“I wish he’d just announce it,” Douglas whispered.
“Give him a break,” Natasha said, leaning way back in her chair, her perfect hair spreading out in a perfect fan. “He’s a high school drama teacher. This is as thrilling as it gets for him.”
“That’s not nice,” I whispered. “I think he’s great. Besides Millie, he’s our only ally in this loony bin.”
“So, without further ado, I will announce our play for this year’s fall season. People have been begging me for Shakespeare forever now, and I’m happy to announce that the Roewer Drama Club’s fall production will be William Shakespeare’s Othello.”
I thought everybody would clap, or at least ooh and ahh, but you could have heard a pin drop–providing it didn’t land on any of the wads of gum. I didn’t understand why. Othello sounded good to me, and I wondered who it didn’t sound good to. To whom it didn’t sound good.
I scanned the faces of the Eight who were around: Natasha, Douglas, Kate, V__, Jennifer Rose Milton who was wrapped around Frank Whitelaw and why-is-she-in-our-lives-if-no-one-likes-her Flora Habstat, but they were all looking at me. Or behind me, as I turned around and saw Gabriel, who was looking like he’d swallowed something the wrong way. I realized suddenly why it was so quiet: everyone knew that Gabriel and I had kissed but that I hadn’t actually talked to him since Friday. Kate had probably told him everything, and even though I have no idea how much Natasha told Kate–you can never tell, with Natasha–everybody probably knew some version of the story. But why were they suddenly concerned with this drama, in the middle of Drama? Didn’t anyone care about the drama of a black man’s jealousy for his white girlfriend?
Oh. That’s when I realized why they were looking at him. Gabriel is the only black guy within five miles of Drama Club, and Othello is the only black guy within five miles of Shakespeare. Well, that isn’t true–I think there’s some African prince in what’s-it, the anti-Semitic one, but still. It’s a little weird to announce a play with a black man in the lead role when there’s only one black man who’s going to play it.
If Ron was aware of the tension he didn’t show it. He said there’d be auditions next week, even keeping a straight face when he said that anyone could try out for any part. He ended the meeting, and the auditorium cleared in seconds, leaving me and Gabriel and all that ancient gum.
“So,” Gabriel said, his voice trailing off into nowhere. “Flannery.” His tone suddenly flashed me back to fourth grade, staring at my little empty school desk as Mrs. Collins, an evil woman with an immense nose, said the same thing. “Flannery.” It was my turn for my class presentation, and I was staring at the space on my desk where my diorama was supposed to be. Instead it was at home. I knew I was going to die.
“I don’t know if I have anything else to say to you,” he said.
Directly above my head, on the auditorium ceiling bleached from unchecked leaks, a lightbulb burned out with a crackle. “Well, I have something to say,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
Gabriel blinked, his eyelids moving through all that ice. “That would be a lot more convincing if you weren’t saying it when I finally caught you alone,” he said. “Like if you were saying it to me on the phone. Like if you’d called me.”
“I’ve had a hectic few days,” I said.
“And before that?”
“What?”
“You know,” he said. “All weekend? Like maybe we could have seen each other?”
“You have to turn everything into a joke, don’t you?” I found myself saying, for no reason. I was thinking dimly how I’d break ice, in real life. By throwing rocks at it until it cracked.
“What?” he said. “What’s happening, Flan? I can’t go on like this. You’re making me wish I’d never brought this whole thing up.”
I looked down at the ground and kicked the gummy floor with my foot. “I just”–I made some sweep with my arm–“I just have a lot going on right now. I’m sorry. I just have all this stuff…to deal with.”
My rock made a perfect arc, and worked. I felt understanding sink in him like a stone in water. I had a lot going on. “Hey, that’s OK,” he said. “I just wondered where you were, that’s all. It’s a rough year.”
I looked up at him and saw his hands move, just slightly, like he had a minor tic or wanted to touch me. “That’s it exactly,” I said like he’d discovered penicillin. “It’s a rough year. I guess I’m sort of a mess.”
“Well, unfortunately, my life is perfect right now, so I can’t relate at all,” he said, and I smiled and put my hand on his shoulder. I could give him that. He leaned in and kissed me and it was enough. It was no kiss of fire–I couldn’t give him that, not anymore–but I could give him that. It was enough. He smiled at me. “Call me soon,” he said, and I nodded. He walked off and I was alone, looking at a bare stage and stepping in gum.
Maybe It’s Friday October 8th
I have no idea what time it is, but all I’d have to do is check the almanac, because it’s exactly sunrise. My handwriting is getting neater and neater as the gray sky gets lighter and lighter. Even howmanywhatever hours later, the light looks greenish. Everything is magnanimously beautiful. I mean magnificently.
The reason my handwriting is so messy is not only because I’ve stayed up all night etc. but because the texture of this cement is making the paper uneven. I’m in the parking lot of the Rivertown Mall with Gabriel and Natasha, lying on my stomach on one of those big cement planters they have there, with some halfhearted ice plant and lots of candy wrappers in it. The first rays of the sun are shining on them and I can just barely read their ingredients. That’s why I’m writing so big, so I can tell what I’m saying. IT’S BEEN A MAGICAL EVENING.
Day ’n Nite Foto is the only place we can think of where you can get your pictures developed in one hour and that’s open at this one. Otherwise, I swear, we would not be giving our hard-earned money (sweaty quarters, dollar bills crimped into dead origami) to an establishment that not only misspells both night and photo but uses that most ugly of contractions, the telltale ’n.
While emptying my pockets to pay for the developing, I almost dumped Jennifer Rose Milton’s earring and Gabriel’s pocketknife, both of which I managed to procure during the evening’s blurriness. Gabriel is walking up and down the parking lot right now, retracing his steps and looking for it, but last I checked, Jennifer Rose Milton hasn’t even noticed that one of her perfect ears is missing one of her perfect earrings. Kate’s sweater, Douglas’s hat, Lily’s glasses, V__’s scarf, Jennifer Rose Milton’s earrings, Gabriel’s knife, all I need is something from Natasha. Natasha has a small portable radio perched next to her flask, over on the next island, and is smoking a cigarette and doing lazy ballroom dancing steps. Either the radio or the flask would do, but I don’t have to do anything this morning. I can just bask in the glow of this magical evening. I’m hanging out at dawn with Gabriel and Natasha, waiting to see what develops. (Metaphor.)
It made the most sense for us to have it at my house–everyone else’s parents would have been breathing down our necks–so we just went there directly after school. It had been so hot all day that just about everyone took showers and changed into borrowed clothes, which made it weird: all these people wandering around my house wearing my clothes like folks auditioning to play me in the movie.
V__, of course, looked positively unruffled after the long hot day and was in the kitchen slicing everything into perfect patterns, and Gabriel had found some old fancy champagne glasses from some parental function during my childhood and was putting on a stark white apron so he wouldn’t get mussed while he washed them out, and Lily came down, looking better in my black top than I do and wearing her new glasses, Jennifer Rose Milton was on the phone to Millie saying she’d spend the night here and simultaneously shouting up the stairs that her turn at the shower was next, and Douglas came down with his hair soaking wet and uncombed, wearing the only thing of mine he could fit into–an X-tra large tour shirt
of the Sartres, who were this band we were all into last year for about ten minutes. I had forgotten all about that shirt; it was so big I couldn’t wear it even as a nightshirt so I kept it up on the top shelf of my closet. The top shelf of my closet, that made me think. I bounded up the stairs as I heard a familiar guitar riff down in the living room. Somebody had found the Sartres album and was playing their one hit, “Go Back to Bed.”
When I opened the door of my room both Kate and Jennifer Rose Milton shrieked impulsively. They were both dressed in towel-togas, Kate having just showered and Jenn apparently about to. They were both standing on tiptoe in my closet, peering at the top shelf, but I think I caught them in time.
“You scared us!” Kate said wildly, stalking to the other end of the room and sitting quickly on the bed. Jennifer Rose Milton was looking at me curiously.
“What were you guys looking for?”
Kate whirled around to face me but I saw Jennifer shake her head, just slightly. “Something to wear,” Kate said instantly, and I was filled with relief. I think I could have easily explained away my little collection but I didn’t want to, and plus I’d have to give everything back and start over. “Did you ever give me back that sweater I lent you at the last dinner party?” Kate asked. “You could just give me that back now.”
“I’m pretty sure I did,” I said, opening a dresser drawer. Downstairs I could hear people singing along with the Sartres. “If I didn’t it would be in here. But you don’t want to wear a sweater, anyway. It’s too hot. Here, take this.”
“But this is your favorite shirt. You don’t loan anybody this shirt.”
Natasha stuck her head in the door and raised her eyebrows and her glass of champagne at me. “What are you doing in Flan’s closet?” she asked Jenn, who was on her tiptoes again.
“Look what I found,” she said and my heart stopped. “A camera!” She held up my cheap camera, which I hadn’t used since Italy. “It even has film. Can we use it?”
“Of course,” I said.
“This will be great,” Kate said.
“What I think will be great”–Natasha imitated Kate’s voice with a snarl–“is when people will learn to stop peeking in each other’s closets!”
“I–” Kate started but Natasha was gone; I heard her laughing downstairs already. The music got turned up. Jennifer Rose Milton handed me the camera and her towel slipped a little bit. What I’d do to have breasts like that. Kate put her head in my shirt like an ostrich in the sand, and I went downstairs. Any uneasiness was instantly dispelled; Natasha and Douglas had found last year’s yearbook and were cackling over this ugly picture of Mr. Dodd with a sombrero over his head for the Festival Internationale. Gabriel put a piece of bread with tomato and feta in my mouth and I nearly swooned it was so good. He looked so sweet grinning at me like that that I took a picture and everybody got into picture taking. Half the roll was gone by the time Jennifer Rose Milton came downstairs in a pale red dress I can’t fit into anymore because I’m such a tub. “Tub,” it says “tub.” You can’t read it because the cement I’m writing on is sort of bumpy. I noticed she hadn’t bothered to put her earrings back on; she must have left them on my dresser or something.
We tossed the camera to one another and we’d each snap one and toss it to the next person, taking pictures of practically the same moment from totally different angles, never holding the camera longer than a few seconds like it was some enormous game of paparazzi hot potato. Finally I corraled everyone onto the couch for the photograph.
Take it out now; hopefully the publishers have complied with my wish to have a copy in each book. How odd that you can look at it now, when I’m sitting around watching the sun come up, waiting to see what the photograph looks like. Although in my mind’s eye I can see it quite clearly: Kate, leaning on an armrest rather than sitting on the couch like a normal human being, placing herself above us and looking a little smug. V__ right next to her, fingering her pearls, looking better than everyone else with her perfect makeup, better than Natasha even, and that’s saying a lot. Lily and Douglas, snug on the couch, Lily between Douglas and me. As usual. Douglas was talking to Gabriel about something and didn’t want to stop his train of thought just for a stupid picture so he’ll probably have an impatient look on his face. Plus it’ll be weird to see a picture of him when he’s not wearing a suit. Gabriel, his black hands stark against the white apron, squished into the end of the couch and looking uncomfortable. Beautiful, beautiful Jennifer Rose Milton standing at the couch in a pose that would look too formalized for anyone else who wasn’t as beautiful, and stretched out luxuriously beneath us all, Natasha, one long finger between her lips and batting her eyes at me. I can’t wait to see it.
There in the picture, I miss you all so much.
We ate thick squares of imported chocolate with whole hazelnuts in them, and licked our fingers afterward. Gabriel licked mine until Natasha made a gagging noise and he stopped. Meanwhile, Douglas was opening and shutting cupboards, his face flushed from champagne and expectation. Somebody finally switched off the Sartres and put on some melodramatic string quartets, Lily probably. I rose unsteadily from the floor where I had been leaning against Gabriel and letting him give me little neck kisses while we all chattered away, but by the time I reached Douglas he had found all the necessary equipment: a small pasta strainer, a box of sugar cubes, a steel bowl and a dainty little saucer.
“This isn’t the way we did it before,” I said.
“I heard about another way,” Douglas said. “A better way. In fact, we took way too much last time. We could have seriously fucked ourselves up. This time we ingest a tiny amount, and it tastes better, too.” He put everything on a tray, along with the leprechaun bottle, and walked grandly back into the living room.
Winnie: Often, teenagers start on the path of absinthe addiction when they try it at a party. In a party setting, particularly with a strong peer group, it’s practically impossible to resist.
Peter Pusher: Nonsense, it’s very possible to resist. I think it’s wonderful that little Flora here resisted.
Flora Habstat: I didn’t resist.
Peter Pusher: Oh. But if you had–
“And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” Douglas announced, and waited for everyone to remove the stray pieces of feta and bread crumbs so he could put the tray down on the coffee table.
“What’s all this paraphernalia?” Lily asked.
“Yeah, I thought you guys just drank little shots.” Kate picked up the saucer like she was shopping for antiques and suspected this one was fake.
“As it turned out, those little shots almost killed us,” I said.
“Really?” V__ said. “And now you want us all to try it?”
“Oh, I love this,” Lily said.
“Come on,” Natasha said carelessly. “We’re young.”
“Precisely my point,” Lily said. Gabriel wanted to say something but just looked at me instead. “I think I’ll hold off on this absinthe thing until I’m ninety-five, so if I die–”
“Nobody’s going to die,” Douglas said. Natasha snapped a picture of him, just as he said that. “Flan’s exaggerating, as usual. I’ve just since heard that it’s not exactly the recommended amount. But the way we’re doing it now, it’s perfectly safe.”
What it felt like then. What it feels like now, in the parking lot. This self-conscious carelessness of being a senior. Maybe, generations ago, young people rebelled out of some clear motive, but now, we know we’re rebelling. Between teen movies and sex-ed textbooks we’re so ready for our rebellious phase we can’t help but feel it’s safe, contained. It will turn out all right, despite the risk, snug in the shell of rebellion narrative. Rebellion narrative, does that make sense? It was appropriate to do it, so we did it.
“How many of us are there?” Douglas asked, counting out sugar cubes.
“Yes, let’s see…” Kate theatrically wrinkled her brow. “What’s our nickname again? The Basic Four?”
>
“Oh,” I said. “It’s such a relief to just have us here. Just us at a dinner party.” I stretched out my legs and found Natasha’s stretched out legs. We intertwined like kelp.
“It really is,” Lily said seriously.
“Just us,” I said, “without, oh, I don’t know–”
“Lara Trent,” Douglas said.
“Or Adam,” Gabriel said, and everyone giggled. Kate mock-glared at him, briefly.
“Or Flora Habstat,” Natasha said. “Or Jim Carr.”
“Or Frank Whitelaw,” Jennifer Rose Milton blurted out. Everybody looked at her. It was suddenly quiet, except for the string quartet.
“Really?” Kate asked.
“We’re having a little tiff,” JRM said primly. She looked into her champagne glass like she had dropped something into it. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Then you shouldn’t,” V__ said, smoothing Jenn’s hair.
Douglas took a fork and chimed it on his champagne glass. “Suppertime!” he said, and poured the absinthe onto the sugar cubes, where it turned them the color of fancy mints. Douglas caught Lily’s eye and moved his eyebrows, just slightly; she went over to the stereo for perfect drug music. All that and they still communicate like lovers. Douglas gingerly took each sugar cube and put it on the little saucer. The last one plopped down just as the harpsichord started. Some classical music–Bach, I’m pretty sure. We all giggled like schoolchildren as we passed around the cubes, each taking one. When V__ said, “Take the first one you touch,” everyone laughed too loudly. Then we all lounged back and let it take effect.
The Basic Eight Page 16
