by Tanith Morse
I lost track of time, and I was startled back to reality when Neil poked his head through the door and asked, “Would you like to spend the night, Sam?”
Through my tears, I looked up, but I was unable to speak. He walked over and touched my shoulder gently.
“It’s getting late, and we don’t want you traveling alone at this time of night. We’ve got plenty of space. Why don’t I make up a bed for you in the guest room?”
“Thanks Neil, I … I think I’d like that.” I wiped away a tear.
He ruffled my hair affectionately. “Come on, poppet, let’s turn off the lights and go downstairs. We can watch a movie or something to lighten the mood.”
Gratefully, I followed Neil to the door as he snapped off the light, plunging the room into darkness.
TWO
Brief Encounter
“Can anyone tell me what the recurring animal motif means?” Mr. Maine asked as he pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with one knuckle. “Anyone?”
The class remained silent.
It was Monday morning, and our English teacher was discussing A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams.
Mr. Maine had a prematurely aged face, a crew cut, and a five-day growth of stubble on his chin.
“Sam,” he said, shooting me a searching look, “Any ideas?”
“Sorry, could you repeat the question?” I stammered.
“You haven’t been listening, have you?”
“Yes I have,” I replied defensively.
“Then what did I just say?’”
“You were talking about motifs …” My voice trailed off.
Mr. Maine rolled his eyes. “All right, let me recap. Stanley Kowalski is a macho male with animal characteristics. Throughout the play, Tennessee Williams constantly references this. In your view, what does this represent?”
“It represents desire,” I said softly. “Stanley Kowalski is a man ruled by his primal instincts. He can’t help himself. He’s the beast to Blanche’s beauty.”
Someone giggled.
“Very well said, Sam. The beast to Blanche’s beauty. I like it. Excellent!” Mr. Maine turned to the whiteboard and wrote the word DESIRE in big, bold letters. Then he started handing out photocopied extracts from the play.
“I’m going to split you into groups and you’re going to work on a little project for me,” he said. “I expect you to have this done by Thursday, when you’ll have to give a presentation of your findings.”
Swiftly, he worked his way around the room, handing each of us a bundle of papers stapled together. He strolled back to the front of the class and then spun around to face us and began pointing at random students, assigning us to groups. I ended up in a group with Becky and some guy called Frasier Harrison.
Frasier was big and blocky with thick glasses and bad skin. He dressed like he was way older than seventeen, wearing a camel-colored trench coat that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a ‘40s gangster flick. Frasier was the first to arrive at school in the mornings and the last to leave after the final bell.
I searched my brain for other trivia I knew about Frasier. He had once said he refused to drink diet soda because “Aspartame is bad for you.” The only time I’d ever heard him sound excited, he was talking about Bill Gates and Microsoft.
Becky motioned to me to stand up and help her push two tables together. “Isn’t it great we’re going to be working together?” she trilled. “I think this is fate.”
“If you say so,” I replied noncommittally.
Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Sam, about the other day. I’m so sorry. I feel like such a klutz for asking you about—well, you know.”
“It’s fine, Becky. I’m over that now. Forget about it.”
“Less talking, please, girls,” Mr. Maine snapped. “You’ve got work to do and I don’t want to have to repeat myself.”
He instructed us to take a scene from the play and analyze the themes and metaphors explored by Tennessee Williams, giving specific examples from the dialogue. Then he told us that the best group would win a prize on Thursday.
“What sort of prize?” someone asked. “I bet it’s another packet of sweets.”
Mr. Maine smiled mysteriously. “Well, you’ll just have to wait and see. All I’ll say is that it’s not sweets. It’s something else.”
“A Bentley?” another student quipped.
As the class laughed, I studied the papers in front of me. We’d been given the scene where Blanche reveals the dark secrets of her past to Mitch. It was one of the most dramatic scenes in the play, with lots of meaty dialogue and imagery. I was pleased.
I looked at Becky and Frasier and said, “So, how do you think we should tackle this? Should we read it together and then brainstorm afterward?”
Frasier twiddled his pen, his eyes fixed on his paper. I noticed that his skin had broken out in a particularly bad rash and one side of his cheek was red and puffy.
“Sounds like a good idea,” Becky agreed. “Let’s get started.”
Silently, we began to read. Becky was the first to finish.
“Oh my gosh, this is the best scene ever! There’s so much for us to talk about. So many themes and metaphors. Listen, I think we should do it like this …” She went on for five whole minutes without taking a breath, but most of what she said made no sense. I got the distinct feeling that she was trying to impress us.
She ended her speech with, “So what do you think?”
I glanced at Frasier. “What do you think? Got any ideas to bring to the table?”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty of ideas,” he said. “But little Miss Chatterbox here won’t let me get a word in edgeways.”
“Rude!” Becky said, kicking his leg under the table. “Take that back.”
Frasier’s look of surprise at being kicked quickly transformed into a playful smirk and I knew that he’d only been teasing Becky. That made me smile, too—and it felt good.
Finally, the bell rang and everyone started to pack up. Over the noise, Mr. Maine shouted, “Alright, that’s it for today. Next week we’ll watch the film version of the play with Marlon Brando. It’s a classic.”
“Sounds like a blast,” Becky muttered as she tossed her bag over her shoulder. Then she looked at me and asked, “What are you doing for lunch?”
“I don’t know,” I said evasively. “I might go out.”
“Why don’t you come with us to the cafeteria? They have pretty decent hamburgers.” She looked at Frasier, who nodded in agreement.
“Okay,” I said, shrugging.
Frasier trailed along behind us as we walked through the shadowy corridors, surrounded by the familiar smell of floor wax and pencil shavings.
The cafeteria was absolutely packed. For the first time, I truly appreciated how many students attended St. Mary’s, and it made me feel a little out of my depth. We stood at the long serving counter, studying the steamy expanse of food and carefully weighing up our options. There was a lot to choose from, but most of it was unhealthy. In the end, Becky went for a burger and fries with a sticky toffee pudding. I had the same, but decided to skip the pudding.
“I think I’ll be good today,” Becky sighed, pushing a paper cup under the drink dispenser. “I’ll only get a diet Coke. Got to be watching those calories.” She patted her non-existent belly.
“Tell me about it,” I muttered darkly.
When we’d finished paying for our food, we saw a group of Becky’s friends sitting at a large table in the middle of the room that seemed to be reserved for the popular crowd. One of them called to us, and I reluctantly followed Becky through the maze of bodies to our destination.
“Guys, I want you to meet Sam,” Becky said excitedly. “She just started at St. Mary’s.”
A chorus of half-hearted greetings reverberated across the table. I smiled blandly and pulled my head back under my hood, trying to avoid making eye contact. It was a difficult trick, and I didn’t quite pull it off.
; Becky made some hasty introductions: “Sam, this is Jermaine, his brother Joseph, Hannah, Elaine, Marie, and William.”
The girl called Hannah waved at me, but her eyes betrayed hostility.
We sat at the end of the table and Frasier came over to join us, his solitary meal consisting of an apple and a bottle of Evian water.
“Is that all you’re having for lunch?” Hannah asked with amazement.
“I’m a vegan, remember?” Frasier announced, taking a bite of his apple. “This school doesn’t cater to anything remotely Bohemian. Out of all that slop at the counter, this was the best I could do. Oh well, guess I’ll have to start picketing to bring this place into the 21st century.” Then Frasier turned to me and asked, “So Sam, are you from around here?”
I kept my eyes fixed on my plate. “Uh, no. We just moved here from Wimbledon, actually.”
“Wimbledon?” the boy called William exclaimed. “I love Wimbledon! Do you ever get to go to any tournaments?”
“Not really,” I replied. “I don’t like tennis much. I find it kind of boring.”
William made a face, as if he’d tasted something sour. I’m obviously not making any points with him, I thought.
We sat there another couple of minutes, making idle chitchat and picking at our plates.
I decided I really liked Frasier. We shared the same dry sense of humor. I discovered we were both Star Wars fanatics and that we agreed the later prequels had been a huge mistake. “Nothing could beat the original trilogy,” Frasier said.
But I still hadn’t made up my mind about Becky. She seemed nice enough, but I was suspicious of popular people. Maybe that was because I’d always felt like an outsider. While I wasn’t exactly a geek, my shyness kept people at a distance. I was happy in my own company and didn’t gravitate toward large social groups. Girls like Becky were at the top of the food chain, loved and adored by all. I wonder who she stepped on to get there. You don’t get to number one by being a nice person. Maybe she just befriended me because of my dubious celebrity.
Only time would tell.
***
After school, I went with Becky and Frasier to the Elmfield public library, a big, glass-plated building on Morella Road. The library had been erected in the late ‘60s, when the town thought it was going places.
We walked through rows and rows of reading desks, dusty bookshelves, and a set of automatic doors to the outer study area, where there were a couple of tables and six ancient computers. Somehow, Elmfield hasn’t quite made it to the 21st century. Maybe that’s why the place is half empty.
We chose a table at the back of the room, took out our notepads and began to hash out our ideas for our presentation so we wouldn’t have to meet again before Thursday.
Within ten minutes, the conversation had somehow shifted from Tennessee Williams to conspiracy theories.
“But I don’t get it,” Becky frowned. “Why would NASA fake the Apollo moon landings?”
“Because,” Frasier said, “they had that whole Cold War thing with Russia. Can’t you see? It was an ingenious battle strategy. NASA was trying to intimidate Russia by pretending they’d won the space race.”
In spite of wanting to stay on task, I joined in the discussion. “Okay, I get what you’re saying, but this was the ‘60s, right? I’ve seen footage from the moon landing, and it looks pretty real to me. How could they fake it? Are you saying they had special effects that good back then?”
Frasier’s face lit up. We were obviously in his territory. “Why not? Anything’s possible. What about the pyramids? Or Stonehenge? There are so many unexplained mysteries in the world. I bet the government keeps us in the dark about everything. UFOs, vampires, teleportation … Can you imagine what it would be like to be Prime Minister for a day? Wouldn’t that be great? Wouldn’t you just love to know all the secrets he knows?”
Becky faked a yawn. “Actually, I reckon it would be rather boring being Prime Minister. All that political stuff would put me to sleep.”
I smiled, but said nothing.
Frasier looked at me. “Laugh all you want, but everything I’m saying is true. We probably don’t even know the half of it. Open your eyes. There’s a whole secret world out there waiting to be discovered.”
“Hottie at twelve o’clock,” Becky whispered.
I followed Becky’s gaze to a boy seated a couple of desks away, doodling in a sketch pad. He had his head down and his black baseball cap obscured his face, but from the curve of his bulging biceps under his long-sleeved sweater, it was clear that he did some serious weight lifting.
“How can you tell he’s hot?” I whispered back. “You can’t even see his face!”
“Yeah, but just look at that body,” Becky murmured dreamily.
“What are you two whispering about?” Frasier demanded.
“Girl talk,” she snapped. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Frasier looked in the hottie’s direction, then rolled his eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
Although I didn’t say it, I was on Frasier’s side. I’d never felt comfortable sharing “boy crazy” fantasies. I wasn’t a girly girl. I didn’t do boys, or make-up, or clothes shopping—they just weren’t my thing. I tended to wear hooded tracksuits, and at school, I’d always preferred playing football to hanging out in some dark nightclub.
“Do you dare me to go up and talk to him?” Becky asked with a wink. “I’ll ask him what he’s drawing.”
“Do whatever you want,” I said.
I tried to avert my gaze as she got up and walked slowly over to the stranger’s table, her hips swaying suggestively.
“Shall we get cracking?” Frasier asked, and I was glad to agree.
For the next five minutes, the two of us pretended to study, but all the time, our eyes kept flickering back to Becky, who had now pulled up a chair and was talking animatedly with the boy. At one point, she let out a shriek of laughter. I felt like screaming. I couldn’t work like this. With a disgruntled huff, I angled my seat so I wasn’t in their direct line of vision anymore.
Another five minutes passed before Becky and the boy got up and made their way toward our table. The boy clearly knew how attractive his body was, and so did just about every other girl in the room, whose eyes followed his every move. Becky was grinning. It was obvious she enjoyed being the center of attention.
“Guys, I want you to meet Lee,” Becky said, making a grand, sweeping gesture. “Lee, this is Sam and Frasier. We all go to St. Mary’s.”
“Hello,” Lee said with a friendly smile.
He couldn’t have been more than twenty, stood about six foot two, with a flawless tan, full lips, and perfectly white teeth. On the right side of his face, just above his mouth, was a small beauty spot, the only blemish in an otherwise faultless complexion. His low-riding jeans and tight black sweater accentuated his muscles and, being a bit of a gym buff, I had to admit he had an amazing physique.
I turned away briefly, my cheeks burning.
“Pleased to meet you, Lee,” Frasier said, nodding politely.
“Lee’s studying fine art,” Becky continued. “He goes to Summerwell Art College.” She held up his sketch pad. “He’s so talented. You’ll never guess who he’s been drawing!”
She opened the pad to the first page, and I was amazed to see a pen-and-ink sketch of the three of us as we sat in the library talking. The detail was astounding and the drawing had a level of realism that blew me away.
“Wow, you’re fantastic!” Frasier told him. “I mean, that looks like a photograph or something. Seriously, you should get into comics or graphic novels. You’d make a killing.”
“Oh I don’t know about that,” Lee said, looking down. “I’m not exactly Picasso, but thanks for the compliment.”
My ears pricked up. His voice had a strange regional twang I’d never heard before. It was sort of like a Yorkshire accent, but unlike any I’d ever come across.
Becky pulled out a chair. “Why don’t you sit wit
h us, Lee?”
“Oh no, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“Don’t be silly,” she laughed. “We’d love to have you.”
Lee sank into a chair next to me and I got a whiff of his cologne: Davidoff’s Cool Water. Masculine. Alluring. Discreetly, I peeked at his hands resting on the table. They were large, but also somehow delicate, his fingernails short and clean. I also noticed he had a ring tattoo on the middle finger of his right hand, a band of five pointed stars. It was a very pretty design.
I had always loved tattoos. I had two myself: a butterfly on my ankle, and a heart on my shoulder. I’d wanted to get one across my collar bone, but Mum had said that would be a step too far.
“So where’s your cute accent from?” Becky asked. “Are you from up North?”
Lee chuckled. “Not exactly. When I was growing up, my parents did a lot of traveling, so I’ve been all over place. I’ve also spent a lot of time abroad in countries like China and India. You name it, I’ve been there.”
“Wow, that sounds amazing!” Becky enthused. “I’ve always wanted to go traveling.”
As Becky babbled on, I tried to get Frasier involved in our project again. “So, who’s going to type up these notes before Thursday? I don’t have an Internet connection at my house yet.”
“No problem, I’ll do it,” Frasier said as he started gathering our papers together. I was thankful for his calm attitude in the awkward situation.
I tried not to notice it, but I was strongly drawn to our table guest. When Lee’s arm accidentally brushed against mine, I felt my back stiffen. Pursing my lips together, I retreated further into my hood to disguise the growing redness in my cheeks. Something about him was dangerously distracting. There was something to do with those lips – asking a question, giving an answer – that I just couldn’t stop thinking about. I wanted to know how they would feel pressed against mine.
I need to cool off and reclaim control of this situation. What’s happening to me? I hadn’t known this guy for more than two minutes and I was already mentally undressing him. It had to stop. This wasn’t like me at all.