Tell Me Three Things(43)

“A rose is a rose is a rose. Jessie is Jessie is Jessie.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve read Gertrude Stein?” I ask. My mom was a huge Stein fan, so when she got sick, that’s what I read to her out loud. Mostly The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, but some of her poetry too. “Sacred Emily”: a soothing nursery rhyme of a poem and, it turns out, where rose is a rose is a rose comes from. Not Shakespeare, which would have been my first guess.

Other things I learned then: Chemo blinds you. Steals your hair and blinds you. My mother couldn’t even read at the end.

Rose is a rose is a rose.

“Not much. Just Toklas. Talk about writing in someone else’s voice.” How does he find the time to read everything? Had I not insisted on working on this project, no doubt he would have delivered me an A. Come to think of it, I may end up actually bringing our grade down.

“My mom was an English professor at our local college, and she always used to quote Gertrude Stein. Called her G.S., like they were friends or something. Actually, for her fortieth birthday, my dad and I got her a vintage edition of The World Is Round. It’s this bizarre kids’ book. So random that I just thought of that.” I stare out the window to regain my equilibrium. I don’t talk about my mom to anyone, not even to Scarlett. Certainly not to my dad. Talking about her is like acknowledging that she’s gone, a jump into the unfathomable. Rendering true that which cannot be.

But we are talking about Gertrude Stein, which means we are already talking about my mom, and, I don’t know, the words just came out.

Ethan looks at me and waits a beat. He’s comfortable with silence, I realize. He’s comfortable with everything.

Ethan is Ethan is Ethan.

“I just want to say I’m sorry about your mom. People talk around here. Anyhow, it f*cking blows,” he says. “I know that’s a crazy understatement, but it f*cking sucks that people have to die and there’s nothing you can do about it. And so yeah, I just wanted to man up and say I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” I say into my coffee cup, because I can’t look at him. I am not brave enough to lift my eyes. I don’t know what I’ll see there: pity or empathy. But I’m going to add “brave” to my inner Ethan tally, and “honest,” and “right,” because it does f*cking blow and he is the first person to actually say that to me. Everyone back at FDR mumbled “sorrys,” probably because their parents told them they had to, and they were so obviously relieved when the words were out, the requisite box checked, that they could move on, even if I couldn’t. Not that I blame them. Death makes everything awkward.

“Yeah, we don’t have to talk about it, but I hate how when something like that happens, people just like to pretend it didn’t because it’s uncomfortable and scary and they don’t know what to say. Not knowing the right thing to do is not an excuse for not doing anything. So,” he says.

“So,” I say. I do it. I bring my eyes to his. “I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”

“And I’m not the only nerd who memorizes ‘The Waste Land.’ This first section is called ‘The Burial of the Dead,’ you know.”

“I know.” I smile, because I like Ethan and how he’s not afraid of anything, except maybe sleeping. And a smile is, in some ways, the same thing as saying thank you.

“Of course you know,” he says, smiling right back at me.

—

An hour later, we’re still sitting here. This week’s assignment is long done—one page on T. S. Eliot’s repeated references to dirt—so now we’re just hanging out, chatting. Maybe becoming actual friends, not just study partners.

“You never told me what you thought of Oville,” Ethan says after he has refilled his cup for the third time. He takes his coffee black. No fuss. Pure, unadulterated caffeine.

“Seriously? You guys were amazing.” If I were Gem or Crystal, I’d probably be smart and play it cool. Not fangirl all over him. But whatever. They indisputably rocked. “You’re all really talented.”

“I wish we could just play in my guesthouse, no shows at all, but apparently, it’s not up to me. That’s what we used to do before.” He says it like the “before” should be capitalized. Before and After.

“Before what?”

“Nothing. I mean before Liam joined. He’s all serious about launching a real music career, and I just want to play some music. Hang out.” Ethan stirs his coffee with a stick, a mindless habit since there’s nothing in there that needs mixing.

“Do you get stage fright?” I ask.

He pauses, as if I’m asking an important question that deserves a precise answer.

“Nah, not exactly. I just feel, I don’t know, more alone when everyone is staring up at me. It’s…isolating, I guess. And tiring.”

“I thought most performers feel the opposite. That it’s the only place they don’t feel alone,” I say. “Everyone wants to be the guy up onstage.”

Ethan shrugs.

“When I go to concerts, and it’s crowded and no one is bothering me, and it’s like, just me and the music…that’s when I don’t feel alone. I guess I’m not much of a people person,” he says.

“Really? Tell that to everyone at Wood Valley,” I say.