The Swap(9)

Got tied up at school. Can I come tomorrow?

Within a minute, she replied.

Of course! You can come anytime.

And then, three heart emojis. Three.

With a small smile on my face, I turned off my phone.

? ? ?

When I arrived at the studio the next day, Freya didn’t mention my drunken performance, or the scream I had heard (or dreamed). She acted like the night had never happened, chatting breezily about a movie she’d watched recently, and a fish pie Max had made for their dinner. Since our cocktail party, she seemed to take an interest in me. Or, more accurately, an interest in my living situation.

“I’m so glad you opened up to me about your family,” she began, as we pulled our works-in-progress from the drying shelves. “I think polyamory is really modern and evolved. Monogamy isn’t easy. In fact, it’s impossible for some of us.”

For some of us?

“My parents cheated on each other constantly,” she continued. “And they’d get so fucking jealous. Once,” she said, moving to the open door to sand a vase in preparation for glazing, “my mom tried to run my dad’s mistress down with her car.”

“Jesus.”

“She missed her, thank God. Drove into the side of the restaurant.” She set down the sandpaper. “You’re lucky that your parents are mature enough, and self-confident enough to have sex without all the possessiveness and ego.”

She had a point. The free-loving adults in my life never tried to run each other over. So, I said, “I guess.”

Freya resumed her vigorous sanding. “How do you know which guy is your dad?”

“My parents were monogamous when I was born.” I was at the wheel attempting to trim the bottom of a vase. The clay was too dry, causing it to flake and chip under my tool. “Vik and Gwen joined the family when I was about five. Plus, Vik’s Indian. If he were my dad, my complexion wouldn’t look like skim milk.”

“Your skin is alabaster,” Freya said, causing me to flush with delight.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if my dad wasn’t actually my dad,” she continued. “I was going to do one of those DNA tests, but if he found out I wasn’t his, he’d be angry. And what if my real dad was the pool boy or something? Or worse . . . an agent!”

I chuckled, though I knew nothing about agents.

“Besides, if things with Max and me don’t work out, I’m going to need my rich daddy.”

My carving tool gouged the clay, and I stopped the wheel. Were there problems in Freya’s marriage? Was there a possibility that she and her husband would separate? They looked so perfect together. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would ever leave a man like Max. Or a woman like Freya.

She didn’t seem to notice my physical reaction. “When you get older, will you have an open relationship?”

My response was instant. “No.”

She looked up from her project.

“I want to be treasured,” I said. “I want to be someone’s one and only.”

Freya seemed taken aback by my vehement response. I couldn’t blame her. Given my lack of romantic experience and prospects, it was surprising that I’d given the question previous thought. But I had. I’d given it a lot of thought.

Despite my lack of partners and sexual interest, I was still consumed by romantic notions. I’ll admit I fantasized about Freya. And, sometimes, about Max. My attraction was aesthetic (I wanted to drink in their beauty) and sensual (I longed to cuddle and hold Freya; to be held and cuddled by Max). One day, I might develop sexual arousal, but what I wanted, now, was a significant other, someone who would adore me, worship me, and possess me.

I’d had to share all my life. I was done with it.





8


In June, I graduated from high school. The ceremony was held in the school gym, decorated with crepe paper streamers and rosettes in our school colors, navy and gold. My entire family was in attendance. From my vantage point on the stage, I could see them: my pregnant mother; my dad; Gwen and her lover Janine; Vik; and my brothers, Leonard and Wayne, filling an entire row of folding chairs. My heart pounded with dread as I waited to receive my diploma. When my turn came, I would have to walk across the stage, shake hands with Principal Graph and pose for a photo. I hoped my entourage wouldn’t clap too loudly, whistle, or cheer, thus drawing attention to their numbers. I felt guilty for being ashamed of them, but I was.

And then there was the issue of my name. My full name that would be announced as I crossed the stage to receive my diploma. As the story goes, the precise moment I slid from my mother’s womb into the tepid paddling pool set up in our cluttered living room, a tiny blue bird had alighted on the windowsill.

“Look.” My mom pointed at it with a trembling hand.

My father saw it, too. “Is it a robin? A sparrow?”

If only.

The doula placed my slippery, squirming body on my mother’s chest.

“It’s a swallow,” she said. “I’ve never seen one perch on a windowsill before. They usually prefer wires or fences.”

Oh, the poignancy! They knew. They just knew. My parents considered themselves artistic, spiritual beings. They convinced themselves that calling me after this little bird was poetic, when really, it was just literal. And kind of lazy.