sets down her notepad and pen on her knees and glances at her watch before flashing me a toothy smile, and I swear I see a forked tongue flash out at me.
“I’m afraid that’s all we have time for today. I hope to see you again next time.”
I don’t have the energy to tell her there probably won’t be a next time, so I just nod instead. I take the elevator down to street-level, joining the snowflakes in their descent to the grime of the city’s streets. I pull out my phone and book a train ticket.
A week later I’m standing at the edge of the swim hole. The water is half-frozen over, and all the naked, leafless trees make the place look a lot less magical and much more depressing than I remember. I clench my fists and grit my teeth against the feeling of red-hot anger snaking its way around my heart again.
“I hate you!”
I project my voice across the ice and listen to it echo through the woods.
“You ruined my life! I hate you!”
Silence returns my calls. I sigh, feeling the tightness in my chest release just a bit. Slowly, I amble over to the swing and sit down on the half-rotting wood seat. As I peer down into the grimey, frozen water, I let my mind wander. For a while after she left, I remember being convinced that she was going to turn up in the water here, that one day someone would be swimming around and accidentally stumble across her waterlogged, cold body at the bottom of the little pond.
“…Well, I guess I really just hate myself.”
I kick my feet a little and run a hand through my hair, feeling pretty stupid: a grown man yelling at nobody in the middle of the forest over an incident that happened years ago.
“I hate myself for not stopping you that night…and for letting this consume my whole life. I hate myself for not being able to let you go…”
I gaze at my reflection in the water, seeing the traces of her face peeking back up at me. I think back to the expression in her dark eyes, the innocent, sparkling wonder, as she studied the surface of the water all those years ago.
“I know I have to let you go, I know. It’s just…how do I get over something that was never supposed to have an ending?”
My own deep brown eyes blink back at me. I think about us: Calypso and Atlas. She who hides and he who endures. I can’t help but wonder how much longer that will be true.
Observations
Harper had never had a cup of coffee before, yet she spent every Saturday concocting variations of the caffeinated beverage. That particular weekend, she had a new friend keeping her company while she worked. Last semester, she was connected with a local organization that trained service dogs, and she had just recently been paired with Willow, a black lab puppy. In her little vest reading “service dog in-training,” Willow joined Harper behind the counter as she served mocha lattes and warm blueberry scones. Throughout the morning, dozens of people filtered through, spending an hour or two in the cozy environment to finish up an essay or meet up with friends.
A little girl sat in a booth with her mom, cheeks lingering a bright red from the blistering wind as she drank her hot chocolate, extra whipped cream. At the other end of the café, two older women sat in worn black armchairs drinking their chamomile tea (“tea with no caffeine, dear.”) The bell above the creaky door jingled and Willow’s ears perked up. Harper looked up as a middle-aged businessman walked up to the counter to order: a medium latte and a ham and cheese croissant. Harper had come to realize that you can tell a lot about a person by what they order. Her gaze drifted towards the corner table. A young woman about her age was there every Saturday. Her vibrant red, curly hair and freckles reminded Harper of her sister.
Before she had traveled halfway across the country to start college, Harper had been inseparable from her younger sister Quinn. When they were homeschooled, they were classmates. When their classes were done each day, they were playmates. Hours upon hours of playing together led to countless giggle fits. Harper looks back fondly on those years. No one understood her better than Quinn. They would play cards or chat in the evenings, giggles turned to full grown laughs as they entered their teens. Now, in her first year of college, Harper missed these days more than she cared to admit. It’s hard to know how to make friends when you had a built-in bestie your entire childhood.
Harper was lonely. No one here was like her. The few friends that she had made considered her sheltered. She could never be herself around them without feeling awkward or out of place. She never felt this way with Quinn.
Quinn’s doppelgänger was always alone: a lavender colored backpack on the chair beside her, laptop propped open. She typed fervently, fully intent on her work. She seemed stressed and had been at the café for over four hours now. Someday, Harper would work up the courage to introduce herself.
At the end of her shift, Harper found her own corner of the cafe to study in. Every once and a while she would look up to find that the woman was still there, just a few tables over. Harper had just become engrossed in her own work when Willow tugged at her leash. She pulled Harper to her feet and bounded toward the woman. Willow lay down on the coffee-stained, crumb-ridden floor and promptly rested her tiny chin on the woman’s feet, beginning to whine. Harper, confused, caught up to the puppy, only to find the woman trembling. Her body rocked back and forth, but just slightly, barely noticeable from afar. Her eyes were glassy and she didn’t seem to notice Harper’s presence. Harper moved the lavender backpack to the floor and sat beside the woman. She saw a gleaming medical alert bracelet and hesitantly lifted the woman’s wrist. Its bold red letters emphasized the condition at hand: Lily Anderson. Epilepsy.
Harper had seen seizures on medical dramas, but this wasn’t like that at all. There was no foaming at the mouth, there were no convulsions. Just moments later, Lily glanced over at Harper and then down at Willow, blushing in embarrassment when she realized what happened.
Harper asked if Lily was okay, her voice wavering with concern. She wasn’t sure what to do, but knew that she wanted to help. Lily replied softly that she would be all right, pointing to her medical alert bracelet. Introducing herself, Lily shared that she lived with seizures on a daily basis. Asking if there was anything she should do in response to the seizure, Harper sensed immediate relief in Lily’s shaky and timid voice: “No one has ever asked me that before. Would you walk with me back to campus? Sometimes I worry I will have a big seizure when no one is around to help me.” Harper slung Lily’s backpack over her shoulder.
“Absolutely.”
Chapter 1: Reunited
She steps off the gangplank onto a rickety wooden dock that filters into a crowded city street. Turning wheels, revving engines, and heavy feet busy the street as voices echo through the buildings high and low. The fresh salty scent of the sea begins to mix with the stench of the cityscape, ripe with odors that she can’t name. Overwhelmed to the point of turning around, she steadies as she remembers she has nothing to turn back to. Her resolve wraps around her like a warm blanket. Rolling her shoulders back and grabbing her bag in both hands, she slings it over her left shoulder before making her way deeper into the sea of unknowns.
She’s got nowhere to go so she takes her time to absorb the sights. She notes a wooden sign that reads “Welcome to Winterrest, where our lifestyle is best” in large yellow and black calligraphy. Looking up, she notices the roofs; many of them have chimneys, but some do not. “How do they stay warm at night?” She wonders. Next, she looks at the windows; some have the shades drawn but others provide a glimpse into a life she’s never thought to have. A father lighting candles at a table while a mother brings out dinner from the kitchen to the hungry children already seated on cushioned chairs. A quiet home where someone is reading by the fire with a book in hand and another person is finishing their knitting for the day. Snapshots through windowpanes. She notices some of the windows appear to belong to shops. Shops with goods ranging from groceries to garments, to strange knick-knacks.
She catches sight of her reflection in an apothecary shop window. Her boots are caked in a layer of dust from the bustling streets; luckily she’d worn pants for the journey. She would not have been able to move with such stride in a skirt or dress, and would have drawn more attention too. Her new navy trench coat is a godsend. Justice had wanted her to have it for the journey, saying it would get chillier at sea than she expected. He’d been right, of course. Her sweater helped too, wool coarse, but warm with purpose. She knew layering was how she’d survive the climate shift. Her mass of auburn hair is pulled back out of her face. She tucked it all under a cap with a half brim. Grateful that it shields her eyes from the sun. She shifts her weight back and forth, taking this image in. She’s been gripping her bag with two hands so tightly, her knuckles have gone white. Her face reads of bewilderment, her eyes wild and bulging with marvel. She adjusts her expression, going for more impassive, and presses on, beginning to weave in and around the unmindful people and side-stepping carts on the sidewalk.
She needs to find a place to stay. That is the task at hand, but as the hour turns golden, she begins to feel discouraged. There’s never a moment of peace in this place and no luck to be had. Which, of course, is when she spots him. Wait, no. That can’t be him. What the hell is he doing here? Wanting to get to the bottom of this swiftly, she begins to close the gap between them. On her approach, she takes in his appearance.
He has an impressive stature. Dressed sharp from head to toe. Black boots with a two-inch heel, and plum purple bell bottoms that match his blazer. His dreadlocks fall just below his shoulder blades, half wrapped in a knot on top of his head. When he turns to face the sun, she sees his well-trimmed beard. His brown skin reflects the sun like the water of a darkening sea before a storm. She can’t see his eyes because he’s got black tinted lens on. As he faces her, she notes the purple necktie and paisley patterned vest that match his ensemble. Then her eyes are drawn to his right eyebrow piercing: silver. It’s then she spots the silver watch on his right wrist; he’s reaching for his car keys. Now’s her chance, before he leaves. She’s got to talk to him.
“Excuse me.”
“Yes, can I help you with something?” He takes off his sunglasses and if she wasn’t sure before, she is now. It’s Vic, one hundred percent.
“Oh, uh…Yes actually.” She pauses briefly and realizes he doesn’t recognize her. Why would he? After all, she was only eight when he left the commune. She’s changed a lot since then, so has he. “I’m new in town and trying to find a place to stay. Every spot I’ve tried has turned me away. Could you recommend a place?”
He appears to just be taking her in now as she speaks. He ponders a response, stroking his chin briefly while leaning back against his car door. She waits in quiet, yet hopeful, anticipation. Finally, he says, “Well actually, I live a little ways out of town in a small cottage. But, there is a vacant one about three miles past in the woods. Some say it belonged to a witch.” He paused, wanting to gauge her response before continuing casually, “If you believe in that kind of stuff.” He chuckles. “Anyway, I’m more than willing to drive you out there, can’t make any promises about what kind of condition it’s in though.”
“Alright, thank you.”
“It’s no trouble. Hop on in.” He says opening the passenger door for her before walking to the opposite side and sliding into the driver’s seat. She sits down, keeping her bag tucked between her booted feet.
He checks his mirrors as he speaks, “My name’s Victor by the way, what’s yours?” Quickly she thinks of an alias, Daisy. “Well Daisy, do you mind if I play some music?” He asks in that voice, smooth like velvet. She nods eagerly, at a loss for words. Briefly getting lost in his emerald green eyes and then snapping her attention forward, sightline above the dashboard. Music starts to hum from the radio as they pull off onto the street. Her vision starts to blur as cars and streetcorners whip by. Before she knows it though, the lights of the town fade behind them as they rise and fall over the hills. Soon they pass cottages and she feels her breath steady. Already it is quieter. The two haven’t spoken since they left. They sit in a comfortable silence. It feels so familiar to her and yet she’s not sure it even registers for him. So she stares out the window, looking at the looming woods as the trees get taller and taller till they engulf the car in a canopy of dark limbs.
Sunday. Two days later.
Vic just stares out the window on days like this. Listening to the cold wind whip the tree limbs around and around. His focus is on the drops of water that hold on tight to each branching extremity. He picks a single droplet to stare at until it inevitably lets go plummeting to the forest floor below. He sits at his desk with the typewriter untouched, steam fades from the air as his tea goes cold. He’s been sitting there for at least an hour. Which is exactly when she arrives. Alora. He was expecting her. This was now the second time she’d walked to his cottage from hers, a brief three-mile walk. The last time was yesterday and he still didn’t know her name then. Only after his dream last night had that been revealed.
The fog is seeping in from the bay and engulfs the rolling hills that frame Vic’s cottage against the darkened woods. The fog moves like cascading waves in a stormy sea, gray and all-encompassing. Soon the fog will coat the ground in a foot of clouds, giving the forest an ominous glow. He’s in his night clothes stumbling through the forest. The darkness that shrouds him makes him feel half-blind. As the trees stretch out their fingers to ensnare him, he runs. Suddenly stumbling into a clearing, everything turns yellow and orange with daylight. There’s a warm glow and Vic hears a lively tune begin to grow in tempo and volume. He’s stumbled into a camp of hippies. There’s a band of colorful and thinly clothed musicians grooving together with several members of the troupe dancing topless. But that only has Vic’s attention for a second. His eye catches the familiar deep red of his family’s wagon and his breath hitches. He walks with weighted feet down the grassy knoll. His gaze fixed on the wagon, not seeing the root as it catches his foot and sends him somersaulting the rest of the way down the hill. Landing on his back he looks up and hears a scuffle before four faces surround him.
“Who’s this guy?”
“You mean you don’t recognize him, Honesty?”
“Nah, maybe he used to be familiar, Justice. I can’t tell anymore.”
“I recognize his eyes. I’d never forget those emerald green eyes.”
“Love, cool it, will ya?”
“Yeah, Peace is right. He looks freaked.”
“Rise, Victory, and welcome home.”
That’s when they help him to his feet. His legs don’t feel nearly as stable as before. But he holds up, not wanting to cause more of a scene. Now they are just staring at him. He can tell they are talking about him, but it’s like he can’t understand what they are saying. Maybe it just doesn’t matter. That’s because he sees her, the little one. The girl they rescued from a cave in the forest one night. It all came flooding back. He was here for her. Just like he promised, one day they’d get away from this life. She has her back to him, but he recognizes the two braids of rich auburn-colored hair littered with daisies. They travel down her back ending with blue ribbons tied in bows. She wears a matching blue dress and is dancing barefoot, as she often did.
He moves towards her but as he gets closer she flees in the direction of the woods. He calls out her name but his voice is meaningless. The trees stand tall with their phthalo green armor seemingly impenetrable to attack, yet the little girl sprints like a nymph, bounding out of the clearing and into the forest. By the time Vic enters the wooded shroud, she is nothing but a light-colored flash, blinking through the darkness. He chases after her, compelled to see her face, hear her laugh, and remind her that she matters to him. That’s when he senses something else is in these woods. Something sinister and threatening. He can’t see it but he hears its heavy footsteps as it cuts through the underbrush. He never stops running, he has to reach her in time, or else all is lost. He wakes up in a cold sweat, breathing heavily.
So he remembered it all. Big deal. He wasn’t about to let her know that. Sneaky Alora thinks she’s so clever. Well, he’s been known to play a convincing character or two. After all, he’s been playing this one for years.
Negative Space
The flowers by the bus stop had wilted unseasonably early that year. Cassidy had gotten a piece of fingernail stuck between her teeth, unconsciously relapsing into the nail biting of her childhood once the slim doors had shut behind her. Discomfort defined the rest of the ride, that keratin chip lodged where it wouldn’t leave, and her hands sheltered in her huge jacket pocket, her leg bouncing a staccato beat. The commitment only registered fully at that moment. It was an honor. She’d submitted her application as a joke. The bus careened gracefully as a freighter, from windy country roads to the downtown streets, taking its final rest seven blocks from her destination.
The classroom was vibrant. Bright with jeers and puerile restlessness. No one had really noticed her walk in, or sit down. Her palms had dried and her breathing tentatively evened. An uneasy relief for getting worked up over nothing.
“Would you like a chair? We typically have the model in the center.”
Every boyish face in that room turned to look at the gamine impostor. All the brightness cast into a beam. An electric pulse to her nerves. Carefully, she turned toward the voice, her glare catching his hand before anything else, pointing that delicate finger, like the limb of an olive tree to where she ought to be, but wasn’t. The model had been three minutes late that day.
Going co ed was becoming a profitable prospect, yet the highest donors stood firm in tradition, and although decreasing, those checks cashed as well as the ones twenty years ago. It would be an evolution, and not a revolution. A scholarship program for a single disadvantaged boy. An easy sell, and ten years later, the subtle semantic change from boy to person, rippled without breaking. The first girl was admitted two years later, for a single forty five minute course, once a week. Excellence and spite had gotten her through the year. Cassidy was now the third girl, and the first one without a perfect record. He couldn’t have known she was begging to be agitated, wired as a rabid dog.
He still waited in a seat outside the headmaster’s office to trail her down the hall. He kept a fair distance nonetheless. “I didn’t mean anything by it! You just looked like the exact sort of person Mr. Cincotta would ask to model. And that jacket! Not at all like the girl last year- which is a good thing!” Bright boy, that’s what people said. Bright face, hair, eyes. Never quite bright enough to stop looking a little lost though. Only natural. You could see it in the subtle tension at the furrow of the eyebrows and the corners of the mouth. She’d cut him off at the pointless spiral staircase by jumping the distance. He halted at the first turn and steadied himself. “I swear, I couldn’t tell you weren’t supposed to be one of us.” She chuckled. “You people are full of shit.” His hands gripped the balustrade firmer. “It was my bad judgment, that’s all. I’m sorry. I’m sure you worked hard to be here.” It wasn’t the words themselves, but the tenacity by which he said them, that snatched her last strand of good will.
She halted at the entrance, the ornate knob held gentle as a prayer. “I couldn’t care less what you think. I’m just here for art class.” It felt safe to slam it on the way out.
Every class from here on out was filled with barely hushed laughter when she was at the door, and Mr. Cincotta couldn’t say the little hoyden didn’t deserve it. But he hadn’t warned them, forcefully believing in a set of gentlemanly instincts, that laid dormant until provoked. He’d admit, this was an exception. This shaved-skulled wastrel was the pure antithesis of that prim calculus wiz from last year. When Cassidy met him in his office, he’d almost had his second heart attack. Of course this was the one he got. Her silence on the way to the studio had suggested she’d make due. He’d returned from the supply closet proven wrong and, dreadfully so, if out of all of them, Ira had upset her. The incensed letter to ask what whack job chose her for this had practically begun writing itself.
He realized he could have easily been that whack job after the bell rang. If all he’d known of her was her sketches, there’d be no doubt about it.
“You’ve got to get the negative space. Making the figure is only impressive if you differentiate it from the wall. Surround the subject, even if it’s just made up. That is what gives the illusion of physicality, what reveals the essence. I don’t want to see a background, I want to see an extension. I want to feel the figure hold the air.”
Cassidy heard the whispers, and although the last thing she felt for any of them was charitable, she had to concede, Mr. Cincotta was beyond old enough for his screws to be edging loose. She got her own set of whispers they thought she wouldn’t hear, or maybe knew she could. The shaved head, the busted shoes, the raggedy jacket, and the “psycho” fidgeting.
The lectures made sense if given attention, it was just Mr. Cincotta’s irrefutable presence that made him so difficult to understand. The long shadow of his nose held high over a sketch, and then brought low as he whispered, “You’ve got the form, but you are missing the essential shapes” or “No, no, no, the shadow lines need to be accentuating the curve.” None of the criticism would have been strange, had he not utilized his entire body like a spider, spindly legs and arms fused to a pudgy, round base, to gesticulate the instruction. And to him, it was beyond necessary. The marks were the building blocks of the only thing more important than life. Meaning.
Cassidy noticed how he hovered over Ira. No matter what happened, Ira’s hands would never shake or falter. His flats were clear panels or sheer drop offs. The grooves and dents eroded into the page, taken from life, and then flattened. Cassidy didn’t think he was an artist, she thought he was a cartographer. In those early days, she gave him the same credit she gave her calculator. Fast, functional. Putting out exactly the ideas put in. And even though it was barely audible, she heard what she wanted to hear Mr. Cincotta say to him. Soft as disappointment, “You give so much love to such a static composition.”
Ira’s pencil stilled without any pressure. He smiled as he said, “If that’s how you feel, sir.”
When Mr. Cincotta paused over her, it was unbearable, not because of what he would say, but because of what he wouldn’t. He looked and then he walked on. She’d always grab the edge of the stool, and it hurt after her nails were chewed to the quick, but it stopped her from thinking. About how all that energy she didn’t have on the night shift was going to this. How many times she’d ignored the beer cooler, knowing she’d miss the bus if she was hung over. Of how no other place made her feel so unwanted. Mashed in a blank space meant to be filled, but never by her. Of course she’d gotten him as a teacher. The one person paid to make this all worth it wouldn’t believe she deserved the privilege. Her stewing on the ride home started to get so palpable, she got used to a row of seats to herself.
Seeing her painting at the front of the class on the last day of the month might have been the last straw. Why not? This choice was obviously targeted, why else would he choose the homework she did in the middle of the night, instructed to be based on nothing but memory, that smudged in transit no matter how painstakingly carried. She’d opened the closet across the hall, the one that doubled as storage for supplies and homework, tripped over a flannel-covered pile of rubbish, and fell face first into the brick wall. An ill omen if ever there was one. She’d shoved her work in the back so no one would find it.
Before she had time to react, he said, “You see the eyes of the blue jay, and you know they’re looking at you. Is it a precise composition? No. Does it have a soul? Yes. Why does it work?”
She stayed silent with a puzzled vindication, while he let the class dissect.
She caught Mr. Cincotta smoking on her way out, smelling the ash under the pine. He was at the side of the building, the winter wind blowing the fumes into her face.
“How could I have made it more accurate?”
He startled as fast as he grimaced, “I already said you didn’t need to.”
“It wasn’t meant to be inaccurate.”
“I’d figured.”
Her teeth grated against each other. “May I ask, then, why would you pick mine? Since you never give me any kind of feedback.”
He shut his eyes, as his eyebrows drew upwards, in a look Cassidy could recognize from a mile away. A bid for patience. “No you may not.”
He blew out another breath, and she tasted putrid air on her next question.
“If that’s the case, why couldn’t you have warned me? I thought you folks were just so civilized.”
“Warned you? You didn’t read the syllabus?”
She’d tried, and then a migraine came on at the same time the TV psychic said, “Keep all your spiritual fortitude for the coming days.” She connected the dots. And the words were jumping demented jack rabbits. She regretted not pushing through, which she would never admit as long as she knew where things stood.
“You know those boys don’t like me.”
“For God’s sake, be proud you were important for the day. Those boys don’t realize it, but they respect you. The first painting of the year is one from the best artist. And the only other one good enough was Ira-” Mr. Cincotta coughed into his hand, and the next words were a croak. “Couldn’t pick him.”
The inside of her throat tasted sour.
If anyone in that class was beloved, it was Ira. He was never the butt of any joke, or a provocateur on any subject, as his presence had a placating effect on the other boys. Made them almost take things seriously. Every reason to give that boy a spotlight.
“Why the hell not?”
The cigarette paused halfway to his mouth. She kept steady.
The silence stretched for a while, and then something seemed to snap in him. He turned to leave, throwing his cigarette out in the bin next to a dead rose bush. She wanted to follow him, but on her first lurch forward, he said, “Bus leaves in five minutes. And I know that ugly coat won’t stop you from freezing.”
It wasn’t her business. But now she couldn’t get that first day out of her head. Why had Ira followed her down the hall? Why had he apologized?
She pretended not to watch him. Ira was well liked, yet without a definite posse. She’d tried to think he was too popular for friends, but her unfairness began to curdle the more she knew how it tasted. And as the days folded over, she stilled herself enough to listen to him, and found that getting an apology out of him wasn’t a difficult feat, and they always tended to be sincere. The most uncomfortable kind. When she expected teasing, at the very least, all he got was an uneasy but genuine acceptance, of those who know better than to say what they want to. It was only Mr. Cincotta, and his comments, that ever breached anything else. Ira’s drawings stayed still and perfect, and the subject was always covered by a sheet, if he could manage to make that fit the prompt. He was a persuasive talker. And perhaps, if she was ever in a mood to begrudge anyone anything, she could call him good natured.
A lazy class of sketching, when nobody was there but the three of them. A field trip. Cassidy hadn’t remembered not to show up, and when Ira strode in, she guessed he had forgotten to get a form signed or a fee paid. But when he placed a tiny box on Mr. Cincotta’s desk, it was with purpose. The old man glanced over his glasses for half a second, not a single indication of closing Great Expectations. “I didn’t take it last time, I’m not taking it now.”
“Oh, but that would be your loss.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a bad habit, and I only got room for my own.”
By God, the face Ira pulled. Honest eyebrows that stretched up towards each other, over widened eyes, made all the more downtrodden by that congenial smile that stretched just the slightest bit too far.
Mr. Cincotta tilted his head back slowly, raising his brows, in an expression Cassidy immediately recognized. “When was the last time you kept one of these little gifts for yourself?”
“It’s not a gift if I keep it.”
The old man let out a sigh. Slumping forward, a penumbra over his eyes, he gently whispered, “Alright, but it better be dirt cheap.”
Ira didn’t waste a moment, and Cassidy couldn’t make sense of what that meant. It took her too long to realize her eyes had trailed him as he left.
“Mind your own.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Juvenile embarrassment shaded her tone.
“No wonder you’re not subtle, if that’s all it means to you.”
She’d left before Ira returned, to spend the rest of the hour contemplating at the bus stop.
A week went by before they practiced drawing each other, in preparation for a final portrait.
“Remember, all faces have the same basic structure, but it’s the specifics that will make a person. Eyes in the middle of the face. Nose half way between eyes and chin. Mouth, one third of the way between nose and chin. Hair, don’t forget how much hair defines a silhouette. Let the contours give the face its roundness, and the skull must be round, even in a full frontal. You want a mind in the head to give the eyes that spark of light.”
Ira was shaken, but he said yes anyway. It started to rain. He looked into her face and drew it as it was. She drew him as accurately as she could, with tension in the eyebrows and the corners of the mouth. Nothing but stilted one word answers. They were almost done, when she half heartedly remembered she forgot an umbrella, and the scheme hit her, clear as a vision.
“You made my eyebrows look bitchy.” His whole body seemed to freeze, not just his hands. She figured it was a place to start. “I mean, that’s how they look. I could get ’em changed, but I don’t know. I think it suits me.” She smiled like a hyena, “Any opinions?”
“I didn’t really notice anything like that.”
“Hm. You’d capture expressions better if you did.”
His eyes darted to her, but then they went right back to the page. They’d assess, back and forth, long enough for a lapse into silence. At the eighth repetition, any traces of her grin had left. By the twelfth, a rare apology almost escaped her, when he suddenly squinted at the drawing, almost cleverly.
“If you’re taking suggestions, maybe you should let your hair grow out. So ya know, you have another defining feature.”
She almost hollered bingo, and carried on like a hooligan, until he gave her his umbrella. It only really hit her at the bus stop how comfortable of an apology it was. And that if anybody in the class hadn’t previously thought she needed an exorcism, she’d changed their mind free of charge.
The day after next, she gave his umbrella back, and told him he’d make a good politician.
“Give up this namby pamby art crap while you’ve still got self-respect.”
He raised one eyebrow at her, and, uncannily, the other one didn’t go down, and that was the first time she ever saw the skin between them smooth.
She smirked, “No, no, you’re right. Too honest for that life. You’d never make it. I on the other hand-”
“Would crash and burn in your first debate?”
“That mouth of yours-”
“Get to work, Cassidy.” Mr. Cincotta’s elongated shadow draped over her piece. “Last time I checked, you’re behind.”
She turned towards the canvas, muttering, “Only ever on my ass, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I tend to help those that need it most.”
Ira exhaled from his nose in a quiet puff of humor. Cassidy felt an abstract jolt of pride, and didn’t try to justify its place.
Ira walked with her to the front, and did so every following day, until it was odd when he didn’t. She walked in and sat next to him, as unquestioned as routine. Mr. Cincotta blew smoke in Cassidy’s face, knowing she’d walk through the door first. She grimaced, and he smiled at her. He noticed an odd angle in the jaw of Ira’s final portrait.
In the evening, before the last day of school, when the rose bush at the front began to bloom, and the sky was blue as a robin’s egg, as far as the eye could see, Abraham Cincotta had the heart attack that would kill him.
The two pupils meandered towards the gate, neither feeling they had the right to leave.
“You know, I think it’s my fault. The old misogynist probably couldn’t handle me.” She talked because it felt wrong not to, and he didn’t for the same reason. “You know, I saw him sometimes out here. Made a move. Asked him for a ciggy. He said no, of course. Still gave me second hand smoke, which is fucked when you think about it. Not like my lungs can’t handle it, I’ve gotten some off the other gas station employees. Cigarettes, not just second hand smoke, but that too.” When they got outside, she chose a spot to lean on the wall, the old brick scraping the back of her fuzzy head. The rose bush had a single bud that was still pursed. “I can’t really think of him as dead. Damn, I’ve never even been to a funeral. My grandparents were gone before I was born, and then my mom and dad split from their families and split from each other. It’s just not something I would be invited to. Probably wouldn’t even know the first thing to do.”
“You just be there.” She turned to look at him, and he was completely still, his eyes closed. A painful serenity, a resigned stillness. Until he let out a sigh, and couldn’t stop. “If you’re close to them, you just be there. And it shouldn’t matter how you got there or what’s going on cause you’ve got- you just sit and try. That’s all it really is. People say what they need to say about you. And you cry, or you don’t, because you kinda got it right. I’d say so. You don’t think of them as dead yet. If ever. But you also don’t have anything else to think of ‘em as. So you stay, and you fill the space with something. Because an absence is cruel-” He seemed to catch himself. “In theory. Not in practice. Circumstances, all of that.”
“Ira?”
“Yeah?”
“You remember that day, in um, February? Or maybe March? There was that field trip that neither of us went on, well I couldn’t, and you, um… you gave him something.”
Honest eyebrows, wide eyes, stretched smile. “Why’d you remember that?”
“Seemed important.” Seemed strange.
They went back to the closet, and there it was, between the brushes and the final portraits. That flannel shrouded pile of junk. The ill omen..
“He didn’t take a single one? And you were handing ‘em out like candy.”
“Said something about blowing through my savings.”
“Were you?”
“No. Couldn’t even if I wanted to.”
“Why not? It’s your-” And then she thought about how their lives were fundamentally different. How she’d always dreamed of spending money like a rich kid, but being close enough to the consequences not be a slave to impulse. “Your parents probably only give you so much.”
“No, they don’t.” His tone was so vacant and precise. She felt her mouth dry up, itching to bite at fresh white tips. “I lied to him, Cassidy. I didn’t buy any of it, I just needed it gone and I needed it safe. These are special. It’s all I really have of-. And he was supposed to keep them in here, but now I don’t know what they’ll do if they find them.”
She didn’t ask to look, although she could feel his eyes on her.
She knew what he’d want, and the fact that it was her, and nobody else, seemed so sad and sinister. The boy surrounded by everyone yet lonely beyond words. That could draw anything he wanted, as long as it remained lifeless. So afraid of leaving things on bad terms, every word out of his mouth was an apology. What would he do when all his gifts were given and safe?
“I regret that first day, you know.” He flinched when she said it. “I don’t know why I was so bitter. I don’t get nervous in new places. I’m known for that. Notorious for it really. I ran away once. Was a really big deal. Hitchhiked across state lines, the whole nine yards. But I… couldn’t handle coming here for some godforsaken reason.”
The first time she ever heard him truly laugh. She loved it. It sounded like a strange hiccup. Like the sound got caught in the back of his throat. She took off her coat, and threw it at his chest.
“Hold onto that for me.” He held it gentle as a prayer.
She carried the flannel sack over her shoulder, all the way down to the street, and when he tried to put the coat over her shoulders, she swatted him away.
“What’d I say? You really weren’t listening to me, were you? Typical man.”
He realized what she’d done, and looked the slightest bit indignant.
“Cassidy, I’m not-”
“Yes you are. You’re going to keep it. Lucky you. And by God, you will be the one to give it back, or I’ll throw all of this into the Atlantic.”
The tattered, swamp green thing, cradled in his beautiful hands. She knew she looked smaller without it. It really was hideous, and that had always worked for her. Putting a hand in his back pocket, he whispered, “I meant to give this to him today.”
He handed it to her underneath the green fabric, and she felt the slightest tremble in his hand. She didn’t look at it until she got off the bus. The smallest sketch book she’d ever seen. The flower blooms bustled against each other in the mild, evening breeze. She plucked a couple, not seeing what they were, to press between the pages.
To the Bone
Benji was the first to move. His body launched into motion at the unmistakable sound of ceramic shattering on the hardwood. A rhythmic clicking of claws on the floor followed by the familiar lapping of a dog in human-food heaven. He cocked his head, looking up at the rest of the family, who stood swallowing nothing but the weight of the uncertainty just unleashed in the dining room.
Next was Tommy. Quick breaths escaped his tight lips in the form of a laugh almost caught in the back of his throat. After what felt to him like ten minutes of giggling, but was truly just one, he bent down to collect the shards from the floor.
Sophie broke the silence.
“Tommy.” She said with a sternness unique to an older sister. “Don’t” her voice cracked, softening her expression as she dared to look at him again.
She had known earlier in the day something like this would happen. Like any other Christmas, Tommy bounded into the room with a wide smile and snaggled canine tooth. However, just as the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the morning kitchen, he had disappeared back upstairs. She discreetly slipped out the kitchen’s side door while her parents moved together to the sound of Crosby over the speaker. She only made it halfway up the stairs before she heard the muffled rattling of a pill bottle through the bathroom door. It was the same rattling she heard coming from his backpack when she picked him up from his dorm on Thanksgiving.
When the two were both back downstairs, she watched him with trepidation. She followed his eyes as they stalked their parents around the room. Her mind fixated on the slowness of his words, and the way they sounded like they came from a dry mouth. She futilely waited for the childish delight that always came when he opened Christmas gifts. Instead, she ended up counting the number of times she caught his knee bouncing like a spring that had been pulled too far. She felt heat rise from her cheeks when their mother reached her hand across the couch to slow his shaking and hand him another gift, perfectly packaged with a glittering bow. Every muscle in her body tensed as Tommy twirled their mother through the living room with eyes half open. Their mother simply laughed, grateful her son was in a good mood today.
After the presents were over, Sophie started on the dishes from their breakfast. Opening the dishwasher, she forcefully swatted at Benji, who was standing on his hind legs scratching at her for scraps. “Oh relax Soph!” Tommy quipped at her disdain for the dog’s desire. “He doesn’t know any better. ”
When it came time for dinner, Sophie artfully set each place with freshly polished silver and pressed napkins. Tommy was tasked with bringing the roast to the table. When he dropped it to the floor, their mother’s brow furrowed at her daughter’s cold reaction, her eyes darting between her two frozen children. “Oh dear, Tommy please get a broom sweetie. I don’t want you to cut yourself” she pleaded to her son. Through widened pupils, he looked up at her, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned as if oblivious he had dropped the Christmas roast. He let out another breathless giggle. Almost exasperated by the silence she continued, “What happened honey, did you trip? Was the dish too hot? Oh, Soph get the broom for Tommy, would you?”
Sophie’s eyes locked to her brother still bent on the floor. “No.” She stated plainly. Tommy’s hands didn’t move as Benji walked over them to get a better angle at the meat.
“Sophie, please don’t be so difficult. Help your little brother.” Their mom countered.
“Mom. He needs a lot more than a broom.” Sophie’s breath was speeding, her heart pounding from her own defiance. For the first time, Tommy’s grin collapsed. He looked at his mother, then his sister, then down to the shards below him.
“Sophie, just get your brother a damn broom for the broken dish. Clearly, he doesn’t know any better.”
As the family stood paralyzed, Benji continued to gnaw at the seasoned flesh of the roast. The room fell silent, filled only by the resounding sound of a dog’s teeth, striking bone and cracking it to pieces.
Waves
The sand embraces your feet with a warm hug, inviting them to become one with nature. The sun pokes through the clouds, making its grand entrance into the cotton candy sky. The peace and quiet will soon be interrupted as beachgoers trickle in throughout the late morning, eager to enjoy such a beautiful day at one of the most popular New England summer destinations. The waves crash slowly now, but they will soon pick up just as the crowds, daring anyone bold enough to join their song and dance. It is quiet now, but I know it will not last. It never does. For now, I savor the solitude as I walk up and down the shore.
My job requires me to clean up the beach, to bring its beauty back from the strain of the previous day. Some of my friends from class treat this job as just that; a job. I’m sixteen. It’s my first job, something my mom got for me to do over summer break. To me, it’s more than that. It’s an open invitation to sit with nature day in and day out. So many people choose to treat the
beach like a trash can, like something they can replace so easily. Like something that doesn’t offer its best day in and day out. Like something that isn’t so beautiful that only the mind can capture its true aura. It hurts me to think about it until I see something beautiful, like a little girl running from the shore to her family’s umbrella as she shows off the sandcastle she has devoted herself to completely for the last hour.
But again, my mind wanders. Instead of getting mad at the world, I choose to bask in what small part of it I can now enjoy. I refuse to let humans ruin the beauty of nature in my eyes, the same big, hopeful, dark brown eyes that capture such beauty. I am grateful to have the beach all to myself right now. I would stay in this moment forever if I could. Once the sand is freshly raked, I sit quietly a few yards away from the waves. I savor this peace as long as I can and stop only when I see an indication that my favorite part of the day is suddenly over. Then I see people slowly gather in the parking lot, beginning their journey to the beach with their coolers and umbrellas and towels.
It is the middle of the day. I am not yet tired and ready to go home, but I am also not charged with the same energy I had at the beginning of the day when my environment was a perfect reflection of my quiet mind. I watch the waves, it is my job to ensure the safety of the people entrusting their lives to the uncertainty of the ocean. I can always tell a lot about a person by how far they venture into the sea. Some play it safe; they dip their feet in to cool off. Others
take risks, they go far enough to lose sight of their bodies. These are the ones I wonder about-what do they feel? Joy? Adrenaline? Buoyancy? Fear? Did they intentionally venture so far or has the strength of the waves carried them farther than they intended?
I give my eyes a break from the brightness of the ocean for a second, surveying the status of the beachgoers on land. I quickly scan across the crowds. Some bathe in the warmth of the sun, some clutch a beer with a paper bag over it as if nobody knows they indulge in an alcoholic beverage. Some open their coolers to grab sandwich bags, replenishing what nutrients their body has lost by standing out in the bright heat for so long.
Suddenly my eyes meet his. Time stops passing. The waves stop crashing. The world stops turning. His forest green eyes sparkle. His wavy brown hair blows with the salty wind, complementing the beauty of the waves. He moves closer to me, trotting through the same warm sand that embraces my feet. As he gets closer, I see the twinge of a smile. Is he looking at me? Is he coming over to talk to me? Oh god, here he comes.
“Hey” he blurts out casually as though he’s done it a million times before, completely unaware of the million thoughts racing through my head.
“Uh. Hey.” I manage. Did that sound weird? Can he see me blushing? Did I mess up already?
The Last Night at Lanning Fountain
I saw her on my very first tour of campus. Of course, in the midst of a global pandemic, there were no real tours to be had. There was just me and a deserted campus— and her. She was towering and beautiful, casting a vaguely haunting expression at the bench in front of her. Like most statues, I couldn’t quite discern what emotion she was meant to project. Her knuckles bent just above where her fingertips touched the fountain’s spout, as if she had stopped to linger and run her hands along its surface. She held a book down at her side, paused midway through its dense stone pages. Her head tilted downward only slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, if you looked. Her placard read “IN MEMORY OF A BEAUTIFUL LIFE.”
I moved onto campus the following winter, in deep COVID-19 lockdown. We weren’t permitted to make friends. Orientation was completely canceled. Class took place online only. There were no clubs or parties or outdoor meet-ups. Meals had to be eaten alone in one’s room. Common spaces were closed. Even our house microwave was removed out of concern for the spread of contagious fomites. Gathering in a small group, even while masked, was a severely punishable offense. Interpersonal bonding was strictly forbidden.
So, I spent time with her. She was fine company. She had an air of mystery— an exciting trait in any friend. Her inability to spread airborne disease was a plus. While the world paused, we had our fun. I made her companions in the snow, stuck my hat on her head, and placed snowballs in her open grip. I took photos of her beneath the snowfall and told her how lucky she was that the flakes adorned her eyelashes without melting. When the sun warmed the northern hemisphere, we basked on her stone pedestal. One moonlit night, I even swam in the fountain bowl. I thought about my English course on the Salem witch trials, and how any witnesses would surely think to burn me at the stake. After that spring, they stopped filling her fountain. Half of its surface progressively cracked and chipped away, dry as a bone. I like to imagine the lost bits became well-traveled. She still kept her finger poised curiously above its spout, waiting for the trickling to resume.
Restrictions lightened and I began having contact with other students, making flesh-and-bone friends. We’d walk by laughing and I’d be sure to hold her gaze, give her a silent nod or wave. I visited often in the night, when I felt out of sorts. She even saw my first breakup, right on the bench. Afterwards, I sunk into the cold fountain bowl and wailed. I laid there until all the warmth was leached out of me, then walked home shaking. We didn’t have to talk much. I felt like she just knew. She saw a lot of things.
Campus life improved over the years. I made friends I truly loved with my entire heart. For the first time, I felt understood and treasured— like it wasn’t even hard. I laughed and connected with a dozen different people every day. I had someone to eat dinner with every night. We walked in the woods and swam in the river and partied in the basements and projected movies in Seelye and ate junk food and fell asleep on the living room couch and lived each day like it was our last. She saw me get better.
On my last night of college, I threw a party. I invited all of my friends, and all of their friends, and everyone we lived with, and everyone I had class with, and everyone on Instagram. The whole lot of them. A few dozen showed up with music, picnic blankets, glowsticks, drinks, and a fiscally irresponsible quantity of cheeseballs from the Dollar Store. We crawled into the fountain bowl and invited her to our party— or, ourselves to hers, depending on who you asked. We handed her cheeseballs and make her a radioactive green crown of glow sticks. After a couple drinks, I thought I ought to say something.
“I don’t think I actually know your name,” I proffered, half-chuckling at my own awkwardness.
“It’s Marguerite, technically.” She patted the permanent folds of her dress.
“Technically?”
“Technically, I’m modeled after Mary’s statue of a woman named Marguerite. But I’m here for Mary, so they also call me Mary.”
“Do you have a name for yourself?”
She paused for a moment. “I like Mars.”
“Oh, smart.” I wobbled. “It’s like both, and something else.”
“Exactly, both and something else.” She said it so coolly, I worried she was just indulging me. I wasn’t used to having others stand over me in conversation, and she was so remarkably tall. I felt like I was shrinking.
“Can I get you a drink? It’s orange soda with a ton of vodka.”
I got her the drink and we perched on the edge of the fountain bowl. Campus was quiet aside from our soirée; most were busy packing their rooms for move-out or raging at the senior bar crawl. Those loud, New England crickets echoed through the humid air.
“How long have you been here?”
“A little over a century.” She sipped the concoction and immediately squinted her eyes. I tried to imagine the act of identifying these flavors for the first time, the carbonation buzzing into your face.
“Wow. I bet you’ve seen a lot.” I tried my best to sound neutral, as if I wasn’t incredibly jealous. Somehow, I sensed the nature of her existence as an immovable decoration was not an appropriate party topic.
“For sure. I mean, the years start to blur together, but I remember my favorite moments. These girls from the 80s used to swim in the fountain at night and tell me all their gossip.” Mars looked down at her slate fingernails. “They painted my nails, too, until campo accused them of vandalism.”
I laughed. “Wow, classic Smith College! No fun allowed.” Mars chuckled. I looked into my cup. She looked at me. Her glow stick crown shifted on her downturned head.
“Hey, I feel like you just got here. Are you really leaving tomorrow?”
“I guess they’re making me.” I imagined I sounded like my ailing grandmother when she used to joke about being put down.
“I take it you don’t have any big plans lined up?” She broached it gently, and I’d heard it a hundred times before, but it still felt like a punch to the gut.
“Nope.” I took a long sip, using the cup to shield my eyes. This was it. This was everything. Nearly everything and everyone I loved was there, in the fountain bowl. And they never would be again. How could I move on?
“This is it?” She sounded unsurprised.
I swirled my cup as if it had any ice left in it. “Yep.” We lapsed into silence. It’s hard to come back from an impasse like that. I had to leave and she couldn’t. How could we possibly have consoled each other?
“Hey. You want to dance?” She was already getting up and pulling me back down into the fountain bowl. We stumbled down its slope and joined the crowd. Everyone seemed to know each other, and we had reached the part of the evening where friends clung onto each other and poorly attempted to sing along to early 2000s top hits. We danced. I asked her questions about Smith before me, about famous alums and campus traditions and secret tunnels and anarchic spirit and stick-and-poke culture and my favorite professors and how Smithies got indoor slip and slides permanently banned after the coolest Chapin party ever. My words started to collide on the way out of my mouth, and my feet got twisted around each other.
“Are you going to be okay?” I realized Mars had stopped talking, quietly observing as I made a clumsy fool of myself.
“Don’t worry, I won’t throw up in your bowl.”
“No, I mean… After this. Will you be okay after you leave?”
I snorted rudely, as if she had asked a stupid question. “No?” I looked around at the party. Nobody seemed to be listening. A third of them were sitting on the ground, unlikely to recall this moment tomorrow anyway. “Honestly, it’s going to be really fucking bad. I’m going to cry for… ever.” She put a hand on my shoulder and nodded sadly, saying nothing. “I try not to think about it, because I don’t want to start grieving while I’m still here, but sometimes I accidentally think about it, and I just feel this horrible crushing weight…”
Have you ever been so drunk that you don’t feel yourself crying? There’s no choke in your throat, no tightness in your chest; you only realize what’s happening when you unconsciously begin to wipe your sopping face with the fabric of your shirt.
“Oh my God. Sorry. God, this is so embarrassing.” I rubbed more tears off my cheek and tried to look at anything but Mars.
“Hey, it’s okay. You think you’re the first one to sob at the fountain on graduation day? You should have seen those 80s girls. They tried to camp out in my bowl after graduation.”
“They did?”
“They did. But don’t get any ideas. Campo had to drag them out, and that was embarrassing.” She smiled at the memory. Somehow we had ended up on the ground, with Mars’ arm around me. “Look, it’s okay to grieve. Everyone does. It just means you had something good here. And you’ll find it again. You did it before, and you’ll do it again.” I was unconvinced, and she could tell. “Hey, who’s the expert here? You, or the statue who’s spent a hundred years at this” —she put on mock-aristocratic voice— “prestigious institution?’” I gave her a chuckle.
The party slowed down until a small crowd remained. We sat on the ground trading stories and memories, cementing our friendships, and swearing “if you’re ever in my town, you can totally stay at my place” a thousand times over. We stayed until the sky turned pink. On the way out of Mars’ fountain bowl, I stopped to hug her stone form, cold and unmoving. In memory of a beautiful life.
Rachel Hitchen
ENG 125
Draft #2
4 April 2024
Wait for Me
A sigh, grand and drawn out. A hand raised to touch her forehead, her figurative headache bound to morph into a tangible migraine; she didn’t have time to deal with a migraine right now, she was out of pills, and dealing with her spotty insurance to get her prescription refilled would only make the stabbing in her head worse.
A pause. Give it a moment. A tapping of her foot, the sound of the methodical thumping of a heel on the carpeted office floor making her frustration known to the world.
“Couldn’t she have waited another day?”
One day. Less than that. Seventeen hours. The bigshot just had to wait seventeen hours for his article to be published—“Talent on the Rise: Up-and-Coming Broadway Director Whose Work You Won’t Want to Miss!”—then he would have been free to do whatever he wanted.
“I doubt it was his choice to get in a car crash.” Her coworker said as he gave her a stare, eyes widened ever so slightly, a blend of shock and pity directed toward the source of the apathetic comment who sat at the desk in front of him. “Whatever the case, choice or not, the article is being pulled.”
A sigh, deeper than the first. She worked on that article for a month. She was proud of it too. A pause, a finger tapping on the desk, the thud of manicured nails hitting wood resounding throughout the room. She’d been idle for too long, her month’s worth of work now equating to nothing.
“What can I work on next?” She asked without hesitation.
Her coworker’s gaze shifted from her eyes to the side, suddenly finding the wallpaper very interesting. His aversion to her gaze told her all that she needed to know.
She hated doing interviews.
Throughout her career writing on theater she avoided taking on such a task whenever possible. And when she had no choice but to suck it up and meet with some actor, director, or whatever position was deemed important that week, she got it over with as quickly and methodically as possible, doing her best to avoid any sort of emotional connection.
Ask her question. Write the answer. Look at the forehead. Avoid eye contact. Rinse. Repeat. Say goodbye.
The past two years she had been clean, weaseling her way out of any interview, effectively navigating her career with little to no reminders of the one she was trying to forget. She always made up for each interview she avoided with three new reviews in its place. Lady luck adamantly decided not to be on the writer’s side today, deciding that granting her two years of freedom from interviews was more than enough generosity. When your department is as small as hers, sometimes the previously avoidable becomes an infinitely spanning stone wall with no way around it.
It was a long weekend, some national holiday in honor of some long dead white guy’s birthday. The actress booked for an interview was only available to meet on said holiday, and as the only one in her department with no plans for the day off, the honor of interviewing the little star fell upon her shoulders.
Slamming the door of her one bedroom New York City apartment open, kicking it in with her high-heeled foot, and hurling her purse onto the tiled floor wasn’t the cathartic release she hoped it would be. The minimalist space in front of her was suddenly too bare, too understimulating. She rushed with a composed agency, rummaging desperately, yet carefully, through her drawers to find and light the candles that then flooded the once sterile space with lavenders and blueberries.
The scent of the various candles she lit overwhelmed her sense of smell as she forced herself to focus on the discomfort of the strong scents attacking her nostrils and the constant buzzing of the fan she had turned to the highest setting. As she set upon washing and drying her dishes her mind refused to stay still, only freezing upon hearing the distinctive sound of a mug breaking on the cool, tiled floor. With a frantic frustration she swept up the shards, forcing herself to focus on nothing but the ceramic fragments in front of her and the buzzing of the city outside.
Researching and preparing for the interview could be done tomorrow. For tonight, she would escape. Tonight she would sing as she biked and re-watched shows from her childhood. Tonight she would reread Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights for the second time this year. Tonight she would fervently dust the framed photo of her parents, whose eyes bore across her living room, and the unopened chest under her bed.
On the day of the interview she sat in a coffee shop, sunlight pouring down onto the empty chair across from her, drawing her attention to it no matter how hard she tried to look away. Her leg had been bouncing up and down in an anxiously rhythmic manner for several minutes now. When she finally noticed, she paused. A hand brought down to slow a shaking limb. A breath, deep and grounding.
A tap on her shoulder brought her back to reality suddenly. She barely caught the words of the woman now standing before her, asking her for her name.
She answered wordlessly, pointing to the nametag on her blazer that displayed in delicate blue letters: “Eloise.” The woman laughed at her own lack of observational skills as she sat in the empty seat across from Eloise, now bathed in sunlight.
Speaking with a determined and controlled excitement, the woman introduced herself as she offered her hand: “My name’s Wren.”
Eloise knew that already. She was a diligent worker; she did her research; she at the very least knew the name of the Broadway actress she was interviewing. Taking Wren’s hand, Eloise shook it, instinctively shaking with small motions, barely moving her hand. She became unable to control this movement when Wren joined her second hand around Eloise’s, shaking with the eagerness of a hopeful youth.
With the formalities done Eloise was one step closer to getting this interview over with. Steeling herself she raised her eyes to Wren’s forehead, avoiding direct eye contact. The spiel she had prepared rolled off her tongue with little thought as she explained how the interview would proceed and laid out her materials, finishing with a curt: “Does that all make sense?”
Wren replied with an unearned level of excitement in a hearty but nonetheless nervous “Okay!”
A breath, a clicking of a pen, and it began.
“This is your first major role, correct? What was the casting process like for you?” Write down her answer. Look at her forehead, avoid eye contact. “What is it like working with this director?” Write down her answer. Look at her hair, it was red, avoid eye contact. “Were there any moments of frustration during your journey to Broadway?” Rinse, repeat—
Pause.
Eloise froze, physically and mentally. She could remember neither her question nor Wren’s answer. A click, a memory unearthed, its shackles removed. She’d heard those words before.
A worried voice broke her from her haze, a soft and earnest “Are you okay? Sorry, was I speaking too fast, I tend to do that when I start talking about theater. I’ll try and slow down. Do you need some water?”
“I’m alright.” A heart string pulled. “Let’s continue.”
“What is it like being on stage eight times a week, is it draining?” Write down her answer. Look at her sweater, it was blue, she was picking at it, avoid eye contact. Ask her a question. Write down her answer—
“Oh no, I wouldn’t say it’s draining at all. Maybe physically, but never mentally. It’s a dream for me to be on that stage, to step into other worlds, to connect with so many people. How could a dream be draining?”
It happened again.
Slapping her cheeks lightly, Eloise forced herself to focus, engraving Wren’s familiar words in her mind, writing them down, forcibly ignoring the emotions trying to escape from within.
“What have been the highlights of your experience acting and working in this show so far?” Write down her answer—
“Huh…Well…Hm…Sorry, I need a moment to think on that one. Sometimes I just wish I could burst into song to convey how I feel like my character does, that would make things much easier.”
Again.
Eloise looked at Wren’s forehead, then to the words that dotted Eloise’s notebook. Suddenly the world was silent except for the words on those pages. Wren’s words seemed to create a new world, one that enveloped just the two of them as everything else stood still.
A breath, deep and contemplative. She was scared, scared to look up, to meet Wren’s eyes, to see if the passion of her words reflected in her very being. A pause. A breath, deep and steeling. A raising of a head, and a stare.
When Eloise met Wren’s eyes she traveled back in time. She was met with the same look she saw in college, when her friend talked her ear off about acting class, the same look she saw in high school, when her friend took the stage in their senior show, the same look she saw in middle school, when her friend, full of hopeful youth, proclaimed she would one day make it to Broadway, and that Eloise would be her first audience.
In front of her, hope and passion took a liquid form in Wren’s eyes. Eloise looked at the questions she had prepared, deciding in that moment to ignore them and satiate her longing curiosity.
“What do you love about theater?”
Wren paused for just a moment, before answering as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Theater is magic. Through theater I get to leave this reality. I can become whoever and do whatever. When I’m on stage I am transported into a new world, into a new plane of existence, one that I can’t help but stare at with awe and wonder each time I enter it.” Wren tapped her fingers on the table. “Reality can be beyond exhausting, draining even, and it can often feel like we’re sinking in a bottomless pit of despair. But when I’m on stage I’m suddenly free, and through the work and passion of us on stage we get to help free everyone in that audience from the shackles of their reality as well. The escapism and hope that theater provides is magic, and it’s a magic that I want to share with you, and with the entire world, and—oh shoot, are you okay? Sorry, did I say something wrong? Once I get going I tend to just yap until I’m stopped.”
Wren stared at her, Eloise stared back. Oh. Eloise raised a hand to her face, she was crying. She laughed, a soft smile gracing her features. “No, you…you didn’t do anything wrong. Your answers…they just…they reminded me of something an old friend once told me.”
Her voice had a melancholic tinge to it as Wren’s words overlapped with those of a friend long deceased, the emotions unchanged, yet the sentiment matured and developed, Eloise’s new disposition evidently did not go unnoticed by Wren, as she began to bounce her leg and bite at her nails. Eloise, unsure how to continue, suddenly overwhelmed by memories of the past, went silent.
“Hey…” The silence broke. “Would it be alright if I asked you a couple questions? Y’know…interview the interviewer?”
Eloise paused, looking up once more to meet Wren’s hesitant gaze. A nod. “Ask away.” Wren’s eyes widened, as if she hadn’t expected Eloise to say yes—
“I’m gonna be honest, I wasn’t really expecting you to say yes.” A scratching of the head, an embarrassed chuckle. “I kinda just asked without thinking, so I don’t really have any questions prepared.”
Eloise paused. She smiled. Her friend always planned ahead, never speaking without thinking. The difference should have made her sad, at least she thinks it should have, and yet, she can’t help but be endeared. The world had once taken a friend from Eloise in an instant, and it now presented her not with the same soul in a new body, but a mirror image—one that could just maybe help her experience the wonders of human connection once more not with a replacement of a friend lost, but with the promise of something, someone, new.
Her contemplations were interrupted when Wren jolted upright in an “Aha!” moment.
“You asked me something similar and listened to me ramble, so I’ll return the favor. What’s theater to you?”
Wren looked proud of herself for coming up with her question, clearly trying to put on the airs of a confident, curious reporter. Eloise replied, quickly and casually: “A form of entertainment.”
Eloise gave it a moment for her answer to settle in, laughing lightly as Wren’s mouth opened and closed in shock, struggling to cope with the answer. “I was just kidding.” Eloise hesitated for a moment before continuing, unsure of whether she was ready to cross the line she had drawn for herself, but when she saw Wren’s relief and felt her endlessly curious gaze bare into her soul, Eloise paused, breathed, and spoke.
“Well, my parents met doing theater together in college, so I suppose it’s always been a part of my life. They would drag me around to all variety of performances when I was young, and I admit, as a little kid I grew restless and annoyed at having to sit still for hours at a time. But…” A glance into her coffee. “As I matured I began to notice how much passion poured out of not just the performers, but also out of my parents as they gushed for hours or even days after witnessing just a single play; it was as if the passion and emotion of the performers had been shared with everyone in the audience.” A glance across the table, Wren’s eager nodding encouraging Eloise to continue. “I eventually got involved in theater myself, after the incessant pleading of a close friend of mine, though I only did backstage work. Acting as witness to these moments of pure passion on stage is what led me to theater journalism in the beginning, I think. I wanted to document each performance, each emotion I saw on stage so that it may never be forgotten, preserved even long after the curtains have closed or the lights have dimmed. So, to answer your question, theater is, to me…emotion and passion in their purest forms.”
Eloise met Wren’s gaze, confident that she had delivered an answer that she herself had previously forgotten, an answer that she had once locked away in the box of memories she kept in the trenches of her heart, and underneath her bed.
“That was…beautiful”. Tears formed in Wren’s eyes as she gently reached across the table to put her hand tenderly atop Eloise’s. Eloise stiffened, then relaxed, the touch flooding her senses with a once familiar warmth. Wren lifted her sleeve to dry her face. “Sorry, I cry pretty easily.” A quick slap to the sides of her face with both her hands had Wren refocused and re-energized.
“Okay, next question!”
“Aren’t I supposed to be the one interviewing you?” Eloise inquired, half serious, half joking.
Wren replied without a moment passing: “Then we can just take turns interviewing each other.”
The two laughed together, Eloise smiling against her will. And so, they spoke. Eloise wasn’t sure for how long, all she knew was that the words flew from her before she could attempt to chain them down. When the sky outside the window began to darken there was a pause, and a breath, calm and peaceful, filled with the beauty of nostalgia and the hope of new memories to come.
Meeting Wren’s gaze once more as they finished their encounter, Eloise spoke, voice soft.
“Can we…continue this conversation again some day?”
Wren smiled, her teeth seeming to reflect the sun itself.
“I’d like that very much.”
Eloise gently closed the door to her apartment, the space feeling like home. The gaze of her parents in the photo on the other end of the living room above her simple white couch and its blue throw pillows pulled her in, inviting her back into the comfort of her younger days. A soft smile pulled at her lips uncontrollably as she glided over the blue and white geometric design adorning her carpet, as if her heart had temporarily taken over for her brain.
If she closed her eyes she could still see it—that shine, that spark, that pure unadulterated joy and naive hope for a bright future that embedded itself in Wren’s eyes. Upon opening her own eyes, Eloise found that said shine still lingered everywhere she looked.
Walking into her room the world itself seemed to pause with Eloise. Under her bed sat a chest, freshly dusted, but unopened for countless years.
A deep breath. A steadying of shaky hands.
She kneeled down and labored to drag the chest, no larger than a kettle, out until it faced her and bore into her soul. Closing her eyes, she opened the chest. Upon opening her eyes the world grew warm.
The stare of her friend long passed faced Eloise in the form of dozens of pictures and mementos untouched by time. Eloise could never forget the moment when she was informed of her friend’s passing all those years ago. It didn’t feel like a nightmare, no, she was wide awake, feeling that the news had to be wrong. All of the joy that she had known for all her life had been, in her mind, stripped away the moment her friend died. Yet, today, the stare of her deceased friend in the photos in front of her revealed itself once more in the form of Wren.
The past stared at Eloise, and she stared back.
Bracing her heart, she lifted the photographs and began to weep. Gingerly, she placed them under her pillow. She slept that night hoping that the beloved friend of her past would follow her into her dreams, where a fantasy of performing on stage, Eloise as her first audience, would begin and never end. And even if that dream never came, Eloise knew that when she woke up to the world her friend of days passed would be with her again, in a new form, in a new life.
When Eloise returned to work her heart was full, and her mind sharpened. Sitting at the same desk she sat at each day without change felt more fulfilling than ever as she typed, impassioned, with a fervor born of rekindling with a soul she thought was lost to the whims of the world.
It took five knocks at her door to whisk her away from her writing and return her to reality. A “come in,” uttered with a gentleness she didn’t know herself to still be capable of, brought in the same coworker who had informed her about the interview with Wren, Embrie, that was his name; she’d make sure to remember it from now on.
“Hey.” A pause, a breath. His eyes scanned the room, seemingly desperate to look anywhere but at Eloise. “About the interview, I hate to be the bearer of this kind of news again but…”
The world went silent, his words scorching themselves in Eloise’s mind before fading into complete obscurity.
This had to be a joke, a prank, a twisted hoax the world decided to play on her for the second time in her twenty-seven years of life.
A breath, quick, sharp, and silent. A hand brought to cover her mouth, agape with a silent scream. A pause. A body frozen in place, unsure how to make sense of the sudden anguish it faced.
“Couldn’t she have waited for me?”
Stephen Brown: 1 out of 3 | I AM ATHLETE
I looked up at my family, Mom, Dad, Nana, Rumi, and Caden, all standing for me. It was the closing set of the final round of the two-week-long tournament. My mom held her fist up from the player’s box and Rumi and Caden say “Oh yeah! Right here!” a mix of basketball slang and tennis terminology they’ve picked up over the years. This tournament not only bumped up my national ranking but put me in the hat for The US Open wild card. That means home turf.
Rumi’s face is still a snapshot in my brain from the month after that last match. Dad told him and Caden “It’s time to lock in and support your brother. He’s not choosing y’all’s path. I don’t wanna hear no nonsense either.” Immediately Caden put himself halfway in my doorframe. “How the fuck do Mom and Dad breed a 6’5 guard, and you’re telling me your ass wants to play on some stupid court with no hoop?” I leaned back on my wrists at the end of my bed, my neck locked into my shoulder blades, and my eyes rolled under their lids.
It’s not that I didn’t like ball anymore. I still play pickup with Quan and Marr when I have Sundays off. If I stopped any sooner I’m sure Caden would’ve tried to jump me. But he’s only 6’2 and he knows I could knock him if I wanted to. AAU just felt like a chore and practice was a grind that I dreaded. I can only have Coach Brown in my ear for so many hours of the day. It’s bad enough I have to hear him talk my ear off about how I’m always sleeping and don’t fuel my body. My mom has always been supportive even though she hates watching tennis practices when it’s mid-summer. “You’re telling me no courts were free at the club today?” This is when she wished she was in the air-conditioned stadiums that my brothers play in at their state schools. My dad picked North Carolina for Rumi and Michigan for Caden very strategically. ACC and Big 10 mean no overlapping till the NCAA’s. At home in Queens, whether at school or if I ran into a family friend, it’s always been the same question, “How are your brothers? Is your family going to catch any games soon?” then it follows with “You’re still playing tennis right? Everything good?” I know I’m the youngest, but damn was I just always the afterthought?
When I was growing up my mom would hear about dudes knocking up girls in high school and going off to college to play ball. She didn’t want me or my brothers following that “trash behavior.” I think she only let my brothers play in college because they were older and Dad coached the tournament leagues in the area. But being the youngest and the closest to my mom, she made sure I tried other sports. I just chose tennis because we would see people playing as we walked home from my school when I was little. It was the same path I took with my friends as we got older, but most of the time we would walk past those courts to hoop. It was never a question to hoop after school. Especially when I had Marr with me who would always keep a ball, a notebook, and two mechanical pencils that were low on lead in his book bag.
It wasn’t until my brothers started posting about my national ranking that people cared what I had going on. My friends would pull up to my high school matches, but they knew I was gonna win so they always came to the end to obnoxiously cheer and drive back with my family for dinner. The only thing that ever really bugged me forreal was when people would get mad that I couldn’t or didn’t want to go out or try to go to the club because I had to stay in the tennis club. Inner city, black, and tennis don’t mix. I’ve always had to put in extra work for the combination to taste good to me. Even when I felt the most confident about my athletic abilities and decisions, the world that I saw around me always pushed questions on me. It felt like every time the word “tennis” came out of my mouth, a shock was zapped. It wasn’t a little shock either, more like an electric chair. Or at least that’s what people in my neighborhood made it seem to be by the countless cries of “Whyyyy?” that followed.
My dad never pressured me too hard about ball. Nana always told him “2 out of 3 followed your path. Let the boy live.” So he did. He’s always been supportive. Even when I got tired of serving we would go hoop and talk about everything on my mind. He usually told me what’s on his too, but it was mostly just “You know you’re brothers need to tighten up on these grades before your mother gets on a flight and straightens them out herself.” My mom didn’t play about education. Sports were cool, but “education is the one thing the world can’t take away from you” she always said. I’ve never had a problem with my grades or concussions from fights on and off the court. Rumi and Caden got all that. I think that’s why my mom always tried her hardest to support me through it all. She saw how hard I worked when no one else cared.
The same week my trophy shipped to the house from the tournament, I received my US Open letter. “Dear, Stephen Brown” it read with the official letterhead at the top. It didn’t feel real till I got a call from my coaches midway through reading the email. It was time to work. Yes for myself and for my family and to prove it to my friends, but I just wanted to get past the first round and maybe warm up on a practice court next to Kyrgios or Joker, two very controversial pros, the two players that remind me of Rumi and Caden. As I listened to Coach G on the phone explaining the schedule that I would have to commit to preparing for the Open my notifications went off. “Caden.Brown tagged you in a post.” He and Rumi couldn’t even wait till I made a fucking decision to post “US Open BOUNDDDD!” with flames and a brown skin muscle emoji on their stories. I shook my head and answered “Uhuh I hear you” to Coach G. Stomps and screams of “C’monnnn!” with aggressive claps came from the living room from Rumi.
When the US Open came around that August, I only made it to the second round, but at the age of 19 I was beyond proud of myself. I gained the respect of my parents, brothers, and friends for sure. When I look back at it now as a 22-year-old pro, I’m proud of the way I chose to use my upbringing and support system as motivation to push myself to the highest level of play. The push never ends either. I’m top 100 players in the world, but still no title. I’ve gotten close, but Kyrgios and Joker are still at the top beating me in straight sets. Reposts from Caden and Rumi have evolved a little too. They consist of video compilations from my match wins with “Another one” written in the corner of the Instagram stories. They haven’t made it to too many matches this year because Rumi is always traveling for the Charlotte Hornets and Caden is doing his last year at Michigan before declaring for the draft. Luckily my mom travels with me for tournaments so Dad can focus on helping Caden get put with a good NBA team. But yeah to answer your question yeah I haven’t really had the most conventional tennis upbringing coming from a basketball family. It’s been cool though. I feel very blessed with the people around me and appreciative ya’ll taking the time to have me on ya’lls podcast.
“Yeah! Without a doubt Stephen! Alright with that all being said we would love to hear more about your initiative to push for these inner-city tennis courts in Queens…”
Harlen Mitchell
ENG 125
Fiction Piece
Ivory Veil
She had a strict morning routine which left little room for error. Shower every other day. If it was a shower day she’d need to wake up thirty minutes earlier. After the shower, she sat at her desk chair and dried herself, the friction warmed her skin, the towel’s fibers catching on goosebumps. She did her hair and makeup, brushes gliding across her face. This was not the only mask she wore. She prepped her original skin for the day before putting on another layer: The suit.
It was the most important part of her routine.
She pulled her skin suit off the hanger in her closet and slipped into it like a latex jumpsuit. First, her legs, then her stomach, then her arms, and then her shoulders until the entirety of her was concealed. The daily ritual never became any easier, hands trembling without fail each time she stepped into her second life. The second epidermis clung to her body cool and seamless, like being embraced by another being. She aimed to be a perfect imitation, as the pale suit conformed to every contour of her body, not a crease or wrinkle in sight. The suit’s fibers interlaced with her nerves, sending shivers down her spine as it began to rewire and reprogram her into this familiar yet alien being, forced to perceive the world from another lens. The way it hugged her frame made it so that her real flesh and blood became indistinguishable from the synthetic skin. She looked in the mirror, inspecting her appearance for the day to ensure that her counterfeit features were similar to the original ones but smoothed over in a way to be what people wanted her to be: Paler, bluer eyes, straighter hair, smaller lips, smaller nose, smaller frame. Paler. As she moved her hand up to her cheek the suit moved with her, like a silent partner in a bizarre dance. Her breath became shallow as she deemed herself ready to begin her day of gliding through the halls as an intruder.
She began her day, going through it much like a delicate ballet. She pirouetted through lectures, her answers sharp and precise. The words of professors were like incantations, both powerful and enigmatic and she hung on every word. Present but unseen. Heard but not acknowledged. While it appeared effortless, maybe even natural to others, every hallowed step she took felt heavy with the weight of expectation. The students around her, across the stark manicured lawns, moved with a sense of belonging, their laughs like a language she couldn’t quite decipher, wandering through the libraries with towering shelves of books that whispered the musings of old philosophers and poets. If it weren’t for her exceptional disguise she would be afraid that they were questioning her right to belong. She was a wildflower in a garden of curated roses surrounding a fortress of knowledge, but for her, the drawbridge remained up; that was until she found her skin suit. On her walk back home she looked up at the spires of the old buildings reaching up taller and taller, stretching for the heavens as if to claim kinship with the gods, and she was reminded of her nighttime routine.
Every evening, while everyone else was in the depths of their sleep, she searched for the small door that led to the roof. She stumbled down the hallway, carefully pushed open the door, and crept onto the shingles finding herself perched at the top behind a thin black railing. Somewhere she shouldn’t be. Under the cloak of twilight, wind whipping through her hair, this is where she found solace. The campus seemed like a distant memory below her. The cool breeze was a gentle caress against her synthetic skin as she stood at the precipice, gazing at the stars that pierced the darkening sky. With deliberate movements, she reached for the edge of her skin suit, the synthetic layer that had been a second skin, a facade she wore to blend into a world that demanded conformity. Fingers trembling with anticipation, she peeled away the suit, starting at the neck, the fabric retracting with a soft hiss of released seals. The suit was designed to mimic those around her, something thought to be a salvation, but to her, it was a prison. As she shed the artificial skin, it felt like shedding a lifetime of expectations and pretenses. The suit sloughed off, revealing the true form beneath, brown melanated skin—nothing like her peers. Free from the confines of her disguise, she stretched, feeling the liberation in every fiber of her being. The stars above bore witness as she was no longer bound by the limitations of a human guise; she was something more, something ethereal.
Lacuna
We discovered the swim hole one summer when we were 13. We had wandered farther down the little river in the woods behind our house than we normally go when we found ourselves in a small clearing. There, the river widened into a perfect swim spot. We ran all the way home, faces sweaty and flushed with elation, until we burst into the door of the run-down farmhouse where Dad was pouring over his books again and Mom was painting. I begged Dad to let us swim and to put up a swing on the tree that leaned out over the water while she backed me up with silent, pleading eyes, a quiet smile, and a whispered “yeah” here and there. A few days later we tried out the swing for the first time. I jumped off into the glowing water and shouted at her that it was perfect even as my lips turned purple and my skin prickled with goosebumps. When I was finally close to frostbite, I resigned myself to baking on a rock in the sun, and she climbed timidly onto the swing. It swayed back and forth slightly as she clutched the ropes with wide eyes that peered down into the green-blue water below. “Are you going to jump?” I asked her. She shook her head and sat down, swinging lightly as her legs dangled above the water. She watched the fading sunlight filter through the fir trees and reflect, sparkling, off the river’s surface for almost an hour, but she never jumped in. “Deep,” was all she said.
We were 16 when she vanished. She told me she was going on a walk. I was reading a book so I didn’t offer to join her, and she didn’t ask me to. “Remember to take your umbrella, it’s s’pposed to rain this evening,” I told her. Those were the last words I ever said to her. She nodded and walked out the door. And just like that, she was gone. Reduced to nothing but a cold case and a framed photograph on the mantel.
At first, I was just numb. One minute she was smiling at me from behind a veil of dark brown bangs, the next she was a lacuna: a blank space, a missing part. I had never been without her before. When our parents, who had met during a Greek studies class in college, found out they were having twins, they decided to give them matching Greek names: Calypso and Atlas. She was born first, and besides those 47 seconds until I followed behind her, I had never known a world without her in it. That must be why, after she vanished, it was as if I was walking around without one of my legs or arms. But even as a half-real shell of a person, I never stopped looking for her. Sometimes it would be intentional – I started skipping school occasionally when I got a feeling she might be somewhere, but she never was. Sometimes it was just in passing, like when I found myself looking for her face in a crowd at the State Fair or while I stared out the window of the car hoping to see her standing on the side of the road, a bunch of wildflowers in her fist. But once again, I seemed to be just a step behind her; she was always slightly out of my reach.
Growing up, however, she was a mystery to everyone but me. At least, that’s what I used to believe. We were both quiet, reserved, turtles in our own little shells, but her more so than me. Her dark, shadowy eyes and ever-serious expression either scared people or intrigued them, but I knew that she just had a lot of thoughts that she didn’t say out loud, that was all. Even Mom and Dad could never really figure her out, always casting sidelong glances at her over the dinner table in the flickering candlelight as she separated her vegetables, proteins, and grains into neat little sections with her fork. I knew she just needed to organize her food on the plate so that it would be organized in her stomach after she ate it, that was all. Mom even tells me that for a few months when we were five, she even stopped speaking altogether and I had to interpret for her until she decided that she wanted to use her own voice again. We were attached at the hip; two sides of one coin, two halves of a whole. I thought maybe it was a twin thing, but sometimes now I start to doubt it.
When I graduated high school, they announced her name along with mine, and handed me two diplomas, fake plasticky vinyl tacky under my fingers. I looked out at the rows and rows of identical black-robed, square-capped silhouettes with puppy-dog-pity eyes gazing up at me, empty. I wanted to strangle my entire graduating class. Apparently, the school did it to honor a “would-be graduate.” I wanted to strangle the entire administrative staff too. I held the extra diploma to my chest and thought how this was the stupidest thing ever. I sat in my seat and stared at her printed name inside her fake diploma. I felt hot, stupid tears threatening to betray me at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked twice, set my mouth in a firm line and refused to look at the empty chair beside me. That was the first time I felt it, sitting in my folding chair at my high school graduation, pretending to ignore the unsubtle glances and deafening whispers being shot in my direction. I felt scalding, suffocating hatred burning like coals in the pit of my stomach. That was the first time I resented her for disappearing, for marking me forever with this gaping wound that doesn’t ever seem to close.
I stopped telling people I was a twin after I graduated. It was easier that way, but every time someone asked if I had any siblings and I told them “no” so that I didn’t have to explain the whole ugly story, I felt the bile rising in my throat, her voice whispering shakily in my ear, “what about me?” I decided to go to community college since my high school grades were messed up from the year where I failed all my classes because I was too busy being angry to do my homework, but really it was because I wanted to still be here in case she turned up. A year and a half into community college the nightmares got worse – the ones where she was calling out to me and I was running toward her but right as I was about to grab her hand she dissipated before my eyes and I would wake up sweating and crying. I wondered again if it was a twin thing, if maybe she was trying to reach me through my subconscious, desperately trying to point me in the right direction, begging me not to give up even though Mom and Dad already had a funeral for her. The day after my roommate woke up to me half-asleep with my leg out the window ready to jump, I applied to transfer to NYU because staying in Vermont any longer was a sure death sentence.
I stare out the window at the gray-brown forest of buildings, watching the flurries of ivory-white snow sway and twirl down from the gray skies towards their fate below: the mountains of gray-black plies of sludge leaning up against the filthy gray sidewalk, spilling over into the slick gray road.
“Do you blame yourself, Atlas? For Calypso’s disappearance.”
Tearing my eyes from the window, I cross and uncross my legs on the hideous purple velvet couch and glance at the clock on the wall.
“Of course,” I challenge the thin-lipped, bug-eyed woman sitting across from me, yellow notepad in hand, pen hovering above the paper, chomping at the bit to tear me apart on the page as she nods, sweet as Stevia.
“And why do you think that is?”
In my head, I curse the image of my mother with her eyebrows knit together in worry as she hands me the voucher to a free therapy session. I sigh.
“I’m her twin. I’m her twin and I didn’t see any signs. I was the only one who could’ve seen the signs but I didn’t. I failed at the only job that ever mattered.”
Her frog eyes stare unblinking at me for a moment before she tilts her head and scribbles something in her crazy person journal. She looks back up at me and smacks her lips, chalky red lipstick so bright it hurts to look at smudging on her stubbly chin.
“For our next session, I want you to start thinking about what you can do to start to let Calypso go. If we’re going to move forward, we need to break you out of this obsession, Atlas.”
She sets down her notepad and pen on her knees and glances at her watch before flashing me a toothy smile, and I swear I see a forked tongue flash out at me.
“I’m afraid that’s all we have time for today. I hope to see you again next time.”
I don’t have the energy to tell her there probably won’t be a next time, so I just nod instead. I take the elevator down to street-level, joining the snowflakes in their descent to the grime of the city’s streets. I pull out my phone and book a train ticket.
A week later I’m standing at the edge of the swim hole. The water is half-frozen over, and all the naked, leafless trees make the place look a lot less magical and much more depressing than I remember. I clench my fists and grit my teeth against the feeling of red-hot anger snaking its way around my heart again.
“I hate you!”
I project my voice across the ice and listen to it echo through the woods.
“You ruined my life! I hate you!”
Silence returns my calls. I sigh, feeling the tightness in my chest release just a bit. Slowly, I amble over to the swing and sit down on the half-rotting wood seat. As I peer down into the grimey, frozen water, I let my mind wander. For a while after she left, I remember being convinced that she was going to turn up in the water here, that one day someone would be swimming around and accidentally stumble across her waterlogged, cold body at the bottom of the little pond.
“…Well, I guess I really just hate myself.”
I kick my feet a little and run a hand through my hair, feeling pretty stupid: a grown man yelling at nobody in the middle of the forest over an incident that happened years ago.
“I hate myself for not stopping you that night…and for letting this consume my whole life. I hate myself for not being able to let you go…”
I gaze at my reflection in the water, seeing the traces of her face peeking back up at me. I think back to the expression in her dark eyes, the innocent, sparkling wonder, as she studied the surface of the water all those years ago.
“I know I have to let you go, I know. It’s just…how do I get over something that was never supposed to have an ending?”
My own deep brown eyes blink back at me. I think about us: Calypso and Atlas. She who hides and he who endures. I can’t help but wonder how much longer that will be true.
Observations
Harper had never had a cup of coffee before, yet she spent every Saturday concocting variations of the caffeinated beverage. That particular weekend, she had a new friend keeping her company while she worked. Last semester, she was connected with a local organization that trained service dogs, and she had just recently been paired with Willow, a black lab puppy. In her little vest reading “service dog in-training,” Willow joined Harper behind the counter as she served mocha lattes and warm blueberry scones. Throughout the morning, dozens of people filtered through, spending an hour or two in the cozy environment to finish up an essay or meet up with friends.
A little girl sat in a booth with her mom, cheeks lingering a bright red from the blistering wind as she drank her hot chocolate, extra whipped cream. At the other end of the café, two older women sat in worn black armchairs drinking their chamomile tea (“tea with no caffeine, dear.”) The bell above the creaky door jingled and Willow’s ears perked up. Harper looked up as a middle-aged businessman walked up to the counter to order: a medium latte and a ham and cheese croissant. Harper had come to realize that you can tell a lot about a person by what they order. Her gaze drifted towards the corner table. A young woman about her age was there every Saturday. Her vibrant red, curly hair and freckles reminded Harper of her sister.
Before she had traveled halfway across the country to start college, Harper had been inseparable from her younger sister Quinn. When they were homeschooled, they were classmates. When their classes were done each day, they were playmates. Hours upon hours of playing together led to countless giggle fits. Harper looks back fondly on those years. No one understood her better than Quinn. They would play cards or chat in the evenings, giggles turned to full grown laughs as they entered their teens. Now, in her first year of college, Harper missed these days more than she cared to admit. It’s hard to know how to make friends when you had a built-in bestie your entire childhood.
Harper was lonely. No one here was like her. The few friends that she had made considered her sheltered. She could never be herself around them without feeling awkward or out of place. She never felt this way with Quinn.
Quinn’s doppelgänger was always alone: a lavender colored backpack on the chair beside her, laptop propped open. She typed fervently, fully intent on her work. She seemed stressed and had been at the café for over four hours now. Someday, Harper would work up the courage to introduce herself.
At the end of her shift, Harper found her own corner of the cafe to study in. Every once and a while she would look up to find that the woman was still there, just a few tables over. Harper had just become engrossed in her own work when Willow tugged at her leash. She pulled Harper to her feet and bounded toward the woman. Willow lay down on the coffee-stained, crumb-ridden floor and promptly rested her tiny chin on the woman’s feet, beginning to whine. Harper, confused, caught up to the puppy, only to find the woman trembling. Her body rocked back and forth, but just slightly, barely noticeable from afar. Her eyes were glassy and she didn’t seem to notice Harper’s presence. Harper moved the lavender backpack to the floor and sat beside the woman. She saw a gleaming medical alert bracelet and hesitantly lifted the woman’s wrist. Its bold red letters emphasized the condition at hand: Lily Anderson. Epilepsy.
Harper had seen seizures on medical dramas, but this wasn’t like that at all. There was no foaming at the mouth, there were no convulsions. Just moments later, Lily glanced over at Harper and then down at Willow, blushing in embarrassment when she realized what happened.
Harper asked if Lily was okay, her voice wavering with concern. She wasn’t sure what to do, but knew that she wanted to help. Lily replied softly that she would be all right, pointing to her medical alert bracelet. Introducing herself, Lily shared that she lived with seizures on a daily basis. Asking if there was anything she should do in response to the seizure, Harper sensed immediate relief in Lily’s shaky and timid voice: “No one has ever asked me that before. Would you walk with me back to campus? Sometimes I worry I will have a big seizure when no one is around to help me.” Harper slung Lily’s backpack over her shoulder.
“Absolutely.”
Chapter 1: Reunited
She steps off the gangplank onto a rickety wooden dock that filters into a crowded city street. Turning wheels, revving engines, and heavy feet busy the street as voices echo through the buildings high and low. The fresh salty scent of the sea begins to mix with the stench of the cityscape, ripe with odors that she can’t name. Overwhelmed to the point of turning around, she steadies as she remembers she has nothing to turn back to. Her resolve wraps around her like a warm blanket. Rolling her shoulders back and grabbing her bag in both hands, she slings it over her left shoulder before making her way deeper into the sea of unknowns.
She’s got nowhere to go so she takes her time to absorb the sights. She notes a wooden sign that reads “Welcome to Winterrest, where our lifestyle is best” in large yellow and black calligraphy. Looking up, she notices the roofs; many of them have chimneys, but some do not. “How do they stay warm at night?” She wonders. Next, she looks at the windows; some have the shades drawn but others provide a glimpse into a life she’s never thought to have. A father lighting candles at a table while a mother brings out dinner from the kitchen to the hungry children already seated on cushioned chairs. A quiet home where someone is reading by the fire with a book in hand and another person is finishing their knitting for the day. Snapshots through windowpanes. She notices some of the windows appear to belong to shops. Shops with goods ranging from groceries to garments, to strange knick-knacks.
She catches sight of her reflection in an apothecary shop window. Her boots are caked in a layer of dust from the bustling streets; luckily she’d worn pants for the journey. She would not have been able to move with such stride in a skirt or dress, and would have drawn more attention too. Her new navy trench coat is a godsend. Justice had wanted her to have it for the journey, saying it would get chillier at sea than she expected. He’d been right, of course. Her sweater helped too, wool coarse, but warm with purpose. She knew layering was how she’d survive the climate shift. Her mass of auburn hair is pulled back out of her face. She tucked it all under a cap with a half brim. Grateful that it shields her eyes from the sun. She shifts her weight back and forth, taking this image in. She’s been gripping her bag with two hands so tightly, her knuckles have gone white. Her face reads of bewilderment, her eyes wild and bulging with marvel. She adjusts her expression, going for more impassive, and presses on, beginning to weave in and around the unmindful people and side-stepping carts on the sidewalk.
She needs to find a place to stay. That is the task at hand, but as the hour turns golden, she begins to feel discouraged. There’s never a moment of peace in this place and no luck to be had. Which, of course, is when she spots him. Wait, no. That can’t be him. What the hell is he doing here? Wanting to get to the bottom of this swiftly, she begins to close the gap between them. On her approach, she takes in his appearance.
He has an impressive stature. Dressed sharp from head to toe. Black boots with a two-inch heel, and plum purple bell bottoms that match his blazer. His dreadlocks fall just below his shoulder blades, half wrapped in a knot on top of his head. When he turns to face the sun, she sees his well-trimmed beard. His brown skin reflects the sun like the water of a darkening sea before a storm. She can’t see his eyes because he’s got black tinted lens on. As he faces her, she notes the purple necktie and paisley patterned vest that match his ensemble. Then her eyes are drawn to his right eyebrow piercing: silver. It’s then she spots the silver watch on his right wrist; he’s reaching for his car keys. Now’s her chance, before he leaves. She’s got to talk to him.
“Excuse me.”
“Yes, can I help you with something?” He takes off his sunglasses and if she wasn’t sure before, she is now. It’s Vic, one hundred percent.
“Oh, uh…Yes actually.” She pauses briefly and realizes he doesn’t recognize her. Why would he? After all, she was only eight when he left the commune. She’s changed a lot since then, so has he. “I’m new in town and trying to find a place to stay. Every spot I’ve tried has turned me away. Could you recommend a place?”
He appears to just be taking her in now as she speaks. He ponders a response, stroking his chin briefly while leaning back against his car door. She waits in quiet, yet hopeful, anticipation. Finally, he says, “Well actually, I live a little ways out of town in a small cottage. But, there is a vacant one about three miles past in the woods. Some say it belonged to a witch.” He paused, wanting to gauge her response before continuing casually, “If you believe in that kind of stuff.” He chuckles. “Anyway, I’m more than willing to drive you out there, can’t make any promises about what kind of condition it’s in though.”
“Alright, thank you.”
“It’s no trouble. Hop on in.” He says opening the passenger door for her before walking to the opposite side and sliding into the driver’s seat. She sits down, keeping her bag tucked between her booted feet.
He checks his mirrors as he speaks, “My name’s Victor by the way, what’s yours?” Quickly she thinks of an alias, Daisy. “Well Daisy, do you mind if I play some music?” He asks in that voice, smooth like velvet. She nods eagerly, at a loss for words. Briefly getting lost in his emerald green eyes and then snapping her attention forward, sightline above the dashboard. Music starts to hum from the radio as they pull off onto the street. Her vision starts to blur as cars and streetcorners whip by. Before she knows it though, the lights of the town fade behind them as they rise and fall over the hills. Soon they pass cottages and she feels her breath steady. Already it is quieter. The two haven’t spoken since they left. They sit in a comfortable silence. It feels so familiar to her and yet she’s not sure it even registers for him. So she stares out the window, looking at the looming woods as the trees get taller and taller till they engulf the car in a canopy of dark limbs.
Sunday. Two days later.
Vic just stares out the window on days like this. Listening to the cold wind whip the tree limbs around and around. His focus is on the drops of water that hold on tight to each branching extremity. He picks a single droplet to stare at until it inevitably lets go plummeting to the forest floor below. He sits at his desk with the typewriter untouched, steam fades from the air as his tea goes cold. He’s been sitting there for at least an hour. Which is exactly when she arrives. Alora. He was expecting her. This was now the second time she’d walked to his cottage from hers, a brief three-mile walk. The last time was yesterday and he still didn’t know her name then. Only after his dream last night had that been revealed.
The fog is seeping in from the bay and engulfs the rolling hills that frame Vic’s cottage against the darkened woods. The fog moves like cascading waves in a stormy sea, gray and all-encompassing. Soon the fog will coat the ground in a foot of clouds, giving the forest an ominous glow. He’s in his night clothes stumbling through the forest. The darkness that shrouds him makes him feel half-blind. As the trees stretch out their fingers to ensnare him, he runs. Suddenly stumbling into a clearing, everything turns yellow and orange with daylight. There’s a warm glow and Vic hears a lively tune begin to grow in tempo and volume. He’s stumbled into a camp of hippies. There’s a band of colorful and thinly clothed musicians grooving together with several members of the troupe dancing topless. But that only has Vic’s attention for a second. His eye catches the familiar deep red of his family’s wagon and his breath hitches. He walks with weighted feet down the grassy knoll. His gaze fixed on the wagon, not seeing the root as it catches his foot and sends him somersaulting the rest of the way down the hill. Landing on his back he looks up and hears a scuffle before four faces surround him.
“Who’s this guy?”
“You mean you don’t recognize him, Honesty?”
“Nah, maybe he used to be familiar, Justice. I can’t tell anymore.”
“I recognize his eyes. I’d never forget those emerald green eyes.”
“Love, cool it, will ya?”
“Yeah, Peace is right. He looks freaked.”
“Rise, Victory, and welcome home.”
That’s when they help him to his feet. His legs don’t feel nearly as stable as before. But he holds up, not wanting to cause more of a scene. Now they are just staring at him. He can tell they are talking about him, but it’s like he can’t understand what they are saying. Maybe it just doesn’t matter. That’s because he sees her, the little one. The girl they rescued from a cave in the forest one night. It all came flooding back. He was here for her. Just like he promised, one day they’d get away from this life. She has her back to him, but he recognizes the two braids of rich auburn-colored hair littered with daisies. They travel down her back ending with blue ribbons tied in bows. She wears a matching blue dress and is dancing barefoot, as she often did.
He moves towards her but as he gets closer she flees in the direction of the woods. He calls out her name but his voice is meaningless. The trees stand tall with their phthalo green armor seemingly impenetrable to attack, yet the little girl sprints like a nymph, bounding out of the clearing and into the forest. By the time Vic enters the wooded shroud, she is nothing but a light-colored flash, blinking through the darkness. He chases after her, compelled to see her face, hear her laugh, and remind her that she matters to him. That’s when he senses something else is in these woods. Something sinister and threatening. He can’t see it but he hears its heavy footsteps as it cuts through the underbrush. He never stops running, he has to reach her in time, or else all is lost. He wakes up in a cold sweat, breathing heavily.
So he remembered it all. Big deal. He wasn’t about to let her know that. Sneaky Alora thinks she’s so clever. Well, he’s been known to play a convincing character or two. After all, he’s been playing this one for years.
Negative Space
The flowers by the bus stop had wilted unseasonably early that year. Cassidy had gotten a piece of fingernail stuck between her teeth, unconsciously relapsing into the nail biting of her childhood once the slim doors had shut behind her. Discomfort defined the rest of the ride, that keratin chip lodged where it wouldn’t leave, and her hands sheltered in her huge jacket pocket, her leg bouncing a staccato beat. The commitment only registered fully at that moment. It was an honor. She’d submitted her application as a joke. The bus careened gracefully as a freighter, from windy country roads to the downtown streets, taking its final rest seven blocks from her destination.
The classroom was vibrant. Bright with jeers and puerile restlessness. No one had really noticed her walk in, or sit down. Her palms had dried and her breathing tentatively evened. An uneasy relief for getting worked up over nothing.
“Would you like a chair? We typically have the model in the center.”
Every boyish face in that room turned to look at the gamine impostor. All the brightness cast into a beam. An electric pulse to her nerves. Carefully, she turned toward the voice, her glare catching his hand before anything else, pointing that delicate finger, like the limb of an olive tree to where she ought to be, but wasn’t. The model had been three minutes late that day.
Going co ed was becoming a profitable prospect, yet the highest donors stood firm in tradition, and although decreasing, those checks cashed as well as the ones twenty years ago. It would be an evolution, and not a revolution. A scholarship program for a single disadvantaged boy. An easy sell, and ten years later, the subtle semantic change from boy to person, rippled without breaking. The first girl was admitted two years later, for a single forty five minute course, once a week. Excellence and spite had gotten her through the year. Cassidy was now the third girl, and the first one without a perfect record. He couldn’t have known she was begging to be agitated, wired as a rabid dog.
He still waited in a seat outside the headmaster’s office to trail her down the hall. He kept a fair distance nonetheless. “I didn’t mean anything by it! You just looked like the exact sort of person Mr. Cincotta would ask to model. And that jacket! Not at all like the girl last year- which is a good thing!” Bright boy, that’s what people said. Bright face, hair, eyes. Never quite bright enough to stop looking a little lost though. Only natural. You could see it in the subtle tension at the furrow of the eyebrows and the corners of the mouth. She’d cut him off at the pointless spiral staircase by jumping the distance. He halted at the first turn and steadied himself. “I swear, I couldn’t tell you weren’t supposed to be one of us.” She chuckled. “You people are full of shit.” His hands gripped the balustrade firmer. “It was my bad judgment, that’s all. I’m sorry. I’m sure you worked hard to be here.” It wasn’t the words themselves, but the tenacity by which he said them, that snatched her last strand of good will.
She halted at the entrance, the ornate knob held gentle as a prayer. “I couldn’t care less what you think. I’m just here for art class.” It felt safe to slam it on the way out.
Every class from here on out was filled with barely hushed laughter when she was at the door, and Mr. Cincotta couldn’t say the little hoyden didn’t deserve it. But he hadn’t warned them, forcefully believing in a set of gentlemanly instincts, that laid dormant until provoked. He’d admit, this was an exception. This shaved-skulled wastrel was the pure antithesis of that prim calculus wiz from last year. When Cassidy met him in his office, he’d almost had his second heart attack. Of course this was the one he got. Her silence on the way to the studio had suggested she’d make due. He’d returned from the supply closet proven wrong and, dreadfully so, if out of all of them, Ira had upset her. The incensed letter to ask what whack job chose her for this had practically begun writing itself.
He realized he could have easily been that whack job after the bell rang. If all he’d known of her was her sketches, there’d be no doubt about it.
“You’ve got to get the negative space. Making the figure is only impressive if you differentiate it from the wall. Surround the subject, even if it’s just made up. That is what gives the illusion of physicality, what reveals the essence. I don’t want to see a background, I want to see an extension. I want to feel the figure hold the air.”
Cassidy heard the whispers, and although the last thing she felt for any of them was charitable, she had to concede, Mr. Cincotta was beyond old enough for his screws to be edging loose. She got her own set of whispers they thought she wouldn’t hear, or maybe knew she could. The shaved head, the busted shoes, the raggedy jacket, and the “psycho” fidgeting.
The lectures made sense if given attention, it was just Mr. Cincotta’s irrefutable presence that made him so difficult to understand. The long shadow of his nose held high over a sketch, and then brought low as he whispered, “You’ve got the form, but you are missing the essential shapes” or “No, no, no, the shadow lines need to be accentuating the curve.” None of the criticism would have been strange, had he not utilized his entire body like a spider, spindly legs and arms fused to a pudgy, round base, to gesticulate the instruction. And to him, it was beyond necessary. The marks were the building blocks of the only thing more important than life. Meaning.
Cassidy noticed how he hovered over Ira. No matter what happened, Ira’s hands would never shake or falter. His flats were clear panels or sheer drop offs. The grooves and dents eroded into the page, taken from life, and then flattened. Cassidy didn’t think he was an artist, she thought he was a cartographer. In those early days, she gave him the same credit she gave her calculator. Fast, functional. Putting out exactly the ideas put in. And even though it was barely audible, she heard what she wanted to hear Mr. Cincotta say to him. Soft as disappointment, “You give so much love to such a static composition.”
Ira’s pencil stilled without any pressure. He smiled as he said, “If that’s how you feel, sir.”
When Mr. Cincotta paused over her, it was unbearable, not because of what he would say, but because of what he wouldn’t. He looked and then he walked on. She’d always grab the edge of the stool, and it hurt after her nails were chewed to the quick, but it stopped her from thinking. About how all that energy she didn’t have on the night shift was going to this. How many times she’d ignored the beer cooler, knowing she’d miss the bus if she was hung over. Of how no other place made her feel so unwanted. Mashed in a blank space meant to be filled, but never by her. Of course she’d gotten him as a teacher. The one person paid to make this all worth it wouldn’t believe she deserved the privilege. Her stewing on the ride home started to get so palpable, she got used to a row of seats to herself.
Seeing her painting at the front of the class on the last day of the month might have been the last straw. Why not? This choice was obviously targeted, why else would he choose the homework she did in the middle of the night, instructed to be based on nothing but memory, that smudged in transit no matter how painstakingly carried. She’d opened the closet across the hall, the one that doubled as storage for supplies and homework, tripped over a flannel-covered pile of rubbish, and fell face first into the brick wall. An ill omen if ever there was one. She’d shoved her work in the back so no one would find it.
Before she had time to react, he said, “You see the eyes of the blue jay, and you know they’re looking at you. Is it a precise composition? No. Does it have a soul? Yes. Why does it work?”
She stayed silent with a puzzled vindication, while he let the class dissect.
She caught Mr. Cincotta smoking on her way out, smelling the ash under the pine. He was at the side of the building, the winter wind blowing the fumes into her face.
“How could I have made it more accurate?”
He startled as fast as he grimaced, “I already said you didn’t need to.”
“It wasn’t meant to be inaccurate.”
“I’d figured.”
Her teeth grated against each other. “May I ask, then, why would you pick mine? Since you never give me any kind of feedback.”
He shut his eyes, as his eyebrows drew upwards, in a look Cassidy could recognize from a mile away. A bid for patience. “No you may not.”
He blew out another breath, and she tasted putrid air on her next question.
“If that’s the case, why couldn’t you have warned me? I thought you folks were just so civilized.”
“Warned you? You didn’t read the syllabus?”
She’d tried, and then a migraine came on at the same time the TV psychic said, “Keep all your spiritual fortitude for the coming days.” She connected the dots. And the words were jumping demented jack rabbits. She regretted not pushing through, which she would never admit as long as she knew where things stood.
“You know those boys don’t like me.”
“For God’s sake, be proud you were important for the day. Those boys don’t realize it, but they respect you. The first painting of the year is one from the best artist. And the only other one good enough was Ira-” Mr. Cincotta coughed into his hand, and the next words were a croak. “Couldn’t pick him.”
The inside of her throat tasted sour.
If anyone in that class was beloved, it was Ira. He was never the butt of any joke, or a provocateur on any subject, as his presence had a placating effect on the other boys. Made them almost take things seriously. Every reason to give that boy a spotlight.
“Why the hell not?”
The cigarette paused halfway to his mouth. She kept steady.
The silence stretched for a while, and then something seemed to snap in him. He turned to leave, throwing his cigarette out in the bin next to a dead rose bush. She wanted to follow him, but on her first lurch forward, he said, “Bus leaves in five minutes. And I know that ugly coat won’t stop you from freezing.”
It wasn’t her business. But now she couldn’t get that first day out of her head. Why had Ira followed her down the hall? Why had he apologized?
She pretended not to watch him. Ira was well liked, yet without a definite posse. She’d tried to think he was too popular for friends, but her unfairness began to curdle the more she knew how it tasted. And as the days folded over, she stilled herself enough to listen to him, and found that getting an apology out of him wasn’t a difficult feat, and they always tended to be sincere. The most uncomfortable kind. When she expected teasing, at the very least, all he got was an uneasy but genuine acceptance, of those who know better than to say what they want to. It was only Mr. Cincotta, and his comments, that ever breached anything else. Ira’s drawings stayed still and perfect, and the subject was always covered by a sheet, if he could manage to make that fit the prompt. He was a persuasive talker. And perhaps, if she was ever in a mood to begrudge anyone anything, she could call him good natured.
A lazy class of sketching, when nobody was there but the three of them. A field trip. Cassidy hadn’t remembered not to show up, and when Ira strode in, she guessed he had forgotten to get a form signed or a fee paid. But when he placed a tiny box on Mr. Cincotta’s desk, it was with purpose. The old man glanced over his glasses for half a second, not a single indication of closing Great Expectations. “I didn’t take it last time, I’m not taking it now.”
“Oh, but that would be your loss.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a bad habit, and I only got room for my own.”
By God, the face Ira pulled. Honest eyebrows that stretched up towards each other, over widened eyes, made all the more downtrodden by that congenial smile that stretched just the slightest bit too far.
Mr. Cincotta tilted his head back slowly, raising his brows, in an expression Cassidy immediately recognized. “When was the last time you kept one of these little gifts for yourself?”
“It’s not a gift if I keep it.”
The old man let out a sigh. Slumping forward, a penumbra over his eyes, he gently whispered, “Alright, but it better be dirt cheap.”
Ira didn’t waste a moment, and Cassidy couldn’t make sense of what that meant. It took her too long to realize her eyes had trailed him as he left.
“Mind your own.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Juvenile embarrassment shaded her tone.
“No wonder you’re not subtle, if that’s all it means to you.”
She’d left before Ira returned, to spend the rest of the hour contemplating at the bus stop.
A week went by before they practiced drawing each other, in preparation for a final portrait.
“Remember, all faces have the same basic structure, but it’s the specifics that will make a person. Eyes in the middle of the face. Nose half way between eyes and chin. Mouth, one third of the way between nose and chin. Hair, don’t forget how much hair defines a silhouette. Let the contours give the face its roundness, and the skull must be round, even in a full frontal. You want a mind in the head to give the eyes that spark of light.”
Ira was shaken, but he said yes anyway. It started to rain. He looked into her face and drew it as it was. She drew him as accurately as she could, with tension in the eyebrows and the corners of the mouth. Nothing but stilted one word answers. They were almost done, when she half heartedly remembered she forgot an umbrella, and the scheme hit her, clear as a vision.
“You made my eyebrows look bitchy.” His whole body seemed to freeze, not just his hands. She figured it was a place to start. “I mean, that’s how they look. I could get ’em changed, but I don’t know. I think it suits me.” She smiled like a hyena, “Any opinions?”
“I didn’t really notice anything like that.”
“Hm. You’d capture expressions better if you did.”
His eyes darted to her, but then they went right back to the page. They’d assess, back and forth, long enough for a lapse into silence. At the eighth repetition, any traces of her grin had left. By the twelfth, a rare apology almost escaped her, when he suddenly squinted at the drawing, almost cleverly.
“If you’re taking suggestions, maybe you should let your hair grow out. So ya know, you have another defining feature.”
She almost hollered bingo, and carried on like a hooligan, until he gave her his umbrella. It only really hit her at the bus stop how comfortable of an apology it was. And that if anybody in the class hadn’t previously thought she needed an exorcism, she’d changed their mind free of charge.
The day after next, she gave his umbrella back, and told him he’d make a good politician.
“Give up this namby pamby art crap while you’ve still got self-respect.”
He raised one eyebrow at her, and, uncannily, the other one didn’t go down, and that was the first time she ever saw the skin between them smooth.
She smirked, “No, no, you’re right. Too honest for that life. You’d never make it. I on the other hand-”
“Would crash and burn in your first debate?”
“That mouth of yours-”
“Get to work, Cassidy.” Mr. Cincotta’s elongated shadow draped over her piece. “Last time I checked, you’re behind.”
She turned towards the canvas, muttering, “Only ever on my ass, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I tend to help those that need it most.”
Ira exhaled from his nose in a quiet puff of humor. Cassidy felt an abstract jolt of pride, and didn’t try to justify its place.
Ira walked with her to the front, and did so every following day, until it was odd when he didn’t. She walked in and sat next to him, as unquestioned as routine. Mr. Cincotta blew smoke in Cassidy’s face, knowing she’d walk through the door first. She grimaced, and he smiled at her. He noticed an odd angle in the jaw of Ira’s final portrait.
In the evening, before the last day of school, when the rose bush at the front began to bloom, and the sky was blue as a robin’s egg, as far as the eye could see, Abraham Cincotta had the heart attack that would kill him.
The two pupils meandered towards the gate, neither feeling they had the right to leave.
“You know, I think it’s my fault. The old misogynist probably couldn’t handle me.” She talked because it felt wrong not to, and he didn’t for the same reason. “You know, I saw him sometimes out here. Made a move. Asked him for a ciggy. He said no, of course. Still gave me second hand smoke, which is fucked when you think about it. Not like my lungs can’t handle it, I’ve gotten some off the other gas station employees. Cigarettes, not just second hand smoke, but that too.” When they got outside, she chose a spot to lean on the wall, the old brick scraping the back of her fuzzy head. The rose bush had a single bud that was still pursed. “I can’t really think of him as dead. Damn, I’ve never even been to a funeral. My grandparents were gone before I was born, and then my mom and dad split from their families and split from each other. It’s just not something I would be invited to. Probably wouldn’t even know the first thing to do.”
“You just be there.” She turned to look at him, and he was completely still, his eyes closed. A painful serenity, a resigned stillness. Until he let out a sigh, and couldn’t stop. “If you’re close to them, you just be there. And it shouldn’t matter how you got there or what’s going on cause you’ve got- you just sit and try. That’s all it really is. People say what they need to say about you. And you cry, or you don’t, because you kinda got it right. I’d say so. You don’t think of them as dead yet. If ever. But you also don’t have anything else to think of ‘em as. So you stay, and you fill the space with something. Because an absence is cruel-” He seemed to catch himself. “In theory. Not in practice. Circumstances, all of that.”
“Ira?”
“Yeah?”
“You remember that day, in um, February? Or maybe March? There was that field trip that neither of us went on, well I couldn’t, and you, um… you gave him something.”
Honest eyebrows, wide eyes, stretched smile. “Why’d you remember that?”
“Seemed important.” Seemed strange.
They went back to the closet, and there it was, between the brushes and the final portraits. That flannel shrouded pile of junk. The ill omen..
“He didn’t take a single one? And you were handing ‘em out like candy.”
“Said something about blowing through my savings.”
“Were you?”
“No. Couldn’t even if I wanted to.”
“Why not? It’s your-” And then she thought about how their lives were fundamentally different. How she’d always dreamed of spending money like a rich kid, but being close enough to the consequences not be a slave to impulse. “Your parents probably only give you so much.”
“No, they don’t.” His tone was so vacant and precise. She felt her mouth dry up, itching to bite at fresh white tips. “I lied to him, Cassidy. I didn’t buy any of it, I just needed it gone and I needed it safe. These are special. It’s all I really have of-. And he was supposed to keep them in here, but now I don’t know what they’ll do if they find them.”
She didn’t ask to look, although she could feel his eyes on her.
She knew what he’d want, and the fact that it was her, and nobody else, seemed so sad and sinister. The boy surrounded by everyone yet lonely beyond words. That could draw anything he wanted, as long as it remained lifeless. So afraid of leaving things on bad terms, every word out of his mouth was an apology. What would he do when all his gifts were given and safe?
“I regret that first day, you know.” He flinched when she said it. “I don’t know why I was so bitter. I don’t get nervous in new places. I’m known for that. Notorious for it really. I ran away once. Was a really big deal. Hitchhiked across state lines, the whole nine yards. But I… couldn’t handle coming here for some godforsaken reason.”
The first time she ever heard him truly laugh. She loved it. It sounded like a strange hiccup. Like the sound got caught in the back of his throat. She took off her coat, and threw it at his chest.
“Hold onto that for me.” He held it gentle as a prayer.
She carried the flannel sack over her shoulder, all the way down to the street, and when he tried to put the coat over her shoulders, she swatted him away.
“What’d I say? You really weren’t listening to me, were you? Typical man.”
He realized what she’d done, and looked the slightest bit indignant.
“Cassidy, I’m not-”
“Yes you are. You’re going to keep it. Lucky you. And by God, you will be the one to give it back, or I’ll throw all of this into the Atlantic.”
The tattered, swamp green thing, cradled in his beautiful hands. She knew she looked smaller without it. It really was hideous, and that had always worked for her. Putting a hand in his back pocket, he whispered, “I meant to give this to him today.”
He handed it to her underneath the green fabric, and she felt the slightest tremble in his hand. She didn’t look at it until she got off the bus. The smallest sketch book she’d ever seen. The flower blooms bustled against each other in the mild, evening breeze. She plucked a couple, not seeing what they were, to press between the pages.
To the Bone
Benji was the first to move. His body launched into motion at the unmistakable sound of ceramic shattering on the hardwood. A rhythmic clicking of claws on the floor followed by the familiar lapping of a dog in human-food heaven. He cocked his head, looking up at the rest of the family, who stood swallowing nothing but the weight of the uncertainty just unleashed in the dining room.
Next was Tommy. Quick breaths escaped his tight lips in the form of a laugh almost caught in the back of his throat. After what felt to him like ten minutes of giggling, but was truly just one, he bent down to collect the shards from the floor.
Sophie broke the silence.
“Tommy.” She said with a sternness unique to an older sister. “Don’t” her voice cracked, softening her expression as she dared to look at him again.
She had known earlier in the day something like this would happen. Like any other Christmas, Tommy bounded into the room with a wide smile and snaggled canine tooth. However, just as the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the morning kitchen, he had disappeared back upstairs. She discreetly slipped out the kitchen’s side door while her parents moved together to the sound of Crosby over the speaker. She only made it halfway up the stairs before she heard the muffled rattling of a pill bottle through the bathroom door. It was the same rattling she heard coming from his backpack when she picked him up from his dorm on Thanksgiving.
When the two were both back downstairs, she watched him with trepidation. She followed his eyes as they stalked their parents around the room. Her mind fixated on the slowness of his words, and the way they sounded like they came from a dry mouth. She futilely waited for the childish delight that always came when he opened Christmas gifts. Instead, she ended up counting the number of times she caught his knee bouncing like a spring that had been pulled too far. She felt heat rise from her cheeks when their mother reached her hand across the couch to slow his shaking and hand him another gift, perfectly packaged with a glittering bow. Every muscle in her body tensed as Tommy twirled their mother through the living room with eyes half open. Their mother simply laughed, grateful her son was in a good mood today.
After the presents were over, Sophie started on the dishes from their breakfast. Opening the dishwasher, she forcefully swatted at Benji, who was standing on his hind legs scratching at her for scraps. “Oh relax Soph!” Tommy quipped at her disdain for the dog’s desire. “He doesn’t know any better. ”
When it came time for dinner, Sophie artfully set each place with freshly polished silver and pressed napkins. Tommy was tasked with bringing the roast to the table. When he dropped it to the floor, their mother’s brow furrowed at her daughter’s cold reaction, her eyes darting between her two frozen children. “Oh dear, Tommy please get a broom sweetie. I don’t want you to cut yourself” she pleaded to her son. Through widened pupils, he looked up at her, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned as if oblivious he had dropped the Christmas roast. He let out another breathless giggle. Almost exasperated by the silence she continued, “What happened honey, did you trip? Was the dish too hot? Oh, Soph get the broom for Tommy, would you?”
Sophie’s eyes locked to her brother still bent on the floor. “No.” She stated plainly. Tommy’s hands didn’t move as Benji walked over them to get a better angle at the meat.
“Sophie, please don’t be so difficult. Help your little brother.” Their mom countered.
“Mom. He needs a lot more than a broom.” Sophie’s breath was speeding, her heart pounding from her own defiance. For the first time, Tommy’s grin collapsed. He looked at his mother, then his sister, then down to the shards below him.
“Sophie, just get your brother a damn broom for the broken dish. Clearly, he doesn’t know any better.”
As the family stood paralyzed, Benji continued to gnaw at the seasoned flesh of the roast. The room fell silent, filled only by the resounding sound of a dog’s teeth, striking bone and cracking it to pieces.
Waves
The sand embraces your feet with a warm hug, inviting them to become one with nature. The sun pokes through the clouds, making its grand entrance into the cotton candy sky. The peace and quiet will soon be interrupted as beachgoers trickle in throughout the late morning, eager to enjoy such a beautiful day at one of the most popular New England summer destinations. The waves crash slowly now, but they will soon pick up just as the crowds, daring anyone bold enough to join their song and dance. It is quiet now, but I know it will not last. It never does. For now, I savor the solitude as I walk up and down the shore.
My job requires me to clean up the beach, to bring its beauty back from the strain of the previous day. Some of my friends from class treat this job as just that; a job. I’m sixteen. It’s my first job, something my mom got for me to do over summer break. To me, it’s more than that. It’s an open invitation to sit with nature day in and day out. So many people choose to treat the
beach like a trash can, like something they can replace so easily. Like something that doesn’t offer its best day in and day out. Like something that isn’t so beautiful that only the mind can capture its true aura. It hurts me to think about it until I see something beautiful, like a little girl running from the shore to her family’s umbrella as she shows off the sandcastle she has devoted herself to completely for the last hour.
But again, my mind wanders. Instead of getting mad at the world, I choose to bask in what small part of it I can now enjoy. I refuse to let humans ruin the beauty of nature in my eyes, the same big, hopeful, dark brown eyes that capture such beauty. I am grateful to have the beach all to myself right now. I would stay in this moment forever if I could. Once the sand is freshly raked, I sit quietly a few yards away from the waves. I savor this peace as long as I can and stop only when I see an indication that my favorite part of the day is suddenly over. Then I see people slowly gather in the parking lot, beginning their journey to the beach with their coolers and umbrellas and towels.
It is the middle of the day. I am not yet tired and ready to go home, but I am also not charged with the same energy I had at the beginning of the day when my environment was a perfect reflection of my quiet mind. I watch the waves, it is my job to ensure the safety of the people entrusting their lives to the uncertainty of the ocean. I can always tell a lot about a person by how far they venture into the sea. Some play it safe; they dip their feet in to cool off. Others
take risks, they go far enough to lose sight of their bodies. These are the ones I wonder about-what do they feel? Joy? Adrenaline? Buoyancy? Fear? Did they intentionally venture so far or has the strength of the waves carried them farther than they intended?
I give my eyes a break from the brightness of the ocean for a second, surveying the status of the beachgoers on land. I quickly scan across the crowds. Some bathe in the warmth of the sun, some clutch a beer with a paper bag over it as if nobody knows they indulge in an alcoholic beverage. Some open their coolers to grab sandwich bags, replenishing what nutrients their body has lost by standing out in the bright heat for so long.
Suddenly my eyes meet his. Time stops passing. The waves stop crashing. The world stops turning. His forest green eyes sparkle. His wavy brown hair blows with the salty wind, complementing the beauty of the waves. He moves closer to me, trotting through the same warm sand that embraces my feet. As he gets closer, I see the twinge of a smile. Is he looking at me? Is he coming over to talk to me? Oh god, here he comes.
“Hey” he blurts out casually as though he’s done it a million times before, completely unaware of the million thoughts racing through my head.
“Uh. Hey.” I manage. Did that sound weird? Can he see me blushing? Did I mess up already?
The Last Night at Lanning Fountain
I saw her on my very first tour of campus. Of course, in the midst of a global pandemic, there were no real tours to be had. There was just me and a deserted campus— and her. She was towering and beautiful, casting a vaguely haunting expression at the bench in front of her. Like most statues, I couldn’t quite discern what emotion she was meant to project. Her knuckles bent just above where her fingertips touched the fountain’s spout, as if she had stopped to linger and run her hands along its surface. She held a book down at her side, paused midway through its dense stone pages. Her head tilted downward only slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, if you looked. Her placard read “IN MEMORY OF A BEAUTIFUL LIFE.”
I moved onto campus the following winter, in deep COVID-19 lockdown. We weren’t permitted to make friends. Orientation was completely canceled. Class took place online only. There were no clubs or parties or outdoor meet-ups. Meals had to be eaten alone in one’s room. Common spaces were closed. Even our house microwave was removed out of concern for the spread of contagious fomites. Gathering in a small group, even while masked, was a severely punishable offense. Interpersonal bonding was strictly forbidden.
So, I spent time with her. She was fine company. She had an air of mystery— an exciting trait in any friend. Her inability to spread airborne disease was a plus. While the world paused, we had our fun. I made her companions in the snow, stuck my hat on her head, and placed snowballs in her open grip. I took photos of her beneath the snowfall and told her how lucky she was that the flakes adorned her eyelashes without melting. When the sun warmed the northern hemisphere, we basked on her stone pedestal. One moonlit night, I even swam in the fountain bowl. I thought about my English course on the Salem witch trials, and how any witnesses would surely think to burn me at the stake. After that spring, they stopped filling her fountain. Half of its surface progressively cracked and chipped away, dry as a bone. I like to imagine the lost bits became well-traveled. She still kept her finger poised curiously above its spout, waiting for the trickling to resume.
Restrictions lightened and I began having contact with other students, making flesh-and-bone friends. We’d walk by laughing and I’d be sure to hold her gaze, give her a silent nod or wave. I visited often in the night, when I felt out of sorts. She even saw my first breakup, right on the bench. Afterwards, I sunk into the cold fountain bowl and wailed. I laid there until all the warmth was leached out of me, then walked home shaking. We didn’t have to talk much. I felt like she just knew. She saw a lot of things.
Campus life improved over the years. I made friends I truly loved with my entire heart. For the first time, I felt understood and treasured— like it wasn’t even hard. I laughed and connected with a dozen different people every day. I had someone to eat dinner with every night. We walked in the woods and swam in the river and partied in the basements and projected movies in Seelye and ate junk food and fell asleep on the living room couch and lived each day like it was our last. She saw me get better.
On my last night of college, I threw a party. I invited all of my friends, and all of their friends, and everyone we lived with, and everyone I had class with, and everyone on Instagram. The whole lot of them. A few dozen showed up with music, picnic blankets, glowsticks, drinks, and a fiscally irresponsible quantity of cheeseballs from the Dollar Store. We crawled into the fountain bowl and invited her to our party— or, ourselves to hers, depending on who you asked. We handed her cheeseballs and make her a radioactive green crown of glow sticks. After a couple drinks, I thought I ought to say something.
“I don’t think I actually know your name,” I proffered, half-chuckling at my own awkwardness.
“It’s Marguerite, technically.” She patted the permanent folds of her dress.
“Technically?”
“Technically, I’m modeled after Mary’s statue of a woman named Marguerite. But I’m here for Mary, so they also call me Mary.”
“Do you have a name for yourself?”
She paused for a moment. “I like Mars.”
“Oh, smart.” I wobbled. “It’s like both, and something else.”
“Exactly, both and something else.” She said it so coolly, I worried she was just indulging me. I wasn’t used to having others stand over me in conversation, and she was so remarkably tall. I felt like I was shrinking.
“Can I get you a drink? It’s orange soda with a ton of vodka.”
I got her the drink and we perched on the edge of the fountain bowl. Campus was quiet aside from our soirée; most were busy packing their rooms for move-out or raging at the senior bar crawl. Those loud, New England crickets echoed through the humid air.
“How long have you been here?”
“A little over a century.” She sipped the concoction and immediately squinted her eyes. I tried to imagine the act of identifying these flavors for the first time, the carbonation buzzing into your face.
“Wow. I bet you’ve seen a lot.” I tried my best to sound neutral, as if I wasn’t incredibly jealous. Somehow, I sensed the nature of her existence as an immovable decoration was not an appropriate party topic.
“For sure. I mean, the years start to blur together, but I remember my favorite moments. These girls from the 80s used to swim in the fountain at night and tell me all their gossip.” Mars looked down at her slate fingernails. “They painted my nails, too, until campo accused them of vandalism.”
I laughed. “Wow, classic Smith College! No fun allowed.” Mars chuckled. I looked into my cup. She looked at me. Her glow stick crown shifted on her downturned head.
“Hey, I feel like you just got here. Are you really leaving tomorrow?”
“I guess they’re making me.” I imagined I sounded like my ailing grandmother when she used to joke about being put down.
“I take it you don’t have any big plans lined up?” She broached it gently, and I’d heard it a hundred times before, but it still felt like a punch to the gut.
“Nope.” I took a long sip, using the cup to shield my eyes. This was it. This was everything. Nearly everything and everyone I loved was there, in the fountain bowl. And they never would be again. How could I move on?
“This is it?” She sounded unsurprised.
I swirled my cup as if it had any ice left in it. “Yep.” We lapsed into silence. It’s hard to come back from an impasse like that. I had to leave and she couldn’t. How could we possibly have consoled each other?
“Hey. You want to dance?” She was already getting up and pulling me back down into the fountain bowl. We stumbled down its slope and joined the crowd. Everyone seemed to know each other, and we had reached the part of the evening where friends clung onto each other and poorly attempted to sing along to early 2000s top hits. We danced. I asked her questions about Smith before me, about famous alums and campus traditions and secret tunnels and anarchic spirit and stick-and-poke culture and my favorite professors and how Smithies got indoor slip and slides permanently banned after the coolest Chapin party ever. My words started to collide on the way out of my mouth, and my feet got twisted around each other.
“Are you going to be okay?” I realized Mars had stopped talking, quietly observing as I made a clumsy fool of myself.
“Don’t worry, I won’t throw up in your bowl.”
“No, I mean… After this. Will you be okay after you leave?”
I snorted rudely, as if she had asked a stupid question. “No?” I looked around at the party. Nobody seemed to be listening. A third of them were sitting on the ground, unlikely to recall this moment tomorrow anyway. “Honestly, it’s going to be really fucking bad. I’m going to cry for… ever.” She put a hand on my shoulder and nodded sadly, saying nothing. “I try not to think about it, because I don’t want to start grieving while I’m still here, but sometimes I accidentally think about it, and I just feel this horrible crushing weight…”
Have you ever been so drunk that you don’t feel yourself crying? There’s no choke in your throat, no tightness in your chest; you only realize what’s happening when you unconsciously begin to wipe your sopping face with the fabric of your shirt.
“Oh my God. Sorry. God, this is so embarrassing.” I rubbed more tears off my cheek and tried to look at anything but Mars.
“Hey, it’s okay. You think you’re the first one to sob at the fountain on graduation day? You should have seen those 80s girls. They tried to camp out in my bowl after graduation.”
“They did?”
“They did. But don’t get any ideas. Campo had to drag them out, and that was embarrassing.” She smiled at the memory. Somehow we had ended up on the ground, with Mars’ arm around me. “Look, it’s okay to grieve. Everyone does. It just means you had something good here. And you’ll find it again. You did it before, and you’ll do it again.” I was unconvinced, and she could tell. “Hey, who’s the expert here? You, or the statue who’s spent a hundred years at this” —she put on mock-aristocratic voice— “prestigious institution?’” I gave her a chuckle.
The party slowed down until a small crowd remained. We sat on the ground trading stories and memories, cementing our friendships, and swearing “if you’re ever in my town, you can totally stay at my place” a thousand times over. We stayed until the sky turned pink. On the way out of Mars’ fountain bowl, I stopped to hug her stone form, cold and unmoving. In memory of a beautiful life.