The sharp edge of silenc.., p.31
The Sharp Edge of Silence, page 31
She lifts her eyebrows.
“Stay in your lane.” My voice is a knife’s edge.
“Excuse me?” She emits a short laugh but looks a little frightened.
“You heard me,” I say. I’m kind of making myself sick, but I can’t stop. “Giving blow jobs to upperclassmen is a dangerous game.” It’s like I’ve fallen into this well-established groove and there’s nowhere to go but forward, like a spinning marble on a run.
“Are you, like, slut-shaming me?” she says, voice hoarse.
“No. I’m warning you.”
I brush past her but catch her face in a mirror reflection of another reflection. She’s bright red. Then I see her cry. Which makes me know it’s true. He did cheat with her. It’s just like I’ve always known. I’m not good enough. Not sexy enough. Not a good enough kisser. A prude. I’m just a fucking Goody Two-shoes, not an effortlessly cool bohemian like Sabrina Godfrey, or a confident sexual diva like Bodenrader.
The second I’m out of the building, I burst into tears. Who wrote the notes? They were true. I need to find Hannah. I’m not even halfway to our dorm when I get a text.
Grace: I got my plane ticket! Coming on Saturday with your parents! Get to meet the hot boyfriend, too!
I throw up in the bushes.
Charlotte: I can’t come tonight. I’m sick.
Seb: Oh no! Sorry to hear that.
Charlotte: I’ll be okay.
Seb: Can I bring you something?
How about the truth? BRING IT, SEB.
Charlotte: No thx.
Seb: Okay. Feel better.
Hannah: You okay? I have my second Zoom interview with Margot Pipkin, but I’ll find you after that.
Charlotte: He did fool around with her. I knew it.
Hannah: Shit. Hang in there—I’ll be home in an hour.
I can’t hang in there. I’m a miserable, sobbing mass on my bed. I almost FaceTime Grace back home, to get her input on this. But when I imagine myself explaining everything, she’ll say, Charlotte, is this relationship worth it?
But she doesn’t know Seb. Hannah’s right. Again. I have to confront him. So, even though I feel like an alien has invaded my body, I pull myself up, splash my face with cold water, and text Seb.
Me: Can I come over?
Seb: Feeling better?
Me: Yeah.
He meets me at the dorm doors and holds one open. I follow him to his room. Chauncy’s bed is crisply made, a reminder of his absence.
“Plenty of room in here,” I say. It’s awkward and out of the blue.
Smooth as ever, Seb looks around, nodding, like he just noticed. Then he looks at me. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m—” I start. I have not choreographed this ahead of time, and I don’t know what to say. “I don’t think you’re being honest with me.”
“What do you mean?” His eyes are steady. I’m going to show I’m jealous if I say it. Fuck it.
“What’s the deal with Sofia Bodenrader and you?”
He guffaws, like I’m joking, but quickly sucks that back in when he sees my eyes well up. “Absolutely nothing. I’ve known her my whole life. She’s like a little sister to me. Lots of the guys are into her. I just feel protective, like a brother would. But she can take care of herself.”
I squint, not sure what to believe. I picture Sofia’s face, red and crying. Does that really prove anything? I might have cried, too, if I were in her shoes. “So, no”—I wince, barely able to say it—“blow jobs?”
“What?” He looks mildly disgusted. “Definitely not. And . . . why?”
“A rumor. You know the Littles,” I say vaguely. I sit there, stunned, my insides slowly dissolving. I just can’t go into the anonymous notes. I want out of this conversation. I feel like I’m showing my weakness, while I’ve been so good at hiding it all this time. A panic rises. What have I done? I was so harsh on Sofia. I let myself get catty. The ugliest side of girls, turning on each other. I went there.
And I was wrong.
“Oh God,” I whisper.
I’m almost too distracted to notice Seb step closer. “Charlotte, I told you. I’m one hundred percent with you.” He wraps me in his arms, but I’m stiff. “Hey,” he says softly into my hair. “I mean it.”
I look up. He kisses me. “Okay,” I say. I want to believe it. I want to have everything fall back in its magical place. But I guess I’m just too tired to feel it.
October
14
Charlotte
“I won’t be surprised if she doesn’t come to rehearsal today,” I say to Hannah. We’re stretching at the portable barre set up for us on the stage of Osher Performing Arts Center. “I wouldn’t even blame her.”
“She’s coming,” Hannah whispers. “I stopped in on her before classes today. I will say it’s mostly because she doesn’t want to get on the wrong side of Madame.”
“I can’t breathe,” I say. “She could tell Seb, you know. I couldn’t blame her for that, either. I frigging snapped.”
“Here she is,” Hannah whispers, and flips to face me. “Go. Now. Don’t let it simmer.”
Over Hannah’s shoulder, I see Sofia drop her bag in the stage wing. Her jaw is set hard as she takes off her warm-up pants.
“I’m going to barf again,” I say.
“Just tell her you’re sorry. Admit it. Be honest. It’s the only way.”
I have no experience having to totally eat humble pie, as my dad would say. I like being the easy kid, the good kid, the nice kid. I don’t know how to be anything else. Well, I didn’t know.
Sofia glances up from putting on her slippers and quickly looks away. Her body tenses.
“Sofia?” I say, and have to clear my throat. “Um, I really need to talk with you.”
She’s not having it. Zips her bag. Stands up. Still not looking at me, she says, “What? Is it my pas de chats? Port de bras?” She starts for the barre. “Or is it just me in general?”
“Wait,” I say. She stops. “I totally deserve that. I don’t blame you for thinking I’m a complete bitch based on the way I treated you. I was horrible.”
She turns. “I don’t even get what I did to you.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Someone sent me an anonymous note that said you and Seb were fooling around behind my back.”
She screws up her face. “What? That’s borderline incest.” Then she laughs, sharp and quick, like a stab. “But you believed it? Nice. Way to trust your man. And thanks for assuming I’m the kind of person who wrecks relationships.”
“Sofia, I swear to God, if you had any idea how horrible I feel. I never act like that. I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t even recognize myself.”
“It’s called jealousy,” she says. “I guess I should be flattered. Charlotte Foresley, jealous of a First Year.”
I close my eyes. “Look, I’m sorry. If I could undo yesterday I would entirely undo it. I threw up after I left here last night because I felt like such a shit.”
She stops. I see her dimples crease in her cheek. “Wait. You did?”
She’s going to laugh at my throwing up? And then I think, It is kind of funny.
“Yes.” I look away. “It seems melodramatic now, but at the time . . .”
“That does make me feel better,” she says. “I mean, you know, knowing you felt that guilty.”
“I don’t do well with guilt,” I say.
“Apparently not,” she says, grinning wide. I smile.
“Sofia, it took guts for you to show up here today after that. I’m really sorry, and I’m so glad you’re the kind of person who can just . . .” I think. “Be above the petty stuff.”
She nods. “It’s not the first time. The group of girls I hung around in middle school didn’t like when a couple of boys paid attention to me, and they started to exclude me from all their sleepovers and shit.”
“They were jealous,” I say.
“That’s what my mom said.” She shrugs. “So I just decided, who needs them?”
“Well, I am not like that,” I say. “I promise. It was like I got possessed by a demon or something.” I shake my head. “And by the way, there is nothing wrong with your pas de chat. You’re great.”
She nods. “Good to hear.”
“So we’re okay?” I say.
She tips her head back and forth, and then says, “We’re okay.”
“Thank you,” I say, exhaling fully for the first time in almost twenty-four hours. We walk toward the barre.
“But who do you think wrote that note?” she says. “What did it say exactly?”
Sheepishly, I lean in and whisper the bit about blow jobs. “But ignore it,” I say. “The plan of the person failed. So we can both forget it.”
She nods, but I can tell by her eyes it will haunt her some. I feel a pang of guilt return. “I really wish I could undo making this something you think about at all.”
“Shake it off,” she says, and begins stretching.
Max
It’s the night of my Slycroft initiation. The barn is darker than usual. The mood, faux solemn. I stand between Khalid and Pete Crenshaw in a circle of a dozen-plus guys. Our heads are lowered, and nobody speaks above a whisper. The candles form two rings on the dirt ground with a single candle in the middle of each ring. “They’re titties,” Justin Daniels pointed out when I arrived. In case I’d missed it.
“Like burning effigies?” I’d asked.
Justin kept smiling, his head doing a noncommittal shake/nod. My word choice was clearly too much. He leaves to join other hockey players.
The gaps in the circle fill in, and pretty soon I count eighteen guys. Most of them are a prep school’s version of contact-sport jocks. Meatheads, yes, but like, filet mignon–heads. So I’m surprised to see A. J. Ashby, a champion fencer, and Christian Scholl, a big-league stoner from the Green Futures Club. A. J., Christian, and I are the only pledges, I guess. Pearce comes out from an animal stall wearing a wizard’s robe and rabbit ears on his head. Nate, A. J., and I laugh.
“What’s with the bunny ears?” I whisper to Khalid, casually leaning toward him.
“Shh. You’ll see.”
“Good evening, Slycrofters and pledges.” Pearce is reading from a sheet of paper. “Tonight we begin our meeting with the initiation of three new members to the Slycroft Society. I nominated Max, Pete nominated A. J., and Justin nominated Christian. This ceremony represents their pledge of allegiance to the Slycroft Society for the rest of their lives. They join us in the decades-old tradition of pranking and merriment,” Pearce says. “Gentlemen, don your ears, please.”
With that, everyone except my pledge buddies and me pulls rabbit ears from behind their backs, like they had them tucked in their pants, and sets them on their heads. There is some snickering, but frankly not half as much as I’d imagine. Christian and I catch eyes, and he looks as bemused as me. A. J.’s all business, not cracking a smile.
“Maximo Loeffler-Hannigan, please come to the cleavage.” There are a couple of guffaws from the guys.
“It’s Maxwell Hannigan-Loeffler, dumbass,” Seb says. I nod to him in gratitude and meet Pearce at the so-called cleavage. He calls the other boys over in similar fashion.
“Place your right hands on the holy book of Slycroft and repeat after me,” he says, looking down at us. We follow directions. “I—say your names, please—” We do, and Pearce carries on. “Do hereby swear my loyalty to the Slycroft Society for the rest of my days on this earth.” We repeat his words. I’m realizing as I speak that this means I can’t tell Nils, and I don’t like it, but this roller coaster’s not stopping while I sort out the details. “I promise to seek out fellow Slycrofters after I’m gone from LPS.” We echo him. “To help them in any way I can to secure employment and financial riches.” We repeat this, too, although that’s also potentially not a great thing to agree to. Take the best and leave the rest, I tell myself. “And to readily come to a brother’s defense in times of trouble.” We repeat. Would I defend Pearce? Eh, I guess so, maybe, in the big world out there. “Amen,” Pearce says. “Amen,” we say. I have to admit, there is something kind of unearthly about masculine voices in unison. I actually feel like I’ve just taken a real oath.
“We seal it with a shot,” he says. “Brother McNeilly?” Seb arrives with a tray of shot glasses. The liquid is brown, and one inhale curdles my stomach. Seb retreats into the shadows.
“Slycrofters?” Pearce says. “Say it with me . . . as the pledges seal the deal. Drink!” he commands. We all three slam back the hell water as a rousing shout surrounds us: “Dicks before chicks!” Followed by raucous cheering, backslapping, and handshakes.
I lean toward Khalid and mutter, “Dude, I’m not putting anybody’s dick before my girlfriend.”
He smiles but holds his palm up. “Keep that on the down low, my friend.”
Christian coughs. “What is that?”
“Gold Label McNeilly Scotch,” Seb says. “Best whiskey on the planet.” He refills our cups and says something that sounds like “Slanj-a-va,” which I recognize as the Gaelic Slàinte Mhath, thanks to my grandmother’s Irish pride.
Pearce directs everyone back to the circle, and he says, “You are now junior members. To become ear-wearing full members, you simply need to fuck a girl and get her panties, which we’ll proudly add to our rafters. Nobody goes earless for long.”
Wait, what?! I shoot a glance at Khalid, but he either won’t look at me or is too wrapped up in the spectacle. This is ridiculous. I’m looking around for somebody—anybody—who thinks this is as nuts as I do, but there’s no one. These guys are laughing, and next thing I know, we’re drinking more, and everyone is taking seats on the benches or on the half walls that separate the stalls. “Why ears?” I ask Seb quietly as he passes by with Scotch.
“Playboy Bunnies.” He grins. “You know, the old nudie magazine, Playboy? Pre-internet it was all Slycroft had. Now it’s tradition.”
I’m speechless. And my brain buzzes with alcohol. Pranks, Max. Stick to the pranks.
Pete Crenshaw has taken the floor.
“Bruthuhs,” he says, arms out like a Southern evangelical reverend. “Heads up that our annual Bounty Hunter point setting is tomorrow night. For our pledges: Bounty Hunter is a game where we, the Slycrofters, gather points by hunting down chicks and banging them. Blow jobs count. It is Open Season from Fall Fling through Summer Sendoff, since that’s the last weekend everyone’s on campus. Whoever scores the most points becomes Lord of the Book for the next year. Usually it’s a Senior, but last year Colin Pearce here was the winner as an Upper Middie with one hundred and twenty-three points—”
“A record,” Pearce says, raising his hands in mock modesty. “Thank you very much.” Hooting commences. A pinwheel of anxiety blows in my gut. Oh my God. I take it back; I can never tell Nils about this. I slug back some more McNeilly Scotch. I can’t feel my tongue. One hundred and twenty-three? We’re only in school for one hundred sixty-five days.
“That’s almost one a day. Is that even possible?”
“Not every girl is worth the same amount,” Justin Daniels says.
“But to answer your question, totally possible,” Pearce says.
Laughter ensues.
Pete says, “That’s what point-setting night is all about. We go through all the girls from the new student directory and rate them on a ten-point scale. That allows for some strategy. You know, ’cause we can’t all look like fucking McNeilly over there. He was the only Lower Mid of all time to be crowned Lord of the Book year before last.”
Sweet fuck all, this is my Quantitative Hotness Correlativity Theory in action. It’s evil. I feel lower than shit just having imagined the number system. I need to get out of here.
“I gotta take a leak,” I say to whoever can hear. Outside, I gulp in the October night air and walk toward the tall grass. I unzip and let it fly. I hear someone behind me.
“You okay there, Wayne?” It’s Khalid.
“Holy shit” is all I manage.
“Right?” His facial expression is wide open in delighted wonder, like we just discovered leprechauns. “Buckle up, dude! I told you.”
“Holy shit,” I say again.
“Don’t worry, man. You wanted to sleep with Alex anyway, right? Just snag a pair of her panties and nobody will ask any questions.”
“I literally cannot process those words right now,” I say. I’m slurring a bit. “I mean. What?!”
He unzips his fly. “I love a good piss in the out of doors,” he says. “Listen, Wayne. I know you’re a scholarship kid. So am I.”
“Wait.” I blink at him, chuckle. “You’re a good student?”
“Fuck off. Yes, I happen to be straight A. With some Bs. An occasional C.”
“That’s not straight A,” I say.
“They mostly wanted me for the boat. Anyway, listen. Do the Slycroft shit. It’s going to pave the way for you for the rest of your goddamn life. Mine, too. And it’s fun. Lighten up. Take her to the Whitney Inn for dinner. Girls love being wined and dined. You’re probably getting pretty close anyway, am I right?”
“None of your fucking business. And do not talk about her with your dick in your hand.”
He chuckles. “The Whitney Inn, my friend,” Khalid says. “It’s gonna get you there.”
I don’t want to get there, I think. Well, like that anyway.
Khalid finishes, zips up, and claps me on the back. “Dude, I think you’re done peeing.”
“Oh,” I say, fumbling to rezip.
Khalid snorts and heads back in, passing Seb on his way out.
Seb’s looking at the ground, smiling. “I know what you’re thinking, Max.”
I shake my head. “Do you? Seb. Seb-Seb-Seb-Seb-Seb. I cannot do this, Seb. I just . . . What?!”
“Max, you know it’s mostly Pete and Pearce who take this seriously. Right?”
“Says ‘Mr. Youngest Lord of the Book Ever.’” I do air quotes, but my timing is off. “How many people did you sleep with that year, anyway?”
