by Dyan Sheldon
Is she really comparing Mrs Groober and Officer Gwinnet to the ex-dictator of Germany and the current dictator of North Korea?”
“I said if they had power like that. You don’t have to be so defensive.”
Now she’s interrupting his thoughts. Did she always talk so much? He has no memory of that either. Not to him, anyway. She talked a lot to Celeste. The two of them were like a perpetual-motion machine of conversation. He used to wonder how they could possibly have so much to say to each other, hour after hour, day after day. But he didn’t think she’d still be talking after she was laid in her grave.
“And your teacher calls you Bryan.” Sorrel picks up where he didn’t know she’d left off. “How come she calls you Bryan? Is that your middle name? Bryan? I never knew that. I’ve never heard anybody call you anything but Orlando.” She gives him a waiting-for-an-explanation look. “Oh, I get it. It’s a long story. And I can tell from your expression that you don’t want to tell me what it is. Like you never told me about the ballet. You have more secrets than a cemetery. But that’s okay.” She shrugs. Graceful as a ghost. “Everybody has stories, don’t they? And secrets. Gazillions of secrets. If secrets were water the whole planet would drown.” She moves her shoulders in another spirit-gliding-through-a-wall gesture. “It’s like we only think we know people, but we don’t know them at all. All we see is the picture. You can’t eat a picture of an apple, can you? But still we act like knowing the picture of someone is knowing them. That looking at a picture of an apple is the same as biting into it. Look at my brothers. I lived with them my whole tragically short life but I don’t think I know them at all. I don’t have a clue what goes on in their heads. Not that I’d want to. I mean, duh. They’re like doors you don’t want to open because you’re afraid of what’s behind them. Anyway, if you put masks on them I’d never recognize them. When they’re home they’re always stoned and in their room. And when they’re out of their room they’re still stoned and don’t have much to say. Yes. No. Maybe. Tomorrow. Eat. If they use sentences with more than two words it’s because they want something.” She giggles. Another trait he doesn’t recollect. “You know what I call them? Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber.”
When she dumped him, she refused to discuss it with him; she said there was nothing to say. Now she has so much to say she can barely get the words out fast enough. If she were real – and if he could squeeze some words into her monologue – he’d ask her how she knew where he’d be. Among other things. He’d ask her if Mrs Andonis knows she’s here. He’d beg her not to tell his father – though even he knows that you’d only tell Sorrel something if you couldn’t afford to take a full-page ad out in the papers. Which makes the fact that she isn’t real good news. No worries about his father finding out because of her.
When at last she pauses (it can’t be for air, neither ghosts nor hallucinations need air; maybe she’s just tired of the sound of her own voice), Orlando says, “I know you’re not really here, but I have to get changed.”
She holds up her hands. “So go ahead. I’m not stopping you.”
“I’d like a little privacy.”
Her smile says she couldn’t care less. “You think I never saw a guy in his underwear before?”
“I think I’ve never got dressed in front of a girl before.”
But there is, of course, a first time for everything.
“Then you should try it. You might get to like it.”
Orlando thought he was no longer mad at her for dumping him the way she did after that time in her room (a text message – the it’s not you, it’s me message – and a sad face), but apparently he is because he hears himself say, “Maybe you should’ve given me the chance when you were alive.”
“And maybe I shouldn’t have,” says Sorrel.
He turns his back on her, gets into his practice clothes in record time and leaves the room without another glance. That’ll show her.
Mrs Andonis begins the class by reminding them that today’s the deadline for signing up for the auditions for the local drama group’s musical production in the Spring. “It’s a good cause,” says Mrs Andonis. “All the proceeds go to help the homeless. But it won’t be much of a production if they don’t have any dancers.” She looks right at Orlando. “And dancers need to be able to act.”
“You should totally go in for that,” says the girl on his right. Which is when he realizes that it’s Sorrel.
He doesn’t look over, but that, of course, doesn’t discourage her.
“I bet you’d be good at acting. I figure you’ve had plenty of practice. But I don’t know if you can sing. Can you sing? You know who has a great voice? Celeste. I know, you wouldn’t expect it, would you? But she does. Only she’s too self-conscious to sing anything except ‘Happy Birthday’ in front of anybody. She’ll play the violin, the guitar and the piano to an audience, but she gets real nervous about singing. And she writes fantastic songs, but she’s pretty shy about sharing them, too. But not you, you’re not like that. You’re used to an audience. And anyway, let’s face it. You’re never going to be a professional ballet dancer, are you? I know you know that. You can’t put in the time. And anyway how would your father ever face the guys at the station? My son, the ballerina. Can you picture it?” She definitely does seem to have mastered giggling since she passed over, or under, or wherever it is she’s gone. “I mean, seriously? But acting and dancing. That’s different. Maybe he wouldn’t like it, but it wouldn’t give him a stroke. I really think you should consider it.”
He continues to ignore her, concentrating on the clear, firm instructions of the thin-lipped Mrs Andonis. Sorrel’s voice is like the sound of traffic or overhead planes or the burble of conversations happening around you, steady but unobtrusive.
Until she says, “She really likes you, doesn’t she? Not my mom. My mom doesn’t like anybody. She thinks she did like you. You know, because you’re so good-looking and the big jock and everything. That’s why she wanted us to go out together. I meant Mrs Andonis. She really likes you. You must be very good. That’s what she thinks, isn’t it?”
“Shut up,” he whispers, and bumps into the girl on his left, who misses a step.
“You shut up,” the girl whispers back.
“Like you’re a natural,” jabbers Sorrel. “You know, special. Not like me. I never had a talent for anything except looking good. If I’d been born ugly my mother probably would’ve had me adopted.”
“Shut up,” he repeats.
Mrs Andonis scowls in his direction. “Bryan! Focus!”
“I mean, I know you’re pretty good at basketball but you really have to work at it, don’t you? You have no magic. And probably you’re only as good as you are because of the dancing. And you don’t even like it really. I mean basketball, not dancing. The dancing you like more than anything. That’s where your magic is. You’re not going to get another life, you know. This is it. So why don’t you do what you like?”
What he’d like to do is make Sorrel vanish.
“Bryan! Timing!” calls Mrs Andonis.
“I mean, I wish I’d done what I liked when I had the chance. Not that I knew what that was. I never really thought about it. I did my first commercial before I could even walk. And everybody thinks modelling’s pretty cool. But maybe I would’ve liked to do something else. Only now I’ll never know.”
“Bryan! Hands!”
He has to make Sorrel shut up. Forgetting that she is either a phantasm or a figment of his imagination, Orlando comes down on her foot as hard as he can. He’s lean, but he’s solid muscle; if she were real he’d probably break it. It isn’t Sorrel who screams. Of course.
Mrs Andonis stops the class. Serenity, the girl whose toe he’s stomped on, is anything but. She howls, cries and collapses onto the floor. Orlando picks her up and carries her to a chair, apologizing over and over, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how that happened.” It may be the pain, but although she assures him it’s all right (through her tears)
he isn’t sure that she believes it was an accident. The bag of frozen peas that is kept in the office refrigerator for just such emergencies is brought out.
Once Serenity has calmed down and dried her eyes, and it’s been established that nothing is broken, the class resumes – but this time there is no Sorrel beside him to nag and goad and get him into trouble.
All the while he’s changing back into his street clothes, he’s thinking about things Sorrel said. About his father. And her mother. What did she mean when she said that her mother wanted them to date? What did it have to do with her?
Mrs Andonis waylays him as he’s leaving. “Bryan! Wait a minute!” She’s smiling, so she must have forgiven him for stomping on poor Serenity’s foot. “I just wanted to say how pleased I am that you decided to try out for the musical after all.”
He did?
“I did?”
“Don’t play coy.” She holds up the sheet of paper headed Peakston Players that up until now was on the bulletin board in the hall. “You certainly did.”
And there is his name, in a handwriting that even he would mistake for his.
Which makes this the moment when Orlando starts believing in ghosts.
Celeste sits on an uncomfortable chair, staring at the white walls of the dentist’s waiting room and wondering if they’ve been painted that colour to encourage Dr Kostonapolis’s patients to brush their teeth or if it was simply the cheapest paint they could find. Besides the uncomfortable chairs and white walls, there is a low table covered with free newspapers and old magazines (mainly women’s). Besides Celeste, there are three other people waiting, all of them doing something on their phones. Because this is a Tuesday afternoon and both Ruben and Orlando are busy – and because she doesn’t really have that many people to Snapchat, message on Tumblr, tweet or text any more – she has nothing to do but flick idly through the magazines. Celeste is not meant to be here. She is meant to be at orchestra practice. Which is where she’d very much like to be. This is the year she was really going to throw herself into her music so she wouldn’t miss Sorrel so much, because music makes everything better, or at least bearable, but so far that plan isn’t working out all that well. There is always something Astra has to do – a friend to visit, a club meeting to attend, a lesson to take – and it’s usually Celeste who has to see that she does it. Lilah, as she gently, if constantly, reminds Celeste, is busy at the job that keeps the roof over their heads and a pack of hungry wolves from their door. She can’t be expected to do everything. Last week Celeste missed orchestra because Astra lost her gym shoes and had to be taken to buy a new pair before the next class. The week before Celeste couldn’t meet with her piano teacher because Lilah couldn’t get away to take Astra to her tennis lesson. Sunday she missed the audition for the band that’s looking for a guitarist because Astra had a fight with the friend she was visiting for the weekend and Celeste had to go and get her. Celeste can’t refuse – only an ingrate would refuse such reasonable requests – and since going to yoga instead of having lunch with Iris Moon and her nephew, Celeste has been trying very hard not to be an ingrate. She also can’t complain to her mother, because Lilah thinks music is “a nice hobby”, but not something to be taken seriously (the way Celeste’s father takes it). Celeste should be spending her free time on activities that will help her in the teaching career her mother has decided she should pursue (or that will help her get a boyfriend). It would be different if Celeste were missing Future Teachers of America meetings or some social event, those are things that do matter.
Celeste is here today on a coral-coloured plastic chair, staring at a heap of magazines that tell you what to wear, how to do your nails just like a professional salon and how to tell if your boyfriend’s cheating – and not in the music studio tuning up with the rest of the orchestra – because, although the dentist is within walking distance, Astra can’t be trusted to actually show up unless she’s escorted. Astra is easily distracted by things she’d rather do; gym shoes aren’t the only things she loses.
If only Sorrel were here. When Sorrel was alive, she often came along when Celeste had to do something with Astra. Sorrel’s presence made everything easier. Easier for Celeste because it turned a chore into fun; easier for Astra because Sorrel was everything Astra wants to be so she was always trying to impress her, not destroy her will to live. Celeste puts down one magazine and picks up another (like cement blocks, they all seem very much the same).
If Sorrel were here, even as a ghost, Celeste wouldn’t feel so cold inside. As if, no matter how high she turns up the heat or how many coats she puts on, she’ll never feel warm. This isn’t true, of course, and Celeste knows that. Eventually, she’ll miss Sorrel less; she’ll move on; she’ll make other friends, maybe even get the boyfriend or husband of her mother’s dreams. Celeste will have her life with all the things that lives come with; Sorrel won’t be in it, and, most of the time, Celeste won’t even notice. But right now that eventuality seems very far away. So far away that it’s easy to imagine it will never come. And, right now, Celeste is by herself, looking at pictures that remind her of Sorrel, like the last survivor of the village looking at the broken furniture and crockery that are all that remains. And wishing Sorrel had stayed at home that stormy night – or at least on the pavement; wishing she’d noticed her phone had gone AWOL sooner and hadn’t missed Sorrel’s call. Such a little thing to change the world.
She hears Astra’s voice – the sweet and cheerful one she uses in public, especially with people who don’t know her – saying goodbye to Dr Kostonapolis, and puts the magazine back on the table. Celeste pays with her mother’s debit card (another issue of trust for Astra), while her sister sits in the nearest chair and redoes her lipstick.
Celeste would like to go straight home, but Astra can’t possibly walk all that way until she’s had a coffee. “I’m, like, totally shattered,” says Astra. Celeste points out that all she’s done this afternoon is sit in a chair and have her teeth cleaned. Astra says, “And?”
They take a window seat because Astra wants to see and be seen should any of her friends pass by, although since she’s on her phone the whole time a herd of bison could stampede past the café and she’d never notice. Celeste sips a small diet soda and takes out the book she’s reading for school, but it’s difficult to concentrate with all the noise, and with not wanting to be there in the first place. Astra has two cappuccinos (two sugars in each, Astra never puts on weight) while Celeste thinks of all the things she has to do after they get home, and counts the minutes slowly trudging by as if they’re in chains.
When Astra is finally ready to leave, Celeste reminds her that they have to stop at the supermarket; their mother left a list.
“Not me,” says Astra. “You know I hate grocery shopping.” An activity she obviously believes her sister loves. “It’s, like, so boring. I’m going home.”
“We’re supposed to stay together, remember?” Why did she give up her afternoon if Astra refuses to do what she’s supposed to do? “Mom said—”
“Mom said you had to go to the dentist with me. She didn’t say anything about what I had to do afterwards. And anyway I have homework for tomorrow. If I don’t start it right away I won’t get it done, and it’ll be all your fault.”
“I’m not the one who’s supposed to do your assignments,” says the ever-reasonable Celeste.
“No, I am. You’re the one who’s trying to stop me. You want to tell Mom that?” Astra picks her bag from the floor with such force that it hits the table next to them. It’s Celeste who says sorry. Astra says, “I’m going home.”
Celeste does the shopping and is in the checkout queue behind a woman who can’t find her wallet (I know it’s in here somewhere) when her phone goes. Her sister’s face beams back at her from the screen (one of the few times Celeste ever sees her smile). Should she answer it? There’s no way Astra is calling to say hello. She wants something. Celeste starts to put the phone back in her pocket. But what if tha
t’s not why Astra’s calling? What if something has happened? She could have had an accident. It wouldn’t be the first time; or even the hundredth. Celeste answers the call. This time, fortunately, Astra didn’t set anything on fire or flood the bathroom. Astra left her dirty gym kit in the café. “I guess I stuck it under the table and just forgot about it,” says Astra. When Celeste says that Astra will have to go back for it (Celeste, after all, has the shopping to lug home) her sister starts to cry and shriek at the same time. Nothing is fair … you’re a selfish cow who only thinks of herself … it’s too bad it was Sorrel hit by that car and not you… When she finally calms down Astra says, “So you want me to call Mom and have her get it on her way home?” As this is something Lilah Redwing will definitely not want her to do, Celeste doesn’t want it either. She goes back to the café and gets her sister’s laundry, which is still under the table, sitting in a puddle. It is now rush hour in Beaconspoint. Celeste is waiting to cross a four-lane intersection, and trying (unsuccessfully) to keep Astra’s bag from dripping on her, when two things happen at once: the light changes and her phone starts to ring. And keeps ringing, in a way that makes her think it is either an emergency or a mistake. She fishes it from her pocket as she steps into the road. This time it’s her mother’s face smiling back at her; it’s an emergency. Because of the traffic and having her hands full, it’s hard to hear what her mother is saying. “Mom? Mom? Are you okay?” Something … crisis … something … later … something … sorry … something … something … supper. There’s a crisis at work so Lilah’s going to be late and wants Celeste to cook. It’s only when horns start honking and a car passes so close that it makes her jacket move that Celeste realizes she’s standing in the middle of the road and the light is now against her – making it possible that Astra will get her wish after all. Drivers shout as they go by. What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get out of the f_____g road, you stupid girl! Are you completely nuts? Someone throws an empty plastic bottle at her.
