In Sight of Stars(36)

Maybe it’s because it’s a mindless task, some childish board game that takes my mind off everything but silly nothingness. Or maybe it’s because of how optimistic and nice and funny she is, this dwarf penguin nun, in the face of all the fucked-up shit that’s wrong with her, but for the first time in days I feel hopeful. Because if she can be happy and light, then maybe I can find a way to get back there, too.

*

On Monday, I’m intentionally late, so Sarah’s already at the table working when I get to Tarantoli’s room. We haven’t spoken all weekend, not since I dropped her off Saturday after our humiliating date.

I keep thinking about what happened, and about Sarah telling me to “fake it and chill.” Well, fine. If that’s what she wants, I can do that. Pretend I don’t give a shit about it all. I haven’t called. I haven’t texted. And, now I’m purposely late to class, with no time to talk.

This is me, Klee Alden, faking it. Chilling. I’m just here at Northhollow biding my time.

I walk to the back of the room and retrieve my portfolio from the cubbies, and slide it onto our table. The handle with the tape—KLEE HAS WOOD—dangles like a sad, pathetic lie.

Sarah keeps her head down, working on some new piece she calls Waves. It’s pretty basic. For the past week Tarantoli has had us working on tessellations, Escher-like designs that explore the division of a perspective, dimension, and plane. It’s not my usual style, but it wouldn’t be a bad thing to show SMFA I’ve got range.

I unzip my portfolio and slide out the piece I started, but it sucks, so I pull out a fresh piece of paper. As soon as I do, Sarah reaches across and writes in the corner:

U MAD?

My eyes meet hers.

NO, I scrawl back. WHY?

PLAYING HARD TO GET?

Ha, as if.

NO. BROODING, I write instead.

She cracks a smile at that one, which makes me smile, too.

WHY?

I shrug. I FEEL DUMB.

DON’T, she writes. DON’T.

WHY NOT?

She bites her pencil like she’s thinking hard, then finally writes, BECAUSE I SAY SO.

We both look at that, and I roll my eyes, and she whispers, “Okay fine, be that way,” and she scratches that out and writes,

BECAUSE YOU ARE THE REAL DEAL.





WEEK TWO





Day 8—Morning

On Monday morning reality hits, and a heavy hopelessness descends in the form of my mother hovering in the doorway of Dr. Alvarez’s office.

Her features are in shadows, her blond hair illuminated at the edges like expensive gold thread. Likewise, the threads of her Chanel jacket catch bits of light complementing her hair. Her bracelets jangle. Is she coming from a meeting? Why does it always seem like she’s dressed to impress?

“… My dearest M … You are perfection…”

My stomach roils and bile rises into my throat. Did I say she could come today and forget? I don’t know what I was thinking.

Yes, I do. Guilt. When she called again. Or, false hope, maybe. Or it was the medication talking. Or maybe I was still high off my first Chutes and Ladders win.

Dr. Alvarez looks at me for information, her expression changing quickly to concern.

“Your mother said you were expecting her? That you said it was okay if she came in?” She gives me a half smile, half grimace, as if to say, “Now that she’s here, how bad can it be?”

Bad, Dr. Alvarez. Bad.

I can’t stop the images from coming.

“My dearest A … My good man…”

“Klee?”

“I shouldn’t print these, but I want to carry your words…”

I lift my head from where I’ve lowered it onto the throw pillow in my lap and stare at my mother in the doorway.

“Do you want me to go? I can leave.” I hear the tears in her voice. Her arms hang helplessly at her sides. She looks to Dr. Alvarez, then away.

I want to believe her. I want to believe that her upset isn’t an act, but she’s lied about so much already.

Dr. Alvarez opens the drawer to her left, rummages around, and tosses a yellow stress ball next to me on the couch. “That’s up to Klee,” she says.

I sit up, and roll the ball in my fingers. “The chief danger in life is that we take too many precautions.”—Alfred Adler.

My eyes shift to Dr. Alvarez, and she asks, “What say you, Klee? Do you want to try to discuss some things, or do you need another day?”

I need many more days. I need a century.

“No. Let’s get it over with,” I say.

“Come in, Mrs. Alden. Sit. We’ll talk for a bit. See how we do. If Klee needs more time, we’ll adjourn. It’s flexible, how we do things in here. Whatever is best for him, you understand?”

My mother nods and steps in. Her features reappear. Her lip trembles and she gives me this apologetic look. No, not apologetic. Expectant. Like she’s hoping for something I can’t give.

I don’t get up. I have nothing to offer at this point.

She sits on the other end of the couch, her leather bag perched on one knee, her thin fingers clutched around it.

“Would you like some water?” Dr. Alvarez asks.

“Yes, please.” My mother reaches out, and her gold bracelets jangle. She uncaps the bottle and sips.