The sharp edge of silenc.., p.6
The Sharp Edge of Silence, page 6
FRYE! DON’T MENTION THE LIBRARY. WE WERE NEAR SPANGLER WHEN WE SAW THE GUY IN THE WOODS. WE THOUGHT IT WAS JUST SOMEONE MESSING AROUND. DON’T SAY WHO. WENT RIGHT HOME.
It’s pretty cryptic and lacking critical details, but I’m relieved to learn this is about the stalker, not us illegally using the 1856 Library or the booze. My muscles relax like I might melt into the floor. I pop up and slip into my UGGs and angora wrap. We walk out the doors into the sunshine.
Dean Frye blinks, pulling the visor on his cap lower. It casts a shadow across his face that makes my stomach bobble. I tighten my wrap. Outside the studio, a leotard transforms pretty quickly into inappropriate attire. He is very careful to keep his eyes up.
“Charlotte, it’s come to my attention that, while accompanied by Mr. McNeilly last night, you encountered someone in the woods. Is that true?”
I nod, afraid to speak.
“Where were you when you saw this person?”
“Outside Spangler.” I feel a stab of pride for checking off one of Seb’s cover story points.
“May I ask why you didn’t report it?”
Is this a trap? “Am I in trouble?” I can’t help myself. You can take the girl out of the goody two shoes, but . . . I swallow, my tongue is sand-dune dry. Keep calm and have another gin and tonic, Charlotte.
“No,” Dean Frye says. He smiles stiffly. “I don’t believe so.” Not reassuring. “I’m just trying to figure out who this . . .”
He searches for a word.
“Stalker?” I offer, and then wish I could suck it back because it’s such a dangerous word. Stalker reeks of psychopaths. I clench up again. What if it was a crazy murderer out there? But then I remember Max and the police and think: Max! He told Frye about this. And I told Max. Seb’ll dump me.
I’m dizzy. I’ve missed a question. “Sorry,” I say. “What?”
“I said, there’s no reason to think it’s anything more than a prank, but you know, with the news these days, students could become alarmed by someone prowling around the woods in dark clothes.”
I nod. I want to say, I was very alarmed!
“It’s not a very funny prank is my point, Charlotte. And I would like to get to the bottom of it so it doesn’t happen again.”
“Right, of course,” I say. And honestly, I’m with Dean Frye on this.
He rocks back and forth on his shoes.
“Oh,” I say. “I have no idea who it was, if that’s what you’re asking.” Goody-Two-Shoes me is pleased this also happens to be true. “Neither does Seb.” To the best of my knowledge.
“Any guesses?” he says.
“Nope.” I shake my head. “It was dark. And he disappeared into the woods as soon as Seb yelled at him.”
“Seb yelled at him?”
Oh crap.
“Well, he said, you know, something like, ‘Hey, who is that?’” A squirrel perched on a low limb behind Dean Frye chitters, like it’s amused at my lie. “I was a little scared,” I say defensively. “I can’t remember exactly.”
“Right.” He inhales, expanding to full head-of-school stature. I know this trick. “Okay, well, if you see or hear of anything like this again, Charlotte, do let me know. Lycroft Phelps is built on the honor code. We depend on each other’s integrity.”
I nod again. “Of course. I guess we should have called Campus Safety, but it didn’t seem like that big of a deal. . . .” I let my voice trail off, hoping he’s satisfied with that.
“It’s not a big deal, but next time,” he says, wagging a finger at me like he’s joking, but he’s obviously not.
I half laugh. “Yes, I will. Absolutely.”
“Thank you.” He gives a small salute. The sun splashes across his face as he turns to go, revealing a tightness across his eyes. Dean Frye is not satisfied, but now my worry is Seb being angry. I text him a thumbs-up and rush back to class, but everyone is packing up.
“He took longer than he said,” I say to Madame. “Sorry!”
She smiles knowingly and nods. “It’s my experience that Dean Frye has only a cursory appreciation for our work. But he is a great supporter of our program, so we overlook his shortcomings.”
I am not sure whether I should laugh.
“Check your email, Charlotte.” She winks and brushes past me out of the studio.
I blink. Hannah, on the floor, untying her pointe shoes, is eavesdropping. Oh my God! she mouths, eyes round. As soon as Madame’s clicking heels fade from the hallway, I scramble for my phone. Hannah’s next to me, grabbing my arm.
“Are you kidding me that her email is callmemadame @lycroftphelps?” Hannah says giddily.
I can’t respond. If I get this, especially as a junior, it takes my college résumé to a new level. I don’t know how long I’ll keep dancing. I don’t know if I’ll ever be professional. But I know I’ve wanted this for so long. Not just for the résumé. For the love of dance.
I tap the email open.
From: Madame Celeste Chu
To: Charlotte Foresley
Subject: Young Choreographer
Charlotte:
Congratulations! You are our new Young Choreographer, selected for this year’s Fall Fling Showcase. Your audition tape was original, and I liked how you fully utilized the stage. For planning purposes, please know that your performance is scheduled for Friday, October 20, in the Orenstein Auditorium, time tentatively 8 p.m. The following people are assigned to your leadership:
First Years: Sofia Bodenrader, Lily Eckern, Vivian Zahner
Lower Mids: Mallory Rathburn
Upper Mids: Skye Vandross, Hannah Hesse
Seniors: Gabrielle Malloy and Felipe de la Cruz
You have full use of studio 5 after classes until 9 p.m. beginning this week. I will always be available to answer questions and offer advice, but I will hold back unless you ask.
Madame
Madame Celeste Chu
Director, Preprofessional School of Ballet
The Lycroft Phelps School
I hold my phone up for Hannah to read. We’re silent for a few heartbeats and then spring to our feet, jumping in a circle.
“You did it!” Hannah cries, hugging me.
“You’re in it!” I say. We laugh.
“I’ll make sure we get a write-up in the Wire,” she says.
I sigh, grinning. “This is going to be a good year for us. You’re assistant editor of the paper, I’m Young Choreographer.”
“We’re both only Upper Mids,” Hannah cuts in. “But you’re dating the Genetic Miracle, and I have Hank. . . .”
“What? Hank’s hot,” I say, which isn’t true. She rolls her eyes, but we laugh again and I compose an email to my parents.
From: Charlotte Foresley
To: Mom, Dad
Fwd: Young Choreographer
LOOOOOOK!
Love, C
From: Mom
To: charlotte.foresley@lycroftphelps.edu, Dad
Re: Young Choreographer
Oh, sweetie! Terrific! We’re so happy for you. Dad says: “They know talent when they see it!” He’s buying our plane tickets right now!
Love you to the moon and back,
Mom and Dad
Q
Ancient Art History class is the best place to be when you want to focus on taking somebody out. A darkened theater, art slides projected on the screen. Nobody notices if you can’t stop pulling your eyelashes. I feel a sense of power at not crying out as I do this. Alex sits next to me; Nils is on my other side.
“Over the course of the semester, we’ll survey ancient art from each continent. . . .” Dr. Politi paces creakily in front of the screen, occasionally pointing at a projected urn or figurine with his trembling red dot of light. It’s when the Greek statuary appears that my chest contracts. I see us walking through the sculptures at the Amphitheater Lawn.
Can you name the Muses? the pig bastard asks.
Calliope, I say, epic poetry;
Clio, history;
Thalia, comedy;
Ourania, celestial bodies;
She protects the stars, I say.
How spectacular is that? I ask.
And then the horrible suffocating sound of his mouth covering my ear.
I suddenly need to bolt from this auditorium. I look toward the aisle for escape. Nils’s and Alex’s faces glow pale, reflecting the screen. My vision rolls in waves. I sit back. Swallow. Close my eyes. Escape while you’re here, I tell myself. The blip blip bleep bleep blip from Anderson’s keypad starts playing in my head. I roll it and reroll it I don’t know how many times, feeling a sense of control return. There has to be a way to crack it. I know there is. I’m holding on to the butterfly bruise without respite. Squeezing it tight.
Alex nudges me and whispers, “I actually love that.”
I realize she’s talking about the black ceramic bowl projected on the screen. Jagged gold lines spread over it like spiderwebs. No, like lightning. Spiderwebs have patterns, this doesn’t. It’s random and messy. I’ve obviously missed something important.
“It’s nice,” I say.
“Not the bowl, dumbass.” She flashes a smile like I’m hopeless.
I stare.
“Earth to Q, come in, Q,” she whispers, waving her fingers in front of my face. “I love kintsugi.” She holds her spiral notebook up so I can read it.
“Kintsugi” 15th century art of broken pieces. Emperor returned broken pottery to China for repairs. He thought they did an ugly job. His craftsmen repaired it with gold.
“Cool,” I say.
Alex throws me a stink eye. “Come on! Finding art in broken things? It’s amazing.”
“It is,” I lie.
She shakes her head and returns to Mr. Politi, who flips the slide to a map. My eyes lose focus. Blip blip bleep bleep blip. If I could get closer to Officer Doughty while he’s punching in the key sequence, and put it into slow motion . . . I could trace the movement of his finger over the numbers.
When the period is over, I let Nils and Alex get ahead of me in the hallway. Ms. Weller, my art teacher from last year, spots me from her studio classroom door.
“Q!” She’s moving in for a hug.
I want to run. I can’t, of course. I have to stop breathing when I catch the scent of her bohemian perfume. Of last year. Of before.
She pulls back. I exhale and smile. She studies my face with her wide blue eyes. Cat’s eyes. “I am so happy you’re taking Drawing and Painting II.” She beams. Strands of silver-blond hair shimmy around her head.
I need to respond. “Yeah,” I say. “Same.”
She continues staring at me, like I’m that shadowy section of a painting where she wants to get the light just right.
Then—because my brain function is liquid these days, spilling between past, present, and future tenses of its own volition—I see a flash of myself using my phone to video Doughty, which I play back in slo-mo after he’s left Anderson. I’m holding the gun. I’m waiting at the boathouse door when Pearce comes outside. His face, first surprise, then amusement, then fear . . .
I blink.
“Quinn?” Ms. Weller’s squinting at me. “Are you—”
“Class starts Monday, right?” I say.
“Riiight,” she says slowly. “You look a little . . . Q, honey, are you—”
I start backing away. “I’m sorry, Ms. Weller, I have to . . .” I mumble nonsense, spin around, and get out of there.
Outside, I feel shaky and guilty. Ms. Weller was my coolest teacher last year, which is why I signed up for Drawing and Painting II. But I’m not who I was and I have no way to explain that to her. Like Rosario, she senses something’s wrong. Some women have maternal instincts that border on psychic.
I hurry along the path, not really focused on where I’m headed, and suddenly I’m passing the bench where it all started last May. Come to think of it, it happened right before Drawing and Painting. On a random Wednesday two weeks before Summer Sendoff. It was one of those moody New England days with blustery clouds skittering across the sun, turning the temperature from warm to chilly and back again so you couldn’t get used to either. I picture myself, sitting on the bench like I was, reading Siddhartha, one of the “hero’s journey” books for First Year English, waiting for Alex to meet me. We were supposed to walk to the art building; she was late. I felt someone sit on the bench next to me, and before I processed who it was, Colin Pearce was like, “Hi.”
I’d only talked to him twice the whole year: Once on Opening Day when he was hitting on Macy and barely noticed me, and once at the Après Skate party during February’s Winter Carnival. And that time he was busy flirting, too, with Charlotte, who brought me and the rest of her Littles group to the party. He asked my name, probably as a way of being near Charlotte longer. When I told him, he screwed up his face. “Q?” he repeated, amused. “Like in the James Bond movies?” And I said, “Yep. British Secret Intelligence. But don’t tell anyone or I shall be forced to shoot you,” in my best accent, which cracked people up and left me feeling pretty clever in that moment. Still, to have him sit next to me—by myself—on a bench three months later took me by surprise that day. I can’t stop replaying it in my head.
“Hi?” I said.
“I’ve kept your secret,” he said, leaning back and stretching his arms along the top of the bench. “About the British secret service.” It was like those three months since the Après Skate were a crease in the time-space continuum. And I have to admit it takes a pretty bold person to fold up time like that, like a paper he could tuck in his pocket because he didn’t live by laws that the rest of us did. It should have been a warning sign. Instead, I played a good little coconspirator.
“Impressive,” I said. “But how do I know you’re not lying?”
He watched the chapel steps, not me, which lent to the feeling we were on some kind of covert mission. A smile broke across his face. “You don’t.”
“You underestimate Her Majesty’s reach,” I replied. “I have spies everywhere.”
“Okay, then,” he said. “I’ll prove it. Come with me to the Summer Sendoff.”
I nearly swallowed my tongue. Even right now, just looking at the bench, I can feel the grooves of the wood slats under my thighs as I shifted nervously. Colin Pearce, inviting me to Summer Sendoff, the social event of the year? I thought. I didn’t want to reveal my shock and awe, but I couldn’t figure out how to answer.
Colin interpreted my silence as reluctance. I’d accidentally employed the perfect response. “We can go to the Whitney Inn for dinner,” he said, like he needed to throw in a bonus chip. It’s the fanciest restaurant for miles around, and I’ve been many times with Boppy and Dad.
I stayed quiet, buying time. Was I supposed to feel flattered? Was it a joke? He looked offended. Or irritated. I couldn’t tell. “Do you have a date already?” he asked.
And then, awkwardly, I said, “Yes, I’ll go with you.” He didn’t react. “Thanks,” I tacked on. God, just thinking I said that makes bile rise in my throat. But when he heard it, he looked directly at me for the first time since he sat down. His eyes were gray-blue and cool as a stone wall. A wolf’s eyes. At least, that’s how I see it now. Maybe I made up those eyes.
“Cool.” He got up, backed away a few steps. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, turned, and left.
I stood. Sat again. Half stood, sat, and then texted Alex.
Me: Where are you??? Major fucking plot twist.
Next I texted Charlotte, hoping she could decipher this development.
Me: You’re not going to believe this. Call me!
But she was heading into dance and said to tell her at our Littles meeting, which we had in two hours. I couldn’t bear two hours. I texted the same thing to Macy.
“Come on, Macy,” I muttered, jiggling my knee. But she was busy being Macy that day, and so I gave up and went to Drawing and Painting. I remember a little explosion of laughter popping out of me like a firecracker. “What the hell just happened?” I whispered.
I spotted Alex just beyond the chapel.
“Finally!” I called, with more enthusiasm than intended. A couple of kids stared.
Alex pointed to her phone with a questioning expression.
I glanced around and waved at her to hurry up.
When I told her, she stopped abruptly, her boots pushing gravel, which added a dramatic punctuation mark. “Whoa-whoa-whoa.” A laugh bubbled from her. “What? How did this transpire?”
“I don’t know! He just asked me out of nowhere.”
“What’d you say?” She studied my face. “I mean, he is a crew god sculpted to perfection. But he’s also kind of a dick.”
“I know!” I whispered. “But what could I say? It’s Colin Pearce, for crying out loud.”
“Of course! You had to say yes. You’re happy, right?”
Was I? “I guess.” We resumed walking.
“Because you could back out, Q. You don’t have to—” Alex said, putting words to thoughts that had swum in helpless circles since he sat down next to me. But it was my fatal mistake to fall for him—the idea of him.
“Alex, are you high?”
“Right.” We didn’t talk for a few beats of gravel, and I remember thinking how it sounded like Dad using brushes on the snare and deciding whether this was an appropriate soundtrack for the occasion, when Alex said: “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“That I feel like a passenger in my own life?” I said.
“Don’t get all Bob Dylan on me,” Alex said. “It means we need a day pass for Saturday to take Newbury Street by storm.”
“You’d shop for my dress even though you’re not going?” She had to leave for a family wedding the day before Summer Sendoff.
“Of course! Fool.” She gave me an affectionate shove. “It’s Newbury Street. And I need a better dress for that wedding.”
Two chuckling squirrels tear across the path in front of me and up a giant maple tree. It’s like I’m coming out of a trance. I’ve walked all the way across campus while lost in memories. In fact, I missed lunch again. “Shit.”
