Hardly anyone was out on the swampy quad as I rode through the brick archway. The administrative buildings were abandoned. The puddled ground looked like it could swallow you up if you walked in it. I stuck to the paths because they were at least slightly shoveled and I could avoid getting splashed by the slushy muck below.
My girlfriend.
I couldn't get the phrase or her face out of my head. I was sure he wouldn't use the same title to describe me. Or even allow me to use the word to describe myself.
I glided down the paths, standing on the pedals, making sharp turns on the corners, using the brakes as little as possible. And then it began to rain. At first the clouds sprinkled me a warning as if to apologize for the inevitable. But before I had time to cross the quad, it was pouring. It might have been mild for winter, but that water could not have been colder without being frozen. So I made my way back home, letting the rain drench my clothes, slather my hair, rush down my face, camouflage the tears I could no longer prevent. Splattering through wide puddles on the quad didn't matter anymore.
Coasting down College Street, I wondered what kind of explanation Nate could have. I didn't think we were "going steady," but I couldn't believe he had a girlfriend. I guess that made me his mistress. Well, not anymore, I thought.
Good luck, Nate Finerman, in getting me to sleep over ever again.
Shared Traits
I must have something in common with her, I thought, sitting up in bed that night. If I didn't, he wouldn't like us both.
My sketchbook sat in my lap.
I drew a portrait of Clarissa. Of what I could remember, at least. Then a picture of myself. And under those I drew one of me with her hairstyle.
No, as far as I could tell, we shared no traits.
Fountain of Life
On Sunday the sculpture department was having an exhibit of fountains that had been built last semester. I figured if I arrived early, I'd be less likely to run into Nate and Clarissa.
The building was pretty empty when I got there. My feet echoed in the halls as I made my way to the exhibit room. I passed huge buckets of used clay. They were separated by color and wetness: the brittle dry red and gray clay stood in two buckets side by side, and the sloppy wet red and gray clay stood in two other buckets. The wet ones were labeled "Slip Buckets." I stuck my fingers in. It was cold and sludgy; the kind of stuff you liked to jump into as a kid.
I rinsed my hand in the hallway sink.
Aside from a monitor at the desk, the pieces in the exhibit, and a cheese-and-crackers table, the room was empty. I was glad to be able to look at the work in a quiet atmosphere, without tons of people milling about. The opening didn't officially start for another half hour.
Spaced evenly around the room were all sorts of fountains, but not the type that you see in parks. One fountain was a bunch of pipes and showerheads welded together. Another was simply a hose that snaked around the walls and ended at the doorway, pointing at your face as you entered. In one corner was a papier-mache fire hydrant by Nate. None of the fountains actually had water coming out of them.
Except for one.
In the corner diagonally across from Nate's piece was a guy standing in a shallow metal tub—the kind in which women in Degas paintings bathe. The tub sat on top of a short white pedestal. The guy's body was entirely covered in black and white body paint, like a native warrior. He stood so still, I could hardly see him breathing. How is a painted naked guy a fountain? I wondered.
My question was soon answered when he started taking a leak.
His "piece" was entitled Fountain of Life.
I looked up at him, and found that he was staring directly at me, accusingly, as if I was the one taking a naked piss in public. Our eyes remained locked until the stream trickled off.
People started flocking in.
I wondered how many times he could get himself to pee throughout the show.
I left before I could find out.
Rewind
I spent the afternoon in the library, curled up on a couch with Ivan the Terrible.
I thought back to the night Nate told me about his dad. Every time I remembered that story I thought, Nate and I are right for each other. If I could rewind time, I'd go back to that night and tell him why.
Then maybe his girlfriend wouldn't have come for a visit.
Maybe losing my virginity wouldn't have felt like such a mistake.
Icy snow skittered over the skylights. If you listened carefully, you could hear the flakes hitting the glass, like fingernails tapping a table.
Nine Motorcycles
My icicle feet were keeping me awake. I tried wrapping my sheets around them extra tight and pulling them into my pajama bottoms, but nothing helped. Socks would be the next step. But getting out of bed would mean making my entire body cold. That day I'd gone up the hill to Main Street and bought a CD of Itzhak Perlman playing Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D. It was on now, coming to a close. I was giving myself until the end to get socks.
The orchestra hit its last chord, declaring my fate.
There was a knocking on the window. It didn't frighten me because I had almost expected it. I got the door for him, but didn't speak, and he climbed in beside me after removing everything except boxers.
"Whoa! Cold feet!" was all he said. He held them between his legs, slowly replenishing their warmth.
I lay as still as an ice statue.
"What're you thinking about?" he asked.
"I have a question for you," I said. "But I don't know how to say it."
Nate stroked my face. Like he was trying to memorize it. His eyes were fixed searchingly on mine. I shut my eyes, to try to keep him from drawing me in. We had some talking to do. But he rubbed his lips against mine. Back and forth and back again. Numbing my senses until I practically forgot I ever had anything to say to him, or that I even had a voice for that matter.
Before long we were rolling around in my sheets. I knew it was wrong. My head knew it was wrong. But I had already let him go this far. His skin felt so soft against mine that I didn't regret letting him undress me. He licked my neck and lips and kissed each of my eyelids. Stroking my hair, he lay his head down, resting his chin against my shoulder.
His breath was hot on my ear.
I'd been so mad at him I'd forgotten how good it was just to be touching him and to be touched.
Plus, he had brought protection, so there wasn't any logical reason to object. I mean, I was pretty into it, too. But when he pushed inside me, I couldn't wait for it to be over. The gentle touches, the kisses, they evaporated, and in their place was Nate pushing up and down. He was suddenly so heavy, I thought his weight might send me through the mattress. He moaned louder and louder and I hoped it would be over soon. Let him finish, I thought. Then we'll talk.
His nostrils were faintly whistling as we lay side by side.
Ask him something. Anything, I thought.
"Are you going to marry Clarissa?" is what came out. I have no idea where that came from. It must've been hiding in some dark crevice of my brain.
"I'm not getting married. I'm going to be a free spirit."
"Don't you want to have kids?"
"And spend the money I earn on them?"
"Mr. Generosity."
He turned on his side to face me. "I mean, it's going to be hard enough to make a living as an artist. I don't need a wife and kids to be money vacuums."
"But won't you feel like you're missing out on something?"
"Look," he said, "there's this thirty-seven-year-old guy I worked with last summer who owns nine motorcycles. He's not married, never had kids. But he loves those bikes, and he takes them to shows every chance he gets and rides them all over. He's probably the happiest man alive."
"I don't know about that," I said. "Maybe he's content."
"All you need is something to be passionate about. Like art."
"Or motorcycles," I added.
He kept inching closer to me, as if that
would help to convince me of his argument. "Right, or motorcycles."
The stars on my ceiling were slowly dulling.
This was not the night to tell him why we were right for each other; it would have to wait.
To Be a Fish
I rolled over and tried to grab on to whatever sleep I could. I drifted in and out of consciousness, always hoping that this time I wouldn't open my eyes again before eight A.M. But when dusty dawn snuck its dull tired light through my blinds, I knew there wasn't much time left for me to get lucky with the Sandman.
I tried to get up with the impatient alarm, but Nate clung to me. Clamped me tight between his thighs.
"I have to go to class," I told him.
"Who cares about class?" He rolled me onto my back. Ran his palm up and down my body.
I wished I could give in to him. It almost seemed like I'd be stronger if I did. Rebel against academia. But I left and asked him to lock the door behind him. He didn't have to be at work until ten.
That day, Foundation was meeting at the nature lab to explore Ed's fish fantasy.
The nature lab was a well-lit room filled with live and dead fern and fauna for NECAD students to observe and draw. Some items could be borrowed from the lab, but most had to remain in the room at all times. Especially the hyperactive birds.
Ed wanted us to take a break from the technical accuracy of our previous assignments and explore patterns of movement. We were to choose a tank to observe, and with the drawing instrument of our choice, convey direction, line, and light. The first sketches shouldn't resemble anything recognizable. But in the final drawing we would incorporate some of our perspective training into these unstructured exercises.
"Begin not by showing me what the fish looks like, but how the fish feels!" Ed instructed. "Teach me what it is to be a fish!"
As if we knew.
"Unfortunately," he continued, "this facility is for public use, so we can't disrupt other visitors by playing music. But I am hoping that our friend Sam has brought his fish to listen to on headphones. And maybe if he is generous, he will share it with the rest of us!" He nodded expectantly at an eye-rolling Sam.
I had a feeling Sam wouldn't be that generous.
When Ed finished his speech, he stuck his face in front of a group of jumbo goldfish, the kind they keep in Chinese restaurants. He bulged his eyes and alternately sucked his cheeks in and puffed them out. I wouldn't have been surprised to see gills sprouting by his sideburns.
Ralph sucked in his laughter. Sam shot a look at me. My eyes held his gaze a few seconds before he blushed and directed his face downward.
I dragged a chair over to the largest tank of small, iridescent fish.
Now all I had to do was mentally become one of them.
Birds squawked. The tanks blew bubbles.
Ralph continued to survey the area, long after Sam and I settled on our spots. He moved methodically, peering carefully into each tank, as if the fish had perhaps changed into some other aquatic creatures since his last check. Maybe this time they would be salamanders. Or turtles. Bending his waist slightly, leaning close to the glass, his eyes tracked the fish like pendulums.
When he got back to the opposite side of my tank for the fifth round, I almost told him to make up his mind and sit down already. Every little detail raised huge questions and uncertainty for Ralph. There are bigger issues to be unsure about, I thought. Save it for something real.
At that moment, Ralph took a seat directly across from me. Of all the places he could've chosen, he had to sit precisely in my line of sight. There was no avoiding him.
All I had wanted that day was to be alone with my thoughts and the fish, to subtly sketch out my feelings. The old Ellie would've gone overboard, would've drawn bloated fish floating to the top of the tank. But the new Ellie was in control now, and she would show restraint; she had to find a way of masking her emotions, while still finding release.
The new way was much more difficult.
As I drew, I discovered that Ralph's position would actually work in my favor; his distorted features and darting irises would serve as a wonderful backdrop to those shimmering swimmers.
The LaLande Wetsuit
"I call it the LaLande Wetsuit," Ralph said from his seat.
We were back in the Garage and our sketches hung on the wall for an afternoon crit.
Ed planted his feet at shoulder's width and swayed from side to side, his brow furrowed. "Explain the diagrams, Ralph," he said. "Am I correct in assuming that the men in these pictures are wearing inflatable scuba gear?"
Ralph nodded. "That's pretty close. To be a fish would mean to be engulfed in wetness," he reasoned. "So I've designed apparel that would make a person literally feel what a fish is feeling."
He walked up to the wall, keys jingling, and pointed at the puffy suit. "It would be made of clear plastic and filled with water, giving the illusion that the person is submerged in liquid. You could even wear clothes under it and use it for work!" he exclaimed.
Sam slowly shook his head and rolled his eyes at me when Ralph wasn't looking.
Ralph continued. "In exploring this idea, I realized that this suit wouldn't make the wearer wet. So I came up with this model." He pointed at another diagram. "I added some squirt valves, to provide a constant spray. But then"—he looked at his feet—"then I saw my error: squirting simulates rain more than a large body of water. So this design really teaches us what it is to wear rain, not to be a fish." He sighed. "Sorry, but this was the closest I could come."
I know what it's like to wear rain, I thought. Go outside.
Although Sam came closer to producing what Ed had in mind, he also missed the mark. His fish were conveniently arranged in the shape of the Phish logo, bubbles and all. Although Ed didn't get the pop culture reference, he did know that Sam's fish had been schooled in the shape of themselves.
Ed paced in front of our results, eyes fixed on the floor.
"Both of your ideas, Sam and Ralph ... both of them are quite inventive. I can't say I sense any movement, but I also can't deny that they are cute."
He stopped and turned to me. "Ellie, your fish are dynamic. They seem to be moving too fast for us even to catch a glimpse of them. The speed is exaggerated, but that is what makes the drawing interesting."
He paced again, this time in a circle around us.
"And Ellie, I'm glad to see that you've included Ralph—that is Ralph, isn't it?"
I nodded.
"I'm happy to see you've incorporated figurative elements into your work, because tomorrow"—he paused, taking a deep breath—"tomorrow we will start drawing the figure!"
Finally.
Electric Planning
Class got out early. I think Ed didn't want to have to come up with more comments for our work that day. I went to the computer lab. There hadn't been any mention of the e-mail I sent Nate last week. I had to write to him and tell him I took it back; it was presumptuous of me to think he was single. Maybe we should slow things down. Or just be friends.
Also, I was curious to see whether he ever left my bed that morning. I half expected someone else to be monitoring when I opened the door. Part of me wished it would be someone else.
But there he was at the front desk. Tongue pressed against the corner of his mouth. Eyes squinting at the screen. I walked up to him and he didn't notice I was there until I touched his shoulder. He jumped in surprise and quickly put the computer to sleep.
"Shouldn't you be in class, young lady?" he asked, recovering his composure.
"I got out early. I wanted to see if you woke up yet," I said. "What are you working on, anyway?"
"A project." He leaned back casually in the chair.
The screensaver stars soared toward the front of the screen.
"I've got some e-mailing to do," I said.
When I opened my account, I found a note from him.
ellie yelinsky, let me tell you something, sex in general doesn't mean much to me. i see it as
just a way of having fun. but you are changing that, yes, YOU. i've been with LOTS of girls, and most of them have been pretty damn CUTE (like you), but never have I met someone as genuine as you. i can tell when you say things, you really mean them. NO BULLSHITTING. you are something special, don't change.
Now what? I couldn't tell him, Sorry, I was only joking. Thanks for the compliment, but I'm not as great as you think I am.
The thing is, I really had meant what I'd written to him. But I didn't necessarily mean it right now. While thinking of an appropriate response, the bottom of my screen started flashing. Apparently Nathan Finerman wanted to "talk." I typed my way to the talk screen.
The awaiting message said:
midnight, my house.
I wrote back:
Sort of late, don't you think? School night.
He wrote:
come on, LIVE a little, i'm working on my project until then, don't waste away your sexual peak.
I responded:
Okay, okay. Midnight.
Racing Dawn
I knew I shouldn't go. I knew it as I ran there, as I ran up to the door and almost turned around. There was still a second left when I could've gone back. Even after I rang the bell, I had time. But there was a part of me rooted deep down, deeper than my brain could reach with its relentless rationality, that wanted nothing more than to see him, to lie with him, to wrap myself up in him.
It was that simple.
We hardly talked that night. For the first time, he seduced me in the light. I saw that his entire back was tattooed to look like the back side of a skeleton, each rib thinly outlined in permanent black. He smelled like raw paint and turpentine, an odor that once had been my own. I buried my nose in his thick hair and inhaled, as if internalizing that smell would somehow identify me as a painter again. But if given the opportunity to paint anything I wished right now, I don't know what I would've chosen. I wanted to create images portraying subtle human emotion, images that would speak to viewers for generations to come.
Better Than Running at Night Page 6
