Even in Paradise

by Chelsey Philpot

  Even when it was all three of us, there were strange lapses in the conversation. Sebastian’s teasing had stopped entirely, and the time he brought H.G. with him to campus—despite the fact that Julia begged me not to leave her alone with them—I hid in my studio until I was sure he was gone. I hated disappointing Julia, but I couldn’t handle seeing the girl he was with. If she was even half as flawless as she was in my head, then she was still beautiful and brilliant.

  I spent September bending and unbending coat hangers into useless shapes while my sculpture for Arcadia collected dust in the corner of the studio.

  When Julia showed me a post from a Harvard gossip blog saying Sebastian and H.G. had broken up—a big scene at a French restaurant in Cambridge, apparently; she threw a glass at his head, or so I read—I tried to keep my face blank. I think I even said, “How sad,” or “That’s too bad.” If Julia didn’t buy my act, she kept it to herself.

  That final fall, I was both detached from life at St. Anne’s and hyper-aware of every corner and cranny on campus.

  I couldn’t help myself from pausing in the long photo-lined hall of Keble, the English and language building, each time I left Latin IV. I knew that searching for truths in the faces in old photographs was like looking for love in a painting—you might see its shadows there, but it’s not the real thing. Yet I stopped and hoped for clues I didn’t really expect to find. Gus’s picture was near the end, by the faculty offices. In it she was laughing, and her smile was Julia’s smile, and her eyes were Mrs. Buchanan’s eyes, and the cocky angle of her head made me think of Sebastian with a twinge. Her arms were over the shoulders of two shorter girls whose faces had been cropped out of the picture.

  That such a girl could be anything less than immortal was one of the universe’s cruelest jokes I had encountered—to that point, at least.

  AP ENGLISH WITH DR. BLANCHE

  “To those of you who took my honors class last year, welcome back. To those who have never had a class with me, believe everything you hear. I am indeed a merciless tyrant with unreasonable expectations. So I am assuming that you ladies did your summer reading like the dedicated AP English students I know you all are.” Dr. Blanche paused behind his desk and scanned the classroom.

  Giggles.

  “I take your silence as a yes. Well then, let’s get right into it. On the surface, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Great Gatsby is the story of a man who desires to be something he’s not. He wants to become part of an upper-class world he wasn’t invited into. On another level, it’s a cautionary tale about the futility of the American dream and the endless optimism of the human spirit. ‘So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’”

  Dr. Blanche leaned forward over his chair. “Who liked the book? Who thought it was a waste of time? Who loved it? Who hated it? And please don’t let the fact that I considered it the great American novel influence you.”

  More giggles.

  “Did you lose your voices over the summer? Yes, Miss Amy Worthington. Your thoughts, please.”

  “I liked it. I liked Gatsby. I felt bad for him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he tries so hard to impress Daisy and then he just winds up dead.”

  “For those of you who didn’t finish the novel, there’s your ending.”

  “Oops. Sorry. Was I not supposed to tell?”

  “Serves them right, Miss Worthington, for not doing their homework. Yes, Miss Charlotte Ryder in the back row. Thoughts?”

  “It’s kind of beautiful that he tries.”

  “Who tries what, Miss Ryder?”

  “That Gatsby tries so hard for his dream. That he wants to be part of Daisy’s world so badly that he’ll do anything. He believes in her long after he shouldn’t. His hope is beautiful. It’s what ends up killing him, but it’s still beautiful.”

  “Dum spiro spero. While I breathe, I hope. Remember that, ladies. Okay, let’s read aloud some sections to get a sense of Fitzgerald’s language. Miss Rosalie Bernard, why don’t you start from the beginning?”

  I kept my eyes forward, but I let my mind wander. I didn’t raise my hand again for the rest of class.

  SEVENTEEN

  EVEN IF JULIA HADN’T BEEN the coxswain, I would have gone to the fall regatta out of habit. Rosalie was the senior captain, and when we were roommates and friends, I had watched every one of her home races. Though weeks had passed and we were more than halfway through October, she still wasn’t speaking to me. Nonetheless, I pathetically hoped that seeing me on the sidelines as she rowed would soften her a little.

  Plus, I loved the river.

  The fall regatta was the sort of event that ended up in all the photos in the St. Anne’s admission catalogues. The air was popcorn and blueberry muffins mixed with leaves and the brackish scent of the river itself. Groups of parents and teachers stood over picnic tables or piles of discarded backpacks and jackets. The hum of conversation mixed with the hum of the water, their harmony occasionally broken by a coach shouting something to his or her team over by the trailers that covered the boathouse parking lot. It was exactly what Grandma Eve described when she was convincing me to apply to St. Anne’s. It was a bit of paradise.

  Julia looked more put together than usual for the occasion, dressed in matching wind pants and jacket in the St. Anne’s evergreen and ivory. Her uniform was only a little too big for her, and her hair was back in a tight braid that someone else must have done. As she approached me, her face was red with the effort of carrying a burlap sandbag in her arms.

  “What are you doing?” I said. “Watching you hold that is painful.”

  “How do you think I feel? I have to carry it. It’s pathetic. I should have put stones in my pockets or drunk a gallon of water before weigh-in.”

  “Julia, you sure you got that?”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I gave Cordelia the other one to carry.”

  I looked over Julia’s shoulder, and there was Cordelia behind her, dragging a sandbag across the ground, leaving a path of plowed grass in her wake. I could hear her grunting and see how hard she was pulling in the tension in her back.

  “You are a heartless and twisted individual,” I said, looking square at Julia.

  “What? She wanted to carry it. Fine, Bradley,” she yelled over to where Bradley was leaning against a boat rack, talking closely with Coach Hassle. It looked more like they were standing in a dark bar than by a river on a bright fall afternoon.

  “Bradley!” Julia shouted again. “Are you telling Coach Hassle about the time you got so scared during the Fourth of July fireworks that you peed—”

  “Coming, darling sister,” Bradley said, smiling his game-show host smile at Coach Hassle before jogging up the hill toward us. “Wow,” he said, slightly out of breath at the top. “You sure know how to kill a guy’s game.”

  Julia snorted. “Game? That’s what you call game?”

  “Well, I got her number,” he said, holding up a piece of torn notebook paper between his two hands.

  “Bradley, you’re disgusting. That’s my coach.”

  “Yeah, and she’s hot,” he said as he folded the paper up neatly and put it back in his pocket.

  Julia hefted her bag up higher in her arms. “Casanova, go help Cordelia bring my sandbag down to the dock. She’s going to pass out if she keeps trying to pull it.”

  Bradley gave her a sharp salute and mussed both our hair before striding to Cordelia.

  “It’s amazing,” Julia said, watching him. “He’s six years older than me and is trusted with running a company, and yet most of the time he acts like he’s thirteen.” She grunted and tried to shift the sandbag more to her left arm. “Okay, I’ve got a boat full of girls to yell at and a regatta to win. See you after?”

  “I’ll be here,” I said, pointing at the ground.

  “Kiss for good luck?” Julia puckered her lips.

  “Get out of here.” I shoved her toward the dock.

  “Right,”
Julia said as she made an exaggerated sigh. “Not on my team. Okay. Well, your loss.” She turned and lurched down the hill, stopping from time to time to bounce the sandbag higher on her hip.

  I wandered behind her, stopping at the water’s edge to breathe in the river. It didn’t smell as good as the ocean at Arcadia, but it had its own fantastic scent: a combination of dirt and decay that to most people would have been disgusting. But I loved it. I loved the way it turned black in the middle and there was nothing on the other bank but a wall of trees with electric red, orange, and yellow leaves. Groups of parents and students dotted the bank beside me, talking loudly, as coxswains, many of them Julia’s size or even smaller, led the eight girls carrying their sleek racing shells in wide circles around the spectators.

  I watched Julia work her way up and down the dock as the rowers in her shell screwed their oars in place and settled into their seats. I was grateful to see that Rosalie gave her a nod when Julia leaned in and said something to her. She might be mad at me, but at least she wasn’t going to take it out on Julia and the team. As soon as everyone was in the boat, Julia climbed into the stern, half-disappearing in the tight space. She adjusted her mike, and then they shot away from the dock, slowly rowing, their oars creating synchronized arches over the water as they made their way toward the old railroad bridge and the start of the race.

  “Charlie!” Boom’s shout caused half the people on the top of the hill and me to turn around. “There you are. Come up and say hello.” He gestured with one hand, and with the other he plucked an unlit cigar from his mouth.

  When I was within arm’s length, he reached out, keeping the cigar clenched between his teeth, and pulled me into a bear hug. “Aren’t you a sight for old eyes?” he said, squeezing me one more time before releasing. My bones felt slightly crushed.

  “Joe, give me that,” Mrs. Buchanan said, walking over from the coffee table and grabbing the cigar from his mouth. “You can’t smoke on campus, and you know what your doctor told you. Sometimes I think you have a death wish!” She stuck the cigar in her purse and smacked him lightly on the back of the head with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around a paper coffee cup.

  “What if they win?” Boom said, rubbing his head like Mrs. Buchanan’s tiny swat had actually hurt him. “It’d be rude not to celebrate.”

  Mrs. Buchanan rolled her eyes as she sipped her coffee. “If they win, darling, then you may smoke half of it when we get home tonight and I’ll only tell your doctor if you keep trying my patience.” She gave him one more playful swat.

  “Hello dear,” she said, leaning in and hugging me with one arm, kissing both my cheeks. Her musky perfume was the perfect mixture of flower and vanilla. “My husband might be a child sometimes, but he’s right,” she said, squeezing my arm. “You look lovely.”

  “Well kiddo, why aren’t you on the—”

  “Sebastian, doesn’t Charlie look lovely?” Mrs. Buchanan said, cutting Boom off and turning toward Sebastian, who had appeared with his own paper cup of coffee. He was wearing his aviator sunglasses, slouchy jeans, and a faded long-sleeved T-shirt.

  “Hello,” he said, his fingers opening and closing around his cup.

  “Hi,” I replied. My hands felt tingly, like the blood was rushing back into them after they had fallen asleep. I was grateful for the October air across my cheeks.

  “Why don’t we go over to where Dr. Mulcaster is standing, Joe? I want to ask her about the new science facilities,” Mrs. Buchanan said, raising her cup to point to where the headmistress was holding court near the docks.

  “Lead the way, beautiful,” Boom said, winking, then ruffling Sebastian’s hair before shambling after Mrs. Buchanan.

  “Hello,” Sebastian said, once it was just the two of us. He pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head.

  “You already said that.” I waited until his eyes were on his coffee cup to touch my cheeks. They were still way too warm.

  “Yeah, it’s the next part that’s always the trickiest.” He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced as he swallowed. “This stuff’s disgusting. I don’t know why I keep drinking it.”

  “How about ‘how are you’?” I said. “That’s usually step two.”

  “Okay, how are you?”

  “Good. How are you?” I watched him take another drink of coffee. Even with his mouth twisted with disgust, he was so cute it hurt.

  “Good,” he said before draining the rest of his coffee and crumpling the cup. “There was no reason for me to drink that. It was like chewing mud.” He tried tossing the cup in a nearby trash can, but missed. “Shoot. There goes my NBA career,” he said, picking it up and dropping it in the can very deliberately. “Well, ‘how are you’ didn’t give us much to go with.”

  “Nope.”

  “Want to go watch the race?”

  “Yup.”

  “Where’s the best spot?” Sebastian stood on his tiptoes, trying to see over the rows of people that had already started to line the shore in anticipation.

  “Follow me,” I said as I started toward the boathouse. I led him around the side to a door that blended in so well with the rest of the building that it was easy to miss. It took a couple of hard pulls, but eventually it swung out, and I gestured for Sebastian to slip inside before I followed him.

  “Awesome,” he said when our eyes had adjusted to the low light.

  Rows and rows of shining racing shells, small sailboats, piles of gigantic oars and lifejackets, and a dilapidated and useless lifeboat crowded the floor. The rough floorboards creaked under our feet as I led him to the stairs in the back of the barnlike space.

  “They always lock the front door, but my roommate—ex-roommate—told me about the side one freshman year,” I said. We climbed the stairs, and I was painfully aware of how closely he followed me. With every step I forced myself to think, He’s Julia’s brother. He’s Julia’s brother. But the mantra did nothing to calm my dancing heart.

  The loft was dotted with extra boat parts, life jackets whose stuffing was beginning to come out, and a pile of trophies loosely covered with a sheet that must have been white once upon a time. The roof came down steeply at the sides, but the center was tall enough to require a ladder to reach the top. Skylights lined the ceiling, creating yellow rectangles on the wood floor. The smell of plastic tarps and motor oil hung in the air.

  I led the way across the long space, grateful that I could put some space between Sebastian and me by weaving through the piles of boxes and forgotten tools, and flung open the small door at the end, stepping back to let Sebastian look. “Ta-da.”

  “Once again, awesome.” He glanced out, then quickly stepped back in, his face a little paler than before. “Probably should have mentioned that I kind of have a thing about heights.”

  I leaned out the door, glancing at the ground, which sloped toward the docks and was feet and feet below. I heard the crack of the gun signaling the start of the race and bent a little farther out, gripping the side of the door for balance, to find Julia’s boat. His hand at my hip startled me enough for me to shiver. He pulled on my sweater, bringing me back into the boathouse.

  “Sorry,” he said, dropping his hand. His face was no longer just pale; it was ashen, and he was biting his bottom lip so hard it was a wonder it didn’t start to bleed. I had to resist the urge to reach up and hold his face between my two hands.

  He’s Julia’s brother. He’s Julia’s brother. He’s Julia’s brother.

  I coughed and straightened my sweater. “Wow, you’re really afraid of heights, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged, shook his head, then nodded, looking up from under his lashes. “You were making me nervous.”

  “I make you nervous?” I leaned against the doorframe, but not outside of it this time. I started skimming my fingers over the wall beside me so I would stop staring at him. For a moment, we were both silent, watching the boats glide in slow motion across the river. I kept running one hand up and down the wall, forcing myself to conc
entrate on the race and not the fact that his body was so close to mine. Just as the first boat was crossing in front of the boathouse, my fingers snagged on an indent in the wood. I took my eyes off the water and glanced at the carving in the wall.

  “Hey, feel this.” I grabbed Sebastian’s hand and traced it over the wood. “Someone’s initials. It feels like a D, a C, and then down here,” I said, lowering his hand, “an A, another A, O, N, and a B. They’re really deep. God, the second person had a ton of names. That must have stunk when he had to fill out the bubbles on the SATs.”

  “Yeah,” Sebastian said. He switched our hold so his hand now covered mine. I could feel his touch in the small bones of my fingers as he pressed my hand down over the second set of initials. “It could have been a she, though.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “They could be Gus’s.”

  I glanced at him. “Really?”

  “Yeah, D.C. for her boyfriend, David, and then her full name was Augustine Rose Buchanan. But we called her Augustine ‘Any Other Name’ Buchanan because of the part in Romeo and Juliet where Juliet says something about a rose by any other name still smelling sweet. As a joke, she went by A.A.O.N.B.”

  “Oh, my God. Julia’s going to hit the roof,” I said, still running my fingers over the initials and taking his hand with me.

  Sebastian released his grip and I dropped my hand against my side. It was still warm from where my skin had been touching his. He shifted until he was staring out the door again and I couldn’t see his expression. “They’re going around the final bend. I think Julia’s boat is second,” he said.

  “Where?” I replied, standing on my tiptoes so I could see from his height.

  On the water, three boats fought for the lead, their bows cutting through the river like snowplows through powder, leaving only ripples behind them from where the oars had dug into the water.

  “There,” Sebastian said, bending down so his eyes were at my level. “Her boat’s the farthest from us. You can’t even see her she’s so tiny.”