Trust Exercise(21)

“I’m a virgin,” Julietta says, as if making this notification by her choice alone.

“You’re a virgin,” says Colin, strangely trapped by her into neutrality. Any scorn, any glee he exhibits will confirm his juvenility.

“I’m a virgin,” Julietta repeats patiently. There’s no kindness mixed into her patience. No unkindness either. Only acknowledgment that Colin might need to be told more than once.

“You’re a virgin,” says Colin increasingly sadly.

“I’m a virgin,” Julietta says, pitying Colin’s sadness. His thinking is still undeveloped.

The class loses count of the number of times Julietta and Colin exchange this statement. Sometimes Mr. Kingsley will stop repetitions for obvious reasons. Eruption and resolution. Power-trade. Clear successions of tone, giddiness to sadness to indifference, as random as changes of weather. Other times he allows repetitions to drone on and on. Then, even to those who aren’t speaking, the words will become nonsense sounds that no fresh inflection will ever renew.

At last, interposing between Julietta and Colin, Mr. Kingsley says, “Thank you. Excellent.” The class is sitting very still, all hilarity, amazement, discomfort forgotten. Their shared mental condition is akin to hypnosis.

Julietta and Colin remain in their chairs for a moment, regarding each other. Then Colin stands and with goofy sincerity holds out his hand. Julietta shakes it.



* * *



“YOUR EYES ARE blue,” Sarah says, perhaps the least observant observation she could make. Almost hostile in its insipidity.

“My eyes are blue,” says David, with such perfect neutrality he cannot be charged with indifference. He might have said, “One two three four,” or hummed notes. No: humming, by the nature of song, would be far more expressive.

“Your eyes are blue.” She’s learned if she stares straight at him he goes foreign to her and she no longer sees him, yet Mr. Kingsley cannot accuse her of avoiding eye contact.

“My eyes are blue.” Perhaps David’s doing the same, staring at her so that, like the sun, she blinds him.

“Your eyes are blue.”

“My eyes are blue.”

“Your eyes are blue.”

It’s been weeks of the same. A punishment everyone shares, for neither of them will give up an inch, not a flush nor a flinch nor above all a tear. It exalts Sarah almost, this death of her heart, this drought of her tears. Perhaps she is actually getting somewhere: at least, she’s learned something from David. An utterly passive, compliant resistance. In the beginning, their rigid impasse fascinated their classmates. Now, it’s a purgatory. Their classmates hate watching them even more than they hate sitting there. They never fulfill the objective. They never win praise. They are never allowed to advance. Unlike everyone else, they’re exclusively paired with each other.

“My eyes are blue.”

“Your eyes are blue.”

“My eyes are blue.”

“Stop,” Mr. Kingsley barks, flicking a hand in disgust. They are both now persona non grata. In unconscious tandem they stand up, turn away from each other.



* * *



“HABLAS ESPA?OL,” JOELLE says to Manuel with a twinkle of mischief. The room rustles with reinvigorated interest. They’ve never heard Joelle speak in Spanish, they’ve hardly heard Manuel speak at all, and repetitions in Spanish are unprecedented, they’re not even sure they’re allowed. How cool of Joelle! Their estimation of her rises sharply.

Manuel smiles, surprised. “Sí, hablo espa?ol.”

“No additional words,” Mr. Kingsley says. Manuel colors slightly.

“Hablo espa?ol,” he amends.

“Hablaaaaaaas espa?OLLLLLL,” Joelle mugs, in the voice, perhaps, of a chain-smoking Chihuahua. They’re all sitting up, wide awake now, delighted.

Manuel colors a little bit more, but he feels her warmth: it’s conspiracy, not condescension. “Ahh-BLOW,” he bleats with crazy nasality, and they all burst out laughing, “ehhhhhhhsPA?OWELLE,” so it rhymes with “Joelle”!

Joelle shimmies her shoulders and pushes her breasts toward him, raising one arm in the air. “AAAAAAAHHH, BLAAAAAAAAS!” she sings with power if not beauty, tinting pink from the effort, middle C, up to G, they-sing-with-her-in-their-minds, “EHHHS-PAHN-NYOLL!” she concludes, A, B, ending up on that high C …

“Woo, girl!” Angie calls out, and she isn’t admonished, they’re all breathlessly watching Manuel, will he, will he, will he?

Manuel is smiling back at Joelle with his lips slightly pursed, as if to say, “You naughty thing, someone ought to spank you, but not me, I’m too likely to laugh.” They’ve never seen such animation, such knowledge, in Manuel’s face before, and then, as if timing is another of his secrets he’s kept hidden from them, without windup or warning he does it, unleashes his voice in the room, “Ah, ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-AHHH-BLOHHH,” he unfurls bafflingly—how can such sound issue forth from a kid in a chair—“eh, eh-eh, ehhhhh, eh-eh EHHSSS … PAHNNNN … NYOLLLLL,” his concluding bass note rolling through like a velveteen landslide. Their howls of approval are equally meant for Joelle, she and Manuel are heaving with laughter, sliding out of their chairs, they are total subversives, and yet Mr. Kingsley is laughing and clapping the hardest of all.