Girl, Unstrung

by Claire Handscombe

  Twenty-Three

  After skiing the first full day, we’re all pretty sore. I spent a lot of the day with my body clenched from the effort of trying to do everything right, to get my skis to go parallel and then at the pizza wedge angle when I needed to slow down or stop. “Clara,” the group instructor kept calling out to me from further down the mountain. “Straighten your back.” Or, “Don’t grip the ski poles so hard.” Or, “Bend your knees slightly.” Or, “Relax your shoulders.” There’s so much to remember, and on top of it of it all I’m supposed to relax? Relaxing and getting things right are usually not compatible. I’ve fallen a few times, too, and I can feel a bruise forming on my outer left thigh from falling sideways the way Tim showed me.

  Hot baths are apparently really good for this kind of muscle pain, but I don’t get a chance to take one before dinner because Abigail was in our bathroom for so long. Just a quick shower, and a dab of perfume, a quick look in the misted-up mirror, and by the time I’m out of the bathroom and down at dinner everyone’s deep in conversation that’s echoing around the room. There’s nowhere to sit except at the end of the table, far away from Tim, who’s surrounded on all sides by girls. Vanessa, the sophomore with pale skin and long black hair who sat next to him on the plane yesterday, is leaning in close to him, showing him a bruise on her forearm. (How did she get a bruise on her forearm? Maybe that’s what he’s asking her; maybe that’s why he’s laughing. The implausibility of it.)

  “Hey,” I say to nobody in particular as I pull out my chair and plop myself down, but Nguyet and Alicia don’t register it. I’m hungrier than I’ve maybe ever been in my life, my stomach rumbling for mercy, so I focus on my cheeseburger and fries, and I sneak glances at Tim, willing him to look for me, to look at me. But he doesn’t, and his laughter gets louder, and I finish my food as fast I can and leave the room as soon as I’ve swallowed the last bite of airy chocolate mousse. We’re probably supposed to wait in case there are announcements or whatever, but I can’t stand this anymore. My chair scrapes along the floor as I pull back, and finally Alicia looks at me, screwing up her face up in disapproval at the disturbance.

  Still, it’s good I’m not entangled in conversation. I have responsibilities, after all. Back in our room, I unfold my metal music stand next to my bed, take my viola out of its case, unfold my music and bend it back so it doesn’t keep closing, twizzle the end of my bow. I chose an étude I can play almost perfectly, position my viola under my chin, and take a deep breath – reassuring movements that make me feel like myself again, at home in my own body. I’m lifting my bow to play the first note when the door swings open.

  “Oh, hi,” Abigail says, surprised and disappointed to see me there, like she’s forgotten I exist and would rather not have been reminded. “Whatcha doing?”

  I try not to roll my eyes. It is blindingly obvious what I am doing. But we have six more nights together and I don’t want her to hate me. So I don’t say, what does it look like, genius? Instead, despite the tone of her voice that clearly communicates that she thinks I’m a weirdo, I smile sweetly.

  “Practicing my viola,” I say. “I have an audition soon.”

  “Oh,” she says, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Okay.”

  She flops onto her back on her bed, fishes for her phone in her pocket, and puts her earphones in. She might not be able to hear me now, but, as I’ve previously mentioned, I don’t practice in front of people.

  I feel a pang of guilt as I lay my viola back down in its case. Believe it or not, there are days when I don’t feel like practicing, but I make myself take it step by step. Go up to your room, Clara. Close the door. Open your viola case. Take out the instrument. And once my viola’s in my hand, I remember I love it, and I’d feel guilty not playing it, like I’m some kind of tease. That’s what I’m feeling now. It’s not that different from Tim seeming like he liked me enough to sit next to me on the bus and give me a small sad smile when I walked past him on the plane to go find my own seat six rows back, and then not looking for me at dinner. I’m sorry, I mouthe to my viola, running my finger along its D string. Circumstances beyond my control.

  IT’S ONLY FIFTEEN MINUTES until evening activities, and I don’t want to be stuck with a dud seat again, so I wander to the game room, where people have started to gather. On the orange couch, Vanessa and another sophomore girl are comparing injuries. As is customary by now, the butterflies in my stomach register Tim before I consciously see him, sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, his legs tucked under his chin, scrolling through his phone. It would be so easy for me to walk over, plop down next to him, and casually say Hey. Or at least, it would be easy if I was smarting less over the fact that he seems to have forgotten about me.

  Instead, since the purple couch is free, I grab the corner and nestle there, with my legs tucked under me, making myself as small as possible. I’m about to take my own phone out when Tim looks up from his.

  He cracks his neck and rolls his shoulder. “Ouch,” he says.

  “This is what I’m talking about,” Vanessa says, breaking her conversation mid-sentence. “Everything hurts. Necks, shoulders, everything.”

  “Worth it, though.” He smiles, and that’s enough for my stupid face to start getting warm.

  “I mean,” Vanessa says. “If you want a massage –”

  “You can do massage?” Tim asks, hope in his voice along with disbelief at the happy coincidence. “I didn’t know that.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” she says. I wish Katie was here so I could make a gagging face at her. “Come sit in front of me.” She nods towards the patch of floor in from of her, beckoning him like he’s a dog or something. And in that split second, she also makes eye contact with me. He’s mine, her eyes seem to tell me. Look at him, practically eating out of my hand. I saw him first. Deal with it. And also, there’s a warning there: Don’t even think about trying anything, little freshman girl. I hold her gaze, even though I’m a little scared of her. I hope my eyes are saying something cool back, like Tim who? I barely know who he is, but even if I did like him, I wouldn’t let you stop me. That’s a lot for eyes to communicate, though. Mostly likely, mine are just saying, please, don’t hurt me.

  Tim sits in front of Vanessa, stretching out his legs. My feet escape from under me and land on the floor, a breath’s width from his, like every part of my body is steel and he’s the most powerful magnet ever. As Vanessa kneels up behind him and gets to work on his shoulders, he wriggles and adjusts his position, so that his feet are brushing mine. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was deliberate, that he had a little of the steel-and-magnet thing happening himself. But I do know better, because he’s barely acknowledged me since this morning. And now he’s closing his eyes and making noises that sound way too appreciative for a public setting. Noises I was kind of hoping he’d be making with me by now. Vanessa’s hands work his neck, his scalp, his shoulders. I move my foot away. He doesn’t open his eyes. His face registers nothing. He doesn’t even notice.

  Twenty-Four

  The designated evening activity on the second evening is board games. We were all meant to bring one from home, and I rooted around and found my dad’s Taboo, which as board games go is my favorite because for one minute you talk and everyone has to listen. That’s the rule. Plus, I love the purple squeaker that you squeeze when someone else makes a mistake. It’s so satisfying.

  Tim, of course, brought Scrabble, but that gets vetoed immediately. “Bo-ring,” some sophomore guy I don’t know groans. Tim’s shoulders slump and his face falls, but only a little, as if he’s used to this. I know how that feels, for the thing you’re passionate about to be mocked or just misunderstood by people around you. From the floor across from him, I try to catch his eye to somehow tell him so without words, but he won’t look at me. We haven’t spoken since the Massage Incident last night, since I pulled my foot away from his. We weren’t on the same team for those stupid icebreaker
games they made us do afterward and every time since then that I’ve seen him – toasting bagels at breakfast, waiting for the first ski lift of the day at the bottom of the slopes, helping himself to extra potatoes at dinner – he’s been with Vanessa.

  He doesn’t exactly seem like he’s not enjoying himself with her, either. Last night as I was finally drifting off to sleep I kept hearing echoes of the sounds he was making during Vanessa’s so-called massage. Things like this, I realize all over again, are why I don’t bother with boys. So much time and energy, and for what? For the hope of catching his beautiful blue eyes for a few seconds? Please. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.

  To my shock, the popular girls looking through the games piled high on the table choose Taboo, so maybe they’re not as stupid as they look. We take a vote, and of course nobody wants to argue with the popular girls.

  “Boys against girls,” Vanessa decrees, and even though that’s very cisnormative of her I don’t argue, because girls are clearly better than boys at Taboo and I’m all for being on the winning team. People on opposite teams also have to alternate places, so this also means she gets to sit next to Tim on the floor, her long black apple-scented hair brushing his shoulder as she leans close to look at the card to check he doesn’t say Sandra Dee or cooking or hair or bicycle to try and get the guys to guess the word Grease.

  “Squeak,” she says, when he accidentally says school. “Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!”

  Her voice is high-pitched and discordant. I can’t take it.

  “You don’t actually have say squeak,” I say. “You squeeze the squeaker, and it says squeak for you.”

  “You’re the squeaker,” she says.

  Her gaggle of skinny sophomore snickers. She presses the purple thing over and over again. I want to say she’s going to break it, but I also don’t want to let her see that she’s getting to me. Besides, there’s a game to win, and while we are clearly going to beat the boys, it’s important not to get sidetracked. I do a little, though. Sitting in this circle on the floor, it’s easy to steal glances at Tim from time to time – or, like, every few seconds. You know how if you look at the sun too directly, you close your eyes afterwards and it’s still there? I sneak a look at his chin dimple, his swoopy hair, his eyelashes, and when I look away they’re imprinted on the inside of my eyelids – hopefully forever.

  Obviously, though, when it’s someone on my team speaking, I’m focused on her, leaning forward, trying to guess the word, often succeeding. When it’s my turn to describe a phrase, the first card says Stuck up.

  “Snob,” I say.

  “Viola player,” Abigail says. I stay focused. You have to, in this game, if you want to stay ahead.

  “Billy No Mates,” Vanessa says. “Squeaker.”

  Wilson, the guy next to me who has the purple thing, squeaks it, which throws me, because I didn’t make a mistake, I know I didn’t, but I scan the card up and down, up and down, just to make sure, and they’re blurrier and blurrier. This was my moment to shine, to make everyone like me by winning points for the team, and I’m blowing it.

  “Like if you’re trying to get a teacher to like you,” I say, controlling my voice. “Or if you’re trying to get a guy to like you.” That last part was a stroke of genius. Even I can admit that.

  “Suck up,” Tim shouts, then puts his hand over his mouth.

  “Shut up, you,” Vanessa says, cuffing him on the back of the head, taking any opportunity for physical contact. “You’re not on our team.”

  “Hey,” Abigail says. “If he wants to help...”

  “Not the point,” Vanessa says, wasting more valuable seconds, and I know what the point is. Taboo is a weird kind of test to see if your minds are in sync, and Tim and I just passed it, and she doesn’t like it.

  “Anyway, it sounds like the phrase Tim just said.” His name tingles and hums on my tongue. “But with a T in it.”

  “Time’s up!” someone yells, and my turn is over. Zero points. I’m mortified. I’m usually excellent at this game. Vanessa squeaks the squeaker, and its message this time is clear: LOSER.

  Obviously, we still win, because girls always do, but when I come to pack up the game, I can’t find the purple thing. I need it – it’s dad’s game, he’ll want it all back in one piece.

  “Has anyone seen the squeaker?” I ask into the hubbub of voices, but nobody pays attention. I look under the couches and the tables. Nothing.

  “Looking for something?” Vanessa says, and then she squeaks it in my ear. I try to snatch it from her, but she snaps her hand back, and then she’s gone.

  I’M PROUD OF MYSELF for making it through the evening without crying. It might feel good to let it out now that I’m in bed, might get rid of this lump in my throat, but it’s not worth it, not worth Abigail hearing me and getting to report back tomorrow to Vanessa’s delight and satisfaction. Do they really think I’m stuck up? I keep myself to myself, is all. There’s no point making friends since I’m going to be gone in a few months. And besides, who would want to be friends with these people?

  I’m reaching for my phone on the nightstand to text Katie when there’s the quietest knock on the door. I push back my covers, tiptoe to the peephole, and hold back a gasp. It’s Tim. I creak the door open. Abigail turns towards the opposite wall and moans incoherently, clearly displeased. I slip into the hallway, crossing my arms over my bra-less chest and hoping the bun I’ve thrown up is messy in a semi-glamorous way rather than a bed-head way.

  “Hey,” I say, like my heart isn’t pounding. “What’s up?”

  “I have this for you,” he says, holding out the Taboo squeaker in his hand. I feel my eyes widen. I never expected to see that thing again.

  “Thanks.” I’m not sure what else to say. I try not to touch him as I take the squeaker back, because I know that will fog up my brain, but my fingers brush his palm and my knees feel suddenly wobbly.

  “I’m sorry about Vanessa,” he says, his eyes full of earnestness. “She can be –” He doesn’t finish the sentence, and let’s face it: he doesn’t need to. We both know exactly how she can be. “We’ve been friends since pre-K.”

  I think for some reason about Bridget Jones’s Diary, and wonder if they used to play naked in a paddling pool.

  “She’s suffocating sometimes.”

  It’s dark in this hallway, and that emboldens me. “Just friends?”

  He breathes in, puffs his cheeks out, and sighs. “She wants to be more. I really don’t. So she tries to guard me with her life to make sure I don’t get to be with anyone else.”

  “She’s a pretty effective repellant.”

  “I know,” Tim says. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about how tonight was, and how we haven’t gotten to talk to each other much. Because I really –”

  A flashlight comes on in the hallway and shines almost directly into our faces.

  “Back to your rooms,” the sophomore mom who’s come on the trip as a chaperone says. “Now.”

  “We were only talking,” I say. I don’t break rules. And the rule was clearly: no boys in girls’ rooms, and vice versa. He’s not in my room. We’re in the clear.

  “We weren’t doing anything,” Tim says.

  “Not the point,” she says, shaking her head. “Scoot. Back to bed.”

  He squeezes my hand before he goes, and I feel my face redden. We weren’t doing anything. I wonder if there was an unspoken yet on the end of Tim’s sentence. I wonder what things he has been thinking of doing with me. I can still feel his phantom touch on my hand.

  Operation Tim ready for lift off, I text to Katie once I’m back in bed, the lump in my throat well and truly gone now.

  Twenty-Five

  Tim’s right about skiing. It is fun. The next day, he finds me at the bottom of the mountain after our lessons, my nose pink with cold. He’s in a different group, for more advanced skiers. It’s probably for the best that he doesn’t see too much of my stumbling efforts. I don’t always look as elegant as I’d like
to.

  “So, you’re getting the hang of it?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” We skied our first blue run today, after working our way up from bunny runs to greens. I tried to relax, like Tim told me to, and weirdly, even though I didn’t think I really knew how to relax, it helped. My pizza wedge looked good, apparently. Pizza wedge is such a ridiculous name for putting your skis into that upside-down V shape. We’re not babies. I asked our instructor for the real word for it: it’s snowplow. Which makes sense – when you put your skis out in a pizza wedge shape you’re kind of plowing the snow. Our instructor said in French it’s called a snow-chaser. I like that.

  “Want to do a blue run with me before lunch?”

  We have half an hour of free time now; most people huddle in the lodge around hot chocolates after their group lessons. And honestly, I’ve earned that. It was kind of exhilarating, this morning. The instructor taught us that if a slope looks too steep, the thing to do is ski all the way across, make a turn, and then ski all the way back. It takes longer that way, but you also don’t break your neck.

  “Then what’s the point?” I joked, when the instructor said that, and he looked at me the way dad does when I’m about to be grounded.