The sharp edge of silenc.., p.32
The Sharp Edge of Silence, page 32
“Eight,” he says, controlling a smile. “But multiple times with some, so the total score was higher.”
“And—and Khalid has an athletic scholarship? Lycroft doesn’t give athletic scholarships! This isn’t college.”
“Well,” Seb says. “He may just be getting funded by the Rowing Alumni Club.”
I say, “Like, this is so wrong on so many, many, many levels. I can’t do this, dude. This is—” I lose my balance for a second, and he catches me by the elbow. “I gotta say, man, you don’t seem like that big of a douchebag. It’s the looks. You get away with it because of the looks. It’s like I always thought.”
“I would never do it again. I was only a Lower Mid. Now I see it’s stupid. I went out with Sabrina for most of Upper Mid year, and now I’m with Charlotte. The points—” He shakes his head. “Just let them do their thing; you do yours.”
I raise my eyebrows skeptically. “Seriously?”
He leans in. “The truth is, Max, my dad was a Slycrofter, and he never heard of Bounty Hunter.”
“You told your dad about Bounty Hunter?!”
“Long story,” Seb says, waving me off. “Not worth telling. My point is, we can get it back to the prank focus with you. And that dude Christian. He’s smart like you. My dad said they did a prank a month. None of this Bounty Hunter shit. Maybe some porn on VHS tapes. And the magazines. But that’s it. Oh, and the book. But it wasn’t a contest. Just, I don’t know, a rite of passage. Each time a Slycrofter had lost his virginity, he added his name to the book.”
“But, dude! That was like 1978 or something. Oh my God! We can’t do this now. Like at all. A: It’s morally reprehensible.” I steal one of Nils’s lines, which I think he’d want me to say right now if he could see me, which THANK GOD he cannot. “And two, it breaks like sixteen discrete Code of Conduct rules.” I walk back and forth. “Seb, this shit doesn’t fly anymore. We’d all get thrown out of here in seconds flat if this got out.”
Seb looks amused by my outburst. “Which is why it won’t get out. And why you and I must steer Slycroft back on course. Wonder coxswain, I need you.”
I drop my head in my hands and flip him off. He laughs. “And meanwhile you’re okay with putting a price on Charlotte? What?!”
“They won’t touch her,” he says, but there’s an edge to his voice, and it’s the only split second he reveals how he really feels. At least when it comes to his girlfriend. “And we are not into forcing girls to do anything. Ever. At all. Hey, let’s get Nils to join.”
“Nils would literally have a heart attack. Dead.”
Seb chuckles, and I cannot for the life of me figure out what is funny. “Max, we have to humor Pearce and just gradually move the club in the right direction. The balloon prank for the Big Dip? Epic. Just the beginning of a great prank revival.”
I keep shaking my head, but it’s making me dizzy, so I stop.
“Why aren’t there any other rowers here? Teo and Tyler and the rest?”
“Nobody’s invited them yet. The invite’s a big deal, Max. For life, these guys have our backs.”
I grimace.
“Give it a try. Hell, you just swore you would,” he says. His million-dollar smile returns, and he claps me on the back. “Let’s go get some guys who can follow through while we’re racing that day. You got to show them how to use that app and all.”
Dazed, bombed, I follow him inside.
Ho.
Ly.
Shit.
Q
Me: I’m going to class today. Might sleep in the dorm tonight. They said I can keep the room as long as I want.
Charlotte: Awesome! What can I do?
Me: If you see the asshole tell me where so I can stay away.
Charlotte: You got it. He’s in physics with me this morning. Kessler.
Me: Good. I have art.
Charlotte: Opposite sides of the quad.
Alex is meeting me for breakfast. I know, and dread, telling her the truth. I don’t like her thinking I have mono. And I don’t like there being a secret between us. We meet at the Granola Bar, where no guys go. Safe.
“Hey! How are you doing? Not contagious?” She hugs me, and I’m better with this now and hug her back.
“Nope,” I say. I hate this lie.
We don’t say much as we move through the kitchen. Alex orders a smoothie, and I get a granola muffin and a bowl of fruit. Rosario is working behind the counter today, away from her usual station at Spangler. She looks at my bowl. “Healthy today, eh?” and winks.
“She remembers everything,” I say to Alex when we sit.
“Right? She knows what kind of smoothie I want every time.” Alex takes a sip from the straw. “Did you see the topic choices for the art history paper. I’m doing kintsugi, and if you pick the same thing, I can help you get it done.”
“Thanks. Remind me what that is?”
She laughs. “Making art out of broken things. The ancient Japanese art form. Here.” She gets out her phone. “I sent you the website.”
I open the link and see pots, broken and repaired with gold leaf, and I can see that the repair makes them far more interesting than they were before. “Oh, yeah, I remember. A little.”
“Oh, Q,” she teases.
“Yes, I’ll take your help on that paper.”
“Perfect. Okay, so.” She looks up at me from under her long eyelashes. “About Max . . .”
“Tell me everything.”
That’s all she needs. They go running. They watch old movies. She’s gone to watch crew practice and might join the girls’ team in the spring. They’ve enjoyed having our room to themselves while I’m gone.
My eyebrow lifts with the spin in my stomach.
“Oh! Sorry, that sounds like I’m not happy you’re back. I’m thrilled! It’s just been, I don’t know, kind of magical.” She bites her cinnamon toast.
I manage a smile but internally I’m trying to “note” my reaction to thinking about Alex in a situation where something sexual could happen. This is one of the things Val and Miss Lisa and I have been working on all week. I visualize my fear as a balloon, floating up into the sky. You don’t need to engage with it, Q. Take a breath and let it go.
After an exhale, I say, “I’m really glad for you, Alex.” And this is true. I’m trying to figure out how I tell her the real reason I’ve been at Knowlton all week. It’s a heavy load to drop on someone.
“And tonight is our big date at the Whitney Inn,” she says.
“What?” I whisper. Oh God. The memories come in quick succession:
Ice cubes
Vodka
Crickets
Sandals like bones licked dry
Leather shoes
I grab the edge of the table and feel the color drain from my face.
“Are you okay, Q?” she says, suddenly alarmed. “Here, drink some juice.”
I force down a few sips. Distress tolerance, I hear Val saying. Pick one thing around you to focus on and remember you are in the here and now; you’re not in that memory. My eyes poke around and settle on the large bowl of apples beside the smoothie machine. Breathe, I tell myself. Here and now. The Granola Bar. Friday morning. October. Rosario, glancing at me from the counter. Val says, You got this, Q.
In a moment, I’m able to focus on Alex again. I don’t know what I was thinking. I can’t tell her about me right before her big date. She’d feel all guilty and want to stay home, or maybe she would accidentally borrow my experience and become scared around Max, who’s harmless.
“Q?”
“I’m a little shakier than I thought,” I say with a weak smile.
“Do they know why your eyelashes fell out? I’ve never heard of that before.”
“I think I did it in my sleep,” I lie. In fact, it’s a compulsion that some people with trauma get. Miss Lisa gave me little tins of this stuff called Thinking Putty that I carry in my pocket to squish every time I feel my hand going to pinch the butterfly bruise or pull an eyelash.
Alex looks confused. I change the subject. “What are you going to wear?”
I focus really hard on the different choices she describes, just staying in the moment. I manage to give thoughtful feedback, and soon we’re on our way to class. Alex is going to calculus, on the other side of campus.
“We can meet in the room at five,” I say. “For preparations.” She laughs and breaks off at a fork in the path.
It’s weird, I’m more scared of running into him now than I was when I had the gun fantasy—which Val would call a maladaptive coping strategy if she knew I had it. Still, even with my AirPods in, I feel a little naked. I play “Landslide” on repeat. The Stones and Lenny Kravitz and the Police—they took me away when I needed it most. Stevie Nicks brings me back. Her emotional honesty just fits right now. It’s brave. Strong.
I make it to Drawing and Painting II without incident. Per Miss Lisa’s advice, I silently note this and add it to a mental tally of small victories over fear. I’m the last student in the classroom. Oh, the smells of the old me. Breathe in, I tell myself as I enter and take my seat.
“Hey, Q,” Nils says. “Alex said you had mono?”
I look at the floor. “Mm-hmm. But I’ve been resting since Monday, so . . .” I do jazz hands. “Here I am.”
“You missed the falling-in-love montage,” he says, a sly smile on his lips. “Of Alex and Max. They’re quite the lovebirds.”
I smile and nod. “Yeah, so I’ve heard.”
“Thank you, by the way, for vacating your room so they had a place to . . .” He emits a short chuckle. “Express their feelings.”
Nils has stayed the same. I am flooded with gratitude. “You’re welcome,” I say, smiling.
Ms. Weller introduces the subject of our drawing today. Beach rocks she’s collected from Cape Cod. “We’re noting texture. Color. Subtle patterns, bold patterns. We’ll use only the grays and beiges, and it will be up to you to find the range of values that one pencil is capable of delivering.”
The range of values one pencil is capable of delivering. This feels like a concept that applies to more than just art. Ms. Weller has a couple of students help her pass out tubs of rocks and tins of pencils while we retrieve our sketchbooks, and I think: People. People are capable of delivering a range of values. I am. I’m not one monotone piece of broken geometry. I’m dozens of pieces, with lots of songs, that fuse to make one. Like the cubist woman on the wall at Knowlton. Like all the little shapes that come together in a complex, colorful pattern lace on a butterfly wing. Something pops in my head. Like, literally, I hear a pop! The leopard lacewing, with the holes in its wings. Me, a broken-winged butterfly. Kintsugi gold leaf—
“This looks really hard,” Nils says in a pretend-whiny voice. We’re sharing a pencil tin.
I blink, leaning back in my stool, trying to be present. “It does. But look at this one,” I say, holding up a smooth, oblong shape. It’s gray with black and charcoal polka dots all over. In between the dots are glittery specks.
“Looks like a professional design job,” he says. He holds up a different stone. It’s smooth but unevenly shaped, charcoal with a silver band around it.
“Ooh.” I breathe in.
This is the therapy I need.
We draw quietly for a while. I hear the sound of the pencil points sweeping over the pores of our paper. The squeaks of the stools we all sit in. The sound of Nils fishing through our shared tub of rocks.
“How do you like this one?” he asks.
It’s pale gray and flat.
“I love that color. How can a gray rock seem warm?” I ask, then wrinkle my nose because it sounds stupid.
“Right?” he says, and keeps digging around. “Oh, look.”
I do.
“It’s shaped like a heart,” he says. And in a single-beat rest, Nils flushes red. Cadmium red.
Our eyes catch, and I feel myself blush, too. Then: The intruding thought. Of last year, when I wondered if I should’ve said no to the rat bastard, so I could have gone with Nils. I didn’t listen to myself.
I stare at the rocks.
“Sorry, I— That—” he stammers.
“What? It’s okay—” But what can I say? I reach for a new pencil, and the whole tin flies off the table, pencils spraying the floor like they’re shot from a sprinkler. The can clatters, rolls, stops.
Everyone looks at me. I pop off my stool, rushing to pick them up. But the room goes all wavy when I bend down.
Ms. Weller appears beside me, gently taking my arm. “Q, take it slow, honey.” I nod and hold the table. She stoops and begins collecting pencils. “Let me.” Nils joins her and maybe another kid. It’s chaotic until the purple dots clear from my vision.
“Thank you,” I say, sitting again.
Ms. Weller examines me when she stands. It’s not an “are you okay?” look, but something totally inscrutable. “How is your butterfly coming, Q?”
Random, I think. “Um, actually, I’ve done a bunch of versions. The wings are kind of hypnotizing.”
She smiles. “I’d love to see. Do you have time to bring them by during my office hours this afternoon?”
Maybe I will go work on them again and then show her. I nod, trusting my gut that this will be good.
Nils returns the can to the space between our papers and brings me a cup of water from the bubbler in the corner of the room. The class resettles.
“Thanks,” I whisper. “That was horrifying.”
“Meh,” he said. “It’s better than falling off your stool, which I have done.”
I snort in spite of myself.
“Hey,” he says. “Since our roommates have their hot date, want to go to the movie playing tonight? I think it’s Ghostbusters.”
It catches me so off guard, I just stare at him. I must do this too long, because he starts to crack a smile. “Um, hello?”
“Oh!” My heart is warmer, but it’s still gray. Like the rock. “Sorry. Um, yeah, that sounds nice,” I say. “But I don’t think I can stay awake past seven.”
He nods really fast in a way that tries not to look embarrassed and therefore reveals he is. “Right, sorry.”
I want to give him some sign that I would go to a movie with him if I wasn’t a complete wreck. I wish I could say, Well, actually, this is the longest I’ve been out of the counseling office since Sunday afternoon, and I’ve been talking to a painting all week. Instead, I try to telegraph my good intentions and settle with these out-loud words: “Can we do it another time?”
More nodding. “Sure.”
God damn you to hell, Colin Pearce.
At the end of class, we leave the building together and walk quite a ways on the path, until he has to veer toward Burrell House, where he has Poets and Society class.
“Nils, I really would go to the movie if I didn’t feel so . . . weak,” I say.
“I believe you, Q,” he says. His eyes are clear, catching sunlight.
Nils is safe, I realize once and for all.
“Thanks,” I say. I want to tell him more. Part of me wants to just be able to say what happened and why I’m a wreck. And I think, if I got attacked by a bear or a shark, it wouldn’t have to feel so deathly personal. But I got attacked by a monster who’s walking around campus like he owns it.
I’m a few paces away, starting to feel the swirl of my anger. The anger is so. Fucking. Exhausting.
“Hey,” Nils calls from behind me. I turn. “Catch!” He tosses something. My hand reflexively darts out and the object smacks into my palm.
I look at Nils. “Took it by mistake,” he says. It’s the glitter rock. My heart rebounds, fluttering off the ground. A butterfly. I smile.
“Thanks,” I say. Then I go back to Knowlton. I have a plan for my butterfly now, and I’m eager to begin.
Max
“Good evening, Mr. Loeffler-Hannigan,” says the hostess at the Whitney Inn named Stacy, according to her name tag. Stacy tips her head in deference, obviously unaware that she’s been fed the wrong name by damn Pearce, who made the reservation for me. This is his idea of funny.
“Wayne Uff,” he’d said to me earlier this week. “Trust me on this. I know the right people. You want to get a table in the glassed-in room. It’s romantic as fuck.” He does not see this as an ironic description. Still, romantic is good, so I let him take care of it.
“It’s Hannigan-Loeffler,” I say, sending her into a flustered apology while she corrects her reservation list. Stacy is taller than me by a solid three inches, which makes Pearce’s joke sting more. Luckily, Alex is still hanging up her coat. I had wondered if I should go the whole gentlemanly route and remove the coat for her, or if she’d think that’s condescending. I’m not sure I made the correct choice, but at least it spared me this embarrassment. Alex rejoins me, smiling. She’s wearing a bright green dress with big white flowers, and her hair is loose and kind of wild, and she’s all my dreams come true in one person.
We follow Stacy through the dining room, which is full, supporting evidence for why Pearce needed to pull strings for a good table. It is the first real Friday night of leaf-peeping season in New Hampshire, after all. We pass through an open set of French doors into a small room filled with honey-colored candlelight playing off the antique paned windows. There are only two tables, separated by a large potted tree trimmed in tiny white lights.
Stacy seats us, and Alex sighs. I nearly do myself. When we’re alone, Alex whispers, “I think this is the best table in the whole restaurant.”
“I knew I had to make reservations early,” I say.
And that’s the first time I’ve been less than 100 percent honest with her. But we roll on. It’s harmless, I tell myself, ignoring an inner rebuttal that reminds me I lied to Nils, too.
“Look at the roots of that tree,” Alex says, pointing. “They grew into a braid on that part.”
“Oh, yeah,” I say, thankful she brought up something dorky people notice, thus raising the possibility that I’m not so dorky, after all. Because Alexandra Buchanan is no dork. “It’s a ficus,” I say. “My mom is obsessed with them. We have about ten in our apartment at home.”
