by William Bell
Why didn’t I just ask her if she had received the letter? I couldn’t have said.
Desperate, I decided to write another one. To be safe, I would mail it to her house. I already knew her neighbourhood—the upscale area called Maple Heights that bordered the east side of the river and park—and it was easy enough to get her address from the online reverse telephone directory.
This time I just jotted down a few ideas, hoping Vanni could flesh them out for me, and the next day, at our usual table in the cafeteria during lunch, I showed her what I had written. As she read, she twisted the unruly ends of her hair around her finger, or rested her chin on her thumb and slowly tapped the end of her very long nose with her index finger.
“Well,” she said, looking up. “Quite the challenge you’ve set for me.”
“It’s awful, isn’t it? That’s why I need your help.”
“Don’t try to butter me up.”
I could almost see the wheels and cogs and levers slip smoothly into motion as she began the process of turning my rough, stumbling phrases into graceful sentences. No, I thought, that’s the wrong metaphor. Vanni’s brain wasn’t a machine or a computer; it was more like a house of magic, where mysterious transformations took place in the dark.
“Didja come up with this one—‘I really like your hair’—all by yourself?” she asked.
“Didn’t even need the thesaurus.”
She continued to read. Vanni’s gentle mockery didn’t bug me anymore. It was her style, I had learned, and she only used it with people she liked. If someone took a verbal shot at her or, worse, made a comment about her nose, she cut them to bits before they knew what hit them. She had left more than one guy who made the mistake of thinking he was clever standing with his mouth open, mesmerized by her verbal swordplay after he called her Hatchet Face or Eagle Beak.
“Vanni,” I said as she took up her pencil and began to jot a few notes, “don’t answer this if you don’t want to, but … do you have a boyfriend?”
Her head snapped up. Her eyes bored into mine. “Why? Are you applying for the job?”
I held up my hands, palms out, to placate her. “Just wondering.”
“The answer is no.”
“Okay.”
“Boys aren’t my thing,” she added, deadpan.
Talk about being blindsided, suckerpunched, what Vanni herself would call gobsmacked. The background roar of a few hundred munching, yakking teenagers, the clatter of cutlery and crockery, all fell away. I held her eyes. When Vanni kidded or mocked, they crinkled at the corners. Not now.
I flashed back to random scenes of times I had been with her, searching for any clue that I should have picked up, but couldn’t recall anything. Not that I would have known what to look for.
“You mean—?” I began to ask, to confirm what I thought she was telling me.
Still she held my eyes, her face calm and serious, and didn’t reply.
“I didn’t realize,” I stumbled.
There was a long pause.
“It doesn’t make any difference to me,” I said finally.
Her face hardened. “That’s generous of you.”
“Because you’re my friend.”
The firm line of her lips softened. Her eyes warmed a little.
“You are,” I said quietly.
“Well,” she said, smiling, “don’t let it get around.”
CHAPTER THREE
IN MY SECOND LETTER I had asked Alba to meet me, and I had chosen the perfect spot. Each day, on her way home, she walked across the playing field to the gravel path along the riverbank. The trail followed the river through the trees for about a half a kilometre, then led over a wooden bridge to the far bank, where a stairway switchbacked up the steep bluff through the trees to her street. The bridge was the perfect rendezvous, I explained to Vanni.
“There’s a flat spot beside the river that’s visible from the railing. I can stand there and you can hide under the bridge—”
“Like a troll?”
“—and whisper to me what to say to her.”
“You’re daft.”
“No, really. It’ll work.”
“You’re soft in the head.”
“If I’m with her alone I’ll get tongue-tied. You know that.”
“‘If I’m with her alone.’ Didja hear yourself?”
“Please, Vanni.”
“This is a far cry from writing a letter,” she pointed out.
“You’ll be like those people at the United Nations.”
Vanni heaved a monumental sigh and gave me a blank look. “Not for the first time, Jake, you’ve lost me.”
“Simultaneous translators,” I said. “You’ll be like one of them.”
She shook her head in disgust.
“Okay, you’re right,” I conceded. “Bad simile. It doesn’t make sense to me, either, now that I think about it. But you know what I mean.”
“You got this brilliant idea from Romeo and Juliet, didn’t you? The balcony scene.”
“Yeah.”
“Except Romeo didn’t have anyone coaching him.”
“He didn’t need anyone. He had Shakespeare.”
Vanni rolled her eyes and shook her head slowly. “That doesn’t make any sense, either.”
“See? That’s why I need you.”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
“‘Mad for her love,’” I said, smiling.
“Now you’re quoting Polonius, from Hamlet.”
“Pretty good, eh?”
“Not really. Hamlet’s lover dies,” Vanni pointed out. “And so does he.”
We got to the chosen spot half an hour early. It had rained for two days, and the gravel path along the river was pocked with puddles, each reflecting sky and forest. The trees hung sodden and limp, as if they couldn’t wait to shed their leaves and be done with it.
Stepping carefully down the muddy bank, we made our way to the positions I had selected. If I craned my neck I could make out a bit of the path, so I’d be able to see Alba coming. I stood on a flat, grassy area by the rushing water. Vanni slipped and slid as she gingerly picked her way under the bridge. It was constructed of timbers, with a plank bed that allowed rain to drip through, so the sloping ground beneath was treacherously boggy.
My stomach fluttered like a leaf. I checked the path again. No Alba. Would she come? I wondered.
“Vanni, maybe we should—”
“Ahh! Ahh! Aarrgh!”
I turned just in time to see Vanni standing rigid, feet together, a startled expression on her face, her arms straight out from her shoulders and windmilling frantically as she slid backwards down the bank. “Ah! Ah!” she shrieked again. Then, as if a rope had been looped around them and suddenly jerked, her feet darted from under her and she crashed nose first into the mire, sending up an explosion of mud and water.
Heaving herself onto her hands and knees, glaring in my direction, she spat out a mouthful of mud. Her face and the front of her dress were dripping with ooze. A blob dropped from the end of her nose and plopped onto the ground. One of her shoes had come off.
“My nose!” she exclaimed, wiping clay from her face, smearing more sludge across her cheeks. “Where’s my bloody shoe?” She got carefully to her feet, struggling, legs apart, to regain her balance, and took a step toward the missing clog, which had rolled down the bank. The greasy clay beat her again. Her feet slid apart and she dropped like a bag of cement onto her backside with a loud squelch. “Ow! My bum!” she howled, looking at me over her shoulder. “Don’t you say a single word. If you laugh, I’ll drown you in that creek.”
Through the trees I saw someone walking our way.
“Quick! Here she comes!”
“Grand,” was all Vanni managed, once more scrambling drunkenly to her feet. She wiped her hands on her sweater and shook her head in disgust.
“No, it’s okay,” she said snarkily. “I can manage on my own.”
But I wasn’t listening. Alba was lookin
g around—for me, I hoped—as she approached the bridge. Her feet thumped on the planks. I waited until she was halfway across before I called out to her.
“Greetings, Pilgrim,” I offered, using the affectionate name Romeo called Juliet.
She stopped, stepped to the railing and looked down. She was wearing a burgundy leather bomber jacket, white denims and western boots the same deep red as her coat. Her hair was plaited in a French braid, and diamond studs winked in her earlobes.
“Oh, there you are,” she said. “Hi.”
I stole a glance at Vanni, streaks of river clay in her hair, on her face and dress, one shoe off and the other gripped in her mucky hand. I swore I could see steam coming out of her ears, feel the sharp darts shooting from her eyes as she spat more mud from her mouth.
“What’s that noise?” Alba asked.
“Er, nothing,” I said. “Just the river. I’ve been waiting for you. But seeing you at last makes the wait worthwhile.”
Vanni shot me a look of approval.
“Thank you for meeting me,” I added.
“Well, this is on my way home.”
Meaning she hadn’t intended to see me at all? I wondered. I squared my shoulders and told myself to be positive. I tilted my head in Vanni’s direction, silently asking, What now?
“Alba, I’ve never met a girl like you,” Vanni whispered.
“Alba, I’ve never met a girl like you,” I parroted, putting my heart into it, speaking the words with all the emotion I could summon up.
“What?” she asked.
I raised my voice. “I said I’ve never met a girl like you.”
“Eh? I can’t hear you. That stupid river is making too much noise.”
“I’VE NEVER MET A GIRL LIKE YOU!”
“Oh.”
Vanni began to speak again and I echoed her, adjusting my volume. “Ever since that first day, when we sat together in drama class, I’ve felt drawn to you, the way a wave is pulled to the shore, as if we were meant to be together.”
“Really? Me? You mean like Fate?”
I made the mistake of looking at Vanni, who was dramatically rolling her eyes. I gazed up at Alba again, at her long golden braid, her beautiful grey eyes waiting for my next line. It came right away.
“Yes, exactly like Fate. And if Fate is a goddess, I’ll pray to her tonight to thank her for bringing you into my life.”
“Play with who?”
“NOT PLAY. PRAY.”
“You don’t have to yell.”
“Sorry.”
I modulated my voice again, wondering if words of love sound as sweet when you’re almost bellowing. I repeated the line.
Alba asked, “Do you believe in Fate?”
“If she brought you to me, then I believe in her.”
There was a pause, then Alba spoke again. “Is Casablanca still your favourite movie?”
Keeping my face toward Alba, I flicked my eyes to the shadow under the bridge, thrown off by her question. Vanni extended her hand as if offering me her open palm. Over to you, Jake.
“Er, yes,” I replied. “The greatest, most romantic movie ever. Someday,” I added, back on track and making it up myself, “I’d like to write a screenplay, updating Casablanca. And I’ll picture you in my mind when I write the new Ingrid Bergman part.”
“She’s much better looking than me,” Alba demurred from the bridge.
I recognized a cue when I heard one. “No, you’re lovelier by far,” I said, and Vanni joined in smoothly, so I kept going without a hitch. “When I see you up there now, your face framed by the sky and the trees of autumn, I can think of a dozen movies I’d like to write for you.”
“Really?”
“But you’re not like other actresses,” I said, conscious that Vanni was whispering with a lot more passion than before. “You’ve got depth, a soul. That’s what I sensed in you the first time we met. My soul—”
“Mine’s gone with the wind,” Alba said.
“Huh?” I exclaimed before I could stop myself. Baffled, I glanced at Vanni. She shrugged, held her hands out to her sides as if to say, I don’t get it either.
“My favourite movie,” Alba continued, as though explaining it to a child. “Gone with the Wind. You know, Leslie Howard, the Civil War?”
I caught on. “Ah, I see. ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’”
“Well, that’s not a very nice thing to say!” Alba shot back heatedly. “I didn’t criticize your—”
“No, no! You don’t understand! I’m quoting from the movie. Remember? Rhett says to Scarlett, ‘Frankly, my—’”
“Oh,” Alba said doubtfully. “I forgot that part.”
She looked around, as though something had caught her attention. The mood had been broken. I had ruined it. And as if on cue, laughter burst from the trees, in the direction of the school, and four ninth-graders loped toward us, punching shoulders, shoving each other. They clattered over the bridge, giving Alba an exaggerated once-over as they passed.
“I’ve got to get going,” Alba said. “Nice talking to you, Jake.” She smiled and began to walk toward the far bank, the sway of her hips brushing further thoughts from my mind.
“Farewell,” I said, gallantly, I hoped.
When she was gone, I kicked the ground as hard as I could. Just when I had been getting into the scene, making headway, things had fallen apart. Those damn niners with their stupid antics and stupider smirks and remarks.
“I could use a hand here,” Vanni called out. “If you’re not too busy.”
“No sarcasm, Vanni. I’m not in the mood,” I said, taking her by the arm to steady her as we struggled up the slimy bank.
“You gave it a good try,” she said slipping her shoe onto a muddy foot.
“Do you think I got anywhere?”
“Certainly. You made your feelings plain.”
“I—you—did that in my letters.”
“Person to person is best.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“True. Is it working?” she asked as we crunched along the path toward the school.
“Sort of.”
But as we walked I replayed the scene on the movie screen behind my eyes. For a moment there, when Vanni was feeding me my lines, she sounded very passionate, as if she really did mean what she was saying, as if she too had fallen in love with Alba.
Oh, no, I thought. Things have gotten really complicated.
I didn’t have the nerve to ask Vanni right out if she had feelings for Alba. Was Vanni my rival, too, like the guys who followed Alba around the school like brainless ducklings? Was I like a character in one of those pathetic old teen movies where two best friends are in love with the same girl? With, you might say, modern variations?
Alba wouldn’t be attracted to Vanni, though. Would she? When I thought about it, Alba didn’t seem to have a boyfriend. None of the guys at York seemed to be doing any better with her than I was.
It was weird competing against a girl for a girl. Was I odd man out in an odd love triangle?
CHAPTER FOUR
“DIDJEVER WONDER,” Vanni asked lazily, tilting back her chair, “where the story goes when you delete it?”
We were in creative writing class, which was held in the library’s computer centre. Mrs. Cleaver was conferring at her desk with two girls who were working together on an endless fantasy novel involving gnomes, pretty princesses, two unicorns, intergalactic travel and a precocious beagle named Ernie. I knew the plot because the girls had read a bit of the tale out loud and given an outline during the sharing circle two days before. I had suggested substituting a gerbil for the beagle. “Gerbils are cuter,” I claimed, having no idea what I was talking about. “And smarter. Most people don’t realize how intelligent gerbils are.” Other students—the ones not whispering behind their screens—worked away on their own projects or used the computers to make forbidden forays into chat rooms or websites with free games.
Attempt
ing to ignore all this, I tapped furiously away at my keyboard, pounding out the last scene of what I would have freely admitted was a mind-bendingly lame short story. A couple of days had passed since the fiasco at the bridge, and I was racing the clock to the end of the period, when the story was due.
“No,” I said in answer to Vanni’s question, to head off what promised to be one of her rambles.
“Really?” she replied.
“Really.” Tap, tap, tap.
“Hmm.”
I refused to bite. I couldn’t let Vanni get started or I’d be led astray.
“It must go somewhere,” Vanni mused, gazing at the ceiling. “It’s a law of the universe or something, isn’t it? Everything has to be somewhere.”
Tap, tap, tap. My fingers flew. I glanced up at the clock. I might just get the last scene done on time.
“I mean, it stands to reason.”
Tap, tap.
“Funny expression, that. ‘Stands to reason.’”
I kept my eyes on the screen, which was slowly filling up with type, each boring sentence taking me toward my goal.
“See, the story I’ve written on my word processor is real, right? It must be—I can read it on the screen, show it to someone. It has places and characters and events and so on. Once you’ve read it, you remember it. You can talk about it. Ergo, it must have a certain kind of reality. So I’m wondering, if I delete it—I mean really erase it so it’s not recoverable—where does it go? How could something that was there suddenly be not there? How could something real suddenly be not real?”
Tap, tap, tap. I had no intention of asking her what “ergo” meant. Vanni turned in her chair to make sure Mrs. Cleaver was still occupied. She turned back.
“Didjever wonder—”
“No, Vanni,” I said. “I don’t wonder about the things you wonder about. Most of the time I don’t even understand them.” I cursed under my breath. She had hooked me again.
Vanni allowed a few moments to pass before she spoke again. “Imagine where our civilization would be today if every member of the human race, throughout recorded history—and unrecorded history, for that matter—possessed your relentless, aggressive curiosity. You’re such a plodder.”
