Pearl

by Deirdre Riordan Hall

  The campus, still tucked in under warm blankets and sleepy light, doesn’t betray me as I sneak to the wooded path leading to the clearing. This time, I’m not there to smoke. The space affords me a quiet refuge where beliefs cut, shuffle, and rearrange themselves.

  I slouch down against the large rock in the middle and look up toward the sky above. A bird flits across the opening in the canopy of trees. I close my eyes and lean my head against the rock.

  What is my story?

  My mother didn’t have an operating manual for her own life or mine. So she made do with the belief that there weren’t consequences, that she wasn’t crushing hearts beneath her heel, yet she denied that many of the things that happened to her were a result of her actions. It was all just fear. She was afraid of what would happen to her if she didn’t escape her emotions, but there’s no escape. No magic pill.

  I’ll live through this. Without drugs. Without escaping.

  The sun shines almost colorless through a pocket in the leaves and branches. It’s the color of hope.

  A voice deep inside asks, What’ll it be, Pearl? It’s your choice, life or death, a future or drugs, friends and love or unendurable loneliness?

  I stay there awhile longer, letting all my thoughts filter down and settle like sediment so a new foundation can take the place of the old. A fresh kind of peace settles over me. I no longer feel myself running and kicking and screaming. There’s no pull to be somewhere else. There’s no chance I’ll be mistaken for anyone else.

  I close my eyes, listening to the hum of my breath, the birds singing, and the gentle rustle of the leaves.

  Eventually, everything will be all right. And until it is, I’ll be OK.

  As I leave the woods by the trail that I walked countless times last year, it’s like my feet have never touched this path before. Maybe I can’t be free of my mother or the past, but I’m not going to let it trap me or lead me places I don’t want to go. And for anyone who thinks I can’t, I shout, “Watch me!” My voice echoes off the walls of the hills.

  Chapter 42

  Back at Viv Brooks, it’s quiet until the students return in pairs and groups. Showered and dressed, I act as if I’ve been there all along.

  Charmindy raises her eyebrow as we gather in the common room. “Where were you?”

  Words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. “I was having a revolution.”

  She looks fearlessly into my eyes, not dodging my intensity. For once, I’m steadfast and hold her gaze. A smile as subtle as the Mona Lisa’s appears. “You mean a revelation?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I answer.

  I can’t say more because she has to lead some of the mandatory activities in the dorm and then peer group and sports sign-ups.

  In the student center, a table displays information about a term abroad. My Spanish teacher had mentioned last year that some of us would be candidates for the program.

  “Hola,” says one of the girls at the booth.

  “Hola,” I say faintly.

  “Are you a candidate for a term abroad in España?”

  “Maybe?”

  “Who’s your profesor?” she asks, pronouncing the last word in Spanish.

  “Senora Azuelos. I’m Pearl Jaeger.”

  She looks at a sheet of paper.

  “You’re on here. If you’d like to take some information, you can consider the trip to Spain next semester. There will be two sessions for applying. The dates and times are on that sheet,” she says, indicating a red flyer.

  As I leave the student center, I spot Grant on the sidewalk by the gym. Everything about him attracts me like a bee to nectar; even his short hair somehow suits him. Before opening the door, he looks over his shoulder, then quickly away, as if he’s seen something he doesn’t want to.

  I instantly feel wretched. I disgust myself. I hate myself. I may as well skip college, because I’ve already earned a degree in stupidity, with a minor in selfishness.

  Charmindy is sitting on the steps when I return to the dorm, as though she was waiting for me. With one sharp look, she lifts her eyebrow, then says, “Let’s walk.” Once away from the dorm, she asks, “There’s still a missing scene from your summer. What aren’t you telling me?”

  I clear my throat. Where to start? “I did something, ten notches past dumb. I hurt someone I—” My heart confirms my thoughts. I try again. “I hurt someone I love. And I think it hurt me, if not as much, possibly more than it hurt him.”

  “In other words, you screwed up.”

  “That’s the sum of it.”

  “And you want to make it right?”

  “I want to make me right. Not right like I didn’t do anything wrong. I did. But right as in I wouldn’t do something so damaging again. That I’ll take care in making decisions. That I won’t be so afraid of love.” The words sting as they come out of my mouth.

  “I see.” She pauses on the sidewalk. “I know about a lot of things, not love so much. But there is one thing I am sure of, you can’t give up. You can’t annihilate your emotions. You need to feel them.”

  “Yeah, and it sucks.”

  “Sometimes to get through something—have you ever heard the saying ‘The only way out is through?’ No shortcuts. No escaping. No avoiding. Do you understand?” she asks with her patented lifted eyebrow. Her dark eyes penetrate mine. I don’t doubt the possibility that she can read in my mind the belief I held for so many years that I am tainted, damaged goods and that something is wrong with me. But I also see in those dark pools resting in her face, gleaming with honesty, that she doesn’t believe a word of it.

  “You can heal and move on. You have to believe that,” Charmindy says wisely. “I believe that.”

  We walk a bit farther in contemplative silence.

  “There’s something else I know, though it’s probably one of the hardest things a person can ever do. It’s another F word.”

  I raise my eyebrows this time, racking my mind.

  “Forgive,” she says as though the letters are sacred.

  “I think you misunderstood. Grant needs to forgive me, not the other way around.”

  Before she can say more, we’ve looped back to the dorm. A group of first-year students draws her over in a chorus of questions about schedules, leaving me with more of my own.

  My schedule waits for me on the corkboard in the dorm. I pull it down and scan the top few classes, AP English, humanities, Spanish . . . then my last period says Art V: Independent Study. The teacher’s name in the adjacent box reads Rasmus Shale.

  “I didn’t sign up for another class with Shale . . .” I say aloud, earning a frightened look from a passing freshman.

  I plunge into classes the next day, stopping by the administration building during my break to see Justine, my advisor. She’s busy and distracted, with a line of students requesting transfers, but when she sees me, she smiles.

  “I figured you’d be in. Not thrilled about Art V?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “No, but since you passed Painting IV with an A-plus and Shale tested you out of the other art classes, we figured this was your only option, unless, of course, you don’t want to take any art electives.” Her smile suggests pride.

  “I passed? But—”

  She shuffles papers impatiently. “PJ, I have students waiting, you need to make your decision or come back later.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’ll take it, I guess. Thanks,” I say hastily.

  Although I find plenty of time to think about Grant, only in AP English do I actually have to see him in person. He refuses to look at me, but I can’t tear my eyes from him while I should be taking notes on rhetorical strategies. His entire arm reveals fresh tattoos. They must have been part of his rebellion. Or a way to prove that he isn’t his father’s puppet. Or maybe just a genuine tribute to his grandfather.
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br />   Sure enough, Mr. Nichols tears me from my thoughts. “PJ, care to elaborate on chiasmus?”

  My eyes freeze on Grant’s arm. There are a pair of swallows, much like mine, sitting on a branch that stretches up along his forearm, then transitions into a nautical rope that runs along the frothing sea surrounding the mermaid.

  In my embarrassed silence, Grant lifts his arm to answer the question, revealing an anchor inked on the inside of his bicep, along with other fresh tattoos. I wonder if they’re pieces of his grandfather’s stories or souvenirs collected during his months in Scotland. I missed so much of his life over the summer, my own life too.

  As my thoughts cling to Grant, Mr. Nichols has us discuss the essays we had to prepare for the first day of class from our summer reading. I can’t help but glance in Grant’s direction what feels like every few seconds.

  His face is a blank canvas, filling me with self-loathing. I’m unacceptable.

  During our five-minute break halfway through the period, I follow Grant out of the classroom and down the hall. Before I can get his attention or figure out what I’m going to say, he enters the boys’ bathroom.

  “Grant?” I call after him as the door swishes closed. I wait for longer than it would take him to use the toilet. I wait some more. Finally, I look both ways down the hall, and then I nudge the door open. He rests a hand on each side of the white porcelain sink, looking into the drain.

  “I’m going to transfer out of the class,” he says, not looking at me.

  “No, I will,” I say quickly, dreading having to go back to Justine’s office. “Or maybe neither one of us has to. You can just pretend I’m not even there.” Tears fill my eyes. For my entire life, everyone, including myself, has been pretending that I’m not even there. It aches.

  “I’ve been trying to, but I can’t,” he says, his voice tight.

  The swallows inked on my chest practically flutter. I step toward him. I speak softly, barely above a whisper. “Do you hear me when I say I’m sorry? I am so, so, so sorry. I have a lot of things that I’m working out, things that have prevented me from being true to myself, no less you.”

  He looks up and pierces me with a hard stare. “I’m sorry I had to get in the way of you working out your crap,” he says, brushing by me toward the door.

  My throat tightens. I realize I sounded like my mother with her empty promises. “No, you didn’t. I got in my own way.” Tears drop from my cheeks.

  He studies me, and his lips part as if he’s about to speak, but he exits to the hall, leaving me with nothing but the agony of my own tears.

  Chapter 43

  I march up to the third floor of the art building armed with questions I transform into demands, but when I get to the studio, Shale stands at an easel with his back to the door. His wrist moves smoothly as the brush conducts an orchestra of color. He’s painting.

  I step carefully across the creaky floor and take up a post at his shoulder. Instead of clouds, he smears an angry sea; waves crash on a stormy shore.

  When the clock indicates the period is over and the faint bell from another nearby classroom building chimes, I sling my backpack over my shoulder, wondering if Art V is a waste of time, if I should do homework at one of the benches, or if Shale is actually going to teach me anything.

  When I’m nearly through the door, Shale calls, “See you tomorrow, Pearl.”

  The days pass with college fairs and classes, notably English, where I study Grant, looking for a loophole, a way back in, when I should be studying great works of literary merit. His off-campus manner, strong and sure of his every step and word, has consistently replaced the shy, timid on-campus one from last year. He moves differently, steady but also edgy, like he might break loose and bolt at any moment. His face reflects the confidence that his long hair used to conceal. He’s grown-up. Grant knows what he wants, and it’s no longer me.

  Then there’s art, where I’ve taken to watching Shale paint. I’m not sure what the administration has in mind for independent studies with fusty, old art teachers, but I don’t think this is it. Nonetheless, we pass the hour in companionable silence, while I watch entire worlds take form on canvas. He’s completed several ocean scenes; in each one I notice the strokes become finer, the sea calmer.

  Charmindy calls to me from the hall one Sunday. My stomach reflexively sinks as I worry that I’m in trouble. “Phone call,” she says.

  I go to the bank of phones at the end of the hallway.

  “Pearl? Gary Jaeger,” my uncle says stiffly, as if any other Gary would be calling me.

  “Hi.” I pause, not knowing who should fill the silence on the line. “School is good. The summer was”—I hesitate—“quite the learning experience. Thank you for your assistance,” I say formally.

  “I’ve been keeping track of your academics. I’m impressed, except for math. I want you to get a tutor. But I’m calling to suggest you apply to colleges. As before, I will continue to provide funding if you continue to excel.” There’s no warmth in his voice, but the opportunity makes me feel the heat of a hundred golden suns.

  I started the college-application process with Justine at the end of junior year, because everyone in the privileged bubble at Laurel Hill assumes that if you go to prep school, you’ll go to college. I had no idea whether I’d be able to carry off supporting myself and paying for school. I’d thought about taking a year off, getting a job and saving, or trying community college.

  “Thank you,” I sputter. “Oh, and um—”

  “Yes?” he asks, impatiently.

  “There’s a term abroad to Spain being offered this winter. My advisor suggested I apply. She said it looks favorable on applications. I wonder if I was accepted, if you might be able to help out with the cost?” I ask awkwardly.

  “Send me the information. Pearl, remember to stay focused on your grades, nothing else.”

  “Thank you,” I answer.

  With no distractions like Sorel or Grant, parties off campus, or tragedies, other than the ones I carry around like old bags of bricks, I study with Charmindy. My uncle would view her as the perfect influence. She has a 4.2 GPA, early acceptance to Harvard, and an impressive roster of accomplishments, both academic and extracurricular. She doesn’t go to crazy parties on the weekends, meet up with boys, or sneak off to the woods to smoke. That is, until I see her padding out from the familiar path.

  As I gaze forlornly out my window, like a corseted character in one of the classics I analyze for AP English, Charmindy emerges from the woods with a boy I’ve seen dunking a basketball when we have to go in the gym because of rain during cross-country practice. My mouth drops open. They amble up the lawn. I return to my text and then turn to the window again to confirm what I saw, but instead of Charmindy and the tall guy, Grant materializes from the pathway. My heart sinks.

  That night, during study hour, thinking about Charmindy and the mystery guy keeps me reading question forty-seven in my Spanish text repeatedly.

  I lean on her desk, where she has a tidy array of colored sticky notes next to her notebook. “Will you help me with something?” I ask.

  “What can I do?”

  “Well, I saw something that I’m curious about and wasn’t sure who I should talk to.”

  “Go on,” she says, one brow lifted, as ever.

  “A well-respected and important member of our student body emerged from the woods today with a tall, handsome young man and—” I can’t keep a straight face.

  She blanches.

  “Out of character much? Breaking rules? And what about Brett?” I ask.

  “It was nothing. Jamar and I are just friends.” Her cheeks burst pink. “We went there because he—” She can’t say it.

  I wait.

  “He—” But she shakes her head.

  “He smokes cigarettes?” I whisper.

  She doesn’t reply.<
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  “That’s the only reason to go to that clearing.” And to think deeply about the direction of one’s life and resolve to take a new path.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing. He just—I mean, I really, really like Brett. He’s actually perfect. But sometimes too perfect. I know it’s stupid, but already there’s so much pressure. Too much. I couldn’t sneak any art classes into my course load, and my grade from Shale wasn’t exactly pleasing. Going to the woods with him took the edge off in a way. I did something on my terms for once.” Her forehead wrinkles. “I know it’s silly, but if I don’t keep my grades up, my parents will reject me. If I don’t achieve academic excellence, they’ll cut me off. I’ll become an outcast. But having to keep that up constantly, I almost can’t imagine doing it for the entire year, for the next six or eight years until I graduate from college.”

  “That sounds familiar in a roundabout kind of way.”

  She shakes her head. “No, you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Charmindy, I do. Even though our parents are on the opposite ends of the spectrum, mine absent—my mother didn’t set the bar very high . . . actually, there was no bar except the kind you order a beer from. There were no expectations from her, so I didn’t really have any for myself. On the other hand, it sounds like your parents have set them so high it sometimes feels like an impossible reach, never mind trying to have a life outside of that. In both cases, it’s like they created something for us that doesn’t fit, doesn’t work. Y’know?” I pause, not sure if I’m making sense. “I want to believe anything is possible. Maybe you could talk to them, figure out a way to do something you like. I’ve been thinking about a term abroad, something like that . . .”

  She smiles warmly. “Thanks,” she says. “I can’t leave because of dorm-assistant duties, but yeah, yeah,” she repeats as if her brilliant mind has already figured out a solution. “And Brett, of course. I don’t want to mess up—”