Trust Exercise(28)
But he never is.
* * *
“BITCH,” JOELLE SAYS in her ear. “Get your own fucking ride.”
* * *
“AND IT STRIKES me as inappropriate, extremely inappropriate, for the children to be working at school for twelve, sometimes fourteen hours a day—”
“We’re not children,” Sarah breaks in.
“Certainly the rigors of our program don’t suit everyone,” says Mrs. Laytner, their remote principal, an irrelevant person in pearls. Mrs. Laytner attends opening nights with a fresh corsage pinned to her jacket, she cuts ribbons on new lighting boards, she is quoted in the local newspaper when their school is named a Top Ten. She’s never in Sarah’s recollection even walked down the Theatre hall. “Pre-professional training for children this age is a major commitment. But we believe that our students—”
“And his methods, this teacher’s methods, also strike me as inappropriate.”
“Unconventional, maybe. Mr. Kingsley is a brilliant man, an unconventional but brilliant teacher; we’re incredibly lucky to have him. His methods are directly adapted from groundbreaking—”
“It’s my understanding they’re methods designed for adults.”
“I think if you’re concerned about his methods, it would make much more sense to sit down with Jim and have a discussion—”
“No!” Sarah exclaims.
“It’s time we heard from Sarah,” agrees Mrs. Laytner. “Sarah, do you feel, as your mother’s concerned that you might, uncomfortable in our program? In any way overwhelmed?”
“No,” Sarah says.
“Do you think Mr. Kingsley’s way of teaching is inappropriate for students your age?”
“No,” Sarah says.
“Of course she’s going to say no,” Sarah’s mother objects.
“Isn’t this why we’re here? To ensure her well-being? Sarah, do you feel overworked here? Under too much pressure?”
“No,” she says.
“Is anything concerning you at all about school right now?”
“No,” says Sarah, who still cannot draw three-part breath, still can’t eat, still can’t sleep through the night. “Not at all.”
* * *
“YOU’RE TALL,” DAVID declares, startling her. Their repetitions, Sarah’s and David’s, have taken on the pointless, leaden feel of international diplomacy, of the greatest number of people, the highest level of tension, the longest list of conditions, the profoundest concealed boredom, brought to bear on the tersest and least meaningful utterances. It is the falsest emotion under the realest circumstances, except for now, when unexpectedly David’s tone changes. Game over, it says. Ignore everyone else. Look at me. I am talking to you.
“You’re tall,” David repeats. This is supposed to be objective repetition. The two of them, unique among their classmates, have never been allowed to advance to the subjective repetition. Even Norbert can ace the subjective. But Sarah and David are too immature, too determined to pursue their private drama at the expense of the group. They won’t process emotion, they hoard it. They are stuck in a rut. They are narcissists. Mr. Kingsley delivers these indictments as they sit knee-to-knee in the chairs, as if Sarah and David aren’t present, as if their immaturity and narcissism and stuckness also mean they are deaf. In a way, Sarah is. Having fought for the right to remain in this school, in this class, in this hard plastic chair, she stares, unflinching, deaf, blind, into David’s unavailable agates and he stares back, no one home, curtains drawn. Until today, when he sits forward slightly. “You’re tall,” he tells Sarah. Her heart lurches. Sarah’s height is average. She is shorter than David. If he took her in his arms, her cheek would find rest on his sternum.
“I’m tall,” she says carefully, as if afraid to misconstrue him.
“You’re tall,” he confirms.
No one else in the room with them now. The rest of them mere furniture. Mr. Kingsley has moved right in front of them, blocking the spectators’ view, his arms crossed and his thin lips compressed with displeasure. Even he’s furniture.
“I’m tall.” Gentle skepticism: Don’t you think that’s a little bit silly? When we made love, my face smushed in your chest. Turning my head, I could feel your heart denting my cheek.
Telepathy received. Private smile: No argument here. But despite that, “You’re tall,” David says.
“I’m tall,” Sarah says, trying it out.
“Take five,” Mr. Kingsley says peevishly. Secret codes aren’t authentic emotion. Sarah and David aren’t behaving with integrity here. They just can’t seem to stop being cryptic; this is not a game, people, it’s life. The familiar condemnation rains down on their heads as without argument they return to their seats. They know everyone sees their disgrace but to them it is weightless, familiar, like the blossomy tree-trash that falls in their hair and sticks there as they’re walking outside. Outside it is March, in their hot southern city late spring. Wildfires of azalea ringing the houses. All the sticky-fingered trees. David is sixteen at last, and his mother and stepfather, as promised, have bought him a car. David drives Sarah home, and though their companionship is stiff and wordless Sarah sits in his new-smelling passenger seat as if perched on the wing of some fabulous beast. It is David but carries him, too. They feel hopeless delight that they’ll never admit. So this is what they might have had. Flying through their city unwatched, their arms warming the narrow abyss where the gearshift stands guard between them.