As Avery went to sit down at the piano, she jumped back in alarm as a tinny version of “Take Me to the River” assaulted her from the suddenly animated mouth of a mechanical fish. Laughter from the direction of the stairs. Running feet.
“Your brothers are so cute.” Mel laughed.
“Uh-huh,” Avery growled. She reached up and popped the batteries out of the Big Mouth Billy Bass that sat on top of the piano and shoved them into her pocket. Billy Bass was her greatest enemy, but she couldn’t convince her parents to part with it. They thought it was hilarious. Avery plucked out his batteries every time he came on and blamed the theft on her brothers.
She sat down on the bench and closed her eyes for a moment. That fish always put her in a mood.
“Did you get your application yet?” Mel asked.
“For?”
“Music school.”
This was not a topic that Avery liked to discuss. There was nothing Avery wanted more in the world than to go to music school, but just the thought of applying terrified her.
“Which ones are you going to apply to?” Mel asked. “Have you decided?”
“Not yet.”
“But you’re applying to ones in New York, right?”
“I guess so,” Avery said mindlessly, setting her fingers in position for her C scale. “I don’t know yet.”
“But you want to go to New York, right?”
“I’m going to get started, okay, Mel?”
No answer. Pages flipping.
Running through her scales took twenty minutes, and she wanted to keep her concentration. She liked to put some mental energy into them, even though they were automatic. Once she was finished, she set her task for the night on the music stand. The piece she was working on was Prokofiev’s Piano Concerto no. 3. She’d been avoiding work on this for over a week. Two bars were tripping her up and driving her crazy—she couldn’t seem to get through them, no matter how hard she tried. Today she had to crack them.
Behind her she could hear Mel gently clearing her throat.
Page one was fairly painless. She reached up and flipped to the second page, down the third…. The beginning, she had. It was coming, though. There they were, the dreaded two bars with her teacher’s notes scrawled between them in tiny spider print.
And … she did it again.
Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. She wanted to kick the piano right in the guts, stomp on the pedals until they snapped off. The fact that she had someone staring at her became unbearable.
“Mel,” she said, turning around on the bench, “would you mind if I took you home?”
“What?” Mel said, looking up from her statistics book.
“Can I take you home?”
“Why?” Mel asked, while clearly trying to quell her quivering lower lip.
“Because I really need to work.”
“I’ll be quiet.”
“You’re already being quiet,” Avery said gently. “I just need to be by myself and do some work on this.”
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s nothing the matter,” Avery said as a sudden edge came into her voice.
“Then why do you want to take me home?”
Avery groaned out loud and put her hands over her face. Mel got up and came toward her. Avery stiffened. She didn’t want her shoulders rubbed, or her hand held, or her arm touched. She wanted to get these two bars right.
“Mel, please,” Avery said.
“Are you mad at me?” Mel asked. She started blinking rapidly, and Avery could tell that she was on the verge of tears. “I can sit upstairs.”
Now she really wanted Mel to go, and since this was her house, she could get stubborn about it and force the issue. But that would only cause a big argument, and her brothers would probably hear. It just wasn’t worth it. And that annoyed Avery even more. She felt trapped.
“Fine,” she said. “Sit upstairs.”
Mel didn’t say anything as she gathered her things, but Avery could tell from the way Mel avoided looking at her that she was hurt. She probably even wanted Avery to feel guilty about sending her away.
When Mel was gone, Avery sat for a moment with her eyes closed and tried to collect herself to start again. But she was anxious and annoyed now, and there was no way she’d get through the piece. She’d just have to go back and work on the material she already had down.
“How can I go to music school if you don’t let me practice?” Avery muttered under her breath.
Instead of starting again, she kept her eyes closed and sat there, soaking up the quiet as if it were sunlight.
17
Essay #2: Write a note to your future roommate. Describe an experience or a person that has had a special influence on your life. Do not exceed 300 words.
Nina sat in her living room and looked over her list of possible candidates.
Mom and Dad. Pros: Good to say that m&d inspire, very touching. Also, biracial relationship shows built-in diversity. Cons: Cheesy to say that m&d inspire. Seems like I have no one else to write about. Exploitation of parents’ brave and romantic biracial relationship for essay purposes could seem cheap and obvious and make admissions people hate me.
Steve. Pros: Want to write about Steve. Cons: Admissions committee will think I am insane and boyfriend-obsessed and will do no work, spend entire time in school planning wedding and monitoring b-friend’s every move.
Mel and Avery. Pros: Want to write about them. Also, probably truest answer. Cons: Admissions people may not be interested in the story of how we used to buy coordinated underwear and wear it on the same schedule as a joke, which for some reason is the only thing I can think of right now.
Gandhi. Pros: Who isn’t inspired by Gandhi? Cons: Know almost nothing about Gandhi except that he was a good man who worked for peace but wore almost no clothes.
Nina groaned out loud and put her hand over her eyes. Everyone else applying for early decision was going to ace this one. They would all have pithy, unbelievable experiences to describe. “My six months in the rain forest made me who I am today….” “As a professional ballerina, I have always been accustomed to discipline….” “My friend Maggie is 106 years old, yet she seems younger than me….”
It was probably a good thing that Nina heard a car door shutting in her driveway and looked out her window to see Avery heading for her front door.
She set her laptop down on the couch next to her and got up to let Avery in. Avery dropped heavily onto the chair-and-a-half and jutted her legs out straight in front of her. She examined her red Chucks for a moment with a dissatisfied expression. Nina waited for her to say something, but Avery had nothing to offer but a view of the soles of her shoes.
“Something up?” Nina finally said.
“No.”
Avery puckered her lips and exhaled deeply. Nina glanced over at her computer and wondered if she should pick it up and keep working. She poked at the keyboard to keep it awake and looked at the hopeless fragments of her essays.
“I know Mel likes to cheer people on, but sometimes it’s kind of too much,” Avery managed to blurt. “She’s always asking me about applying to music school.”
“It just sounds like Mel is being Mel,” Nina replied nonchalantly.
“It’s different now,” Avery argued.
“How?”
“Well, the reason she’s asking me about music school in New York is because she wants to know where I’ll be living.”
“That’s not weird,” Nina said. “I want to know where you’ll be living.”
“Yeah, but you just want to know. I think Mel is making her plans based on where I’m going to be.”
Nina felt a strange pang of jealousy at this.
“How do you know that?”
“I can just tell,” Avery stated with a sense of authority that only a girlfriend would have. “It’s the way she asks.”
“How does she ask?”
“Remember how Spaz always used to message you to find out wh
ere you were going to be, and it was just kind of creepy?” Avery asked.
Spaz was Avery’s nickname for Mark, a guy Nina dated for two weeks in sophomore year. He texted Nina all day long and used to freak out if she didn’t reply right away.
“Mel’s not like Spaz,” Nina said.
“No, but she’s kind of getting there. And the other thing is, when I practice, she always wants to be there. Which is kind of fine, but then she interrupts me.”
“She talks?”
“No, I mean she wants to … do things.”
The obvious fill-in was that Mel wanted Avery to stop for snuggle time, and as much as Nina wanted to be open and accepting, she didn’t really like picturing Mel’s attempts at seducing Avery away from the piano. She had her limits.
“What are you working on?” Avery whimpered, shyly playing with a thin, thready patch that was developing in the knee of her jeans.
“Admissions essays.”
“Right.” Avery exhaled deeply. “I forgot you have all this stuff going on.”
The thought of admissions essays visibly depressed Avery.
“I should let you finish,” she said.
“You should stay,” Nina said. “I’m just working. We have ice cream. You want some?”
“I’m good.”
Avery sat for a few more minutes, saying nothing. Nina put her computer back on her lap. It was scorching hot on the bottom, so she layered a few of her mother’s law journals under it. Nina wanted to talk more, but she had no idea what to say. If she got any deeper in this, she wasn’t sure she could really handle the details.
“You want to watch TV?” Nina offered.
“No.” Avery fished around in her pockets. “I’m going to head out.
Nina didn’t try to stop her this time.
She already had a very clear snapshot in her head of Mel and Avery making out, but now she saw a different angle of it. It wasn’t like they just kissed and that was it. They had a relationship. They noticed things about each other. They probably even dressed up for each other, just like she would dress up to get Steve’s attention. They read into each other’s signals, and they probably marked little anniversaries. Their relationship was a hundred times more complicated than the plain old Triangle stuff.
She shook her head, blinked, and focused back on the screen.
Stanford. Early decision. That was her goal. She couldn’t change what was happening with Mel and Avery, but she could make sure that she would spend the next four years with Steve. This was a long, shaky bridge, and she just had to cross it.
She sighed and highlighted the word Gandhi.
18
On Sunday afternoon Avery and Mel were walking through a cold early October rain. They’d wanted to get coffee at The Grind, but it was packed with people. So now they were stuck on the street without a destination, their clothes slowly growing heavy and wet in the mist.
Mel gently bumped her hand into Avery’s. They’d come to this compromise early on—instead of hand-holding in public, they could hand-bump. It was their secret signal, and at first Avery had loved it. Now she stuck her hand in the pocket of her wine-colored leather jacket. Mel could see that she was playing with the hole in her pocket—the one that caused her to leave a trail of cigarettes, lighters, change, and balled-up pieces of gum behind her.
“It’s too nasty to walk,” Avery said, shivering.
“Want to go to Borders?”
“I guess.”
When in doubt, wander the bookstore. Always the same pattern. Avery would go right to the music section, slap on some broken, flaking headphones, and start punching in album codes. Mel would drift around, look at the calendars, reread Olivia.
“Okay,” Avery said, already looking bored. “Meet you in a few at the coffee bar.”
Mel watched Avery hurry off. She stood by the front table and looked down at the shiny new releases without a great deal of interest. She never knew what to do once she got in here anymore. There were only so many times she could look at blank journals or racks of books she didn’t really want to read. Rather than giving her music lessons, Avery seemed to want to spend her time checking out new records on her own.
Mel began her aimless wandering. Jazz was playing. This was music she knew she was supposed to like, but it always sounded so dull and annoying to her, the notes buzzing around in her head like trapped flies.
There was one section she’d never gone near: the gay and lesbian corner. It filled up two of the wall bookcases, and there was a huge green sign over the shelf. It was fairly public, as it was over by the wide cookbook nook. That was probably why she had stayed away before. Today, though, she was feeling a bit more courageous. The store wasn’t very crowded. She should at least be able to go over and stand by the books.
Mel walked over and surveyed the offerings from a distance of a few feet.
It was like she had just discovered a candy store in her own basement.
Here was everything she ever hoped to know. Books on dating. There were a few books of correspondence between famous lesbians that looked like literature books. There was half a shelf of lesbian erotica. Though she wanted to look, she felt like if her hand came into contact with any of them, alarms would start going off, a huge spotlight would fix on her, and pink triangle confetti would be released from the ceiling.
She reached out anyway. She started randomly pulling things off the shelf and skimming the pages. It was strangely liberating, standing in the corner of the bookstore reading a gay and lesbian travel guide to Istanbul.
“Hey,” came a voice behind her. She turned to see Avery, holding her ground on the edge of International Cooking and Dietary Concerns. Avery looked at Mel and then at the books. “Come listen to something,” she said.
“What?” Mel said innocently. Normally she gave in when Avery got nervous that they were doing something too obvious. Today she was determined not to move. She was only reading, after all. It wasn’t like they were making out against the Harry Potter display.
“Come on,” Avery said, more insistently this time.
“I’m reading.”
“Well, don’t.”
“Calm down, Ave.”
“I am calm,” Avery said in a low voice.
“Couples counseling works.”
They turned to see Devon Wakeman, wearing his signature tie under a heavy hooded sweatshirt. He had just turned the corner of the aisle.
The remark probably didn’t even mean anything, but neither Avery nor Mel replied. Avery, in fact, was staring at Devon with a look of horror, like he had just crawled out from under her bed wearing a hockey mask. Mel took refuge in her normal rabbitlike defense tactic: when confronted, stand still and believe that you blend into the surroundings.
Devon looked at each of their faces, then at the shelf, then at the book that Mel’s hand was still resting on. A thought bubble practically appeared over his head, showing the equation that was quickly drawn, checked, and confirmed.
“So,” he said, leaning back against the local interest shelf. “What are you guys doing?”
“What do you normally do in a bookstore?” Avery said.
Devon held up his hands, as if to say that he was only making conversation.
“Gay and lesbian studies,” he said, nodding. “That’s cool. What are you guys working on?”
“Something for English,” Mel mumbled.
“Oh.”
The conversation fell dead to the ground. Devon had no reason to stay, anyway. He had all the information he’d ever need about them.
“See you guys around,” he said.
The moment he was gone, Avery turned and left the store. Mel shoved the book back on the shelf haphazardly and followed her. By the time Mel got out the door, Avery had cut across traffic and was on the other side of the road. Out of the corner of her eye Mel noticed Devon and two other guys conferring. They glanced over in her direction and watched Mel’s pursuit.
Mel caught up with Avery
on the opposite side, just as she was about to turn the corner and storm down Philadelphia Avenue, probably on her way home.
“Wait up!”
Avery stopped but didn’t turn. She patted her pockets down nervously, searching for her cigarettes.
“Why did you have to do that?” Avery said as Mel caught up to her. Now that she’d found the cigarettes, she was struggling with her lighter in the misting rain. “Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?”
“All I did was stand by some books,” Mel said.
“You didn’t stand by some books.”
“I’m not allowed to read?” Mel’s voice got embarrassingly high when she got angry.
“Well, now Devon thinks I’m gay,” Avery shot back.
“It’s fine. Who even cares?”
“Mel …” Avery’s voice cracked, and she almost laughed. She managed to light her cigarette, and she held it tight between her teeth as she squeezed her face with both hands.
“It’s hard,” Mel said calmly. “I know. It’s kind of weird when people know.”
“Weird?” Avery said, a note of slight hysteria coming into her voice. “It’s not weird. It’s beyond weird.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not gay,” Avery said, sticking her free hand into her pocket.
“Ave—”
“I’m not gay.” Avery said it again, very clearly and sternly.
“Okay,” Mel said, trying to be conciliatory. “You’re bi.”
“Stop trying to tell me what I am!” Avery snapped.
Mel stepped back in shock. She could understand that Avery might not feel comfortable being labeled gay—Mel still had trouble with this sometimes—but being bi wasn’t exactly something she could deny.
“This isn’t the same as other people,” Avery went on. “The bi girls, they go back and forth. We’re just … together.”
“So?”
“It’s more serious with us. We act like lesbians. Real ones.”
Avery was shaking her head as she spoke, as if the concept of “real lesbians” wasn’t something she could quite comprehend.
“I am a real one,” Mel said. “But you can be whatever you want. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.”
The Bermudez Triangle Page 11
