Pearl

by Deirdre Riordan Hall

  “No, definitely don’t pull a PJ,” I say self-deprecatingly, thinking about how I let myself down over the summer, how I let Grant down, and how more than anything I don’t want to be someone I’m ashamed to look at in the mirror, or paint.

  Charmindy’s eyes turn soft. “Hey, no one has ever said anything like that to me before. Usually it’s just ‘work harder, do better.’ Sometimes in those messages I hear that I’m not good enough.”

  “That, I completely understand.” I pause, but my thoughts quickly shift. “So, um, when you were in the clearing, did you see Grant?”

  “Yeah, he was there, but that brings me to another issue: do I fulfill my duties as a senior dorm assistant and report what I, um, witnessed?”

  I shake my head. “No, no. That’s crazy. What about—what’s his name—Jamar?” I say, panicking, not wanting Grant to get in trouble.

  “Yes”

  “You don’t want to get him in trouble.”

  “No, but I’m torn. I’m breaking rules. He’s breaking rules.”

  Wearing Sorel’s patented mischievous smirk, I say, “How about this? We trade. I’ll be a rule-abiding student and not step a toe out of line, and you can claim a couple of broken rules for me.”

  We break down in laughter.

  “Deal.”

  I never expected to have a friendship with someone like Charmindy. I only ever equated myself to being friends with the burnouts and outsiders. But as this bond forms with her, I know there isn’t something so wrong with me that I can’t have better, truer friends too. The fine line between doing well in school because it was a haven when I was growing up and doing well at Laurel Hill to appease my uncle begins to shift to doing well simply for me. Maybe I’m worth the effort.

  I attend one of the informational meetings for the trip to Spain and apply, along with a group of other hopefuls. I also seal and stamp my applications to Parsons, FIT, RISD, UCLA, and Pratt. Justine asks if I want to try any safeties.

  “Despite my, um, wild summer,” I say, clearing my throat and not holding back or apologizing for who I am, “fashion design lives in my veins.”

  “You seem confident, then.”

  “Confidence balanced on top of a delicate emotional house of cards that I’ve recently constructed out of my very bones,” I say, glancing up at the paintings of women on her wall, the strength of sisters being strong for each other throughout history staring down at me.

  Her mouth quirks into a smile as if she knows exactly what I’m talking about or has no idea and thinks I’ll drool on her or bark, like I’m not quite all there, if she disagrees.

  The growing order inside of me allows some of the past to slip away like a bad dream, with one exception. I hang on to Grant, in my heart, every time I see him in classes, on the soccer field, around campus, and in my mind as I fall asleep. As the weeks pass, I cling to the dwindling hope that somehow I will be able to change his mind.

  During Art V, while I sketch on my pad, Shale steps back from the easel, crosses his arms in front of his chest, and exhales. The ocean on the canvas is placid; the blues almost blend with the sky. It’s a triumph.

  “Your turn,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Get a canvas. It’s time.”

  “Class is almost over.”

  “Art doesn’t account for time or schedules,” he says, ignoring my protests.

  “I don’t know what you want or expect from me. I was just put in this class. Apparently, you wanted me here. What do you want me to do?” I say, exasperated. Also, I haven’t touched a brush to canvas since my self-portrait, and although the shape slowly takes form, I’m still not exactly sure what I look like.

  “Don’t worry about my expectations. You need to raise yours.” He strokes his beard, studying me intently.

  I look toward the window, the easels, anywhere but him. “I don’t have any.”

  Shale shakes his head. “Pearl, read the quote on the wall, there.” He points, his voice like a spotlight.

  “‘Students are responsible for cleaning their tools and materials.’”

  His eyes narrow. “The other one.”

  “‘Creativity takes courage.’”

  “Tattoo it on your face, on your soul if you have to.”

  “What does that have to do with—?”

  “Here’s another: ‘We understand the history of humanity through art.’ And therefore ourselves. We understand our own personal histories through art. I do not believe in forgetting the past, but living with it, day to day, takes courage. The kind that casts aside fear and tells us to keep going, despite the troubles that threaten to ruin us. Pearl, you are an artist. You have a history. You are courageous. Mix them up like paint. This class is meant for you to see what happens next. What happens after not giving up.” He says this so clearly it’s like I suddenly understand Norwegian, or maybe it’s just the common language of art.

  I huff, but once more, his comment about being my own enemy resounds like the bell in the distance signaling the end of class and the start of something new, something that doesn’t resemble JJ. I select a canvas, paints, and brushes. I begin the outline of a girl. I fill her in until she almost looks like me as the sun casts copal light in the fading day.

  Chapter 44

  Instead of staying at Laurel Hill for Thanksgiving, Charmindy invites me to her sister Poesy’s apartment. Her sister is a junior at Columbia. She promises a whirlwind visit, in part because she claims she and Poesy are the polar opposite and because she has to return to Viv Brooks a few days early for a dorm-assistant training session related to bullying.

  As we drive into Manhattan, twilight cloaks the city in pink and gray. My insides slosh with intrusive memories. I try to cast them aside as we ride to Poesy’s apartment on the Upper West Side.

  “Char! Nice to meet you, PJ,” Poesy says in cheerful greeting, giving us both hugs. She’s nearly identical to Charmindy, but four years older and, from the looks of the glass of wine in her hand, four years more relaxed.

  “These are the rules: no spilling wine on the sofa, what happens in New York stays in New York, and, most of all, have fun. Pearl, you look like you know how to do that, please teach my sister. In the meantime, I have to run, but whatever you need, mi casa is tu casa.” In a cloud of perfume and with the click of her heels, Poesy rushes out into the evening.

  The next day we shop—or rather, I browse, admiring a beautiful gold dress. I can’t help but think of my mother and her rock-and-roll rags, the way she wore high fashion in an irreverent way, but that’s what made her so badass: she wore the clothes, not the other way around.

  We have dinner at Morimoto, and as expected, the sushi is delicious. Afterward, Poesy meets some friends for drinks. The taxi Charmindy and I take back to the Upper West Side detours because of construction. We edge in traffic to a part of the city I know well.

  I clear my throat. “That’s one of the places I used to live,” I say, pointing up at a nondescript building bordered by graffiti and a twenty-four-hour pawnshop. “Charmindy, I’m not like you or most of the students at Laurel Hill.”

  She looks at me thoughtfully before answering. “You’re exactly like most of the students at Laurel Hill, and more importantly, you are exactly yourself.”

  I’ve always wanted someone to tell me I’m smart and pretty and not just because they want something from me. To congratulate me on a job well done, to tell me they knew I’d succeed. To post a scribbly picture I drew on the fridge and tell me it was beautiful. To kiss my boo-boos, brush me off, and tell me to hop back on my bicycle. I’ve looked into eyes, seeking a promise that the person they belonged to believed in me, that I was worth believing in. And the most unsuspecting of friends said it all in so few words, and somehow, unbelievably, I feel like I already knew it, deep down, hidden away. I start to cry tears that don’t burn or come fr
om a place of sadness and emptiness.

  Charmindy’s eyebrows quiver with concern.

  I smile. “You’re right.”

  We spend Thanksgiving in an apartment overlooking the Macy’s parade, sipping wine, and eating a combination of flavorful Indian cuisine and traditional American fare. The following days we watch movies, go to an art museum, shop some more, hang out with Poesy’s friends, and indulge in rosy-cheeked laughter.

  The night before we return to school, Charmindy and I pop the cork on a bottle of red and wax poetic about life, strange and beautiful. She leads me down faraway lanes spiced with curry and kissed by the sun. I take her through some of the highlights of my wasted years.

  “So how do you rebel or—” My thoughts are thick like syrup. “Or break free from your parents? How do you establish who you are, separate from them? I mean, you, for instance; they want you to go the traditional route of success and all that. Grant’s too. But what if your parents,” I slur, “correction, parent was so screwed up, blew it, and there are no expectations?”

  I ramble on. “Or do I just conform? Just give in and settle for worthless?” I shake my head as if trying to get the words to come out right.

  Before Charmindy can reply, I barrel on, fueled by how the wine lights the thoughts burning inside me. “Charmindy, all my life I’ve felt like I’m skirting the edge of disaster, attack, loss, and pain or falling directly into it. How do I break the cycle?”

  She looks at me with sadness in her eyes but hope written on her wine-stained lips. “You do better,” she says strongly, holding my gaze. “We’re not our parents. Whatever they have planned for us or not planned, as the case may be, it’s just a blueprint, a single possibility among millions. What you described isn’t written in your blood, it’s like poisonous air you were forced to breathe. Breathe it out, it’s gone. Now you choose. You do better.”

  That night, I dream that I hold a baby. I gaze lovingly into her blue eyes as I stroke her milky face. She morphs into a toddler, with glowing cheeks and blond hair. I hold her tight, and we smile at each other. Then she’s a girl with long legs and hair in braids. We clasp hands. She continues to grow, but she remains in my arms, close to my chest. Her blond hair grows over her shoulders. She wears a familiar shirt with a rainbow on it. She’s heavy in my arms, all elbows and knees. I look into her eyes, hold her hand, and keep her close. I hold fast until she is me. I look at myself and hug and hold. I don’t let go.

  I won’t ever let go.

  “You are safe with me,” I whisper.

  “I will take care of you,” I promise.

  My eyes blink open. Dappled light fills the living room. A bird alights on the windowsill and seems, for a moment, to look in with one bead-like eye before flying away again.

  Chapter 45

  Glad to be back on campus after the quick and tasty holiday, I pass Pepper in the language-studies building on my way to Spanish class.

  “Hey,” he says awkwardly.

  “How’s it going?”

  He shrugs.

  “Did you see Sorel over break?”

  “Nah. It didn’t work out. She was busy or something. But I’m going out there for Christmas,” he says with half a smile.

  “Cool. Tell her I say hi.”

  “Happy birthday.” He looks like he wants to say something else, but then continues down the hall. I didn’t realize he was sentimental.

  Senora Azuelos begins the class by reminding those of us who applied that we’ll find out the following week who has been selected for the trip to Spain. I hope my name appears on the list, if for no other reason than not having to endure breaking into a thousand pieces once a day during English class when I see Grant, then carefully reassembling the fragments of myself afterward.

  In AP English I take my usual seat out of his line of vision, but keep him in mine. I bolster myself, ready to fracture like glass. I’ve memorized how he relaxes his legs under the table and how he rests his head in his hand about three-quarters of the way through Mr. Nichols’s lecture.

  When the bell signals the end of class, I wait to exit behind a slow-moving crowd, and Grant stands by my side, the closest we’ve been since the night in his dorm. I notice the scar by his chin. His deep blue eyes. Words don’t come, but he offers a sad smile, says, “Happy birthday,” and then strides away.

  The girls in the dorm surprise me with a birthday cake, no doubt orchestrated by Charmindy. Since Terran and most of her crowd graduated, the other girls are generally nicer to me. Again, no doubt Charmindy’s doing. Before I take a bite, the phone rings down the hall, and someone calls, “PJ, it’s for you.”

  I don’t imagine it’s Uncle Gary calling to wish me a happy birthday or to celebrate my emancipation.

  “Hey, City Girl.”

  “Sorel?” I answer, surprised.

  “Happy eighteenth birthday.” She sounds different, slower, far away. Her voice lacks its usual crackling fire. “It’s so freakin’ awesome out here. You should visit. I’m having the time of my life. Twenty-four-hour party.”

  She doesn’t convince me. I’ve been at the twenty-four-hour party, and it’s overrated. “Cool. Pepper misses you.”

  “Ugh. Pepper.”

  I’m not sure what she means, but it almost sounds like she’s referring to an annoying little brother.

  “I hear you and Grant broke up. Sorry.”

  I take a stilted breath. “Yeah.” It was over before it started. “So whatcha been up to? How are classes?”

  “Y’know. Have you seen Mitch? I’m sure he’d love if you visited him now that you’re single.” Her words are barbed and not just because she mentions Mitch. “Like I told you, he’s a good person to know. You could have whatever you wanted whenever you wanted.” She laughs. Voices and vices call in the background. “Shit, I gotta go. Happy birthday,” she says, and the line goes dead.

  I don’t return to the common room right away, but sit, glued to the chair. Sorel’s words prick me all over. I remember when we first met, how cavalier and bossy she was, our trip to Montreal, then the family cabin, her mood swings, and all the little moments in between. Something about our exchange doesn’t line up with those memories. She was distant and not just because of the miles.

  During study hour that night, Charmindy closes the door. “My sister and I got you a special birthday present.” She hands me a large and heavy gift bag.

  I unwrap the gold-threaded dress I tried on when we shopped in Manhattan. It’s sparkly and fitted in all the right places.

  “This is beautiful. Thank you,” I say, awestruck. I run my hand over the contours of the fabric, and then Charmindy indicates there’s more. Inside, I find a bottle of red wine.

  Charmindy puts her finger to her lips, hushing me. “You only turn eighteen once,” she whispers, procuring two glasses. After she pours, she raises hers. “To Pearl, who, like her sisters in the ocean, is beginning to emerge as a beautiful treasure, a gift to herself and a gift to us all.”

  Tears catch on the outsides of my eyes. We clink.

  Charmindy and I dutifully try to study as we sip the wine, aptly called “The Red Pearl.”

  I turn to the index in the biology book on Charmindy’s bookshelf and find the P section. I read that unwanted material infiltrates an oyster, and instead of somehow getting rid of the undesirable sand or dirt or whatever else, the mighty and courageous mollusk transforms it into a thing of beauty, a pearl.

  Later, as I lie in bed, unable to sleep despite the wine, Grant steps into my mind. We dance in the snow. Then there’s Sorel, wishing me happy birthday, but my mother’s voice splices my thoughts. Mother of Pearl.

  In a rare moment of sobriety, she spoke at an AA meeting that we went to, sharing the wise quote “If you love something, let it go; if it comes back to you, it is yours. If it doesn’t, it was never meant to be.”

 
She wasn’t a candidate to give advice, but perhaps this applies to Grant and me. I don’t want to let him go, but sometimes what I don’t want to do is exactly what I need to do. Like beads on a necklace, I count each emotion that ties me to him, love, loss, regret, anger, frustration, disappointment, and insecurity. Then I count one bead for his smile, his eyes, his tattoos, his hands, his power on the soccer field, his kindness and sincerity, his intelligence, his body mingling with mine, his quiet assurance as I grieved my mother, and the fun we’ve had and laughs we’ve shared. I continue, counting each one and letting them go until I drift to sleep.

  Shale has become my nemesis. I learned to tolerate him standing over my shoulder last year, watching me paint, grunting in disapproval, but the independent study, with me wasting canvases and oils trying to create an image of myself that feels true, is pointless. When I think I’ve landed on what I look like, I get a grunt or a groan, and the worst part is I know he’s right. He said I was courageous. I’m not sure he knows me, despite what he said about us being one and the same.

  I get one of these grunts after adding the final lines around my eyes, and immediately throw the canvas in the trash.

  “It isn’t what you look like. It’s what you feel. Dig deeper. I want to see you engage with the resistance and push against it. Do not give in. Do not give up.” Beads of sweat form along his forehead, as if he’s fighting for more than indignation, last words, or ego.

  I feel like smashing the palette in his face like a pie.

  “Pearl, you feel stress, pressure. Good. It means you care. It means you know you haven’t met your potential. Your friend Charmindy, she was not particularly artistic, but she committed. She showed up until the class fulfilled its purpose for her. You must do the same. I will keep pushing you.”

  “Pushing until I break,” I mumble.

  “If I have to, yes.”

  I didn’t think he’d heard me. I don’t wash my brushes or clean up, but instead rush out the door, tears threatening to push past my anger.