Everything Beautiful Is Not Ruined

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  She started to walk away, stomping, and now I could see the smoothie in her hand.

  “Autumn, wait!”

  She turned partway back, even her ringlets bouncing with indignation.

  “I’m sorry. You’re right, I do feel like hell. What’s in the smoothie?”

  “Spirulina, whey protein, blueberries, banana, pumpkin seed butter. It’s a meal. And it’ll give you energy, but calm energy.”

  “That’s . . . sweet, Autumn. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s Isaac’s favorite.”

  I felt a nasty jealous twinge at the way she said that—like she had ownership of him. But she was trying so hard to be nice, so I pushed it away.

  “And in my locker I also have—”

  “Sure,” I said, falling into step with her, “hook me up. The aromatherapy, the smoothie, healing crystals . . . whatever you’ve got.”

  “You wanna meditate, too?”

  “Why not?”

  “You smell like a health-food store,” Isaac said, coming up beside me on the way to the theater.

  “It’s cinnamon and orange for energy, lavender for relaxation. I’ve gone to the dark side. I hear you did too.”

  “What?” he said, stopping outside the stage door.

  “You have a favorite smoothie . . . ?”

  “Oh.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then laughed. “Yeah. She’s very persistent, pushing those smoothies.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m weak today, so I took everything she offered.”

  “Uh-huh. I saw you meditating.”

  “It’s in lieu of sleep.”

  “You okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t believe you, but I’ll let it pass.”

  “I loved the rainbow. It was almost like you gave it to me.”

  “If I had rainbow-making power? Every morning, there’d be one outside your window.”

  “Whoa, Isaac. That was . . . kinda romantic.”

  He blushed. I blushed back.

  “Shh,” he said.

  We were ridiculous.

  “Anyway,” he said, after a few love-dork moments, “you ready?”

  “No. But I don’t think I’m supposed to feel ready.”

  I peeked out through a gap in the curtains at the gathering audience. The goal was to locate Margot-Sophia and know in advance where she was sitting, so I didn’t make the unprofessional move of actually looking for her when I was onstage—something I’ve seen happen in every single student production ever.

  I found her in the middle—halfway back, where she must have figured the best acoustics would be. Andreas was out there too, in the front row of the balcony.

  My heart hurt for them, but I was nearly collapsing from nerves. Forget the rest of the audience—my mother was about to hear me sing, and that made me want to hide under the stage. And yet I had this ridiculous fantasy that they would both be so moved by the play that it would fix everything somehow. Sure.

  Before I knew it, we were in Kansas, and suddenly I understood in a new way what all the rehearsing was for: it was so that even when you feel like you’re going to have a heart attack and pee your pants and throw up and keel over all at the same time, your feet, when you hear your cue to go on, will still move.

  They will move onto the stage and take you with them.

  And your mouth will open and you will say your lines . . .

  . . . and you will not have a heart attack or pee your pants or throw up or keel over.

  Still, even by the time I got to the song (why was the song so early in the show? Such a big song!) being onstage was still an out-of-body experience.

  There I was, blinded by my spotlight, alone in front of two hundred people, thinking, Shit. Shit, shit, shit! My mother did this in front of thousands, hundreds of times, and made it look like no big deal. How the hell did she do it? Why did she do it?

  The opening notes played, and good God, she was out there and I would never be what she was and I would never even . . . get . . . this . . . song . . . sung.

  I started. My voice was wobbling. Terrible. Nearly inaudible. It was a worse start, even, than in the audition, and all I could think was, Nooooooooo!

  Then into my mind came the picture of the morning’s rainbow.

  Better . . . and now I breathed . . .

  Rainbow, rainbow, Isaac . . .

  Deeper breath. And . . . I was in it, on that magic lane, if barely.

  In didn’t mean it got easy; it just meant I was on a tightrope and thankful not to fall off. But once I hit and held the final high note, I knew I’d survived, and when the wave of applause hit, the relief was so intense, it was like a high.

  And the rest of the show . . . whoosh . . . was a pure and taut kind of joy.

  I learned that night that, in a live performance, everything, every facial expression, every cue, motion, note, every moment you’re on the stage, all that you have is called forth and used in order to make it happen. Everything else fades as you grapple with something essential: telling the story to the best of your ability to those very specific people who have come to have it told.

  As the final minutes came and then we were standing for the curtain call, I was electrified and high, and never, ever wanted to get off that stage . . . .

  That was when I finally understood, finally knew why she did it, why anyone does. And I understood what she’d lost. How it had been everything. Through the noise and lights I found her eyes, dry and fierce as she stood clapping for me . . . .

  And then I wanted to weep.

  There was a party in the greenroom after, Juno playing music on speakers she’d set up, and dancing around in her Wicked Witch costume.

  There were flowers—lilies from Andreas, who hugged me tight and told me he was so very proud. Gerbera daisies signed I were obviously from Isaac, who’d already told me he thought roses were cliché.

  Mom, inarguably magnificent in a black-and-gold beaded dress and a floor-length black velvet cape, made her way over after Andreas moved off, and presented me with an orchid—a flower notorious not only for its beauty but for being easy to kill.

  “Try to keep it alive,” she said, with a rather devilish smile.

  Typical.

  I nodded. Gulped. People were swirling around and congratulations were flying and there was squealing and laughing and all I could do was stare at Margot-Sophia, and try so hard not to ask her what she thought.

  “So, Mom, what did you think?”

  And try so hard not to care what she thought.

  She put her hands on my shoulders, kissed me on both cheeks, then said, “Your voice . . . is nothing like mine, but you are my daughter.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means . . . not bad.”

  “Not bad?” I repeated. It had been better than not bad. From the audience reaction, I’d felt it. Deep inside I felt it. And I knew that she felt it. I thought she did. But maybe she didn’t. Maybe it wasn’t.

  Over her shoulder I saw Andreas. He winked, blew me a kiss, mouthed Proud of you again, and left.

  Oh, the thing I wanted, but not from the person I wanted it from.

  I turned back to Mom.

  “Well,” I said, “two more performances. Hopefully I’ll be a little less nervous.”

  “You won’t,” she said. “Not much less. Unless you’re doing it wrong.”

  We exchanged a few more words and then she announced she was heading home, leaving me to enjoy the backstage party.

  Isaac watched her go from where he’d been hovering—not too close, not too far—waiting for me. He’d dressed up in slim, dark pants and a black-and-navy button-down shirt—dark for being backstage, but also a whole other level of style and cuteness.

  God, it was a
relief to have something so good in my life.

  Someone.

  Without letting myself think about it too much, I slid and pushed my way through the people between us, and went straight up to him, and kissed him.

  There. No more secrecy. Now was as good a time as any to come out as a couple.

  A few people whooped, and I heard Juno suddenly cheering.

  But Isaac . . . didn’t react well.

  He flinched and took a rapid step back, almost falling over in the process.

  I gasped, and then in seeming slow motion, saw his eyes go to Autumn, who looked shocked and dismayed and hurt, then back to me.

  It was only a few short moments, but they were enough. He came back and put an arm over my shoulders and started leading me away from everyone—away from her.

  I shrugged him off. I was purple with humiliation, furious, confused.

  I was ablaze.

  I grabbed my backpack and coat, then headed in the direction of the least resistance, which was into the empty theater. I crossed the stage, went down the front left stairway, and started up the aisle.

  “Ingrid!”

  I turned. “What?”

  “Come back.”

  “Oh, now you want me?”

  “Sorry, I just . . .”

  “Humiliated and rejected me?”

  “You could have warned me, that’s all. I didn’t know we were about to go public.”

  “I guess we’re not.”

  “We can. I just thought you didn’t want to, so I . . .”

  “So you what? Kept seeing Autumn on the side? Or was I the one on the side?”

  “I’m not seeing Autumn . . . exactly.”

  “Exactly?”

  “I’m not. I just . . .”

  “You just what?”

  “I . . .” He looked everywhere but at me, then mumbled, “I guess we were, sort of . . . but I wasn’t serious about it. I wasn’t really into it at all, but she seemed to really like me, and I . . . went along with it for a while. I was flattered, you know? Then you and I started hanging out, and I tried to sort of . . . send her the message . . . that I didn’t want to continue.”

  “I don’t think she got that message, Isaac.”

  His shoulders slumped. “No, I guess not.”

  “How exactly were you trying to send it? By ignoring her and talking behind her back?”

  His eyes met mine, full of shame and guilt.

  “I kept planning to call her, or go see her and talk to her, but . . . I didn’t know what to say, Ingrid. I admit it, I was a coward. But I also . . . I couldn’t tell what this was—between you and me. I thought maybe we were just having fun. That maybe it would be over once the show was done.”

  “So, what, you were keeping your options open? So you could go back to her?”

  “No! I just mean, I didn’t want to be with her no matter what, but I also didn’t want to tell her about you unnecessarily, because that would make it worse for her. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

  “What about my feelings?”

  “I couldn’t tell what your feelings were! I still can’t!” he said, almost shouting all of a sudden. “Because you don’t want to talk about feelings, except in the abstract. And you keep things from me—I can tell. You have a whole bunch of . . . I don’t even know what going on, but all you want to do is make out with me.”

  “Excuse me for not spilling my entire soul in the three weeks we’ve been together,” I spat. “I didn’t know that was a condition.”

  “I’m sorry. Maybe that’s not fair.”

  “Damn right it’s not. But go on with your explanation. I can’t wait to hear the rest.”

  “Look, I felt guilty about her, okay? I felt a responsibility toward her because I . . . because I let it go as far as it did, and let her maybe think that I was more into it than I was, and so . . . I was all screwed up and hoping she would get the message without my having to make a big thing about it, and that everything would sort itself out just . . . over time. I realize that sounds idiotic.”

  He was a picture of dejection, but I was too wretched and hurt and furious myself to feel any pity for him, especially as I started to see the full picture.

  “You had sex with her,” I said, feeling an ice-like pain in my chest.

  For a second he looked like he was going to deny it, and I hoped I was wrong, but then he met my eyes and gave a sharp nod.

  “Damn it, Isaac!”

  “It was only a . . . few times.”

  I felt like I might vomit.

  “When?” I said, voice like steel.

  “What does it matter?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you want to tell me?”

  “Fine. The . . . about two weeks before I . . . before you and I kissed . . . was the last time. And before that . . . it had been a while. Like, two months. I’d been avoiding being alone with her and I was honestly thinking way too much about you, and I went to see her, intending to tell her, officially, that I didn’t want to be in a relationship with her . . . but I was sick about it because I hate hurting people. . . .” He swallowed. “And she was already upset when I got there, and, like, didn’t really want to let me talk at all, and I just . . . didn’t know how to say no.”

  “You bastard.”

  “I wasn’t with you yet when it happened,” he said. “I promise you there was no overlap—none!”

  “That’s not even the point!” I said. “What about her? You slept with her and then didn’t bother to break up with her? Expected her to just figure it out? You’re a coward, and an asshole. And now you’ve made me into the homewrecker. What the hell is the matter with you?”

  “I’ll talk to her,” he said, coming up the aisle, hands reaching for me. “I’ll explain everything. Tell her everything.”

  “Don’t touch me,” I said, backing away from him. I couldn’t stand the thought of him telling her about us, everything about us, when what we were had been so precious to me, so beautiful, and so private. And when it had felt like something so new, like something neither of us had ever experienced, and meanwhile he had already had sex. Had sex with her, of all people. And not bothered to tell me, and acted like there was nothing between them. “I don’t want you to say a word about me. In fact, I’ll save you the trouble of having to tell her anything at all, because there’s nothing to tell!”

  And then I turned and ran the rest of the way up the aisle and out of the theater and all the way to the subway, where I clenched my fists and pressed my lips together and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to keep the tears in and thinking about how my mom was right: there are no fairy-tale endings and you can’t trust things to turn out. You can’t trust anybody. Not your friends, not your family, not the nicest, smartest, and most interesting guy you’ve ever met, who turns out to be a coward and a liar. Especially not him.

  SERVE

  (Peak Wilderness, Day Thirteen)

  Dear Mom,

  1. (I love you forever but) fuck you for doing this to me.

  2. After two days of feeling relatively normal, I started my day by screaming myself (and everyone else) awake from a nightmare, and I am a wreck again. Months and months like this. How am I supposed to keep going, Mom?

  Bonnie, Tavik, and I were there in our sleeping bags, her and Tavik groggy and probably still full of adrenaline from the horror-movie wake-up, while I was curled up in the tightest ball I could make, and crying.

  “Is this related to what happened with Peace?” Bonnie asked.

  “That fuckface,” Tavik murmured.

  “No,” I said. Although being assaulted by him certainly hasn’t been a help, either.

  “All right. I realize this is a personal matter, Ingrid,” Bonnie said, “but . . .”

  “Yes . . . ?”

  “It’s ob
vious to all of us that you’ve suffered . . . some trauma.”

  For some reason this comment helped shut the tears off, and suddenly I found myself laughing.

  “What’s funny?” Bonnie said, looking confused.

  I kept laughing. I couldn’t stop. But I didn’t have an answer for her, Mom.

  Trauma. Such a small word, only two syllables.

  I can’t go to bed for a year, if that’s what’s supposed to happen next. And I can’t cry my way through school when I get to London, either. I am not giving up the one thing that can give some meaning and purpose to this crazy life of mine. Which means somehow I have to pull myself together. Again.

  Love, et cetera,

  Ingrid

  Tavik, I suspect, thinks I’m crazy.

  And kind of likes it.

  And wants to confirm it.

  I first realize this when we set out for Day Thirteen’s hike, which is the last before we start canoeing, and he lines up right behind me, and says. “I think you might have a multiple personality disorder.”

  “Very funny,” I say, starting onto the path behind Melissa, who has taken over as leader.

  “No, really,” he says, following. “You started the day screaming, then you were crying, that changed to laughing, and now you’re not talking at all.”

  “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”

  “Not because you want to.”

  “Those aren’t personalities, Tavik; they’re expressions of emotion. I’m messed up, sure. But it’s not like I turn into someone who calls herself Betsy.”

  “If you say so . . . Betsy,” he says.

  And it does cause me to smile, a little.

  “So . . . ?” he says a few minutes later as we head up the side of a long, steep ridge overlooking the lake.

  “So what?”

  “It’s pretty here.”

  “Yes,” I say, keeping my face forward, mostly because I don’t want to fall on it.

  “You crying?”

  “No.”

  “You going to tell me the rest of that life story of yours?”

  “Not today, Tavik,” I say, reaching up to rub my temples, which are aching, and pausing to catch my breath. “Why don’t you tell me about some bad guys instead? Or, no offense, but I wouldn’t mind just . . . hiking.”