by Nancy Werlin
The blank squares—dark green, dark blue, black mixed with yellow—that you see when you first look at the paintings are not what you see when you keep looking. They’re only what I painted on top, at the end. It’s a very thin coat, as thin as I could manage, as thin as would cover and conceal, while not concealing.
Beneath that coat of paint are all my secret emotions, expressed fully and frankly. You can’t see them at all in the finished paintings—except you can. You can feel them. You look at my paintings, and you know they’re there. Beneath the dark squares.
They are mine, those paintings.
“Oh!” Saskia exclaimed. I saw with satisfaction that she took an involuntary step back, away from the biggest acrylic. She was quite silent after that, standing in the middle of my room, looking. Then she moved from one to another, slowly, and—it was a hideous, unwelcome surprise to me—her face illuminated with genuine pleasure. I looked at her, and I saw how wonderfully her dark tresses framed her face, and how her beauty contrasted with the darkness of what I’d painted … and I felt like some creature out of the swamps.
How could she possibly like my work? It wasn’t meant to be liked! Only I could like it.
“I had no idea,” said Saskia finally, swinging around. “Just no idea at all. I mean, Daniel said you were an artist and everything, but I never saw—my God. I’m so impressed. These are so good. They give me the creeps.” She moved closer to the smallest painting, the murky greenish one. “Wow.” She put out her hand.
“Hey!” I said sharply. “Don’t touch!”
She snatched her hand back. “Sorry.” She said it as if she meant it.
“Sorry,” I said also, after a second. “I get a little possessive. And they’re, well, fragile.”
Saskia said, “I understand.” She moved slightly more toward me, but she didn’t come as confidently close as she had in the past. And she was still looking around carefully, as if she too had stepped through the looking glass into a world full of strange and surprising objects. As if she wasn’t sure what to do or say next. She frowned.
I couldn’t think of anything to say either. I stared at her stupidly. I watched her continue to scan the room and its contents: the pillows heaped on my bed, the rumpled quilt where I’d just been lying down, the carefully ironed white cotton curtain on the small single window, the dark corner next to it …
Where the mirror was. Screaming—once you noticed it—in its own way.
Saskia’s eyes widened and she took a step toward it, her brow furrowing. “Frances, what’s that?”
“It’s a Jewish custom,” I said tensely. “You drape the mirrors in black when you’re in mourning. You’re not supposed to look at yourself or think about yourself.”
There was a moment of silence in which Saskia regarded me carefully. Then: “But only for a week,” she said. “Only while you sit shivah. Right?” And yes, that was the familiar Saskia voice, the one I loved to hate, with its derisive undertone.
My own familiar response snapped into place too. “I’m still in mourning,” I shot back.
Saskia lifted her chin. “So am I,” she said. “I’m just a little less theatrical about it.”
And, just like that, dislike shimmered naked in the air between us, on both sides. The wise find peace on hearing the truth. Now there was an aphorism that was absolutely correct. “What did you come here for, Saskia?” I asked bluntly.
Saskia smiled, and for once it wasn’t a pretty sight. “To tell you that I haven’t changed my mind. I don’t want you involved with Unity. I want you to tell Patrick no, and then go back into your cave. Just go back to doing whatever it is that you do. Stomping around alone on campus. Draping mirrors in black. Painting.” She waved toward the walls. “Whatever. Just stay out of Unity.”
“Really,” I said.
“Really,” she mimicked. Her face was very hard. Her cheeks were suddenly flushed. “Come on, Frances. It’s not like you have any great personal attraction to charity work. I’m not fooled. Neither are you. And—Daniel wouldn’t be either.”
That hurt, but I wouldn’t show it. “Then why do you think I’m—”
Saskia cut right in. “Guilt, I suppose. Or you’re tired of being such an outcast. Frankly, I don’t care what your reasons are.” She took a step closer to me, and then another.
I remembered her shoving me, and I backed up a bit.
“It’s not my business to wonder why, after two and a half years, you suddenly think it’s a good idea to work with Unity. It is my business”—Saskia’s eyes narrowed—”to tell you that I just won’t have it. I said it before, and it stands: You are not welcome.”
My own cheeks were flushed now too; I could feel their heat. I was afraid, I suddenly realized. I could feel it in my pounding pulse.
Another truth: I had always been afraid of Saskia.
I didn’t want to show my fear. I managed to say, “Patrick Leyden wants me. So what do you think you can do about it?”
Saskia’s voice was steady. “Quite a bit, actually. Wallace and George and—well, everybody is with me on this. So if you push yourself in, we’ll make your life at school a living hell. I promise you, Frances. If you join Unity, then soon you’ll really, really wish you hadn’t.”
I couldn’t believe this was happening. I said stupidly, “I’ll tell Patrick Leyden that you said all this and—”
Saskia shook her head. “And who do you think he’ll believe? You or me? Who’s established trust with him for years? He’s seen your reluctance. He’ll think you’re making it all up to get out of working on the memorial project. He’ll think you’re a flake.”
She stopped and just looked at me out of that icy face.
We’ll make your life at school a living hell.
I was aware that, in a moment, I might start trembling. I hadn’t quite acknowledged it, but I’d feared what Saskia was describing since I’d started at Pettengill. It was any outcast’s nightmare.
If I looked carefully, I suspected I might find it beneath the black paint of the small acrylic by the window.
“Did you hear me, Frances?” said Saskia. “Did you understand me?” And when I still didn’t reply, she added, “I’ll spell it out, then. One more time.
“Keeping you out of Unity—that’s my little memorial to Daniel. Upholding what he would have wanted. I’m going to do it, Frances. I promise you.”
I looked into her beautiful frozen eyes and I believed every word she said. And I found myself nodding as if impelled—just as I’d nodded when James lectured me about violence.
“Quit,” Saskia instructed. “Quit before you get started. Do it however you want. Letter to Patrick. E-mail. Phone call. I don’t care. Just do it. Do you understand me?”
I nodded again.
“Say it,” Saskia commanded.
“Yes,” I said as if I were hypnotized.
“Good,” said Saskia, like she was praising a dog. She showed me all her teeth. They weren’t perfect; two were crooked. And then, between one breath and the next, she was gone.
Alone, I sat down on the edge of my bed. I held my elbows tightly and I felt my whole body shake.
I hated her. I hated her for reflecting my own weakness, my own fears, back at me. I hated her for seeming to see into my paintings so clearly; and then for pulling out a nightmare and hurling it straight at me. And it was clear now that she really hated me too. It was irrational that that would hurt so much.
Artists aren’t rational, I guess.
I didn’t know what to do. Go on as I always had, as Saskia wanted? Or take Ms. Wiles’s advice, try to become a better, more giving, more participatory person—and face Saskia’s wrath? Both roads seemed impossible. Impassable. How had this happened? I had never wanted anything to do with Unity!
After a minute I reached out and groped, blindly, in the nightstand drawer for Mr. Monkey and my pathetic inheritance from Daniel. I needed whatever comfort I could find.
CHAPTER 18
The next day was Saturda
y. I had a couple of morning classes, but with a twinge of guilt I stayed in bed through most of the first one. I figured I could probably still take advantage of the depressed, in-mourning-for-brother loop-hole. Why not? It was true. It just wasn’t the whole truth.
Getting high last night had not actually helped.
I did go to my second period class, an art open studio. This was free work time, and Ms. Wiles was not supposed to be there. I was relieved; I didn’t think I could face her today.
For nearly two hours I worked in silence on my elephant femur and it did soothe me a little, to work the clay with my hands. Some of the time I eavesdropped on two of the other girls in the studio, Theresa Quinn and Tonia Mack. I wondered distantly what was wrong with me, that I’d never made an effort to befriend even nice people like them. I knew that if I had friends, I would be less vulnerable to Saskia. But it was too late now. You couldn’t approach people when you were desperate. They’d smell your neediness and fear. They’d reject you automatically.
Still, I listened wistfully as they chattered. SATs, a dream Tonia had had and what it might mean, Theresa’s boyfriend’s telephone call last night, an approaching history quiz, a favorite shirt of Tonia’s that had suspiciously disappeared from the dryer. It was like they were in some other country, speaking another language. There was no way to bridge the gap.
It was weird to realize that always before I’d seen the gap as being about the fact that I was on scholarship, or that I was shy, small, freakish-looking. Ten million reasons that suddenly seemed like half-truths. Was there something deeper in me that kept others at a distance?
The period ended. Tonia and Theresa and the others left. I slowly wrapped my sculpture in wet rags to preserve it until next time, and as I did so, dread descended fully upon me. I couldn’t hide in bed or the art studio forever. Right now, for instance, I had to go to lunch. Having skipped dinner last night and breakfast this morning, I was, despite myself, hungry.
I wondered bleakly if Daniel had felt anything like this—this senselessness, this fear, this despair—before he overdosed. I realized he must have despised me. Why else would Saskia be so sure he’d be pleased with her actions?
I had to lean against the wall for a minute or two. Then I put on my coat and marched myself over to the cafeteria and my fate.
Just after I arrived, I saw Andy Jankowski a few people ahead of me in the cafeteria line, carefully helping himself to a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches and a heap of tomato slices. He looked so innocent; so absorbed in his task. I was filled with a wash of warmth for him. I lifted a hand to wave, but he was turned half away and didn’t see me. I let my hand drop. I thought about calling out, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.
Andy, like all resident faculty and staff members, was entitled to eat as much school food as he wanted. But it was rare to actually encounter him in the cafeteria—although I did suddenly have a memory of seeing him talking with a woman who served food there, a quiet, nervous-seeming woman I hadn’t seen in weeks. The other “mentally challenged” Pettengill employee. People had tended to greet her overloudly or not at all. That included me. I couldn’t even remember her name. She had been nearly invisible … like Andy. Like me?
I wondered where that woman had gone. I wondered what it had been like for Andy, when he was a kid, when he went to school. It would have been twenty or more years ago, of course. Had he been in a regular school, or a special one? Had other kids tormented him? Had he been lonely? Had he welcomed invisibility, in the way that I—sort of—did?
Was Sayoko ever lonely in her monastery? My mother had chosen isolation—like me, I suddenly thought. Whereas my father had just accepted it, maybe. Unless that was also a choice?
Andy reached the end of the line. He transferred his food to a large lunchbox he’d brought, then walked quietly out of the cafeteria. The double doors swung easily shut behind him. The din continued. People moved up the line, banged trays, grabbed food, bugged the servers.
Invisible. Or a target. Were those the only possibilities for me?
I wasn’t going to cry. Not here, not now. I was not. I was not, I was not—
“Hey, Frances!” I swiveled. James! His abrupt appearance startled me—thank God—right out of crying. My heart involuntarily sped up, but it was just that his was a friendly voice …
“There are people in line behind you,” James continued, “so pick a dessert already.” He deftly slid in ahead of two kids and into place behind me in line, grabbed two puddings, and dumped one on my tray. “Let’s go!” He grinned down at me. “How ya doing?”
I couldn’t help it. I smiled back up at him. “Hi,” I said.
His sweatshirt said QUANTICO. It was dark blue, and I had to admit he looked good in that color. His hair was loose, for once, on his shoulders. Brown waves, very soft.
“Haven’t seen you lately,” he said. “Where you been?” James looks at you when he talks to you. He watches your face—your eyes, your lips—like it matters to him what you say.
A small rubber ball had taken up residence in my chest and was bouncing wildly between my throat and my lungs. “Around,” I managed to answer.
“So, you okay these days?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah?” He was still looking at me. Looking right down into my eyes. You.
I wanted to take a deep breath, but I couldn’t. There wasn’t enough air in the cafeteria for anything but a shallow gulp.
Oh. My. God.
Ms. Wiles had been right.
I was in love with a small-time prep school drug dealer.
CHAPTER 19
We had reached the end of the cafeteria line. “You wanna find a table?” said my amoral love.
James was willing to eat lunch with me? And, presumably, to talk to me? I required nothing more. “Sure,” I said dizzily.
“Any preference where?”
“No.” I was reduced to words of one syllable. It was all I could do to speak. I followed James, eyes on his shining fall of hair, on his strong shoulders, on his hips in their faded jeans as he threaded his way through tables. All my other problems suddenly seemed like so much accumulated dust. While this one … or maybe it wasn’t a problem?
I didn’t feel like it was a problem. I felt wonderful! Spring was in the air! Flowers blossomed where I stepped! And at any moment the soundtrack would swell. I couldn’t help wondering what music would be most appropriate. Something classic? Bonnie Raitt? Edith Piaf? No, it should be strange and new and lovely. It occurred to me that love was the root of the word lovely, and this seemed a miraculous discovery, a fact of immense significance.
I was going to read that book Beloved. Soon. Today.
But even as I had these thoughts, I knew I was nuts. I knew it was unlikely that James would love me back. I wasn’t pretty, or sexy, or witty, or popular, or anything desirable. And drug dealer or not, he was far above my social station. I didn’t have a station at all, come to think of it. But … I hadn’t heard that he was going out with anyone, not once since he’d started school here in the fall, in fact. That was something. Unless he was gay, which he couldn’t be, not the way he looked at girls. Even at me, just now.
And he was always nice to me. Always said hi, how are you. He’d defended me at the Unity meeting. In fact, he’d been practically my knight in shining armor there—he’d taken on Patrick Leyden himself. Imagine that.
The full extent of James’s extraordinary nature was now clear to me. Except for the drug dealing part. But everyone had faults.
And suppose by some miracle James did like me? Could I get him to abandon his evil ways? Of course, I would need to give up marijuana myself, or I wouldn’t make a credible reformer. It was a good thing I hadn’t had time to get to like it too much. I resolved to flush the remaining weed down the toilet just as soon as I got back to my dorm.
Ahead of me James had found a table that had two empty seats facing each other at one end. He put his t
ray down and pushed it across the table, moving around the edge to sit across from the empty seat that was for me. Happily I put my own tray down and sat. We would talk. I would try, delicately, to get a sense of whether he felt anything for me …
“Hey,” James said easily to the table at large.
I looked to my right. Only then did the faces at the table resolve themselves from blurs into actual people. Unity people. We were sitting at the table where Unity members sat. I was, myself, right next to George de Witt.
It was like being hit in the face by a bucketful of cold water. No. Acid. Something that burned everything else away.
Automatically I scanned the rest of the table. It could have been worse; Saskia was at the other end, well away from me. Nonetheless, she was looking over. I forced myself to meet her gaze. It was empty, icy, like yesterday. After a second she turned her shoulder and continued her conversation.
I looked across at James. His mouth was full. He nodded at me genially, cluelessly, and then chased down his mouthful with half a glass of chocolate milk. “Cold out there today, huh?” he said. “Just getting across the quad, I thought my butt would freeze off.”
Small talk, James style. It was no colder today than it had been the day before, or the day before that. “Yeah,” I said. I looked down at my plate. Stuffed shells with tomato sauce. Carrots. A roll and butter. The chocolate pudding James had gotten for me.
I had been hungry not long ago.
I stabbed a carrot with my fork and put it in my mouth. I chewed. I swallowed. I looked again at James. He was still beautiful, even with a milk mustache. I imagined myself sitting on his lap and licking it off. I thought about Daniel’s cache of condoms.
No! I wasn’t in love with James! I wasn’t stupid and I wasn’t self-destructive. I was infatuated, maybe. But James was a goddamned drug dealer and, worse, he had brought me here to sit amongst my enemies.
Rage filled me. I was a fool to have forgotten even for a few minutes who I was, and what was going on in my world, and that I had a decision I needed to make. A decision that felt as if it were—though I knew it couldn’t really be—mortal.
