And We're Off

by Dana Schwartz

  After what feels like an hour of walking, Callum directs me to a bench underneath a tree wider than we are. All of the leaves look black in the darkness—the cemetery is lit only by a few lamps hovering somewhere in the distance. If we weren’t surrounded by decaying bodies, it would be incredibly romantic.

  “One of the oldest cemeteries in Ireland,” Callum says.

  “Really?” I say.

  “I mean, probably, right? It sounds cool. I come here sometimes. Just to think. It’s quiet.”

  “I like it.”

  “You can share it,” Callum says. “It can be your place too.”

  “That’s a very generous offer, Callum Cassidy.”

  “We superheroes are the giving and generous kind. Always looking out for humanity and the greater good, et cetera, et cetera.”

  I pull my backpack onto my lap to get it off the damp grass.

  “What do you have in here anyway?” Callum says, and he opens the bag. “A notebook, classic, some pencils, sunglasses, a crumpled receipt from a Starbucks in Belgium—why did you go to Belgium, of all places?”

  I laugh. “Honestly, I have no idea. My grandpa wanted me to? It sounded cool?”

  “Belgium is a joke.”

  “I know, right?”

  “But,” Callum says, “not to be distracted! What else do you have . . . Chapstick, very practical. And . . .” He pulls out the second book in the Categories trilogy, Blood Betrayed. I brought it on the trip in case I needed something comforting to reread.

  “I finished that one already. All of them, actually. Must have just left it in my bag.” Does he think I’m dumb for reading this kind of book? I should have brought Pride and Prejudice or Ulysses or Gravity’s Rainbow or something.

  Callum flips the book in his hands. His hands are always moving. “Is it any good?” He begins reading out loud from the back cover. “‘Valentine Neverwoods never believed she was special. At least not until the Test decided that she was the only one who’d be able to save the Colony from the sinister forces of the Citadel’s power. With her childhood friend Ermias and the dark and mysterious Anthem—’” He turns to me. “I’m already lost.”

  “So, the Categories trilogy takes place in this dystopian future where, at sixteen, everyone in the Colony where they live has to take this Test that decides everything about their future. And while Val was taking it in the last book, she got a corrupted reading and figured out that the Citadel, who runs it all, has been corrupted. So now she’s trying to overthrow the system.”

  “So . . . kind of like The Hunger Games.”

  “Yeah, sort of, but also not really?” I get a little embarrassed. “I mean, a lot of those stories are similar in certain ways, but they’re all about growing up.”

  “What do you mean?” Callum cracks his knuckles and looks into my eyes like he actually wants to know the answer.

  “I mean . . . how nice would it be if there were a Test to tell you exactly where you belong, a Test that could read every thought that’s in your head and every experience you’ve ever had and all of your skills and be able to tell you: THIS. This is what you should do. This is what will make you happy. This is who you are.”

  “Well, no one knows who they are, exactly.”

  “I know, but you know . . . Read enough of these books and you can say, I get it—I’m a Gryffindor, or a Dauntless, or, like in the Categories books, an Academic or Artisan. If I were in the Categories books, they would have told me when I was sixteen if I was supposed to be an artist or not. And if it’s not, then I wouldn’t be wasting my time.”

  “Isn’t it more fun just to do what you like and then see what you become later?”

  “That’s an optimistic way of looking at things,” I say.

  Callum straddles the bench so he’s fully facing me. “I mean, this way’s way better. You get to choose what you want to be. You don’t need skills you were born with or permission. If you want to be an artist or whatever, just work harder than everyone else and become an artist!”

  “You make it sound so easy. So what do you want to be?”

  “I don’t know,” Callum says, and he swings his legs back around to the other side of the bench. “I kind of want to go into international law. Get out of Ireland.”

  “Are you applying for colleges outside of here?”

  “Erm, a bit, yeah. You mean uni, right? Oxford’s a long shot, but I’m also applying to Trinity and UNC in Dublin, and Wesleyan and Brown in the States.”

  “No way. I’m applying to RISD—Rhode Island School of Design. It’s right next door to Brown.”

  “Ha! I didn’t even know there was an art school up there! So why there?”

  “Well, it’s one of the best art schools in the country. Why Brown out of all the colleges—unis—in the States?”

  “Well, I fancy Emma Watson quite a bit obviously, and she might come back for some reunions.” I hit him gently on the side of his arm. “I mean, it’s a great school! Ivy, yeah? And I like that they don’t make you choose what you want to do right when you get there.”

  “Well, no colleges force you to choose exactly what you want to do right when you get there.”

  “In the UK they do! You apply for a specific program, and you can transfer if you really want, but you’re locked into your program. Like, if you want to be a doctor, you apply to that program when you’re eighteen, and then you’re set.”

  “But no one knows exactly what they want to do when they’re eighteen! That’s not fair! People change their minds all the time—how are you even supposed to know what you’re good at BEFORE you go to college?”

  “Well,” Callum says, “I guess that’s why . . .” He consults the back of the book. “Miss Valentine Neverwoods is trying to overthrow the Colony.”

  “She’s overthrowing the Citadel. The Colony is just where they live.”

  “Well, now I see why you like these books so much,” Callum says.

  “Why?”

  “She’s at a colony, you’re at the Deece . . .”

  “What do you mean?” I say. Is he trying to tell me the Deece turns into a fight-to-the-death for the title of who gets to be Áine and Declan’s favorite?

  Callum waits for me to get it, his eyes wide and expectant. “You know,” he says finally, “Donegal COLONY for Young Artists. You applied here. You’re an artist. That’s your test assignment or whatever.”

  I laugh, and the sound echoes through the cemetery. A bat or a hawk or something gives a scratchy call. “Luckily this one isn’t run by a totalitarian dictator.”

  “I don’t know . . .” Callum says, smiling. “I’ve heard Maeve tell me some pretty harsh stories about Declan . . .”

  “I’m so lucky to be here,” I say without thinking.

  “What do you mean, lucky?” Callum says. “You’re really good. I mean, like, you got in here, right? And it’s hard. They turn down loads of people every year.”

  My tongue hangs languidly in my mouth while I decide whether or not to tell him about my grandpa and my sneaking suspicion that it’s easier to get into a program when your grandfather is a living treasure to the art world. But I don’t say it. Instead, I grab the satchel off his lap and begin rummaging through it. “So, what’s in your bag?” I say in a tone I’m hoping comes across as “flirty Kate Hudson in a romantic comedy.”

  “Ah!” Callum stands up and, with the flourish of a stage magician, pulls out a giant blanket and a handful of candy bars. “I come prepared.” He sweeps the blanket out on the ground and invites me to join him.

  I read the names of the chocolates he brought. “Whispa? Toffee Crisp? Crunchie? Dairy Milk?”

  “You don’t have Dairy Milk in the States? It’s Cadbury!”

  I choose Whispa and take a bite. We definitely don’t have a candy bar like it: thin strands of waxy chocolate in a rope s
o that it crumbles in your mouth. “I think we have Cadbury, but my mom isn’t really the type to buy much candy. On Halloween, she gives out Goldfish.”

  Callum sits up. “She gives out goldfish?”

  It takes a minute, and then it clicks, and I’m laughing so hard I don’t even care if it makes me have a double chin or snort like a drunk cow. “Goldfish. Like the crackers. Little crackers we have in America shaped like little fish.”

  “Well,” Callum says, “I would have preferred if you gave away pet fish.”

  We sit for a while, watching the reflection of the moon bounce off the headstones and leave lens-flare patches on the grass. The chocolate has left me in a fuzzy haze, like my usual brain programming has been replaced by white noise on an old television set.

  “It’s late,” I say finally, after we’ve been lying on the ground for a while, his head in the crook of my neck and his arm around my waist. I check my iPhone: two fourteen A.M. “Are we spending all night in a cemetery? We should be telling ghost stories.”

  “Mmmhmmmmm mmhmmmmhm,” Callum says into my hair.

  “I should get back,” I say, but maybe I don’t actually say it. Maybe I just think about saying it.

  My eyes get heavy, and Callum is so warm and smells like grass and paint. I fall asleep with his arm as my pillow.

  * * *

  “Mummy, they’re moving!”

  I moan. I’m not entirely sure where I am or why the sun is so bright or why my shoulder is so sore. A little boy shrieks.

  “Mummy, mummy—they’re moving!”

  I open my eyes just enough to see a boy waddling off toward his mother, shooting terrified glances back at me and Callum every few steps.

  “Morning,” Callum says, flipping over onto his back.

  “We fell asleep,” I say stupidly. And then I remember that morning breath exists and try to tilt my head slightly away from Callum’s face. “Oh my god,” I say and begin scrambling to stand up, grabbing my bag. “We fell asleep.”

  “Yeah, yeah, we did,” Callum says, closing his eyes again.

  “We fell asleep!” I say again, and the urgency in my tone rouses Callum from his attempt at the metaphorical snooze button. “My mother is going to flip out.”

  “I thought you said she’s not allowed to comment on your life.”

  “She’s not, but . . .” I try to explain things as best I can. “But, I mean, I just stayed out all night in Ireland. In a cemetery. Won’t your parents worry?”

  He shrugs a shoulder. “My da’ doesn’t know where I am half the time. He trusts me to take care of myself.”

  I don’t respond. My stomach is churning with rage and anxiety and maybe something like a full-on crush, but clouded by the first two emotions, it’s hard to tell.

  “Look,” Callum says, “I didn’t mean to cause a problem. I just . . . I mean . . . lemme drive you home.” He re-laces his shoes and begins packing up the blanket.

  The toddler who thinks we’re zombies hides behind his mom until we exit the cemetery, me leading like a woman on a mission and Callum stumbling after me.

  19

  IN THE END, Alice went far easier on me than she should have, by all accounts. I got a lecture, an “I was so worried about you, you have no idea!” and after I promised to never be out later than midnight again without telling her, she pulled me into a hug and told me how angry she was, still hugging me. It was a distinctly non-Alice experience. I have to imagine the sea air or all the greenery, or else the time away from work, has had a calming effect on her, not to mention Evelyn, who let her know that the children from the Deece are known to stay out all night together, and this was a perfectly normal occurrence.

  When I leave to meet Maeve in the studio (after a long, long nap and a cup of Evelyn’s jasmine tea), I tell my mom I love her, and she says she loves me too, still shaking her head like she can’t believe she had to survive the torture of worrying about me all night.

  * * *

  We’re carving linoleum plates. In my head, the image I’m trying to carve looks perfect—a cup of coffee swirling with steam. I can picture it so clearly, but then when my hands try to scrape the picture out of the rubbery linoleum, it becomes warped and childish. This is already my second plate—with the first one, I pressed too hard, and the knife went all the way through, ruining it.

  “Try to make longer, more shallow troughs, like this.” Maeve puts her hand on mine and demonstrates the right amount of pressure. Already, with just one stroke of Maeve-assisted carving, my plate looks significantly better. But before I can feel even the slightest bit good about my piece, I peek over at Maeve’s, and any semblance of self-esteem I had disappears like eraser residue being blown off a page. Maeve’s plate depicts the face of a Greek god representing wind, his cheeks full with effort, his breath curling around him in gusts as he blows. My little lopsided coffee cup looks pathetic.

  “Have you made these before?” I ask.

  “Actually, no,” Maeve says. “My mum asked me to try it out before the class does them Monday. When we finish with the plates, we’ll roll them in ink and then press them like stamps.”

  “Oh. Cool.” So this all just comes naturally to her.

  I put down my small knife and watch Maeve work for a few minutes, the way her wrist flicks around the plate as if it has a life of its own, the look of placid concentration on her face. She’s gifted. That’s the thing I need to wrap my head around. I might be good, and I might work hard and become better, but I will never be better than someone like Maeve, who has the sort of effortless talent that people talk about in speeches at lifetime-achievement award ceremonies.

  But you got into the program, a little voice whispers in my head. They wouldn’t have accepted you to the Deece if you didn’t show potential—if you weren’t actually, truly talented.

  But your grandfather is Robert Parker, another voice from somewhere dark coos. They probably only let you in because they thought you’d add prestige to the program. Or because they thought he’d donate. You’re nothing but a name to these people.

  I stare at my own plate again for a few seconds. Every line seems wrong. I keep hoping that if I stare long enough, the picture will morph into something that looks as good as I want it to. What superpower is that? The ability to make things as good as you want them? Oh, right: talent.

  Just as I pick up my knife to try again, maybe add some shadow, the wooden studio door swings open and clangs against the wall.

  “Nice to see you, Cal,” Maeve says, not looking up from her plate.

  Callum swaggers up behind her and gives her a kiss on the cheek. I remind myself that he’s just like that with everyone. He’s Joey from Friends. “I thought I’d find you ladies here. On a Saturday. When you don’t have class.”

  “We,” Maeve says, “are testing out a new project for Áine and Declan.”

  “Teacher’s pet,” Callum says and sidles over between us to look at our work. He takes on the voice of a cliché snooty art gallery director. “Very nice,” he says toward Maeve’s work. “Ve-ery nice. Ah! And what do we have here?” He brings his nose almost to my plate. “Masterly use of lines and perspective. The coffee cup is obviously a metaphor for colonization in South America, yes?”

  “But of course,” I reply in my own snooty artist voice. “I thought that was obvious.”

  Maeve giggles. “You’re just jealous you’re not allowed to play with knives,” she says.

  “It’s true,” Callum says, picking up one of the extra knives and twirling it in his fingers. “I’ve always wanted to master the art of using a knife the size of a fingernail to carve up a piece of plastic.”

  If I wanted my plate to look better before, now that Callum is here I’m wishing about ten times harder. Callum liked me in the first place because he thought I was a talented artist, and now here he is in the studio, looking back and forth betwe
en my plate and Maeve’s, getting firsthand, empirical evidence that I’m average, at best. Maybe if I just go over the outline of the mug one more time, deeper, it’ll look kind of art deco . . .

  I cut all the way through the linoleum again. “Fuck.”

  Maeve and Callum are too busy joking about something Michael did years ago even to notice how frustrated I am. I try not to let it show. I feel like I’m about to cry, and all I can think about is getting far away from Callum so he doesn’t see that my cry-face is uglier than Kim Kardashian’s.

  “I’m going to do a painting,” I say. They both look at me. “I forgot that I was supposed to make one for Grandpa,” I add quickly.

  “Do you want me to press your plate for you?” Maeve asks.

  “No,” I say, too fast. “It’s garbage, really.” And before she or Callum can protest, I throw the ruined plate away, grab my bag, and head out the still-open studio door.

  My strap gets caught on the doorknob, and they’re both silent, watching me while I struggle with it for a few seconds.

  “Okay,” I say when I finally yank myself free. “Bye.” And as I head out, the tears come quick.

  * * *

  I take my canvas and paints up the craggy coast until I can see the lighthouse in the distance, and I set up my easel in the grass. I’ll paint a landscape. Grandpa didn’t give me an assignment for Ireland, assuming that I’d be doing enough art at the colony, but I still feel the need to make something for him, to show him how grateful I am here and how much better I am after even a few weeks of expert direction. Back home, I never drew landscapes—they seemed like the type of boring art that ends up on the wall of a dentist’s office. But after a lecture that Declan gave us on J.M.W. Turner, I’m suddenly fascinated by the idea of painting the water. Turner painted turbulent seas and ships fighting to remain upright. Declan talked to us about the way he used light to highlight certain areas of the canvas and create contrast between the harsh reality and the way people dream they might be.