Pearl

by Deirdre Riordan Hall

  Senora Azuelos announces that six students in her class, including me, along with six others from the other advanced-level Spanish class, will be going abroad during winter term. I careen through finals on a raft of excitement and trepidation for the trip, but the undercurrent of missing Grant and regretting what I did carries my thoughts downstream.

  That evening, as I leave the dining hall, I spot him and Suzy sitting together. She’s a hazy figure from Spanish last year, Sorel’s graduation day, and occasionally walking with Grant between classes. She rests her hand on his tattooed arm as it sits on the table between them. Jealousy is like mucus in my throat.

  Charmindy places her hand on my shoulder. She looks at me in her firm and determined way. I relax, and although slow to change, I’m ready to leave behind the eighteen-year battle that has been my life.

  On the last day of classes before holiday break, I plod into the studio for the first time since I walked out.

  I almost see a smile in the fuzz of Shale’s beard when I appear in the doorway with snow dusting my shoulders. He wears his favorite sweater, with the black-and-white Nordic pattern and chunky fasteners down the front.

  “I’m sorry I left like that. I’ve been thinking. Actually, that’s a lie. I haven’t been thinking. I just found myself here, in the building. I don’t know what you want from me. I’m not an artist. I don’t have anything to give.” I pause to take a breath. “I’m dropping this class, even if I don’t get credit or you fail me.”

  Shale passes through various shades of gray. He clears his throat. “If that’s your decision.” He strokes his beard and walks across the creaky floor toward his office.

  I turn to go but stop, magnetized to the room.

  The creaking floor goes quiet. “Pearl, before you go. I have something for you—” The creaks get closer. I turn, and he passes me a large, flat wrapped package.

  I take it in my hands and glance toward the door.

  “Please open it now.”

  I draw a breath, pluck the bow off the front, and tear the paper. A swath of blue and gray paint appears, swirling like the ocean and sky meeting, like the paintings he’d worked on for the first months of the semester. I pull the rest of the paper off, and I’m gazing at my image, a blend of air and water like I’m dissolving or appearing from the depths. I have no words. It’s beautiful and sad at the same time. My eyes mist, and when I look up at Shale, his do too. His intentions become clear. He’s pushing me because he cares.

  I swallow hard, whispering, “I’m sorry about what I said.” His accented words about how it’s good that I feel pressure because it means I care remain in the air. I suppose in his own chilly way, he really does too.

  “Take some time to think, Pearl. I’ll be here.” He turns and walks back across the creaky floor.

  Later that night, I tell Charmindy about our exchange.

  “Shale’s an iceberg,” Charmindy says. “All his emotions are hidden underneath that white shock of his frosty exterior.”

  “You mean his hair?”

  She chuckles. “Although I only managed to scrape by in Painting IV, I happen to believe Shale used tough love because we, you especially, matter to him.”

  “Yeah, I know. I guess I’m not used to it.”

  “Get there, Pearl. It’s a nice place to be.”

  Chapter 46

  The days before Christmas slosh drearily with memories and resentment. A rainy and humid week spent in Florida does nothing to bring me Christmas cheer, with the exception of Erica’s brief stay. She and I baked and decorated cookies and went to the movies before she flew back to New York to be with her boyfriend.

  When I board the plane for Spain, I’m more than ready to take flight. Senora Azuelos and Senor Robbins, the other Spanish teacher, directed the twelve students, including me, to assemble in Madrid for orientation. Then, in pairs, they’ll assign us to a school somewhere in any one of Spain’s cities for our exchange program. There, we’ll attend classes for about six weeks, then regroup and travel together for several weeks to various points of interest. The highlight for me is the Guggenheim Bilbao, with a traveling exhibit of selected works by Frida Kahlo. All the while, we’ll have assignments and projects, just as we would back at Laurel Hill, but completely in Español.

  The still-bright afternoon light welcomes my arrival as I take the metro into the center and find my way to the hotel address indicated on my itinerary. I lift my bags up a crescent-shaped set of stone steps with red geraniums clustered around the entryway into an older but classic stucco building.

  At the front desk, the concierge gives directions, and voices beckon from down a long corridor.

  Across from the entryway, a grand piano stands in front of large windows with gauzy drapes billowing in the light breeze. A couple of groups of familiar faces, along with the teachers, gather. Then the chatter in the room falls away. My legs won’t move me farther.

  To my right, joking with another student, Grant leans on the arm of a sofa. My heart skips a beat. No, ten. I don’t know what to do or where to look as Senora Azuelos greets me. Heat builds in my cheeks. She keeps me occupied for several minutes with chatter, in Spanish, of course, and then the arrival of another student pulls her away.

  We have to speak Spanish for the duration of our stay, so I make idle talk with Rory, a petite girl with brown hair and a slight lisp. I’m so keenly aware of Grant, just a few yards away, I can hardly concentrate on what she says, never mind translate it. My mind floats in a million directions, chasing memories, possibilities, doubts . . .

  “Grant,” a bubbly voice calls from the entry. Suzy struts into the room. Hope evaporates on a whiff of her cloying perfume. She beelines for Grant, but Senor Robbins intercepts her with a greeting.

  I stew while the teachers review our travel plans, give us a rundown of the rules, tell us what we can expect from our weeks with our host schools, and go over generalities about the work, projects, and assignments. They emphasize words like multiculturalism and diversity, explaining that life might feel very different from back at Laurel Hill.

  We do group icebreaker games, and then Senora Azuelos calls out our names to divide us into the pairs that we’ll have for the duration of the six weeks at the various host schools. Grant, Suzy, a stubby boy named Wilson, and I remain. Then it’s just Grant and me.

  “Excelente,” Senora Azuelos pronounces. “Ahora conversaréis sobre sus actividades favoritas y que quieres hacer durante el semestre.”

  I’m certain Grant doesn’t want to talk to me about his favorite activities, or anything else, for that matter. I lean against a pillar on the far side of the room.

  His hands are deep in his pockets as he paces in front of me.

  We’re far enough away from everyone that no one will overhear, and since my brain isn’t working optimally, I speak English. “Do you want to see if they can give us different partners?”

  He stops and looks at me sharply as he takes a breath. His cheeks fill with his exhale, then he lets it out. He rubs his hands through his dark blond hair. I’m not sure if he’s aggravated or flustered.

  With wobbly legs, I stand myself upright to go talk to the teacher. I stop midstride as she explains to the group that arrangements have already been set in stone. “Nadie pueden cambiar.”

  Suzy’s cheeks burn red as she slinks away from Senora Azuelos and glances sideways at Wilson, then to Grant and me.

  “That answers that,” I mumble. “I’m sorry you can’t be with Suzy.”

  Through the window, the umber buildings blur as my eyes fill with tears. I walk out the way I came, to find a bathroom. The escape, a break from campus, from struggling with my feelings for Grant, sours. Strong fingers close around my wrist.

  “Wait,” Grant says.

  I slowly turn around, afraid if I move too fast, I’ll get dizzy.

  “I think we can try th
is.”

  “Try what?” I ask, confused.

  “Try being partners.”

  “Oh.”

  “What did you think I meant?” he asks.

  Shock gives way to a hesitant smile. “I don’t know what I thought you meant, but certainly not that.” I brush my bangs flat against my forehead, then run my hand down the side of my face. “I thought I would be the last person on earth you’d tolerate being in the same room with for six weeks. English class was hard enough.”

  A sad smile flips on and off his lips, quick as a blink. He starts to say something, but the teachers assign us rooms for the night.

  I listen for my name. “Suzy, Rory, y Pearl están conjuntas.”

  Suzy pulls cosmetics out of a Hello Kitty backpack, which goes right along with the cutesy style she has going on. I notice a preponderance of syrupy pink.

  “I can’t believe we’re already here. I knew I’d get in. It’s going to be crazy awesome,” she says in her high up-speak Valley-girl voice. She pauses with a makeup brush in her hand and turns to me. “I’m so sorry if having us here together makes you uncomfortable.”

  “Huh?” I ask, looking up from the guidebook on my lap.

  “Grant and I, duh,” she says with a simpering grin.

  I close my eyes and grind my teeth together.

  “You know, you shouldn’t have let him get away. He’s such a great kisser and—” She looks up at the ceiling as if in reverie.

  It’s her face or the nearest breakable object. The guidebook hits the wall with a thud, and the pages flutter as it drops to the floor. But I’m more angry with myself for messing up than I am about her stupid comments. I assume she knows what I did. Matteo wasn’t worth it.

  Before I slam the door behind me, Suzy says, “Gosh, what’s her problem?”

  I dash down the steps of the hotel and onto the street. They kissed? The image of his lips on hers, glitter and gloss sticking to his skin, and her fingers in his hair flicks through my mind like a never-ending flip book.

  I turn down a side street. I have the sense this is karma. I’m so parched tears won’t come. I spot a café with white wrought iron tables and chairs outside.

  I scan the menu.

  Coffee, wine, beer, water.

  Wine, beer, water.

  Beer, water.

  If caught drinking beer, surely I’ll find a return plane ticket in my hands. I’m not willing to give Suzy the satisfaction. Nor do I want to ruin this opportunity abroad, not to mention my life. Plus, Frida is just weeks away.

  “Una agua, por favor,” I tell the man behind the counter.

  I settle on a chair outside and sip the water. My gaze weaves between the buildings, toward the sky. I’ve made it to Spain. That’s something. Grant said we’d try being partners. That’s something more. I dig deeper to figure out why Suzy bothers me so much. She isn’t after my boyfriend, because Grant is no longer my anything. I have to let him go.

  I catch these stray nibbles of thoughts as pigeons peck at the ground. A few tables away a dark-haired couple kisses. I’m jealous. Not of the couple, not really—of love. I want to be Grant’s good morning and good night, to be his fountain of happiness, to call him home, our affections for each other to be soft, there to be a future in some hidden café in another country where we can kiss and kiss and kiss. Geez, those two are really going to town. I turn back to the pigeons.

  I want Grant’s love, but in order to receive it, I have to give love. I failed. Somewhere nearby church bells ring, reminding me that there’s something I do have, at least for the next few weeks—time.

  I hardly taste the lavish meal as the fourteen members of our group, including the teachers, eat at the hotel restaurant. Instead, resentment and confusion bite my tongue. I say my por favors and graciases, but watching Suzy flirt with Grant at the far end of the table curdles my interest in remaining in my chair.

  I bump the table when I get up, and for a moment, all eyes are on me. I excuse myself, feigning exhaustion from jet lag, then go up to the room, but I catch his glance, lingering on me, and I melt all over again.

  I step onto the balcony overlooking the city. I think of New York, my city. I think of my mom. If only she could see me now. Each of my thoughts matches a star, blooming in the sky. I’ve made it this far out of the confines of the life she’d created, but I’ve also made a mess. I’m drifting back and forth between empowerment and helplessness, when someone knocks on the door to the hotel room, interrupting the parade of thoughts clanging and banging through my head.

  Suzy probably locked herself out. I grumble as I open the door a crack. Grant leans on the door frame, staring at his shoes. When he looks up at me, he bites his lip. “Can we talk?” he asks.

  I let him in, ignoring the school rules, still applicable abroad. My reasoning, Grant and I aren’t strangers to hotel rooms, and at eighteen, we’re officially adults, whether I’ve grown up or not. He follows me onto the small balcony, and we each lean against opposite ends of the abutment that divides it from the neighboring one. Technically, we’re outside, so the no-boys-in-your-room rule doesn’t apply; Sorel advised me of this ambiguity in the school guidebook last year. Our legs and feet are inches apart. He digs in his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He lights us both one. This, on the other hand, is a Laurel Hill offense.

  “Haven’t had one of these in a while. I thought I’d quit,” he says. “When in Rome or wherever.”

  “I haven’t had one since last summer,” I say, taking a drag and coughing, my lungs unforgiving.

  “No?” Grant asks.

  I shake my head.

  “That’s good. I mean, you know, for your health.”

  I stub it out. “Yeah,” I say with an unsteady voice. In fact, my entire body feels like the earth moves beneath it. Like something deep under the surface burns and shifts slowly like magma.

  “I saw you rush out earlier.”

  I croak out, “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry.” As he says this, I know these should be the words coming out of my mouth. He gazes up at the stars. “This is just about the same sky I looked at all summer, wondering where you were, what you were doing. Missing you like hell—” His voice cracks.

  I look up at the twinkling place where he gazes, my vision blurred by the tears running from the corners of my eyes.

  “Missing you still,” he adds.

  His words melt me further in the slow-motion quaking of my world. Then there’s the aftershock.

  “I was wondering if, at least for now, we could try to be friends. For real. No pretense, no games.”

  I’ll never forget the message in the birthday card from last year. We’ve kissed. We’ve talked. We’ve been more than friends.

  I clear my throat. “Yeah, sure. Let’s be friends.” Fate has us meeting each other backward.

  Chapter 47

  I lie awake until the sun tints the buildings outside my window earthen shades of clay. We pass the next few days in Madrid as the teachers immerse us in the culture and customs.

  On New Year’s Eve, Grant and I board a crowded train for Barcelona, along with Rory and her partner, Henry. Suzy’s expression is tart as she watches us leave. A lifetime ago, I would have stuck out my tongue or flipped her off. Instead, I watch the locals and tourists shuffle around. I wonder where we all came from, where we’re going, and how we ended up here, together, in this moment.

  Grant and I squish into a couple of vacant seats in a crowded railcar. I wish comfort would replace the tension of uncertainty that vibrates between us. I’m not sure how to be friends after we specifically weren’t friends, turned into more than friends, and then weren’t friends at all.

  After we’re under way, he casually asks, “What colleges did you apply to?”

  I list them off.

  “UCLA? Me too. My soccer coach seems t
o think I’ll get a scholarship. The scouts have been nosing around, so that’s promising.”

  “What will you study?” I ask, testing out this new territory, the middle ground of just being friends.

  “English lit,” he answers.

  “How’d your dad take it?” I push the conversation past casual and into the realm of known, intimate details. I can’t take the words or truth of it back.

  He rubs his hand through his hair, as though he still isn’t used to its short length, or maybe it’s become a nervous habit. “He didn’t. An athletic scholarship will help. If he’s not paying, he has no say. It’ll be all right. I’ll be OK.”

  My heart stutters as his words remind me of my own. “That’s good, right?”

  He nods.

  I quickly run out of things to say that don’t involve our shared past. I watch the scenery change from urban to rural as leafy fields of potatoes and beans spread toward the horizon.

  After a while I ask, “How’s your brother?” The fact that we were once more than friends strains against anything I try to say. I want to get silly with him like I used to, reference memories and moments, or at least talk about things we have in common.

  “He’s great. He asked about you when he met me at the airport.” His sad smile appears for a moment. “The real reason I was late to school was we went to see a soccer match—US Men’s National, it was good. Then my dad caught up with us . . .”

  “Cheating on me with soccer, huh?” I immediately realize the ramifications of what I thought of as just a joke. The blood drains from my face, my palms are suddenly clammy, and my stomach does a somersault.

  He turns sharply away and looks out the window.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. It was just a joke. It wasn’t funny. I’m sorry, Grant.”

  He abruptly shifts in his seat to face me, and our knees knock together in the narrow space. He pulls his jacket off, revealing the tattoos on his arm. “Do you have any clue how much you hurt me? I believed what we had was something so different from any kind of connection I thought possible, like it was cosmic or something. I have you tattooed on my arm.” He points, his fingers trembling, his breath coming heavily. “I wanted to be with you always.”