by A. R. Kahler
“Can I borrow it after you?” Ethan asked, rooting around in his bag.
“Not until you give me back the other ten I’ve lent you.”
“Nine,” Ethan said. “The tenth was a gift. You said so yourself.”
Veronica just laughed and ruffled his hair before going over to a loveseat by the kitchen curtain to read.
With that, we settled in to working on our theses. Neither of us said anything for the first half hour or so. The music faded into the background and mingled with the occasional rumble of wind and the door didn’t open once to admit new customers. The warmth of chai sank into my bones as the electric caffeine buzz heated my veins. This was familiar. This was what I needed. Work was always the best answer for putting the past behind you. And yes, I realized what sort of complex that would create in my future years. It worked for now.
My project both terrified and exhilarated me, which was how I knew I was doing the right thing. I was going to be presenting with two other artists, and I had an entire thirty-foot stretch of hallway to fill. It was supposed to be thematic, to showcase the culmination of my work at Islington. Two years of practice and prep, two years of late nights and frustrated tears and way too much caffeine. Two years to sum up in a single, week-long showcase.
And I was making Tarot cards.
Well, paintings of Tarot cards. The eventual goal was to scan them and package them as a deck, but for right now I had a series of eighteen-by-twenty-four-inch paintings depicting most of the Major and some of the Minor Arcana. Tonight’s project was finishing up The Hierophant. I pulled out the canvas and the photo of Barista Ike and a few magazines. This card was all about ritual and formality, the sort of guidance that comes through process and strict mysticism. At least, in my view. Which meant a painting of Ike on a golden collage throne, holding a cross and a horned moon and sitting in a temple I’d constructed of photos of Stonehenge and Ethiopian mystics and anything else I could find in National Geographic or travel magazines. It was still in that “hot mess” phase of creation, where nothing really fit together quite yet. But it was getting there. Slowly.
As I scoured magazines, I kept glancing up at Ethan, a knot slowly forming in my gut. He reclined on the sofa with Great Expectations propped open in one hand, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips occasionally dancing along with his reading. We’d been performing this ritual weekly for the last year and a half, and even now, in the depths of February, there was something about this that seemed hopeful, like together we were on the verge of discovering something greater about ourselves. And there were only a few months left until we graduated. How many more times would we sit in this same location and worry about homework and art while the rest of the world slumbered on?
He glanced up at me and gave me a cocky little grin.
“Planning on drawing me like one of your French girls?” he asked.
I blushed, but I didn’t look away. Winter always made me think of firsts and lasts.
“I’m going to miss you,” I said. I gestured to the café. “All this.”
The smile dropped off in a heartbeat, his face softening.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
I sighed. My life seemed like one giant timeline right now: College applications were in, which meant two weeks until my thesis, one or two months until I heard back from colleges, then another month or two before graduation and then . . . I had no idea.
“You, me,” I said. He and I had always had a joking relationship. Banter was how we showed we cared.
He nodded slowly. We’d each applied to four colleges, and only two overlapped. For me, they were both reach schools. My grades were good. My art was good. But I wasn’t certain they were good enough. And, judging from how many panic attacks Ethan had while applying (often remedied by me buying him ice cream and walking through the snowy woods or by the lake together), I knew he felt the same.
“We’re going to be fine, you know,” he said. He looked into my eyes when he said it, which was kind of unusual for him when being serious—he had that way of glancing off into the distance dreamily, like he was choosing his words from the ether. This new gaze reminded me of Chris. “Even if we don’t get in together, we’ll still be in touch. I mean, c’mon, we’re practically married. You’re stuck with me for life, whether you want to be or not.”
I laughed.
“Truth. You are like glitter.”
His smile came back.
“Exactly. I’m serious though, I have good feelings about this. You’re my bestie. You’re not going anywhere.” He leaned in closer. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I glanced away. “Just tired.”
“Let me guess. Not all homework related?”
I took a sip of tea. His next words were almost a whisper.
“Are they back?”
It took all my self-control not to let the teacup spill.
“You can tell me, you know,” he said. I slowly set the teacup down, careful not to let it shake too much. “It helped, last time.”
Well, he thought it helped. The fact is, I don’t know if telling him about the dreams of my ex had done any good.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Just a bad dream. I’m sure it’s just stress.”
He nodded.
Ethan and I were besties. We would be together till the very end. But that friendship, it only really went forward. I didn’t tell him much of my past and he didn’t press the subject. He knew I had a boyfriend before coming here. He knew it went south. He knew that because of what happened with Brad, I wasn’t interested in dating. And that sometimes I had nightmares about my ex. Ethan knew it, and he respected it. And that’s all he would ever know.
He wouldn’t look at me the same way if I told him the rest.
“You know I’m always here for you,” he said.
“Thanks love,” I said. But you wouldn’t be. Not if you knew.
“Any time doll,” he replied. “Now get back to work. You’ve been promising to do my card for weeks. It’d better be making its debut in your show.”
“Working on it,” I lied. Because I wasn’t entirely certain how I was going to do the Knight of Cups, though I knew it was his card. Emotional depth, steadfastness, poetic nature . . . Ethan to a T. Especially since, reversed, it indicated a severe narcissistic douchebag. A side of Ethan I’d seen only on occasion.
He went back to reading and I went back to looking at photos of Egyptian tombs, trying to find the perfect statue for the interior of The Hierophant’s chamber. But I couldn’t stop looking up at Ethan, wondering just how many times we’d be here, how many more weeks or days or hours we actually had together. I’d felt the clock ticking ever since January, when we stood in the mailroom and sent out our applications and portfolios. We’d started some celestial clockwork that morning. It was a tick I seriously wished I could slow.
Like I said, winter always made me think of beginnings and endings. This year, especially with Brad’s image once more haunting my dreams, it felt like less of a beginning and more of an end.
• • •
We left the teahouse around eight. The Hierophant was closer to completion and Ethan, to quote, “might vomit if [he] read any more Dickens.” Plus the tea had gone cold and we’d eaten all of our baklava.
The roads were slick and the sky a blur of flecked white, and I think Ethan drove all of fifteen miles an hour the entire way back, which just meant we made it through an entire album, rather than half, like usual. We didn’t talk. Didn’t need to. I leaned against the window and watched the town and the trees flutter by like ravens in the snow, while he hummed along to the music and tapped out rhythms on the steering wheel. It was monotonous and familiar and lovely, and every single mile reminded me that soon, this too would be a last.
It wasn’t like me to get nostalgic. I’d had more than enough lasts in my life to get me over a fascination with the past. Which was probably why the night felt so unearthly, like I was watching Ethan and myself th
rough a lens. And why I kept noticing the little inconsistencies in the white-and-black landscape: a broken tree, a flickering porch light, two crows on a mailbox. I needed something to cement this moment, to make it mine. To make it worth remembering.
Campus was sleepy by the time we arrived. A few vis art students wandered back to their dorms from the studio; musicians carried their heavy cases back to warmth. Every window was golden and electric, the common rooms in every dorm crowded with kids trying to cram in a few more minutes of socializing before sign-in and lights-out and an early morning of classes. Thank the gods I got to sleep in—no early morning art class spent staring at wrinkled bits.
Ethan and I parted ways in front of his dorm—Rembrandt—and I made my way down the quiet lane toward Graham. A few flecks of snow still fell from the sky, drifting down to fade out on my coat. There was a quietness here I didn’t think I could live without. There were reasons I’d applied only to tiny art colleges in the backwoods of New England. I needed the snow and the silence. They helped me think. And somehow, the expanse of it all helped calm the other thoughts, froze them into stillness. Something about the darkness always made me feel at peace.
I heard the door of the academics concourse open, and paused when someone called out my name. When I turned, Jane was already halfway toward me, a huge grin on her face and one hand waving. I was surprised she didn’t slip as she jogged; I’d nearly faceplanted twice already.
“Kaira, wait up!” she called. I stopped and waited with my hands deep in the pockets of my coat, watching her dance in and out of puddles of light. When she reached me, she did slide, but I caught her last minute and helped her steady.
“Heya,” I said when she was stable.
“Sorry, didn’t want to miss you. You’ll never guess who I was just talking with.”
“Um . . .”
“Chris!” she exclaimed, and she actually did a little bounce. I kept ahold of her arm, just in case.
“Oh yeah?” I asked. I grinned. “Does someone have a crush?”
“I’d say so,” she said. “He couldn’t stop talking about you.”
“Wait, what?”
I was honestly asking about her. Chris couldn’t have a crush on me. I mean, we had two classes together and we barely ever spoke. It was ludicrous. My stomach twisted as Brad’s face drifted to mind.
“Yeah,” she said. “We went back to the studio to finish up the still life, and he kept asking me questions about you.”
“What sort of questions?” I asked slowly.
“Like, I dunno, general sorts of stuff. How I knew you. How long you’d been here. If you had a boyfriend or girlfriend.”
“Please tell me you lied,” I said. I glanced over to the boys’ dorms, fully expecting Chris to emerge and look over and wave. He didn’t, of course. There were maybe five minutes until we were late for sign-in, so he was probably back in his room or in the lounge chatting with his dormmates.
“What? No. I told him we’d had a few classes together and that you were an awesome painter and came here last year. And that you were most definitely single.”
“And keeping it that way,” I said. Maybe a little too forcefully. Jane was one of those satellite friends—someone I knew and hung out with on occasion and joked with in studio. She didn’t know the finer details of my life, and my distinct aversion to the “dating” word. Her smile dropped the moment I spoke. “I mean, sorry. I guess I’m just trying not to get too attached right now, is all. End of term, college. Kind of bad timing.”
She nodded. “Still, though. He’s really cute. And talented. And he seemed pretty genuine, so I think he’s not one of those pervy creepers like in the drama department.”
It was well known that spring term last year, she dated a guy named Justin for a few weeks before learning that he was dating three other girls at the same time, one per department. Pretty certain the slap he received from her had been heard across campus.
The portrait she did of him and hung on the “works in progress” board in the vis arts hallway had been icing on the cake. It was in the style of those convicted felon posters, with the title Terrible Kisser.
For Jane, it was a vicious move. I’d always thought it was kind of endearing. I’d even asked her to make one for me, which had just made her blush and had garnered no definitive response. I was still waiting. I wanted my title to be Unfashionable Fashionista.
“Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see,” I said, seriously hoping we never would. “He hasn’t mentioned anything to me.”
“Mhm. I think that’s because he’s nervous you’ll reject him. He asked if you were single a lot.”
I shook my head. There was a hopeful glint in her eyes that told me A) there was no talking her out of this, and B) no point trying to convince her I was totally okay being single. Better than okay. Brilliant. “Anyway, we’re almost late.”
“Right! Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Can’t wait to see your painting.”
“Thanks.” My stomach dropped a few inches. I’d always looked forward to Advanced Painting; it was my one chance to really zone out and focus on my work. But knowing Chris was interested in something beyond friendship? It made my stomach twist. How was I going to focus now? Especially since tomorrow was crits.
I gave her a quick hug and jogged up the steps to my dorm. The lobby was filled with girls in pajamas and sweaters and slippers, some with tea, others with books and soda. A few of them glanced at me and smiled or said hello, but to be completely honest, I didn’t really get along with anyone in the dorm save for Elisa. Okay, that sounds harsh—it wasn’t that I didn’t get along with them, more that I just never really gave anyone the opportunity to test out the waters. When I wasn’t with Ethan or Elisa, I was pretty much a hermit.
Which wasn’t a problem at Islington, really. Everyone here was a hermit in some way, even the theatre kids. We just liked to call it “focused.”
After initialing next to my name on the sign-in sheet, I went upstairs to my hall. For all the appearance of Islington being quaint and rustic, there was something almost clinical about the dorm halls—harsh fluorescent lighting, generic blue carpet, cinderblock walls, and wooden doors. But even in here the arts had pushed their roots through the cracks. No matter how many times they vacuumed, there were still traces of glitter in the carpet from the epic glitter fight we’d had the second week of term (and nearly all gotten detention for); every door was plastered with posters and pictures and magazine cutouts, and a few of the lights were decorated with (fireproof) plastic flowers and wilting balloons. My door was halfway down the hall, overlooking the woods that engulfed all sides of campus.
Elisa was already in her pjs, holding a bowl of popcorn that filled the room with the deliciously intoxicating scent of butter.
“I was wondering when you’d get back,” she said.
“Sorry,” I replied, slinging my coat over my chair. “Got a bit carried away with thesis work.”
“It’s okay. I found a really terrible zombie flick online involving pterodactyls. It is queued and ready.” Terrible horror movies were Elisa’s forte—she relished them as eagerly and excitedly as other people experienced five-course meals.
“Gimme a moment to clean up and I’m all yours, baby.”
She patted the bed beside her and blew me a kiss.
Yeah, I stopped wondering why people thought she and I were lesbian lovers a long time ago.
I remember when I first stepped foot in a dorm room here, thinking they were huge. But I think that’s just the freshness of new things—everything is vast and impressive at first glance. The moment Elisa and I had really started unpacking and settling in, listening to boy bands and singing at the top of our lungs in what would be the first of many such afternoons, I realized just how compact the space actually was. The rectangular room was split down the middle, a mirror image of itself with a twin bed on either side, shelving underneath, and two desks opposite each other. The only break in the symmetry w
as the hall leading in, which had a closet on one side and a door to our tiny bathroom and shower on the other. The one perk of dorm life here: Every room had its own bathroom. No foot fungus for us classy artists.
I wiped off my makeup and washed my face before heading in to slip into pjs. Technically speaking, lights-out was in an hour, but our RA barely checked. The last time Maria came in to break up our late-night movie, she ended up staying to watch the rest of Vampire Hedgehogs and ate all our popcorn.
“How was your night?” Elisa asked when I flopped down on the bed beside her.
“All right,” I said. I snuggled deeper into the covers and grabbed her plush oversize piece of toast, aptly named Toastie. My mind was still spinning with what Jane had said about Chris. But it wasn’t just that; I kept thinking over all my interactions with him—his side glances, his appraisal in crits. I’d always just thought he was being nice, in that stranger I’ll never connect with sort of way. Now, I couldn’t help but look at it in an entirely different light. “Got some work done.”
“Nice. You have no idea how ready I am for this movie. We’ve been blocking for Marat/Sade all night and I want to scream.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” I said.
“And I can’t wait for it to be over.”
Which we both knew was a lie. She had one other performance before the end of the year, and that was a scene in the Senior Showcase. Like me, she was holding on to every experience she could. It was just easier to verbally try and convince ourselves otherwise.
She curled up against her pillows and I curled against her. As always, she smelled like flowery perfume and tea, something soft and antique. The scent would forever remind me of nights like this, of watching stupid movies on her laptop and eating junk food and waking up the next morning feeling more exhausted than not. I hated to admit just how much I loved this. How alien and perfect it felt. I wasn’t used to this sort of friendship. If I had been, certain things in my life would have gone much, much differently, and I probably wouldn’t have sent myself to Islington in the first place. There was a reason my side of the room was covered in sketches while her side was filled with family portraits. Thankfully, she never really asked what those reasons were—another point in her favor.
