The Basic Eight

by Daniel Handler

  “Don’t yell at me!”

  “I am so sick of this,” she said. She grabbed my head and turned it to the mirror. “Look in the goddamn mirror right now,” she said, “and tell me what you see. You’re fat, are you? Show me where! Look in the mirror!”

  I blinked and then looked in the mirror, down to my feet and back up again. I stuck my tongue out at my reflection but Natasha grabbed my head again. I looked in the mirror.

  “Are you fat?” I shook my head. A little figment in my head just melted away. I looked fine. My eyes were splotchy from crying and I was wearing an ugly shirt, but what the hell I was just lying around the house with Natasha and besides, I’d had a shitty day. So I wasn’t a perfect toothpick. So I was bigger than Natasha. At least I was–

  “I’m thinner than Kate, anyway,” I said, and Natasha threw her head back and laughed loud. Cackled. I laughed too. Tears rolled down my face, and I laughed, right to the mirror. I laughed so hard I started heaving and had to lean against the sink. The air was getting thin. Natasha opened the door of the bathroom–my reflection, alone amidst porcelain and towels, swung toward me for a second only to bang against the wall. Leaning on her, I went up the stairs and got right into bed. I wanted to keep my clothes on. I kept my eyes open for a while and Natasha was watching me. She watched me until I closed my eyes, and kept watching me then, because I woke up twice more during the night and she was there, watching me, though in the morning she was gone.

  Friday October 15th

  It’s incredible how many crucial details I forget to warn my readers about: I mean, today is Festival Internationale and what with being assaulted and everything I forgot to let you know. Today is Festival Internationale. “That roughly translates to International Festival,” Lawrence Dodd was saying as I came into homeroom. Nobody cared that I was late; everybody was running around doing last-minute things. We’d had to have an adjunct Grand Opera Breakfast Club meeting to help Millie prepare everything for crepes. I had sweet, sweet batter in my hair.

  All the different languages were already setting up their booths after homeroom; the Chinese classes seemed to be going all out this year, lanterns, paper dragons, blah blah blah. During Poetry I concentrated on Whitman, rereading each line as Hattie led discussions. I kept catching my hands trembling, and after class Hattie asked if I wanted to talk. “The last thing I want to do is talk,” I said. Hattie always refused to talk to the press afterward, and for that I love her, even though she also refused to talk to me.

  I was of course dreading seeing Adam, so I was straggling to choir looking for an excuse not to go when I literally ran into Millie, who needed people to chop fruit for the fruit fillings. I didn’t want to think about anything. I rolled up my sleeves and got to work and told Millie that I was feeling much better, thank you. I pity the cutting board, I chopped so hard. Soon all the fruit was done but signs needed hanging, menus needed to be written in large felt-tipped letters. I kept giving myself Robinson Crusoe pep talks: If you concentrate on getting your work done you don’t have time to look up and realize you’re alone on a desert island. When I did look up Jim Carr was in front of me.

  “Hello there,” he said. Festival Internationale was in full effect; like always, afternoon classes had sort of drizzled out and everyone was wandering around eating cuisine internationale. Salsa music blared on the intercom. My pal Mokie was wolfing down shish kebab. In a few minutes some gym teachers were going to do some mortifying belly dancing. Why wasn’t there anyone there to help me? “Flannery?” he asked.

  “Just tell me what kind of fruit you want,” I said, surprised at the fury in my voice. Too bad it wasn’t the best thing to say furiously; Carr just smirked.

  “Whatever’s good,” he said, smiling at the crepe chefs standing behind me. In a low voice he said, “Have you told anybody about yesterday?”

  “Leave me alone,” I stammered. It seems I wasted all my fury on the fruit sentence. I looked at my trembling hands; I had clenched one so tightly I was leaving little half-moons of fingernails in my palm. “Just leave me alone.”

  “Are you bothering my kid?” Millie asked jokingly, putting an arm around me and wagging a finger at Carr.

  “Never,” he said, and leaned in and tapped a finger on my nose. Millie laughed and turned back around.

  “I’m putting extra whipped cream on yours, Jim!” she called to him.

  “You know,” he said quietly, looking elsewhere. He seemed preoccupied. “Nobody would believe you.”

  “Jim!” Natasha called out. She was wearing a skintight top made of a sort of chain mail, with each piece being a different flag. Where does she find these things? “Jim,” she said. “Flan!” I watched Jim peer at her chest as she leaned over and gave me a kiss on each cheek, pausing between them to give me a direct but unreadable look in the eye.

  “Well, how are you?” he said, and she stood on tiptoe to give him two kisses.

  “I’m feeling internationale!” she sang out, stepping back and twirling around to show off her top. “Are you chaperoning the dance tonight? Because I was hoping you’d give me a dance. Last time it was all business, Jim.” She battered her eyelashes. Before he could reply she went right on. “Have you tried any of the food yet? It’s so good!” Her voice was so high she sounded on the verge of hysteria.

  “I was just about to try a crepe,” he said, looking at me.

  “Oh, those old things!” she said.

  “Which you’re supposed to be helping make,” I said pointedly.

  She dismissed us both with a little wave and then took Jim’s arm. “You have to come try these Mexican fruit drinks the Spanish class is making. Aqua fresca. There’s a kiwi-flavored one that tastes so strange. Let’s go get one, Jim.”

  “Jim?” he said, raising his eyebrows. He was…dazzled that Natasha was paying him so much attention.

  “Everybody’s friends for the Festival Internationale, aren’t they?” she said, and led him off.

  I finally exhaled. Unclenched my scared hand. I had been standing there with a ladle full of peaches in midair and was way behind on filling crepes.

  “Flan?” Kate said for the third time. She was with Adam and snapping her fingers in my face like a hypnotist.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Just, um, dreaming of world peace.” Adam had his mouth full and was wiping salsa off his chin with a navy-blue handkerchief.

  “I’m sure we’ll achieve it through Festival Internationale,” she said, rolling her eyes. “At least we get out of class, huh? Listen, would you mind taking my turn at crepe making? I promised Ron I’d help with stage crew stuff.”

  “No problem,” I said. She and Adam shared a brief glance.

  “And I wanted to tell you that it’s all set for the Sculpture Garden on Saturday night.”

  “Kate’s told me all about it,” said Adam, finally swallowing his bite.

  “Yeah,” I said, trying to find Natasha and Carr in the crowd. “It’ll be great. Won’t I see you guys at the dance, though?”

  “Of course,” Kate said. “We’ll be there. I just wanted to tell you.”

  “Well, thanks,” I said.

  “Gotta run.”

  “Me too.” Adam wouldn’t look at me.

  They were off and I was behind on fruit filling again. The courtyard was getting very crowded. The salsa music was off and something Arabic was on. Did we even have Arabic classes?

  I was amusing myself watching the Frosh Goth spill chow mein on her black sweater when Natasha and Carr returned. Carr was looking oddly at his bright green drink.

  “This is very strong,” Carr said uncertainly.

  “Well, finish it off so you can try the strawberry,” Natasha said, sipping hers.

  “What is this sudden interest in Mexican fruit drinks?” I said, eyeing her. She shook her head at me, barely. I put strawberries in a crepe and passed it down to Flora Habstat, who was doing the folding.

  “I don’t think I can finish this,” he said, grimacing.
r />   “Chicken,” Natasha said quietly, and downed hers in one gulp. “I’ll just go find myself a suitable drinking partner.”

  Carr took the bait. He smirked at her for a second and drank it all, choking on the last bit. “What is in this?”

  “An aphrodisiac,” she said. “Now go get me a strawberry one. I have to say something to Flan. Girl talk.”

  “OK,” he said. He winked at her and turned around, almost running into Principal Bodin in a sombrero. When he was gone Natasha turned off her smile and stuck her tongue out.

  “Asshole,” she said.

  “What is going on?” I said.

  She smiled at me. “I have a present for you,” she said, and took out a small paper bag. I reached for it, but she held it out of reach. “Not here. Come with me to the lake,” she said.

  “But Carr’s coming back.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, mock frightened. “Come on, Flan. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

  “Don’t start,” I said, and turned to Flora Habstat. “Flora,” I said, oozing sweetness, “could you take over for me for a few minutes? I, um, promised Ron I’d help with stage crew stuff.”

  “But I have to fold,” she whined. She was wearing an ugly beret.

  “Just do it,” Natasha said, and took my arm. We scurried out of the courtyard and out a side entrance where Jennifer Rose Milton and Frank Whitelaw were making up/out. “Excuse me, kids,” Natasha said grandly, and didn’t speak again until we reached the lake and were sitting on a log.

  “Here,” she said, and handed me the bag.

  “What’s going on?” I said. I opened it; inside was a small reusable plastic bottle. It looked like one of the many small reusable plastic bottles that are stuffed into my kitchen cupboards at home.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I can see why you didn’t want anybody else to see me getting this. They might get jealous.”

  “You’re not getting it,” she said. She was looking over at the lake like a victorious general observing a burning city.

  I opened the bottle and looked inside. It was empty, but damp; light green droplets glistened here and there. It smelled like something I couldn’t place. Iced tea. No. Brandy. No.

  “What–”

  “You know,” she said, “that kiwi drink didn’t taste so odd to me.”

  “You didn’t,” I said. My stomach fluttered.

  “I most certainly did,” she said, drawing herself to her full sitting height. “I thought of it last night while you were sleeping. It took me a while to find where you’d put the rest of it.”

  “Douglas said that much absinthe could–well, it could–”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said carelessly. “I mean, I figure Douglas doesn’t really know shit about it. But so what. Whatever happens, it’s a ride he won’t forget.”

  I swallowed. “Natasha–”

  “I don’t think you should keep your present,” she said. “I just wanted to show it to you, really.” She took it from me and stood up. She walked right up to the water like she was going to cross it like a messiah. I followed her.

  “Good-bye to you.” she said simply, and threw it far. For a minute it just sat there–it was plastic–but then it filled with water and sank like a stone. My stomach sank, too.

  “Well?” she said.

  “This is–this is the biggest thing that anyone’s ever done for me.” She smiled and gave me a kiss on the cheek. We stared at the spot in the water like a moment in a movie.

  We got back just in time. The food was running out and the belly dancers were in full bloom on a makeshift stage. Everybody was cheering and egging them on when the crowd suddenly parted, right in the middle like a bad haircut. Carr. He was waving his arms around, helicopterlike. The canned belly dance music screeched off and the gym teachers stood stock-still with their arms and finger cymbals up in the air. He was yelling something but I couldn’t hear it over the crowd. People were laughing, thinking it was some joke internationale until they saw his face. I saw his face too, when he turned around with his hands on his head like he was doing sit-ups. He was flushed bright red and his eyes were bugging out; he had a large bleeding scratch on his face. Maybe he had bumped against something sharp, or maybe he had done it himself. Maybe it was self-inflicted. “Eyes!” he was screaming. “Eyes! Lies! Flies!” He lurched toward the edge of the courtyard and everybody scurried out of the way. Bodin was watching, pale beneath his sombrero, and Mokie kept stepping forward and back like that commercial where they make a cat dance by looping the film. “Flies!” he said. “Flies! Flies! Flies!” He was now pretty close to me and Natasha, close enough that I could see his eyes rolling around like small trapped animals and white specks of foam coming out of his mouth. “Flies!” he said, and fell flat on the ground. His legs were kicking. It was probably self-inflicted. Other people were screaming now, and Mokie had broken his paralysis and was at Carr’s side trying to pick him up with one hand. His other hand was clutching a forgotten paper plate of taco salad. “Flies!” Carr said, and then just started raw, loud screaming. His face got redder and redder, like lobsters in boiling water, and then even redder. Mokie looked at the plate, dropped it and put both his arms under Carr’s, but slipped on the taco salad and fell on the ground. “Flies!” Carr was on top of him wiggling like a big spider. Two of the belly dancers jumped down from the stage and were running over and everybody was screaming. It was just awful.

  I looked at Natasha; she glanced at the spectacle in front of us like it was a movie she’d already seen, and then looked up at the sun, squinting. “This will be a Festival Internationale we won’t soon forget,” she said, and reached into her bag. She pulled out her sunglasses and put them on.

  “Flies!” Carr was screaming again.

  “Drosophila,” Natasha said quietly to me, and I smiled and took her hand. Self-inflicted. Almost definitely.

  Surprisingly, considering all that, it was one of the best dances ever tonight. I know it’s a little anticlimactic to say that, but I do want to record everything of interest. Natasha and I shared another New Year’s bottle of champagne back at my house, and she lent me the great international chain mail flag top. I half expected the dance to be canceled when we showed up at Roewer, but I guess they’d already booked the DJ and everything so they just went ahead with it. The music was great and the weather stayed warm so they had it in the courtyard. Everybody was there and there didn’t seem to be any weirdness or anything; we were just all dancing and having a great time. I danced hard, hard, hard, mostly just with Natasha–I just couldn’t get very boy-crazy tonight, I don’t know why. Several times I found myself dancing in the spot where Carr had fallen and tried to move away from it, but you know how it’s hard to really move anywhere on a crowded dance floor so I kept finding myself drifting back to it and eventually I just gave up. They played that “Tonight Tonight Tonight” song and for some reason that united all of us, the Basic Eight. We got in a big circle and sang all the words out. Loud. Gabriel and I danced into the middle of the circle and everybody cheered. I kissed him until I got out of breath while everyone whooped around us. I guess I was lying about that boy-crazy thing. The only bad side was, and I didn’t notice it until I got home and flopped on my bed to write this all down, I think one of the metal flags must have rubbed against the scab on my back and reopened it. The scab from my bra clasp. I thought I was just sweating–I wanted to get all this down even before I showered–but it was blood that was running down my back. It bled a lot. When I went to the bathroom and looked at it in the mirror it was spread out like one of those aerial shots of volcanoes. Luckily I was pretty sober by that time otherwise it would have been really scary to look at. I wonder what Carr saw, besides, obviously, flies.

  I wiped most of the blood off with tissues and now I’m going to shower and that’ll probably clear the last of it off me. The only thing is, I see some of it dribbled onto the bedspread. I’m just too tired to deal with it tonight so I’ve probably ruined it. That stuff�
��s supposed to be impossible to get out.

  Saturday October 16th

  Ring. Ring.

  “Flan, it’s Douglas.”

  “Hey, Douglas,” I said. “Enjoy the dance?”

  “Not as much as some people did,” he said archly.

  A bubble of imagery popped at the surface of my head: “With You With You” by Q.E.D. Everybody slow-dancing. Natasha and I swirling amidst the couples doing our best faux-ballet moves. Gabriel sitting on a bench, watching me with a faint, forced smile, and me pretending to be drunker than I was and avoiding his eyes because it’s a slow dance and I should be dancing with my–write it, Flan!–boyfriend. Dancing around the couples like Cupid’s little helpers or something: Jennifer Rose Milton and Frank Whitelaw. Rachel State and some boy with a postapocalyptic haircut. Kate and Adam, but not really a couple, just dancing together; Adam looks drunk. And V__ and Steve Nervo. V__ and Steve Nervo. “Wow,” I said.

  “Jealous?” he asked. I could hear his grin, even over the gloomy Russian classical music he was playing. “Getting into character already?”

  “I’m not playing Iago,” I said.

  “But you’re married to him. You’re married to Adam,” he teased.

  “Stop. I’m over Adam.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Douglas, I’m with Gabriel now.”

  “Who exactly do you think you’re talking to?”

  “No, it’s true,” I said.

  “Look, let’s not even discuss it,” he said. “I stopped being seriously interested in your love life as soon as I stopped being a part of it.”

  Another bubble hit me. “Speaking of love lives,” I said. “Did I or did I not see you at the dance talking earnestly with some boy all night?”

  “Well, not all night,” he said. “I danced some. Remember ‘Tonight Tonight Tonight’?”

  “So, is he your boyfriend now?”

  “Flan,” he said. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Oh yes, I forgot you people have a totally different lifestyle.”