Authors: Emily Franklin
So, rather than simply point my toes towards the mirrored wall, I do it while trying to figure out the angle I want to choose for my PMT project. Instead of singularly allowing myself to “become one with my breath” (not breasts, as I’d originally thought), I toy with the idea of not going to Nevis. It’s not that I’m opposed to fun in the sun. On the contrary, going to a tiny island and being pampered by beach boys bringing me beverages sounds pretty damn good. But when Googie Binsworth, an old schoolmate of Arabella’s came over, out came the old photo albums. They showed me photos of similar outings, pointed out a couple of old friends, then a sarong and straw hat, then a stack of beach books — and then casually informed me that these were all items that neither of them had any longer, that the smiling tanned faces were people they’d once called best friends but now no longer knew.
Part of me thinks that this is how money works: you want it if you don’t have it, if you do have it you’re scared of losing it, and if you have too much of it, everything becomes disposable. And that’s what I don’t want to be — the Bic razor equivilent. And while I’m pretty confident that my friendship with Arabella is here to stay, the further into her world of Brit class and calamity I get sucked into, the more chance I have of being part of the past — some old photo of a once-familiar girl.
“And arch, using your core to stabilize…”
I do a quick check of the class in the mirror, making sure I’m keeping up with everyone while my head is somewhere else. I could allow myself the fantasy of thinking about performing with The Choir in front of Prince Charles and his royal clan, but instead, I’m drawn back to the PMT thing. What I’d like to do is figure out a way of exploring the nature of dialogue, of communicating. I’ve realized that that’s the part of music I like best, how you can deliver a feeling just by performing. You can change the mood in a room, make someone swoon or cry or cheer just by having the right notes and the right words. So somehow I want to have a story and a song overlap and…okay, the reality is I don’t know how to translate the ideas in my head onto the page. Kind of like when you’re this brilliant artist in your mind and then when you get out the pencil or crayons everything looks like it was done by a group of second graders. At least that’s what happens to me.
“Hey!” Keena bumps into me after class. “Where’d Piece go?”
“I don’t know,” I say and zip up my sweatshirt. The plus side of Body is that it ends on the earlier side of the classes (some run as long at two and a half hours) so there’s sometimes a couple minutes to talk or trade stories. “She wasn’t in class. I figured she was doing one of the final rehearsals or something.”
Keena grins and rubs under her eye where the liner had smudged. She pulls away a charcoaled fingertip. “Am I raccooning?” I shake my head. “Want to grab a coffee?”
The student café is packed so we end up ducking into the shabby pub at the end of Haverston Street, where I’ve never been before.
“Slumming, are we?” I ask as we wait at the bar.
Keena slides money over to the bartender and nudges me to a back table with a half pint of beer in each hand.
“Isn’t drinking during the day bad?” I ask and smile.
“I thought it was drinking alone,” she says and sips.
“Either way — I’m sure this would be frowned upon by my stateside counterparts.”
“Probably.” Keena takes another drink and looks at me over the rim of her glass. Her dark eyes are bright, staring.
“What?”
“You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine,” she says. She opens a packet of salt and vinegar crisps (AKA potato chips but more flavorful) and we each take a couple, chewing on the food and Keena’s offer.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I say like a southern belle. Keena lived for two years in the states when she was younger, so the reference might not be entirely lost on her.
“Don’t play coy, Bukowski — it doesn’t suit you.”
I lick one of the chips and eat it, swig my drink and then pull my knees up so they touch my chest and I’m tucked in behind the bar table for safety. “What do you think I have to tell you?”
Keena considers for a minute. “Could be a couple of things — though I think I know. But in a million years you’ll never figure out my inner doings unless I choose to spill.”
“So spill.”
“You first,” she says. “And I think we both know it goes without saying that this travels nowhere — these secrets live and die in this shitty pub.” I nod. “Fizzy and Arabella included — right?”
“Right.” I don’t know if Keena knows what I know or if she only thinks she knows what I know — mainly that I am now officially dating — or, um, non-dating Asher. And I know once you tell one person the thing you’re supposed to keep hidden, it only opens up the greater possibility of letting the secret out for the world to know, but I am at this point, about to burst. So in a fit of whimsy, I decide to tell her.
“I’ve been…” I start and then retract. No. It’s best that no one knows.
But Keena beats me to it. “So, how long have you been shagging Asher?”
My palms fly to my face like that will curtail the blushing that seeps from neck to forehead. My redhead skin can only take the smallest shame or worry or nerves before blossoming into a rose garden of reds and pinks. “We’re not shagging.”
“No?” Keena’s skeptical. “What then?”
“We’re…” how do I explain it? “We’re…”
“God, for someone who’s so brilliant with words you have a crap way of talking about your feelings.”
“Why, thank you Dr. Massa-Tonclair. You should think about being a shrink — you have real knack for putting people at ease.” I laugh and try to wrangle the last chip but she beats me to it.
“Sorry — do go on. You were saying so eloquently…?”
“Asher and I are — well, we would be dating or having a relationship — going out, a couple — however you want to phrase it. But since he’s off-limits to me…”
“And you’re off-limits to him…”
I wipe my hands on my sweatpants for lack of a napkin. “By way of default, right.”
“No,” Keena tilts her half-pint up to get the last drop out. “Arabella made a whole thing about it with Asher. She called from Hadley — no, wait, from the airport in Boston when you all were heading over here, and told him to keep his dirty hands off you. Dirty and dismissive were the exact words she used, I believe.”
“Nice. Cliched, but chilling anyway.” I think for a second. “I guess she called when she ditched me at the snack place and went to the bathroom. Why do you know this, anyway?”
Keena examines the lock of hair at the front of her head that’s slightly lighter, more mahogany colored than the rest of the strands. “Asher and I took a drawing class together this autumn. He’s a good bloke — even if he’s misunderstood or in that breaking away from the parents stage that makes him a bit of a prat sometimes.”
“Glad to have your approval,” I joke. “I just wish it weren’t such a big deal.”
We’re quiet for a bit, watching the sports on the small television above the bar, the people walking by outside, the paunchy guy reading his paper in the corner. “So you really like him, then?” Keena asks.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I really do.”
Keena takes out a Labello lip balm, the pink kind with built-in hint of color and offers some to me. I slide on my lower lip and give it back. “Hey — I almost forgot to ask you about your deep dark secret…”
Keena puts her chin in her hand and looks at the table, suddenly very interested in the cardboard coasters that advertise some lager. “This is a big one,” she says. “I can’t tell you here. Come on.”
We stand up and make our way to the very revolting bathroom. Keena slides the brass lock closed and leans on the door. I stand with my hands in my pockets, trying not to step in the dubious puddles on the floor.
“You sure know how to treat a girl right,” I say.
Keena grins. She looks so nervous, which I’ve never seen before. She’s the calm collected girl who responds slowly to things, never appears flustered, has a witty comeback but not so fast she seems over-prepared. “You know the rumors about student faculty relations?” I nod and wait for her to continue. “Well, let’s just say there’s merit to them.”
“Is this about Fizzy? She has a different person in that room every day — and I don’t want to judge her but….”
“No — this isn’t Fizzy. This is me. Me and —”
She’s cut off by Arabella’s sing-song voice. “Lo-ove…Keens? Are you in here?”
I poke my head out from the top of the stall and wave. “Hiya,” I say.
“Are you having a tampon situation or something?” Arabella asks. It does look odd probably, with the two of us huddled in here, but since I’m already lying enough to her I say, “No — just having a conference.”
“I won’t ask,” Arabella says and fixes her jeans in the mirror. Keena and I exit the stall and then the three of us leave the pub and disperse — me without knowing what — or whom — Keena was about to tell me.
“That’s me as a little boy,” Asher says, pointing to a dark-haired black and white image of himself.
“So cute — where was it taken?”
“Here, actually, which is why I wanted to bring you out this way.” Asher jumps down from the riverbank onto one of the houseboats that rock and sway in the Thames. Cloistered away from the rest of the bustle and noise of the city, this little enclave of boats is peaceful and soothing.
“What is this place, exactly?” I get my bearings and begin a tour which takes all of three minutes — an open area at the stern, with empty flower pots and a layer of frost on the tarpaulin-lined bench, then a long galley kitchen with a two-burner stove, and a cozy main room with built-in couches and throw pillows, all of which centers around a wood-burning stove.
“This was Dad’s bachelor pad, you know back in his swingin’ single days.”
“So let me guess,” I say and continue to nose around, opening cabinets, finding half-filled spice jars, a hunk of moldy cheese in the top-loading fridge. “Now it’s your bachelor pad — your den of delights, your…”
“Yeah, that’s it. This is where I keep my harem and I’m bringing you here to join my other wives.” Even in the plural and the ridiculous, I can’t help but catch my breath. Wives. Wife. Whoa.
“We say harem,” I tell him. “Not ha-reeeem.”
“Potato, tomato — whatever. No, I stay mainly at the gallery, I only come here every once in a while. More in the spring and summer. It’s good for parties.” I can envision a floral, wine-soaked afternoon here, sunlight streaming in as the upscale artistic set (read: girls with choppy short hair and Velma glasses, willowy beauties with halter dresses and ballet flats) — I cut the images short before they lead to wondering who else Asher has brought here.
“Maybe we’ll have a dinner party here in April,” he says while I try to open a latched cabinet.
We
. Nice. Asher comes up behind me, his chest pressing into my back — I think he’s about to slide his hands up my shirt or kiss me, but all he does is unlatch the cabinet so it swings open, revealing nothing.
“What’re you looking for, anyway?” he asks.
“In general or in this cupboard?” I ask but Asher only rolls his eyes. “Nothing — I don’t know — just curious I guess.”
We walk over to the couch and both sit with our backs against the arms so our feet just touch, if I stretch myself out. I kick off my boots and notice Asher’s already taken his shoes off. His socks are warm against mine, his toes rub the bottom of my feet. It’s cold enough in the room that my breath comes out in white bursts.
“I always liked to explore people’s houses or their old stuff, letters…it’s like I somehow think I’ll find the core, or some big secret —”
“That just happens to be on display in the overhead cabinet?” Asher crosses his arms over his chest, not in the defensive way, in the chilly way. I get on my knees and crawl over to his side of the couch and lie back on him, so his arms are around me, my legs in between his.
“Fine. Maybe I’m just nosey. But sometimes wonder if someone found my room and went through my music, smelled all the smells of my lotions and shampoo and gross running shoes, if they read my journal, even, if they’d know who I am.”
“Without meeting you, you mean?” I nod, then rest my head back on Asher’s chest so I can feel his breath on my hair. “I don’t think so. I suppose part of you — a large part, even — would filter through. But I think there’s this intangible quality, something you can’t define or translate by objects that someone has or owns, that you can only get by being
with
them.”
“And do think that part is essential? Like you can’t ever know anyone without first getting close to that part?”
“Maybe,” Asher says. “One of the reasons I like photography is for that…you get a whole other sense of someone by how they photograph.”
“Poorly, in my case,” I say. I want to be one of those girls that looks incredible, natural and lovely in each picture snapped of her, but the reality is that most of the time, something’s off — every once in a while there’s a good one, but as a rule, I am not, as they say, making love to the camera.
“No— this is beyond good or bad or photogenic. What I’m saying is that I like the way the lens captures what words can’t, or what might escape your notice.”
“I can see that. Let me see that picture of you again?” He digs through his layers of jacket, sweater (he calls it a jumper), shirt, to his wallet and hands it back to me. “Is there something missing? I didn’t realize before, but what’s the deal with this?”
Asher sighs. “Yeah — this is actually a reprint. Arabella took the original, which had the two of us together — like bookends on the whispering wall — and ripped it. I found the negative and pieced it together. Mum looks so young in it. Dad looks the same, probably due to the beard.”
“Why’d she rip it?”
“Some adolescent fit of rage, I don’t know. She had some argument with Monti about wanting to go to the hunt ball, which of course was far too establishment in Monti’s eyes, so Arabella tore up a bunch of family photos.”
“Which your dad probably thought was a healthy way of expressing her familial dissent,” I joke.