Even in Paradise

by Chelsey Philpot

  “You’ll get in. Of course you’ll get in. They’d be imbéciles not to see how amazing you are,” she said, smacking the safety bar for emphasis. “We can both defer. Mummy and Boom will definitely say yes if they know you’re going. They’ll handle the money and everything if you’re worried—”

  “It’s not about money, Julia. What about my family . . . and Sebastian? I know it hasn’t been that long . . . and I have no idea what will happen, but . . .” I trailed off. I didn’t know how to finish.

  Julia patted my hand. “You’re cute when you ramble. My charming brother can visit us wherever we may be over his breaks. I even promise to leave you two alone for scheduled makeout sessions.”

  “You’re crazy,” I said, but already I was imagining.

  Julia continued as if she didn’t hear me. “Mummy and Boom have friends in London, and we can stay with Nanny’s cousin in Paris. I’d let you spend an entire week in the Louvre.”

  “I’d need a month . . . or so I’ve read,” I said.

  “Charlie, I’m serious.” She took both of my hands and clapped them together between her own. “Say you’ll at least think about it. I want to run away and I want my best friend with me.”

  I would have promised her the moon, if it had been mine to give.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Yes, you’ll go, or yes you’ll think about it?”

  “Yes, I’ll think about it.”

  She flung an arm around me, making the bucket dip dangerously forward.

  When we finally stopped swinging, I said, “We should get back soon. Sebastian and Vinay have probably had their fill of sandpit dinosaurs.” I pinched her right above her elbow just like Sam and AJ had taught me.

  “Ow! That hurt.” She tried to pinch me back, but I scooted to the other side of the seat and held up my arms in defense.

  “Just imagine how long the plane ride to Asia is going to be if I keep pinching you to keep you awake.”

  “Asia?”

  “Or maybe Argentina. We’ll see.”

  “Five more minutes.” She patted beside her.

  I slid back over until we were once again shoulder to shoulder.

  Five silent minutes turned into ten, and ten into fifteen. When Julia whispered, “Beautiful,” I didn’t know if she was talking about the night’s first stars or the future we were beginning to plan.

  WORDS OF WISDOM

  He left the tissue-lined bag next to Sam’s plastic T. rex on the kitchen counter. I dumped it out on the TV room floor and lined the caps up one by one. There were over fifty.

  Animals that lay eggs don’t have belly buttons.

  The tongue is the fastest healing part of the body.

  Hot water is heavier than cold.

  A day on planet Venus lasts longer than a year.

  Shakespeare was the first to use the words “unreal” and “lonely.”

  The card was just a piece of folded stationery with his initials at the top.

  Here’s your REAL birthday gift.

  I had to drink a lot of lemonade to get them.

  I’m still sorry.

  Love,

  Sebastian

  I kept all of them in my memory box. Even the caps with facts I already knew.

  Dear Ms. Ryder,

  The faculty in the visual arts program has reviewed your application and supporting credentials.

  Congratulations! This letter is to inform you of your acceptance into the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD). Your stellar portfolio and glowing personal recommendation letter from Senator Buchanan give us no doubt that you’ll be a successful addition to our community.

  Your enrollment at RISD is contingent upon your successful completion of your secondary education. To confirm your intention to enroll, you must submit your nonrefundable matriculation fee by May 1st.

  Since you will certainly have many questions, we have assembled pertinent information in this folder for your careful review.

  Congratulations again! We look forward to seeing you in Providence this fall.

  Sincerely,

  Michelle Samgrass

  Dean of Admissions

  Rhode Island School of Design

  TWENTY-FOUR

  SEBASTIAN TOLD ME HE WOULD take me anywhere and do whatever I wanted to celebrate RISD. He’d take me to Australia if that was where I wanted to go.

  I told him I wanted an afternoon at Arcadia, just the two of us. I told him what I wanted to do, and I heard the sound of the phone dropping, him swearing and scrambling to pick it up.

  He asked me if I was sure.

  I said I was.

  Julia and I had signed out for the weekend. She, Boom, Cordelia, Sophie, and Mrs. Buchanan had all driven out to the nature reserve. Bradley was in Tokyo on a business trip. As I requested, Sebastian and I had Arcadia to ourselves for an entire April afternoon.

  “Okay, I’ve got water, granola bars, a ten-pack of condoms, not that we have to use them all, it’s just sometimes they can tear when you take them out of the foil thingies, and—”

  “Do you always approach sex like you’re packing for a camping trip?” I was sitting cross-legged on his bed, watching him pace back and forth in front of his windows.

  “Yeah. I mean no.” He paused in front of the window that looked out over Arcadia’s beach. “I’m sorry. I’m nervous.”

  “Don’t be.” I ran my hands over his quilt, tilted my head and met his eyes. “I’m not.”

  “You sure?” He crossed over to his dresser and picked up the box of granola bars, passing it back and forth between his hands.

  “I’m sure. Are you sure?” I said.

  “Oh, I’m sure. I’m sure, sure, sure.” He shook the box for emphasis.

  I laughed. “Okay, but I’m opening the condom. You have clumsy fingers.”

  He put down the box and then leaned against the dresser, studying me.

  I was still running my hands over his bed. My fingers itched to sketch him just as he was in that moment. How his bare feet rooted him to the wooden floor. How his hips came out at such an angle that one side of his pants was higher than the other. His hands in his pockets. His brown eyes watching me watch him.

  How do you capture love in paper and pencil? Is it even possible to come close with metal and stone?

  Sebastian padded across the floor and knelt down in front of me, prying my fingers from the quilt and weaving them between his own.

  “I love that you appreciate bottle cap wisdom. I love that you’re sarcastic and funny and so talented and that you take people just as they are . . . even if they’re a little uncoordinated.” He looked up at me and smiled, his hands still wrapped in mine. “You’re not afraid of anything, Charlie. It’s kind of crazy, how you’re not afraid.”

  He was wrong. I was afraid of so many things. I was afraid of being terrible at this. I was afraid of whatever we had ever ending. But him believing I was fearless let me pretend I was.

  I stood up and pulled him to his feet. His lips were on mine and then his hands were on my stomach. My hands on his hips. Then there was fumbling, and laughing, and a stack of books being knocked over when he went to take off his pants. Clothes were flung and we didn’t care where they landed. I got stuck in my tank top and he had to help me peel it over my head. When I was in just my underwear and he had taken off his shirt, I wrapped my legs around him, smiling into his kisses as we fell back on the bed.

  His hands. My hands. Both restless and exploring. I couldn’t get enough of his skin. He couldn’t stop kissing my neck, my throat, my stomach, my bare legs.

  “Okay,” I whispered into his ear. I felt short of breath and slightly dizzy.

  He took my face between his hands, his chest rising and falling in the same rhythm as my own. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  I shook my head. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

  But I lied, because it did hurt. It hurt so much I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out. But then it hurt less the longer we
stayed pressed together.

  I felt part of a world that was so large and so strange I could never understand it, and that was okay. I was happy to give myself up to it.

  Much later, after the early evening shadows had crept up the walls and the cooling spring breeze had started to drift through the windows to where we lay with our legs and arms still intertwined on the bed, we got up to put on our clothes.

  When I bent down to pick up my tank top, I noticed that on the bedside table, next to the condom wrapper, was an upturned bottle cap.

  The urge to fall in love is, like sex and hunger, a primitive, biological drive.

  He must have been saving that one.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  WHEN AMY DROPPED A STACK of computer printouts in front of my easel one Wednesday afternoon, I knew she had forgiven me completely.

  “I was bored at work, and Julia got such a kick out of her sister’s poems I thought she’d be interested in these, too. These are all the Gazette articles that mention her sister.” She patted the pile gently, like it was a small dog.

  “Wow. Amy, thank you.”

  She twirled her hair around her finger. “So are you and Julia eating with us at lunch again tomorrow?”

  I put down my oil crayon and wiped my hands on my jeans. “That’s the plan. Is that okay?”

  “Yeah,” Amy said as she picked up the papers and shuffled them. “It’s nice. Julia isn’t like I thought she would be. She’s not snotty at all.”

  I took the stack from her. “Julia isn’t like anyone thinks she would be.”

  Amy looked confused.

  I was confused myself. “I don’t even know what I mean by that. Thank you.” I held up the printouts. “For this.”

  “I’ve got to get to theater. Enjoy.” Amy walked out the door, but then swung back in, holding on to the doorframe so only the top half of her body was visible. “There’s some pretty interesting stuff there.” She swung back into the hall before I could respond.

  Most of the articles were about the sailing team. A few were about events Gus helped plan or trips she took with the debate club. They were little more than recitations of wins and losses and fuzzy black-and-white photos with quick captions. I wasn’t sure Julia would have the patience to work through half of them.

  The last article in the stack, however, was about the best prank ever pulled at St. Anne’s.

  How Amy figured out that the “anonymous” source in the interview was Gus, I don’t know, but to me it was obvious. The source asked to be identified by the initials A.A.O.N.B.

  I circled the best parts with my oil crayon.

  Who came up with the idea of creating a petting zoo?

  A.A.O.N.B.: I had some help from a friend. He knows a lot about animals, so he was a good guy to have around when we actually brought them on campus. I learned the hard way that chickens will run away first chance they get. [Laughs] He was the one who thought of bringing grain and hay so girls could feed the animals like in a real petting zoo.

  And where did you get the animals?

  A.A.O.N.B.: We borrowed them from a local farm. I can’t tell you which one. That’s top secret.

  What’s the fallout been?

  A.A.O.N.B.: All the animals made it back safe and sound, and the kitchen staff thought it was hilarious. The trustees, however, don’t have as great a sense of humor.

  Has anyone gotten in trouble?

  A.A.O.N.B.: [Laughs] Not yet!

  Julia would flip. Gus had pulled the dining hall petting zoo.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “MISS RYDER, TO WHAT DO I owe this pleasure? Did we have a meeting I forgot about?”

  Dr. Blanche was sitting at the round table in the Keble Hall tower. The windows behind him overlooked the quad and the table in front of him was mess of papers, a Styrofoam coffee cup, pens, and a giant bag of sour candies.

  He must have noticed me looking because he held up the bag. “Want some?”

  “No, that’s okay. Do you have a second?”

  “I’m feeling generous today. Take twenty,” he said, leaning back from the table and resting his hands on his round stomach. Dr. Blanche looked like Santa Claus—if Santa was balding and favored corduroys, sweater vests, and round tortoiseshell glasses.

  “It’s not about me,” I said as I stepped into the room.

  “Is it about a hypothetical friend who I’m not supposed to know is really you?” He gestured toward the chair closest to his and I sat down, pulling my backpack into my lap, grateful for the comfort of its weight on my legs.

  “No.” I paused. “I wanted to ask you about Gus Buchanan. Augustine. It says here you were her advisor.” I riffled through my backpack, pulling out the wrinkled folder and opening it and pushing it in front of him.

  Dr. Blanche leaned forward like someone had pushed him from behind, his elbows on the table. He was silent.

  “Dr. Blanche?”

  “What would you like to know, Miss Ryder?” he said. His voice was as heavy as sadness, and his eyes were fixed on his clasped hands.

  “I just . . . I want to know why it says Harvard, question mark in her folder. Right here.” I flipped to the final page and pointed.

  Dr. Blanche dropped his eyes to my finger. He tugged his hands through what little hair he had left. “Why are you curious about Augustine?”

  “I’m curious for a friend,” I said, letting my backpack drop to the ground.

  “Ah, there’s the hypothetical friend.” Dr. Blanche rapped his knuckles against the table. “Miss Ryder, how long have I been your teacher?”

  “Two years.”

  “That long? Tempus fugit, as the Romans said.” He clasped his hands in front of him again. “Well, I believe I have enough of a grasp on your character to trust that when I say this stays between you, me, and your friend, that will be the case.”

  I nodded.

  Dr. Blanche took a drink from the coffee cup. I could see his throat working to swallow. “It says Harvard question mark in her file because Miss Buchanan, Augustine, almost flunked out of St. Anne’s—”

  “But she was so smart,” I said.

  Dr. Blanche looked at me over the top of his glasses.

  “Sorry. You were saying . . .”

  “Her senior spring she didn’t turn in assignments, and when she went to class she was late or her head was in the clouds. Augustine was popular, and so in love with that boyfriend of hers.” He moved the bag of sour candies from one side of the table to the other, leaving a trail of sugar. “But she thought the rules didn’t apply to her. When she realized that Harvard could take back its offer, she pleaded with us all to raise her grades. She offered to do extra-credit projects, volunteer tutor—anything. All her teachers took her up on it. They let her get by on that Buchanan charm just one more time.” He sighed. “Except for me.”

  “Oh.” I thought of the girl in the picture in the hall downstairs, the girl in the picture beside Julia’s bed, the girl in the picture in the room that was never opened. It was hard to imagine that girl, Gus, failing at anything.

  “Miss Ryder, before you leave St. Anne’s, I’ll let you in on a faculty secret.” He leaned toward me, setting the sleeves of his tweed blazer right in the trail of sugar. “We know everything that goes on here.”

  “What do you—”

  “I had been her advisor for four years and her teacher for two. I pretended not to notice when she was late for check-in, and I pretended not to see a tall shadow moving around the edges of the quad after lights out. I let her stay chatting with me long after she should have been in first period or study hall.”

  “Why?”

  Dr. Blanche slouched back in his chair. “They tell you you should never have favorites—”

  “But she was your favorite.”

  His silence was his confirmation. The grandfather clock by the stairs down the short hallway ticked as loud as a heartbeat.

  I waited.

  “I believed in her. That’s why I had to hold her acco
untable,” he said. Dr. Blanche took off his glasses and pushed between his eyebrows as if he had a headache. “She was so furious with me that she didn’t even say good-bye after graduation.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing exactly why, just knowing that I was.

  “She died before Harvard made a decision about whether or not they would rescind her offer of admission.” He put his glasses back on and started shuffling the scattered papers in front of him into a stack. “And that, Miss Ryder, is why it says Harvard, question mark, in her file.”

  “Okay.” I didn’t know what else to say. I was out of questions and out of words. “Thank you . . . thank you a lot.” I scooped my backpack from the floor and hefted it on one shoulder. “I’ll let you get back to what you were doing then.” I started toward the door.

  “Miss Ryder.”

  I turned around, one hand already on the doorframe. “Yes?”

  “I’ll pretend to forget to ask you how you got a hold of that file, if you’ll pretend to forget the ramblings of a tired old man.”

  “You’re not old, Dr. Blanche,” I said.

  “Ah, today I am very old indeed.” He smiled, but it was a sad smile, and maybe a little old, too.

  WEAR PANTS

  “You know what it means, right?”

  “What what means?”

  “That Gus masterminded the dining hall petting zoo?”

  Sigh. “What does it mean?”

  “I have to one-up her.”

  “Really, Julia?”

  “Really.”

  “You don’t even have to come. Julia’s not bringing anyone, so—”

  “Oh no, I definitely want to. I can be that creepy old college guy lurching in the corners of the gym, watching all the girls dance.”

  “Prom is in the dining hall, not the gym.”

  “Great. Now, do I have to wear pants?”