by Shayn Bloom
* * *
“Nora! Nora! Are you okay?”
I splutter water from my mouth as my eyes snap open. Gabriel is beside me on the beach looking terrified. I struggle to sit up and collapse back down. I’m shaking all over. I can’t control it. “I’m fine,” I croak.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Gabriel exclaims, looking more scared than angry. “You stopped swimming! You went right under! It was a moment before I knew what happened. You could have died!”
I try and sit up but he pushes me back down. “I don’t know what happened,” I tell him hoarsely. “I can’t remember what happened. I must have lost consciousness. You – you saved my life!”
He doesn’t respond to this. Instead, he waits for my breathing to calm before helping me to my feet. “Never do that again!”
Geez, he’s really worried about me. Maybe he does like me.
I realize I’m still naked. Luckily, Gabriel hasn’t yet lit his wand. But he’s up and moving in that direction. Hastily, I cup myself in one hand and lay a forearm across my breasts, effectively covering my nipples if nothing else. It may seem trivial to worry about such things after nearly drowning, but I don’t care. I never miss an opportunity to feel self-conscious or embarrassed.
Gabriel reaches his clothes. “I’m lighting my wand,” he says loudly. “I’ll keep my eyes closed, okay?”
“Fine,” I squeak. I’m not shaking anymore, so when his wand alights I scuttle over the sand to my clothes and hurriedly pull them on. I don’t bother with my bra, but hang it over my shoulder. “Dressed,” I tell him. Geez, it’s so tempting to look over now I’m safe. I can’t help it. I look.
His backside is facing me, illuminated in the light of the wand lying in the sand. From the back he is fit and muscular. His cheeks are sweet to behold. How can I be thinking about sex after nearly dying, you ask? I have no answer.
Clothed, Gabriel turns around and catches me. “Hey! You were looking!”
I’m too exhausted to lie. “Sorry,” I say. I’m blushing maroon.
“It’s understandable,” he remarks in a self satisfied tone. “I’m hard to resist.”
Yes you are!
“Egotistical much?” I ask him. “Gabriel, it’s late. We should get back. I have to do another wash tonight. This was my only pair of clean jeans. Now…” I gesture hopelessly to their sand covered sides.
Swiping his blond hair to the side of his forehead, Gabriel picks up his wand from the sand. “You forget, Nora,” he says, coming next to me and touching my jeans with his wand. “You always forget. Amendi!”
As though freshly washed and dried my clothes resettle on me, warm to the touch and cleaner than when brand new. The perpetual tea stain is gone from my tank top. Sighing with amused irritation, I gaze up at him. “I want magic,” I tell him. “It’s just not fair. Being an Immag sucks.”
Startlingly white teeth are revealed. “I agree. Immags suck.”
“That’s not what I said!” I exclaim in mock outrage, but a giggle escapes me. “How you twist my words!”
“I reinterpret them is all,” he says, his hand finding the small of my back and guiding me in the direction of the path. “Point is you don’t have to do a wash tonight. Get some sleep so you can study tomorrow.”
I roll my eyes. “We’ll see about that.”
Gabriel asks, “Did you like our date?”
I take a long, luxurious moment before answering. “Yes. I liked it very much. Except for that one hiccup it’s the best I’ve ever had.”
“How many have you had?”
I determinedly stow my smile. “One.”
Chapter Five
I spend the rest of the weekend holed up in my dorm. I reflect on my date with Gabriel. In retrospect I can’t describe what happened in the water. A near death experience? Perhaps. I’m seeing colors a little brighter, feeling air a little fresher, and smelling aromas a little sweeter since Gabriel saved my life.
If Gabriel hadn’t been there I would’ve died. I feel my affection growing for him, for the boy who lured me into the murky unknown only to save me from the same.
Now he’s away. Hunting vampires. Or else studying for the one class he’s taking. I still haven’t asked him what class it is. I’m thinking less about school and homework and more about Gabriel. About the turquoise fire in his eyes and the smooth movements of his hand as he swipes his blond hair to the side. His mere existence is captivating even when he’s not around.
Despite my fantasy-filled daydreams I am doing homework. I can’t help it. Now that it’s on my iPad, The Great Gatsby is nothing less than enveloping. Perhaps I’m just admiring the device while I read. But I do get lost in the prose and appreciate the subtle nature of Fitzgerald’s masterpiece.
It’s Sunday evening and I have one chapter left to read. Setting my iPad aside, I stare at the backboard of my desk. I’m surprised Kiri isn’t back yet. She said she’d be back sometime today. I’m bursting to tell her about my date and get her opinion on Gabriel. My guess is she’ll be as blindsided as me by his charm.
As of today, it’s been a full week since I arrived at Evergreen State College. A remarkably short time in which to get infatuated with a boy. A long time in which to only have two meals. Yet my anxiety has quieted.
I am still losing weight. I realize if this continues I could run into trouble – either healthwise or with people who have a tendency to notice such things. I determine to force myself to eat more. Yogurt I can handle. I decide to consume a yogurt a day to the best of my ability. Skipping today.
Gabriel didn’t say when we’d hang out again. We have a bad habit of not making plans, so we always end up meeting randomly. I should assume if he wants to see me he’ll find me. That’s one way to go about a relationship.
But are Gabriel and I dating? We’ve had a date. But are we dating? Dating sounds plural, implying more than one. We’ve only had one, so by that standard we aren’t dating yet. I’ll have to ask Kiri about the mechanics and finer points of relationship jargon. Gabriel did say I can go vampire hunting with him. Can that constitute date two?
I need to stop filling my brain with question marks before I get a headache. It won’t help my studying. So ignoring my Victorian Era Literature book – which has unfortunately become custom – I dive back into Gatsby.
I’m thrilled by the ending. So much more so than I had been in high school. Basking in the glow of my matured literary comprehension, I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth and get ready for bed.
Tucking myself in, I realize something. I will never tell my parents about my nearly dying. It will worry them and they have enough to worry about. And somebody will know. Somebody will always know. That’s how it should be. For a near death experience is not something to keep to one’s self. Gabriel will know. Gabriel will always know. He will know he saved my life.
* * *
I wake at 9:33. Geez, I nearly slept through class! Again. There’s no time for a shower. Again. Lucky I took one yesterday. Dressing quickly, I hurry into the bathroom. I put my contacts in and spray my perfume, brushing my hair out so it doesn’t look like I fell out of bed and went to class.
It’s another cloudy, rainless day in Olympia. I try to hurry. I pass the dining hall feeling guilty. There’s no time for breakfast. Again. My resolution to eat a yogurt everyday will have to go fuck itself for now.
I – of course – arrive late. Dr. Renaus has everybody sitting in a circle and he looks on with interest as I join the group. He seems to want to say something to me but can’t remember my name, so he contents himself with opening his notes.
“Did everyone manage to read Sailing to Byzantium by W. B. Yeats over the weekend?” Dr. Renaus asks. “And how is everyone coming along with Sordello?” An unintelligible murmur sweeps the room. “I know it’s a lot,” Renaus continues, “but it provides you with a distinct understanding of Browning’s inspirations. You have this fantastical character walking around in the 1200s. Does he bare any res
emblance whatsoever to the original person? How can we decipher this mystery?”
Unfed and watered, my sleep state having existed so recently, I find myself nodding off in my chair. I forget we’re all sitting in a circle. Forget everyone can see me. I lean forward in my chair as sleep takes me.
Gasping, I catch myself just in time. Just before falling forward face first.
Chuckles fly around the room. I shake myself and sit up straight, determined to stay awake and hoping Dr. Renaus didn’t catch my momentary lapse. Too late. “Would you like to add something, Miss?”
“Saynt-Rae,” I say, blushing against so many amused faces.
Dr. Renaus nods thoughtfully. “Saynt-Rae – I’ll try and remember. Well? Would you like to add something?”
I’m royally screwed. I have yet to open my Victorian Era Literature book.
“I found it interesting,” I say slowly, pulling words right out my ass, “that Browning decided to write about a character that lived in the 1200s when he was writing in the 19th century. Maybe he was so horrified by what he was seeing – you know, with industrialization and everything – that he decided to write about ancient history rather than the more disturbing present.”
Dr. Renaus is stroking his chin with his thumb. “A very interesting revelation, Ms. Saynt-Rae. Yes – I think you may be onto something here. Correct me if I’m mistaken, but it seems you’re suggesting that Robert Browning may have been feeling nostalgia for ‘simpler times.’ Brought on of course by the tirade of roaring machinery that characterized the steam era.”
“Uh – yeah.”
“Good,” Dr. Renaus says admiringly. “Very good. Ms. Saynt-Rare is approaching this material in the correct way. That is to say she’s not only developing an in-depth and coherent analysis of the works themselves but is actively constructing an in-depth and thorough analysis of the times the works were written in. This is the correct approach, especially when trying to get to the root of an artist’s inspiration. Never forget to ask why somebody did something, wrote something, or created something. The answer is often in the times. A very good analysis, Ms. Saynt-Rae.”
Startled by this response to my bullshit, I blink back at Dr. Renaus. Geez, I hope he won’t expect more insight from me later. I must endeavor to stay awake so as to avoid putting myself forward. Literally.
* * *
In between classes I take bold steps in the direction of the dining hall. This is it – my new regime starts today. I will digest a container of yogurt even if I have to take five minute breaks between each spoonful.
The dining hall is crowded and loud. Unfortunately, it’s almost noon which is the worst time to be here. The line for the grill looks terrible and even the salad buffet is getting too much attention. I find my way to the back corner where the tiny refrigerator is. Oh the benefits of being a minimalistic consumer! No lines! Grabbing a spoon, I find an empty table for two and sit down.
I notice – once again – that everybody seems to have a lunch buddy. Those who don’t are carrying out to-go packs and will probably end up meeting somebody. I sigh with resignation. I must look like a real idiot sitting here alone.
You do, my alter ego informs me.
Shut the fuck up is my response to her.
I choke down the yogurt. It’s awful. Not the yogurt, but the effort of eating it. This is worse than before. It’s like my body wants to reject the food. The yogurt, though so smooth, seems to stick in my throat. Closing my eyes, I take another spoonful and force it down. Disgusting. I hate this! It’s how I felt when eating grass as a child – terrible and obtuse, like I’m the wrong species for it.
Fuck it.
I’m not finishing this yogurt. It’s too painful. Putting the container down, I’m assaulted by a feeling of overwhelming defeat. Geez, I can’t eat yogurt! How much more deficient can I become in life? Good thing I haven’t had any exams yet. Poor grades can only add to this ass kicking. I need to start listening to inspiration music or reading self help books or some shit. This isn’t working!
* * *
The English 103: English Composition classroom is mostly full when I arrive. It’s not so much I’m late as they are early. Sitting down in my seat by the window, I pull out The Great Gatsby and wait for class to begin. Eventually Dr. James decides to arrive.
“Settle down,” he says to the respectfully watching class. “It’s time for schoolwork. Life isn’t a series of parties. Too bad nobody told Gatsby.” Dr. James pauses, looking around expectantly for appreciative laughter. When none comes, he resumes, “Today we’ll be continuing our analysis of this masterpiece of American literature. I want a volunteer. Let me see… you there, by the window!”
It’s tempting to remark that obviously he wasn’t searching for a volunteer. “Yes?” I say politely, adding, “do you have a question for me?”
“Most certainly,” Dr. James says deviously, opening his folder with a swat of his hand. “Let’s see now…” Geez, it’s so obvious he’s only calling on me because I got it wrong last time. No doubt he’s picking out a really hard question. “Exactly which character,” Dr. James begins, “tells Nick Carraway that before she married Tom, Daisy was in fact in love with one James Gatz?”
I roll my eyes. “That would be D – Jordan Baker.” I know I shouldn’t be a smartass to a teacher, but his pointless antagonism is irritating. I feel it coming from afar. A tirade of inspired frustration.
“Apart from the specific gotcha questions you’ve been asking,” I begin loudly, “shouldn’t we talk about what the book is about? How it’s a profound narrative on the American Dream as it hangs on a knife’s edge in the early 20th century? How between The Great War and The Great Depression there was a millisecond – only a millisecond– of great prosperity for so many people and yet it was squandered, wasted by bootleggers and cheats? How this American Dream – once it was at last achieved in the 1920s before the country went bankrupt – only led to moral bankruptcy!”
Oh fuck!
I shouldn’t have said all that. But I had to. I wanted to. Now everybody is staring at me, including Dr. James, whose bespectacled gray features appear more astonished than angry. I wonder what he’ll do now. Many of my peers look delighted. Many more look as bored as when class started.
Coughing once, Dr. James readjusts his glasses and picks up his copy of Gatsby. “You in front with the dreadlocks,” he resumes. “When Gatsby goes out with Nick they are stopped for speeding by a police officer. Gatsby produces a card and hands it to the police officer. What color is the card?”
* * *
Walking back to my dorm I realize I should see a doctor. The idea occurred to me before but I never took it seriously. I assumed my anxiety would die after a week or so. But I can’t eat. Two more weeks might do it, and if not maybe three or four. My inability to eat yogurt can’t be a good thing.
In the evening I decide to give Dad a call. He’s due to call tonight anyhow, but calling early might be a pleasant surprise for him. Shows I’m looking forward to it. So I dial his number. Two rings and an answer like always.
“What’s wrong, Nora Rae?” Dad asks.
I can’t help my grin. “Nothing’s wrong! I’m checking in early. I may have been at dinner later,” I lie. “How have you been?”
“Better,” Dad says gruffly. “Remember when your mom and I dropped you off at school and got into a… a discussion about my date that night?”
“I remember,” I say. Seriously, Dad, it wasn’t that long ago.
Dad – usually so calm – is agitated. I can hear it in his tone. “Well, your mother has gone and got herself a boyfriend now.”
“What!” I exclaim in horror. “She can’t have!”
“Well, she did,” Dad follows up. “You know why? To get back at me for having one date last weekend. One date! Didn’t even go anywhere. And now after two years and no dates, she gets herself a boyfriend. Must have skipped the mandatory month together or whatever. She has a boyfriend, she said.”
We’re both talking about it like it’s a travesty. It kind of is. Mom is not the type of person to do this. She’s cautious and reserved. She’d never call somebody her boyfriend this fast.
Don’t just put this on Mom, my alter ego quips. Admit it. You’re fucking embarrassed she has a boyfriend post-divorce sooner than you do.
I may have her beat, actually, I respond. So there!
“I’ll tell you how!” Dad says angrily. “She comes to my house and knocks on my door. I open it and she gives me fifteen dollars. Said she did the math and still owed some for the iPad. Then she gestures behind her to where some idiot is shot-gunning her ride. Says ‘that’s Pat, my boyfriend.’”
I sigh deeply. “What a mess,” I say, thinking aloud. “I – I mean I’m sorry that happened, Dad. She’s just getting back at you for last weekend. But how on earth did she find somebody so fast?”
“Beats me,” Dad says. “I know she’s getting back at me. I say, ‘What’s this, Cindy? Some kind of revenge story?’ She looks at me with some serious willful ignorance. She understood.” He breathes heavily into the phone. “I can’t believe this, Nora. Can’t believe she’d do this like this.”
“I know,” I tell him. “I’m sorry.”
Dad calms down enough to say, “Ah well. How are you getting on? Have you been meeting anyone?”
Oh geez!
“No,” I say too quickly. “Nobody, Dad.”
“What?” He sounds disappointed. “Nora Rae, you have to get out and make friends. The first week is crucial! You can’t start when you feel like it. The first week or so is the best time, when everyone is new and open to new people. The guys I met the first week at UW were the ones that stayed my friends.”
“I’m friends with my roommate,” I say hurriedly, trying to repair the damage. “There’s this guy in writing class who’s nice.”
“Yeah, well,” Dad says hesitatingly, “why don’t you stick with girlfriends for the time being.”
Is he kidding me right now?
