The Art of Escaping

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The Art of Escaping Page 15

by Erin Callahan

On the way to Will’s house in Grayton, we listened to some of my favorite Ella Fitzgerald tunes with the windows down, dousing ourselves in the humid late-August air. As much as I loved the fashion, the over-the-top slang, and the social turbulence of the 1920s, I’d been trying to convince Will that jazz continued to get better after his favorite decade.

  “This is actually really good,” he admitted. “But it makes me think of my grandma’s record collection.”

  “Then your grandma is insanely cool,” I argued. “You have to remember that all old people were young once. Try to imagine your grandmother when she was our age, sneaking out of her house to go to a jazz club so she could have a few sips of booze and slow dance with sailors.”

  “I doubt any of that happened,” he said with a laugh.

  “Then pretend it did. It’ll be like a tiny bit of radical nostalgia.”

  “What?”

  “You know, like how Frankie writes Lovecraft fanfic full of people of color even though Lovecraft himself was psychotically racist. Or like how you fantasize about the best parts of ’20s, but you don’t actually want to live in the ’20s.”

  “It sounds fucked up when you put it that way. It’s cherry picking.”

  “It’s cherry picking, but it’s not fucked up. All the things you love from back then were actually part of a huge cultural shift. They were signs of rebellion. Isn’t that why you like them?”

  As Ella’s caramel voice warmed my ears, my mind sifted through the last week of our summer. Will, Stella, Frankie and I had spent almost every waking moment together. Even when I had a shift at the café, the three of them would hang out there for hours, downing lattes and filling out college applications on their laptops. After work, we’d drive over the border into Massachusetts and comb through dusty antique stores, me hunting for old LPs and knickknacks, and Frankie hunting for pocketknives with decorative handles. Frankie even came with me to Miyu’s a few times. The two of them would sip bitter tea at the dining room table and chat about Lovecraft while I picked and polished locks.

  “Have you seen Betsy at all this week?” I asked when we pulled into Will’s driveway.

  “We went out to breakfast on Wednesday.”

  “That’s it? She’s supposed to be your girlfriend and you saw her once this week?”

  “I’m trying to distance myself from her. I’m hoping that will make it easier when I finally . . . you know.”

  “Wow. Do you think she’s suspicious or anything?”

  He shrugged. “She’s still trying to be that supportive girlfriend. She’s like, ‘If you need space for a little while, take it.’”

  “Jeezus,” I said as I unbuckled my seatbelt. “You must really hate yourself.”

  Will glared at me, his brown eyes like sharp slivers, and I felt like such an ass. “Sorry. Not at all what you need to hear right now. Let’s shift our focus to the task at hand—your parents.”

  We found Will’s dad in the kitchen, sipping a glass of red wine and slicing up a block of cheese that had undoubtedly been purchased from the “fancy cheese” section of the grocery store. He looked a lot like Will, but paunchier and with a receding hairline.

  “So nice to meet you, Mattie.” He smiled and extended his hand for me. “We’ve heard so much about you. Can I get you a lime rickey?”

  “Yes. That sounds fantastic.”

  “Will used to love lime rickeys as a kid.” His dad explained. “But his basketball coach has a pretty strict no-sugary-drinks rule.”

  “Dad,” Will whined.

  “I don’t play basketball,” I said. “Bring on the sugar.”

  “Your mentor doesn’t enforce a strict diet?” he asked.

  My throat shriveled up, and I realized I’d forgotten that Will’s parents were regulars at Salone Postale.

  Will jumped in to save me. “Miyu works Mattie to the bone, but she doesn’t really care what she does on her own time.”

  A slim woman, swimming in a cloud of jasmine perfume and decked out in skinny jeans and tall black boots, waltzed into the kitchen. Her eyes, the same brown as Will’s, lit up when she saw me. “My god, she’s even more darling off-stage.”

  She hugged me, enveloping me in her jasmine perfume, and my face flushed. “You must be famished,” she said. “Do they feed you at the gelato factory?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

  I laughed. “I get one bowl of gruel a day.”

  “And she’s funny!” Mrs. Kane declared. “See, Will? The good ones have a sharp sense of humor.”

  Will grumbled something I couldn’t make out, and I wondered if his mom had just compared me to Betsy.

  “Help yourself to some artisan cheddar,” Mr. Kane said as he handed me a sparkling lime rickey in a highball glass. “Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes.”

  We chatted while we munched on cheddar so sharp it could cut diamonds, and Will’s parents grilled me on my burgeoning career as an escapologist.

  “We never got to see Akiko perform,” Will’s mom explained. “I never truly understood why people were so in awe of her until I saw you perform. It’s so much more than a death-defying stunt. You raise it to the level of performance art.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Of course,” she said between sips of wine. “What you do is literal and figurative at the same time. That’s an incredibly powerful thing.”

  “And I love all the little touches you add, Mattie,” Mr. Kane said. “Especially the jazz records and the old gramophone. Your personality really shines through during your performances. How did you become interested in escapology?”

  “I think it was the stories, mostly,” I replied. “All the major players have such great stories. And there’s something inspiring about the act itself.”

  “Most definitely,” Mrs. Kane agreed. “The struggle is compelling.”

  We sat down to a spread of braised short ribs, grilled asparagus, and roasted red potatoes. I dug into my short ribs, shoving delectable chunks of grass-fed beef into my face. Will stared at his mom, his plate untouched.

  “Are you all right, sweetie?” she asked.

  He cleared his throat and wiped a thin sheen of sweat from his brow. “Yeah. I, uh, need to tell you guys something. I invited Mattie for moral support.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Kane exchanged a quick glance while I swallowed a huge bite of short rib and put my fork down.

  Will exhaled a deep breath that rattled in his chest. “I’m gay.”

  I looked from Mr. to Mrs. Kane and back again. They both gawked silently at Will. I found myself starting at Mr. Kane, waiting for him to rub his nose, but his hands stayed in his lap.

  Mrs. Kane spoke first, her eyes glistening with tears. “Oh my god, sweetie, I’m so glad you told us. Honestly,” she added as the clutched the collar of her sweater, “I’m so relieved. We were so worried you were going to be terribly uninteresting.”

  Will rolled his eyes and a brief snort escaped from my lips.

  “Marjorie,” Mr. Kane protested. “I’m not sure ‘uninteresting’ is the right word for it.”

  Mrs. Kane ignored him. “Does this mean you’ve broken things off with that awful girl?”

  “Mom,” Will moaned. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, she’s not at all like she was in junior high.”

  “Oh, I know, Will,” she sighed before taking a small sip of wine. “She traded all of her wilted-flower theatrics for vacant optimism and soft-focus dreams of sorority pins and white-picket fences.”

  On a scale of one to walking in on your parents having sex, this dinner party had officially reached watching your art teacher split her pants while bending over to pick up a paintbrush. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face. Mrs. Kane represented the worst of the over-privileged and over-educated salon-goers, wearing her counter-culture banner like a cleric
’s robe. She looked down her nose at people like Betsy, no matter how kind and well-adjusted they were. But she did it so well, it was awe-inspiring.

  “Why don’t we get back to what really matters,” Mr. Kane suggested. “Our son was brave enough to tell us something very personal about himself. And his friend was here to support him.” He’d obviously become skilled at defusing tension between his wife and son.

  “You’re absolutely right,” Mrs. Kane admitted with a nod. “In this heteronormative world, coming out is never easy, even to your family. Especially when you’re still a teenager. I’m very proud of you, sweetie. You know that we love and accept you, no matter what. And as an added bonus, gay men are almost never bored or boring.”

  I shot Will my best It Could’ve Been Worse look. He rolled his eyes again and grinned at me as his mom proposed a toast.

  ***

  “I’m sorry,” Will mumbled later that night as we drove to my house along back roads that stretched out like dark ribbons from the interstate.

  “For what?”

  “My mom is . . . I don’t even know.”

  “I see what you mean, but I think she’s hilarious. And it’s always nice to know there are people out there who are even more judgmental than me.”

  I expected him to laugh, but he didn’t. “Promise me you’re not going to be like her.”

  “What?”

  “Like, when we’re real adults . . . in our thirties or whatever . . . promise me you won’t get like that. You won’t look down on people because they shop at J. Crew and don’t know who Cindy Sherman is.”

  I should have been offended that he assumed I could ever be like his mother, but all I could feel was that warmth flooding through me again and collecting around my heart.

  “You just said, ‘when we’re real adults,’ like we’ll still be hanging out when we’re thirty.”

  “Won’t we?” he asked.

  “I hope so,” I said with a nod. “I usually don’t let myself think that far ahead. But I hope so.”

  We sped through the night in comfortable silence until Will pulled into my driveway. “See you at the sausage-grinder, Mattie-O.”

  “We have homeroom together, don’t we?”

  He laughed. “Yeah. I forgot about that.”

  I tapped on the hood of his car and waved before heading into my house, hoping to get a good night’s sleep before I had to face my last year at Cianci Regional. Guinan met me at the door with her paws clacking against the kitchen floor and her wet nose sniffing my hands.

  I dug my phone out of my bag and realized I’d missed a text from Miyu.

  >I gave you the week off but now it’s time to get yr head back in the game. Yr next act is all you, Girl Scout. Sink or swim.

  Guinan whined for attention. “Hey, girl,” I whispered as I ruffled the fur on her pointy ears. “Tomorrow’s gonna be a long, weird day.”

  I woke up after a night of sipping martinis in front of the TV with a dull ache radiating through my skull. “Hachidori,” I moaned, “can you mix me a bloody mary? And don’t forget the celery.”

  I gasped and bolted out of bed the second I realized I’d left her locked up in one of my trunks. I could hear her muffled whimpers as I fumbled with the key, and she exploded as soon I lifted the lid.

  “You forgot me!” she screamed, tears streaking down her red, quivering face. “How could you forget me?”

  My head throbbed. “Don’t yell. I’m sorry. You’re the one who wanted me to train you. How many times have I said you’d be better off at a summer camp, running around with other kids?”

  “I could’ve died in there!”

  “There are holes in the lid. You couldn’t have died. I wouldn’t let that happen.”

  “You’re missing the point.”

  I took a deep breath and exhaled through my nose. “I’m sorry, hachidori. What’s the point?”

  “The point is you’re the worst mom ever.”

  – Akiko Miyake, Grayton, March 15, 1993

  Mattie vs. the Sausage Grinder

  Stella and I arrived in homeroom a solid fifteen minutes early. Despite our punctuality, she was still percolating with anxiety and kept sighing and humming to herself while we drove to school in her Volkswagen. Her nerves must’ve been telepathically signaling my nerves, because my palms wouldn’t stop sweating, but I swallowed my complaints. The first day of school was always a big deal for her, like an overachiever’s holy day. I figured she’d settle down by lunch.

  “Hey, Mattie,” Meadow said as I took my seat behind her.

  “Hey, Meadow.” I smiled to myself as I thought about how many times over the summer I’d used her as an excuse for staying out until the early hours of the morning.

  “How was your summer?”

  I had no idea how to answer that. “Um . . . you know . . . fine. Stella had fun at St. Joe’s.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” she said as she examined her cuticles. “That’ll probably be a big booster for your college apps.”

  Will breezed into the room and set his messenger bag on his desk. Maybe the tension was all in my head, but I felt like I could cut it with a knife. I stopped breathing as I wondered whether he’d acknowledge me and Stella—and risk exposing himself in the process—or pretend this was just another day at Cianci Regional.

  He surprised me by not just exchanging Hi!s with us, but by launching into a convo with Stella about the first book on the Honors English syllabus.

  “I’m surprised it’s a modern selection,” he said. “I thought we were going to be relegated to Victorian-era classics forever.”

  A chat about non-historical fiction wouldn’t hold my attention on a good day, but I was so fascinated by Meadow’s reaction to this sudden sea change, Will and Stella could have started conversing in Pig Latin, and I wouldn’t have known it. Meadow and I weren’t exactly friends, though I’d known her long enough I could recognize when something was bothering her. As she stared at Stella and Will, her hazel eyes narrowed and her brows knitted ever so slightly. Her lips, undoubtedly glossed with all-natural chapstick, puckered into a perfect O. She clearly didn’t understand why Will was investing so much of his conversational time in Stella and, therefore, didn’t like it.

  Will and Stella chuckled with each other, though I had no idea how Honors English could possibly be funny. I watched as Meadow’s expression softened into cool, collected acceptance. Then she laughed when Stella asked, “How many structuralists does it take to change a light bulb?”

  As we got up to leave for our first classes of the day, Meadow pulled Stella aside. “I’d love to do a quarter-page in the yearbook about your experience at St. Joe’s. Do you think you’d have time to meet with me later this week?”

  For more than a brief moment, I wanted to swing my book-laden backpack right into her dewy-fresh face. In less time than it would take for me to beat the yearbook staff to a bloody pulp, Stella had gone from someone Meadow didn’t deem worthy of direct eye contact to someone she could use like a piece of social currency. For a moment, I saw the world the way Will’s mom must see it—a place full of shallow automatons who place all their chips on empty status symbols instead of . . . I didn’t even know. There had to be more important stuff than whatever Meadow had on her mind.

  But I wasn’t Will’s mom, and that rage quickly faded to pity. Meadow was so caught up in Meadow-land, she’d never stumble upon the hidden jewels of the world, like Salone Postale. She’d miss out on getting to know people like Frankie because they didn’t serve any obvious purpose for her. And she’d never really connect with people like Will, because they’d be too afraid to confide in her.

  “You okay?” Stella asked as I shuffled out of homeroom and into the hallway.

  I nodded. “I didn’t know quite what was going to happen.”

  “Me either. Did you see Meadow’s face?


  “She looked like she’d just sucked on an exceptionally sour lemon.”

  “I guarantee she’ll forget all about that yearbook thing by third period. Au revoir, mademoiselle.” She smiled and waved before heading off to Honors English.

  ***

  Though I’d been dreading my first day back at school, it helped that my first class of the day was an elective with Liam titled How to Read and Write Like an Historian. He’d confided in me before summer break that, behind the principal’s back, he referred to it as How to Tell When Your Biased Textbook is Lying to You.

  “Mattie McKenna!” he shouted from his desk when I walked in.

  “Yup, it’s me.” A few fellow students had already taken their seats, thus I felt obligated to refer to him by his last name. “Hey, Mr. Prentice.”

  “And how was your summer?”

  “Pretty fantastic, actually.” I paused for a moment to consider how much I wanted to reveal. “I think I’ve found a creative hobby I can stick with.”

  He took his sneakered feet off his desk and adjusted his tie. “That is fantastic.”

  I took a seat near the front, between a junior with earbuds jammed in her ears and a fellow senior who smelled like he’d forgotten to take a shower that morning. Liam passed out our textbooks—fat, aged tomes titled Manifest Destiny: America Moves West.

  The junior next to me ripped out her earbuds. “Isn’t that, like, kind of racist? There were people here before all the whities moved west.”

  “Precisely,” Liam proclaimed with a smile. “But this textbook was used at this very school until as late as 1992. We aren’t going to use this textbook as a bible. We’re going to dissect it. We’re going to learn that history can’t always be separated from mythology and mythologies aren’t set in stone. They serve the purpose of those telling the story. Before the end of the semester, you’ll complete an independent project in which you dissect a text of your own choosing.”

  The smelly senior raised his hand, sending a cloud of body odor wafting in my direction. “Does that mean once we’re done reading this huge, boring textbook we have to read another huge, boring textbook?”

 

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