by Joanna Wiebe
As Pilot picks over the untouched dessert table—crème brulees, éclairs, chocolate mousse, raspberry torte—he names the members of the Model UN from Hell for me and details their backgrounds. Of course, I’ve already sat through classes with the coke-snorting vixen Plum and Little Miss Texas Harper. There’s also a half-Indian, half-Croatian girl named Tallulah, who has bedroom eyes and puffy lips. And Agniezska, a hot little Russian ballerina who once dated the prince of Liechtenstein or something.
“Harper’s their secretary general. The one making all the calls,” he explains, sticking his finger into cupcake icing, tasting it, and putting the cupcake back. “Model UN. From Hell.”
“Okay, I get the Model UN thing. But why are they from Hell? Because they’re mean as snakes?”
Leaning against the wall, he boldly points around the room. “See this place? See how everyone’s split up like they hate each other? One person per table?”
Yes, I’ve noticed. Everyone scowling. Everyone with their nose in a book or working on a paper.
“And see how you and me are the only pair here, and the Model UN from Hell, they’re the only, what’s the word…?”
“Quartet?”
“Foursome.”
“Okay, foursome,” I say and lift a crème brulee, cracking the top of it. “Do you have a point?”
“Everyone here hates each other for one reason only.”
Casually, we begin strolling toward the Model UN from Hell and away, snacking absently and trying to hide that we’re talking about them, watching them.
“Because their parents had to sign over their trust funds to get ’em in?” I laugh, but Pilot just grimaces. “I know, I know. Because they’re competing for the Big V.”
“Precisely. Because they’ve let themselves get sucked into this competition that makes each and every other kid here their enemy. That girl and those boys down there? They’re going to go through high school never talking to each other, except to fight. Never making any friends. Hating everyone. You saw the fight in art class.”
“So?” I ask as we pause near the stream. “A lot of kids hate everyone else.”
“Because they’re hormonal. Not because their parents pressure them to become valedictorian.”
I shrug. “But it’s a good pressure, right? Because being valedictorian here will get us into top colleges.”
“Look who’s been drinking the Kool-Aid!” He shakes his head.
“Fine,” I concede. “Now back to the Model UN from Hell. Why from Hell?”
We both turn and watch them. Their matching red bras busting out of their cleavage. Their sex-kitten hair. Every day, they replace their standard-issue boots with whatever ultra-expensive, ultra-hooker shoes they have; today, it’s Manolo Blahnik spiky boots.
“This, little orphan Annie, is exactly what makes them hellish, so listen up.” He lowers his voice. I inch closer, so close his lips nearly touch my ear. “Their PT topics are all the same.”
“Really?” We aren’t supposed to know each others’ topics, so this is juicy. Pilot’s probably privy to a world of stuff I would never be just because he’s openly not competing. Kids must tell him all sorts of stuff. “What’s their topic?”
“Guess.” If he didn’t look serious, I wouldn’t play along.
“To be…skanky cows?”
“Close,” he says, half-smirking. “They will succeed in life by using their desirability.”
“As in, ‘they are desire’?” He nods. I scratch my head; it wasn’t long ago that Teddy was suggesting I declare the very same PT. “Well, that’s, like, not progressive. But I wouldn’t call it hellish.”
“No, their PT’s not the point. That they have the same PT—that’s the point.”
I try to work through what he’s telling me and wonder if I might not need an oversized magnifying glass like some cartoon sleuth. And then it hits me.
“So they’re each other’s biggest competition.”
A slow smile creeps across his face. “Bingo.”
“Which means they’re competing with each other. But pretending to be friends. The only way Harper wins the Big V is if her friends go down.”
“So-called friends,” he clarifies. “Each one of those glittery chicks is just waiting for the other to fail. Watching her every move. Ready to tattle to Villicus if she screws up. Like mini-Guardians.”
We collect our bags and coats from our table. Just then, Tallulah glances my way and smiles.
“Looks like someone’s recruiting a new enemy. Or, sorry, a new BFF,” Pilot whispers, chuckling. Then he dusts his hands together and sighs. “You sure you wanna be valedictorian, Annie? Or is it possible that, for the first time in my so-called ‘disappointing’ life, I’m taking the high road…and you should come along for the ride?”
As the bell rings, I race into sculpting class, my final class of the day. I’m the last to arrive except for the teacher. Only one desk is available. It’s right next to Harper, who is smacking her gum; and it’s right behind Tallulah, who, amazingly, is applying another heaping helping of lip gloss to her already glowing lips and nodding along with whatever Harper’s rattling on about. Reluctantly, I slide into the seat next to Harper and start unpacking my bag. A two-way mirror along the far side of the room suggests that our Guardians are watching and grading us from the other side; this, I’m noticing, is a common feature in classrooms here.
“Good God, Tallie, I would give my fuchsia Halston peeptoes to see the sun again,” Harper groans as she stares at the overcast afternoon sky. “I haven’t had a tan in eight months.”
“Maine isn’t Dallas,” Tallulah says.
“Gee-ee, thanks for that excellent observation. I hadn’t noticed,” Harper says. “You’re starting to sound like my stepmonster. About as friendly as fire ants, she is. God, what does my dad see in her? Crunchy California type, y’know? Always yammering on about solar power this, sunscreen that. Hates tans. Hates me.”
Her stepmonster sounds alright to me.
I scribble my name and the date on the top of my page as our instructor, Dr. Weinchler, and his assistant finally enter, wheeling a cart towering with something under a dust cloth. Harper goes on about a Tori Burch dress that her daddy’s shipping out to her—a dress that, stop the world, may not even get here in time for the dance this Saturday.
“We’re so gee-dee isolated here,” Harper moans. “At least we have the dance to look forward to. Tragic how dull high school boys are, though. There’s, like, maybe one guy on this whole island I’d even consider knocking boots with.” She nods to the front of the room. Tallulah follows her gaze and, unable to help myself, I do, too. “But he’s way too old for me. And, like, his name’s actually Ebenezer. How lame is that?”
There he stands. Ben Zin. Ebenezer Zin.
He’s our TA!
At exactly the moment I see Ben, before his gallingly flawless face even registers in my brain, before my stomach starts to turn at the idea that Harper might ever be with Ben, I recall the TA form his dad handed him yesterday outside Villicus’s office. I watch him remove the dust cover from the cart, fold it, and, with Weinchler helping, lift a lengthy sculpture from the cart and place it on an oversized plinth near the chalkboard. It’s his sculpture. His art.
OMG. He’s an artist, too.
My heart sinks.
Thinking of the girlfriend I saw him with last night—she better not have been Harper!—I feel robbed. An artist. A sculptor. Good enough to TA. Why must Ben Effing Zin be so perfect, so totally out of my league? It makes my head swoon. Thank God I’m sitting, or I might pass out again.
“I could get Ben,” Harper continues, convincing Tallulah. I glance at the Indian beauty to see her nodding passionately, but her eyes are empty. Does Harper know Tallulah’s faking it? Does she know her little peons are desperate to get her kicked out of school, kicked out of the race for valedictorian? “But I’m too focused on the Big V to fiddle around with guys. At least, with guys who won’t get me anywher
e.”
“You wouldn’t make an exception for Ben?” Tallulah asks. “He’s hot. His dad’s ridunkulously powerful. And he’s really rich. Like, Trump rich.”
“So am I. So are you,” Harper laughs. Then both girls look directly at me. “You, Fainting Fanny?” Harper strokes a lock of her perfectly annoying hair. I know what she’s going to say before she even says it: “Not so much.”
She was going for shock, trying to surprise me. But I’m not remotely surprised because this little hussy couldn’t be more typical if she tried. I just roll my eyes at her uninspired jab and face forward; she and Tallulah exchange undeserved mini high fives.
“Eyes on me,” Dr. Weinchler shouts, clapping his hands.
Weinchler is the antithesis of his TA. Old, gray, and stereotypically academic looking, with a soft face that resembles wax slowly melting. He looks like a caricature of a scientist. What little hair sits on top of his age-spotted head is wispy and even wilder than mine. His low voice cracks, but he doesn’t seem to notice, so whenever he speaks, I strain to watch his wet, old lips move. It’s like watching TV during a storm, when the volume keeps blinking out.
“This year,” Weinchler begins shakily, the ruby pin on his lab coat sparkling, “your TA is one of America’s brightest sculptors. Ebenezer Zin is a gifted representationalist. His collection of bronzes depicting the gruesome acts of plastic surgery, a searing tip of the hat to his father’s former profession as an LA plastic surgeon—”
“San Mateo,” Ben corrects. And I swoon a little more. After all, that’s where I’m from.
“Does it matter?” Dr. Weinchler hacks into his sleeve. “Where was I?”
“My collection is touring…”
“Right! Mr. Zin’s collection is currently touring major art galleries in Europe. As you see before you, he was kind enough to bring another work, entitled Self Portrait with Company.”
I. Am. Stunned. Ben is already touring the uber-exclusive galleries of Europe? He’s barely eighteen. The idea of it makes me sick with envy.
“Thank you, Professor,” Ben says. His voice—everything about him—is just as attractive as I remembered it, if not more. Which makes me feel worse.
As Ben steps forward, Weinchler claps his long, thin hands lightly, a pompous little clap, and encourages everyone to do the same. I clap, but I’m distracted with thoughts of Ben and his mystery girlfriend living some perfect life together in the future: him the artist, her the—what, nonprofit lawyer? He will be valedictorian for the senior class this year. And, after graduation, the two of them will move away to Yale or Harvard or whatever school for rich kids and celebrities they decide to attend together. Then? Off to some fabulous New York City brownstone. It’s a no-brainer. I can picture it now.
And me—what is my fate? I can see it now. I will be a struggling artist, cast away from all “good” society after pissing off Villicus for God knows why or disappointing Teddy enough that I don’t even qualify for the Big V race. I’ll waste away at some community college, and there I’ll have a sordid affair with a married prof who uses me to feel young again.
The only way to avoid such a fate is to become valedictorian. No matter what Pilot says. And no matter what hold Harper thinks she has on the title.
“Good afternoon and hello,” Ben says, stepping forward.
His vibrant eyes scan the room, and sighs fan out among the girls. He paces in front of his small sculpture, which depicts five standing bodies intertwined—three humans dancing gaily, two skeletal figures engaging the dancers. One skeleton plays the flute.
I’ve seen this sort of sculpture before. Anyone with any interest in art history would recognize it instantly as derivative of a movement called the “dance of Death,” which gained popularity in the fifteenth century. I’m relieved that Ben’s sculpture doesn’t floor me as I’d expected it to. It’s been done, and done better. In this fact, I can take a little comfort. Ben may not be as amazing as I’ve started building him up to be.
“Let me explain to you,” Ben begins, “what makes these good sculptures.”
Definitely not as amazing! I had assumed that the boy was as arrogant as they come, but talk about pompous! To assume his work is “good”—to call it that. No need to compliment Ben Zin; he does that all on his own. As he launches into this endless harangue on the qualities of his art that match contemporary and traditional standards of what commercially successful art should be, blah, blah, blah, I can’t help but think of how every single word he says conflicts 110 percent with what I believe art is meant to be, meant to do. Sure, he throws in fancy words to distract us—like ontological perspective and Hegelian phenomenology—but when you listen closely, you can almost hear his soul escaping through his mouth. He’s completely passionless about his art.
“So, with that,” Ben says, “tell me, who agrees that this is good art?”
Every hand in the room goes up—except mine. They’ve all been persuaded, and I wonder if maybe Follow the Leader isn’t the PT for a few of them. But, well, that ain’t my PT! Mine is to take nothing at face value, to get to the bottom of things. So I keep my hand down even as Harper scoffs at me like I must be the densest freak alive.
“Looks like all of you,” Ben says without glancing my way and sighs.
“Wait,” I call out as hands go down. Everybody grumbles like I’m holding them up. Gee, sorry, but if my dad mortgaged the family funeral home just to get me in here—which is all I can imagine he did—I’m going to milk every opportunity. He needs me to.
Ben looks at me. “Miss Merchant?”
“I disagree,” I say. My voice doesn’t even wobble, thank God. “Respectfully.”
Indifferently, Ben plucks a fallen hair off his sleeve. “Go on.”
“Because you referenced Hegel, you must know that Hegel said good art should express the essence of a culture. It’s supposed to be the impetus for progress.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Although you sound more like Danto than Hegel.”
I argue that Danto might agree, though he’s more of a pluralist—and we go back and forth on all this art history stuff, stuff I’ve read a million times. I know it inside out, know what he’s going to say before he even says it. Who’d have thought those lonely Saturdays spent in the library rather than watching funeral processions would actually pay off?
“So,” I conclude, “I’m at a loss as to how your sculpture is, as you said, good. It’s derivative.”
“By postmodern standards.”
“By any standards. The dance of Death has been done.”
At the front of the room, someone gasps. Harper scoffs. But I know I’m right, so screw ’em. And a quick glance at Weinchler shows me that he’s nodding along with me, that he’s agreeing. He’s even taking notes! Finally, a positive note about me. I can only hope Teddy’s on the other side of that mirror and that he caught this scene.
“Agree with me,” I finish, “and we’ll both be right.”
And then it’s Ben’s turn to surprise me: he laughs.
“Well done,” he says, running his hands through his fantastic hair. “I’ve actually hated this thing since the day Villicus commissioned it. Great argument, A.M.”
So that does it. Not only am I validated by Weinchler, but Ben has agreed with me.
“I guess they taught y’all something in that public school,” Harper hisses under her breath as Weinchler takes over the lecture. “Too bad it ain’t near enough to get you the Big V.”
“We’ll see,” I whisper back. And, for the first time, I actually believe it. I could be valedictorian next year. Brown, here I come!
seven
FIRE AND LIFE
I AWAKE WITH A JOLT FROM A VIVID, REPEATED NIGHTmare. It’s the middle of the night. My blankets are knotted, cocooning me; I coiled them around my body like threads around a spool as I fought my way through long, tangled dreams that wouldn’t let go. Even as the details of my nightmare fade rapidly, the basics of it and, even worse, the sadness it s
tirred within me won’t let go, like claws digging into my breastplate.
I stare at the clock. Almost one in the morning.
I’d dreamt of walking up the back steps to our apartment above the funeral home. It was a warm morning—spring-like, with flowers in bloom and birds perched nearby. There was a siren, an earthquake warning in the distance; they’d sent us home early from school just in case. I turned the doorknob and stepped inside, but it was dark, the shades drawn. I glimpsed my reflection—pale, wide-eyed, hollow—in the hall mirror and called in a voice that echoed, “Mom?” On a small table, towering stacks of bills wobbled, bills from specialists and from that unimaginably expensive hospital we’d been forced to pull Mom out of. I couldn’t shake the sense that our house would explode if those bills fell, so I raised my hands to catch them—but at exactly that moment, the table transformed into an oven door, open wide. I stepped toward it. I tripped over somebody—my mom—lying at my feet, and I began to fall in.
I woke just before my head hit the oven door.
The dream has left me bruised inside, my head pounding. As if it repeated for days, not two hours, like round after round of a boxing match that the ref wouldn’t call. Now, in a sweat, I stare into the black of my attic bedroom and sob quietly over the memory of my mother. Not just the mother who took her life that day. But the mother I used to have, the one who would repeat the stories she read during her breaks at the library, twirl my hair around her fingers, and teach me to dance in the kitchen when there were no funerals downstairs. The mother who grew up as I did; her father was a mortician—she and my dad met when he came to work for her dad. That’s the mother I knew. The mother I had before that unidentifiable switch went off in her head and the psychiatrists stepped in.
I bury my face in my pillow, chasing away gloom. But the pounding in my head won’t let up. I need an Advil, so I tiptoe down from the attic, slashing my hands through the dark corners where spirits could gather, just like I used to do back home to prove no ghosts stood there. Moving quietly to keep from waking my crackpot roomies, I rummage through the bathroom medicine cabinet until I realize that the pounding isn’t coming from inside my head at all. I tilt my ear toward the sound.
