Orchard (9780062974761)

by Hopen, David

  She folded her arms, put her blanket to her face, breathed steadily. “When you say stuff like that, you sound like another person.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Nobody in particular.”

  I took her left hand. Her bracelet slipped down her arm, and my fingers brushed against a delicate line of scar tissue just below her wrist. She jerked away.

  “Well, what do you think of when you play?”

  “Being completely alienated from the world. Keeping secrets. Hurting people you love and who love you.” Her head was still covered by that hot-pink blanket. “Feeling so cold no fire will ever warm me, feeling as if my head’s been taken right off, feeling as if none of it really matters anymore—tests, colleges, rankings, parties, childhood, normalcy.”

  “And what about when you finish playing? What matters to you then?”

  She removed the blanket from over her head, the top of her hair standing from static, and moved her face closer to mine. I inspected the rings around her irises. “Do you know what they want out of me? Harmless perfection. Normal extraordinariness. That’s what they want.”

  “You’re the least ordinary person I’ve met in the entirety of my painfully ordinary life.”

  Blood pounded in my ears. She took my hands. I traced her veins. I wanted every part of her.

  “What do you think it’s like?” Her lips were very close to mine. “At the very end.” Her hands on the back of my neck, her breath on my face, a stirring in my body. “Passing into nothingness. You think it hurts?”

  “Maybe it’s just a light going out.” Grief closed in on us. She laid me on my back, hovered above me. I breathed heavily. “Like slipping right into the dark.”

  She blew out the candle, lowering herself on me, and we moved into the dark.

  * * *

  EVAN HEARD FIRST. WE WERE sitting on the balcony when his phone sounded. He frowned, curiously checked his email. After about a minute, still expressionless, he put down his phone, clenching his jaw.

  “Well?” Oliver went for an unnecessarily large bite of his sandwich. “You’re going to make us sit like schmucks?”

  “That was the decision letter.” Evan gave a half-smile, despite himself. “I got in.”

  There was a sudden rush of excitement. We stood, we congratulated him, even Amir hugged him. We talked about Palo Alto and brilliantly dyed Californian skies and how it’d feel to be separated from home by a country’s worth of distance. When the bell rang and we stood to leave, I asked him, unthinkingly, whether he felt happy. I wasn’t certain why I felt any need to voice this. It was an odd thing to question; I cringed as the words slipped from my mouth. While the others gave me hard looks, however, Evan didn’t blink. “No,” he said, putting one leg through the open window. Sadness settled softly in his eyes so that, for the slightest moment, I could no longer quite remember what it was about Evan that was particularly superior to anyone else. “Actually, I feel very alone.”

  * * *

  THE REST OF THE EARLY Decisions came in rapid fire. Amir and Davis found out later that day, joining Evan as the talk of the school with respective acceptances into MIT and Harvard. Amir, we believed strongly, wept upon receiving the news—ducking into the first-floor bathroom to do so in private—while Davis paraded around with his grandfather’s class ring, belting Crimson fight songs. School was in a frenzy, phones ringing in the middle of tests, cheers breaking out in classrooms, three different people tearing out from math to sob after receiving rejection emails, students hugging, teachers hugging, Mrs. Ballinger and Mrs. Janice dancing the Macarena in the hallway after lining people up for acceptance photographs. Noah, unsurprisingly, made Northwestern; Rebecca the University of Illinois at Chicago; Remi NYU. (“Her father sits on the board,” Oliver complained with uncharacteristic indignation. “Can we even call that a moral victory?”) I monitored my phone every few minutes to no avail, a sharp pain in my stomach, feeling the grim fear of being left behind.

  Sophia hadn’t heard back either by last period, and sat staring vacantly as Dr. Flowers lectured about the value of state schools. (“You think for one minute that my Disney-obsessed, cheapskate parents would in a million years let me flee Florida?”)

  “Is it true?” Sophia asked me abruptly, as soon as we were dismissed.

  “Is what true?”

  “About Stanford?”

  I swung my backpack over my shoulder, looking at her with surprise. My faced hardened. “Yeah. He got in.”

  She nodded faintly, which made me feel sorry for myself. We said nothing further.

  * * *

  SOPHIA BROUGHT ME HOME AFTER school. She didn’t feel like being alone, she said, so we sat anxiously in her room, attempting small talk, discussing the day’s various acceptances. When the conversation trailed off I moved to kiss her. For a while we were on her bed, sheets untouched, Sophia on her back, breathing softly in my ears, legs wrapped around my stomach. Afterward we were quiet. I felt strange, disassociated from her, our world of intimacy disintegrating with each passing silence. I told her I ought to leave.

  “To go where?” She asked this partly with disdain, partly with relief, lips pressed tightly.

  “Home.”

  I loitered aimlessly around my house. I read some of Stevens’ poetry, Rabbi Bloom’s latest assignment, and tried my hand at some homework. After a half hour I gave up, unable to concentrate, and, brooding, joined my parents for dinner.

  “Something wrong?” my father finally asked, mid-chew.

  “Nope,” I said.

  “A lot of silent eating for nothing to be wrong.”

  “‘All my life I grew up around sages,’” I grumbled, “‘and I’ve found nothing better for a person than silence.’”

  “He’s tired.” My mother widened her eyes probingly. “You know how hard he’s working now, at the end of term.” I responded with a subtle shrug, which made her frown into her glass.

  My father, to his credit, remained unconvinced. A small part of me was flattered he’d noticed at all. “It’s just, you haven’t said a word all night.”

  For a moment, I considered admitting what my mother and I were waiting to learn. “We hardly ever speak,” I said instead. “How can you tell if something is wrong?”

  * * *

  I DIDN’T FIND OUT UNTIL eight o’clock. I sat on my bed refreshing my email, my mother checking in every five minutes. The letter was heartbreaking: the admission committee met, grueling deliberation ensued; regrettably, they couldn’t offer me a spot in the incoming class. I read it several times—blinking stupidly, eyes moving mechanically from top to bottom—and then closed my computer and laid on my back. My mother tried comforting me, told me it didn’t matter, even as she failed to hold back her own tears, pecking my forehead good night and retreating hurriedly to her bathroom. Staring at the ceiling, I thought about the lonely, dust-laden hours I’d spent in the Borough Park Library, Shimon Levy’s collection of stained shirts, the look Mrs. Ballinger would give me until, under the weight of exhaustion, I collapsed into a dreamless sleep.

  It was nearly midnight when I woke. I turned, rubbed my temple, feeling groggy and generally sorry for myself. I shaved, washed, studied my reflection, then returned to bed and shut the lights. When I couldn’t sleep, I fumbled for my phone and dialed Sophia.

  Her tone was sharp, startled. “Hamlet?”

  “Hi Soph.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “No, I—sorry I didn’t call sooner. Just wanted to know if you heard.”

  “You’re sweet.” She said so in a hollow voice.

  “Well?”

  “Yeah, I—I got into Penn.”

  I smiled on the other end of the phone. “Wow. That’s so great. Really great news.”

  “Thank you, Ari.” A voice called her; with her hand over the phone, she said she’d be only a minute.

  “I’m very proud,” I said.

  She thanked me. We fell back into silence.

  �
�I should go,” she said, tonelessly. “I—my family’s still celebrating.”

  “Yeah, of course. Go enjoy.”

  “But Ari.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not going to tell me?”

  I sat still on my bed. “No, I—it didn’t work out.”

  “Shit. I’m so sorry.” Her voice had a baritone quality. “I am, really.”

  “Thanks, but it’s okay.”

  “There are plenty of other schools. We can think it through together.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Tomorrow.”

  “Have a good night, Ari.”

  “Good night,” I said and hung up.

  * * *

  WE DIDN’T TALK THE NEXT day. I hardly saw her, in fact: we didn’t have biology, she was surrounded by Remi and Rebecca and others bearing balloons and cakes adorned in blue and red and she darted from classrooms after the bell. Not that I had anything particular to say. But I felt an obligation to do something: congratulate her, seek her help, blame her.

  The day was a blur. I was in a fog, avoiding Noah and the others, eating on my own, sitting mindlessly through class, staring at the clock. I didn’t run into Mrs. Ballinger, at least, and for that I was grateful. During davening I sat to the side, unmoved to pray. Kayla found me during a free period, brooding in an empty classroom, pretending to do homework so as not to be disturbed.

  “You stood me up,” she said calmly.

  “Sorry, I just really didn’t feel like being tutored today.”

  “No, I get it. I’m useful, but a chore. Discard after use.”

  “Oh, come on. You know that’s not what I meant.”

  “So you didn’t get in.” I couldn’t tell if this was a question or a statement, so I didn’t answer. For a slight moment she took my hand. Her fingers were surprisingly warm, softer than I imagined. “Their loss.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not convinced.”

  “How’d your mother take it?”

  “Poorly,” I said.

  “Are you going to tell your father?”

  “I don’t really see the point.”

  She lingered, waiting for me to talk more. “Would you like me to leave you alone?” she asked finally.

  I felt a surge of irrational frustration. “Yeah, actually, I think I would like that,” I said, immediately feeling ashamed.

  She turned to leave, then paused, twirling her hair lightly. “It’s funny. You didn’t even ask.”

  “Ask what?”

  She snorted, shaking her head. “I got into the Honors program at Stern College,” she said. “I got the full ride.”

  * * *

  TOWARD THE END OF THE day I peered into Rabbi Bloom’s office. He was reading calmly. I knocked. “Thought you might be in,” he said. “Take a seat.”

  I sat at the conference table. I waited for him to offer water or coffee or tea, but he didn’t. “I’m sorry about our friends in New York.”

  “I shouldn’t have applied. Deluding myself was a mistake.”

  “Self-delusion is almost never a mistake.”

  “Have you heard from Mrs. Ballinger?”

  “A single snide comment this morning. I told her not to take such a narrow view of things. At any rate, I wouldn’t waste your time worrying about that.”

  “Yeah, well, what else should I be worrying about?”

  “Perhaps a plan B.”

  “I don’t have one,” I said. “My plan B is Brooklyn.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll be allowing that anytime soon. Brooklyn’s not the place for you.”

  “Where is?” I asked. “I don’t have a place.”

  On the first day of fourth grade, Rabbi Herenstein taught us about hashgochoh protis, divine providence. Such is the extent of God’s involvement in our lives, he insisted, quoting Gemara Chullin, that we do not even bruise a finger without the Heavenly Court ordaining it. At the time, I imagined a crowded courtroom, bustling with angels and biblical celebrities who cheered as we silly mortals stumbled about earth, stubbing our toes and learning to swim and falling in love and burying our dead. At the time, I found it comforting to think that we are never alone, that something higher steers our every move. Suddenly, though, I was bothered by this idea. Surely, in the sphere of metaphysical calculations, allowing me to experience profound happiness and relief couldn’t be drastically more taxing than, say, having me jam my finger while playing basketball with Mordechai. What, really, was a Columbia acceptance to the Almighty?

  “That’s the whole fun, isn’t it?” Rabbi Bloom said. “Finding out where we belong?”

  * * *

  I WENT WITH FLOWERS. UGLY flowers, the only ones they had late afternoon: fake pinks, yellowed purples, the whole thing giving off a bright discoloration. I wrote a card, a rather nice one, I thought. Her housekeeper Norma answered, looking me over with a confused look, opening her mouth to say something before stopping herself. She told me, sternly, not to come in. I waited—feeling stupid, holding the bouquet and the card, shifting my weight from foot to foot—until Sophia came down, still in school clothing, taken aback to find me at her doorstep.

  I handed her my gifts. “I didn’t get to congratulate you.”

  “Hamlet.” She studied the flowers, quiet grief coming over her. “They’re lovely.”

  “Actually they’re kind of hideous. But they’re something.”

  She closed the front door, stepped closer to me. “You’re remarkably good to me.”

  “Yeah, well, you’ve been good to me, too. And I’m really happy for you.”

  “My family’s eating dinner,” she said, glancing uneasily behind her, “otherwise I’d invite you in.”

  “Nah, that’s okay.”

  “Ari.” Her voice was throaty, low. “I’m sorry, you know that?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I know.”

  She hugged me, kissed my cheek softly, slipped back through the door. As I drove off, I noticed a familiar black Aston Martin parked on the street, two houses away.

  * * *

  WE PLAYED BROWNSON THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, a Catholic powerhouse that regularly shipped players to the likes of Notre Dame and Florida State and Indiana and which, without fail, annually made mincemeat of us. By now my interest in our team had waned. We were 6–1, enjoying the greatest stretch in Kol Neshama history, but I’d yet to see the court for more than five minutes at a time and had grown accustomed to my familiar spot at the far corner of the bench, where I’d snack steadily on the cache of chocolate that Rocky reserved for hypoglycemia.

  “Their best player committed to USC,” Oliver told me during warm-ups. “Massive dude.”

  Rocky, already drenched in sweat, pumping out push-ups next to the scorer’s table, rolled to his side. “Shut your ugly mouth, Bellow! You think we need cowardice right now?”

  We traded baskets for most of the first half, Noah putting on a masterful performance to keep pace, though fell into a sizable hole by the close of the third. Their USC recruit—listed at six-seven, closer to six-ten—went wild at this point, wreaking havoc in the paint, dunking thunderously over Donny to close the quarter. We were the home team, but the crowd, our biggest of the season, still erupted seeing Donny splayed on the floor, blinking off a concussion. My eyes, however, went to Sophia, sitting with Rebecca in the top of the bleachers. I looked away before we made eye contact.

  Oliver noticed what I was doing. “Forget her already, will you? Both of you should.” Still wearing his warm-ups, he was helping me inhale chocolate. “All she does is crush people.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Whatever.” He unwrapped a Kit Kat. “Forget I said anything.”

  “Seriously,” I said. Someone on Brownson dunked on Amir, tipping the crowd into mayhem, but I missed it. “Has he—does Evan ever say anything about her?” I reached nervously for a miniature Twix. “Or me?”

  “I’m no
t getting involved with this.”

  “Just tell me what you meant by that.”

  “Jesus, Eden. Don’t sound so desperate. You and Evan both—you’re moping, he’s fucking weird about things lately. You see me broken up over Remi?”

  Noah cut the deficit to two with a minute remaining, eliciting cheers of disbelief from the crowd and swearing from Rocky, who appeared to be on the verge of some quasi-religious awakening at the prospect of defeating Brownson. “This is it,” Rocky told us in the huddle, his shirt somehow missing three buttons. “Win and be legends. You’ll get girlfriends, statues, investment banking jobs. Just give Noah the ball and get the fuck out the way.”

  Donny inbounded to Noah with twenty on the clock, everyone in the gym, save for Oliver and me, on their feet. Noah stood at midcourt, watching time dissolve, the USC behemoth guarding him. With five seconds remaining Noah jabbed left, dribbled behind his back and then spun right, catching his defender off guard. He charged forward, right into the USC player’s chest, crossed back and, feet planted firmly behind the three-point line, fired at the buzzer.

  Chaos. Noah sprinted for the stands, Rocky ripped off his shirt entirely. Students rushed the court, tackling in celebration. Eddie Harris, waving one of Noah’s old jerseys, planted an enormous kiss on Amir’s mother’s cheek, which for once lost its scowl. I approached the mosh pit, hovering at the edge, unwilling to get sucked inside. Noah was lifted into the air. I stood back and admired his glory.

  Afterward, I followed my mother to the parking lot. As we pulled out, I saw Sophia exit a car on the unlit side of the lot, distraught, blinking tears.

  My mother put us in park. “Isn’t that your friend?”

  “Yeah, actually.”

  “Think she’s all right?”

  I unbuckled my seatbelt, threw open the door and hurried back toward the gym in pursuit of Sophia. From the corner of my eye, I saw the car she had just left jolt into motion. Before I could process what was happening, I instinctively jumped aside, just as the car barreled dangerously close to where I’d been standing. It was Evan, eyes raw, head down. I watched the Aston Martin disappear into the night, and then I went back to my car and slammed the door. “Never mind that,” I said, fixing my seatbelt, leaning back. “Let’s go home.”