Every Exquisite Thing

by Matthew Quick

  “I’m sorry, Shannon. I wish you all the best—I really do—but I’d like you to leave now.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I—” But I can’t think of the right way to say what I mean without sounding like a complete bitch, and I don’t even really feel like I owe Shannon an explanation anymore. Maybe proms and parties and college soccer teams and traditional learning are just fine for people like her and most of the world, but it’s not fine for me, and I don’t know how to make everyone else understand that without insulting them, which I really don’t want to do. “Again, I’m really sorry, but I need you to leave. I don’t want to have this conversation with you.”

  “Are you even fucking serious?” Shannon says, squinting out her rage. “You’re throwing me out because I called you on your shit?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Fine.” Shannon turns her back on me and then strides right out of the room.

  I hear my mom ask how it went “up there” and Shannon says, “Your daughter is impossible, Mrs. O’Hare. I’m sorry. I tried. But I’m simply done.”

  And then Shannon is gone.

  Somehow I know that we will never speak again.

  And I’m okay with that.

  37

  I Truly Hope That Girl Will Be Perfect

  Although I overhear plenty of people whispering about what I did to Ned, no one speaks to me at school or asks me what happened. Maybe it’s more fun to fill in the blanks with gossip, and so it’s like I’m invisible again. It’s amazing how my entire class instantly unites against me without anyone even wondering if my motives were legit. Even the kids who aren’t friends with the Shannon-and-Ned crew seem to be avoiding me.

  I do feel bad about ruining Ned’s prom, and so I go to his house one night and knock on the door. When his mother answers, she raises her eyebrows and says, “Takes a lot of nerve coming here.”

  “May I please speak with him?”

  “Okay,” she says, and then shuts the door in my face.

  I wait there anyway because she said “okay,” and after what seems like an eternity, the door opens and Ned appears wearing an undershirt and huge green basketball shorts. He doesn’t come outside and he doesn’t invite me in. He’s trying to look tough and pissed off with his arms crossed, but I can tell he wants to cry.

  “I just wanted to say I’m sorry that I ruined your prom.”

  “Why did you freak out in the limo?”

  “I—”

  “Wait—you’re speaking in first person now?”

  “I was doing an experiment. With the third-person thing. Trying to be agreeable with everyone for a time. Trying to be like everyone else.”

  “Everyone speaks in first person.”

  “The experiment failed. Obviously.”

  “So let me get this straight—whatever we had, that was just part of some experiment? I didn’t mean anything more to you?”

  “Isn’t all teen dating an experiment of sorts?” I say, and then realize how horrible that sounds.

  “Ouch.” He grits his teeth and looks down at his feet. “Your apology hurts worse than your leaving me solo at the prom. How did you even manage that?”

  “Listen, I’m kind of fucked up right now. I don’t know what I want. Who I am.”

  “Whatever. I’m okay.”

  I can see how much pain he’s in, which sort of baffles me. “You really didn’t know that I was faking the whole time?”

  Ned shakes his head in disbelief. “I feel sorry for you. I’ve never met a more selfish person. Yeah, I did really care about you—or whoever you were pretending to be during your experiment. So congratulations.”

  “Ned, listen—I’m sorry. You’ll find another girl who will love you for who you are. And I truly hope that girl will be perfect for you.”

  He looks at me one last time, and I can see his eyelashes quiver just before he slams the door shut.

  38

  World Population Clock

  In June’s office, I bring her up to speed and then say, “The thing that really has me worried is this: I don’t have any friends. Not a single one left. I don’t want to see Booker anymore. Oliver has moved on. Mr. Graves is out of the picture. Alex is dead. My entire high school thinks I’m a selfish cunt because I stood up Ned at the prom. And I just read Charles Bukowski’s novel Women, which sort of ruined him for me. Have you read that book?”

  “No.”

  “It’s just so sad and pathetic—and clearly about him. It makes it damn near impossible to admire the Buk. Is there anyone worth admiring in the world? Or does everyone let you down eventually?”

  June taps her chin several times and then says, “How many people were on your varsity soccer team?”

  “What? Why?”

  “Just play along. How many?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe twenty-five?”

  “How many students are enrolled in your high school?”

  “About a thousand.”

  “How many people live in your town?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Guess.”

  “Twenty thousand?”

  “Do you ever interact with people outside South Jersey? Have you for the last eighteen years?”

  “Not really.”

  “Take out your phone.”

  I take out my phone.

  June says, “Google world population clock and then click on the website.”

  I do that and find a running count of all the people who have died and were born today. I can see that there are many more births than deaths, and so the world’s population is growing by the second.

  “Why are you showing me this?” I say.

  “What does that information tell you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think.”

  “We’re fucked?”

  “Why?”

  “Global warming. At some point there will be more people than resources. We won’t be able to sustain—”

  “Yes, all true. But let’s try to take an optimistic view of things today. How does it relate to your unpopularity?”

  “There are more than seven billion people in the world, and so I am completely meaningless?”

  June shakes her head. “No. There are seven billion people in the world, and you have only experienced twenty thousand at the most. And those twenty thousand were fairly homogenous. Your experiences with people have been largely dictated by your parents’ choices. The neighborhood in which they chose to purchase a house. Where they sent you to school. And maybe those choices weren’t the best for you. Maybe you don’t fit in where you are now. But you still managed to survive four years of high school and have a few meaningful experiences along the way. There are seven billion other people out there. Seven billion. Are you really pessimistic enough to believe that you wouldn’t get along with any of them?”

  “But how do I move forward? I have no idea!”

  “Sometimes you just have to pick a direction and make mistakes. Then you use what you learn from your failure to pick new, better directions so you can make more mistakes and keep learning.”

  “So do you think I should go to college next year?”

  “Do you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s a chance to meet new people, if nothing else. Maybe you need to leave the first twenty thousand people behind.”

  I hadn’t really thought about it like that. I knew I didn’t want to play soccer anymore. I no longer wanted to hang out with the people in my hometown, but I am interested in meeting new people who were also eager to have real, honest conversations.

  June says, “You don’t have to have it all figured out now or ever. We’re all just bumbling through, really. But you’ll find something to be passionate about. You just need to leave high school and your town behind.”

  “But how?”

  “Why not pick something and give it a go? You’re lucky enough to have parents who can fund your next few years. You should probably
take advantage of that in one way or another. It won’t be perfect, but it will be different. And different can be very good.”

  I wonder whether it really can be that easy.

  39

  A Price to Pay for Pushing Beyond

  And then somehow I’m at my high school graduation, waiting in the gym, wondering when this thing will start so it can end.

  I feel too warm in my gown and hat, which is pinned to my hair.

  Shannon, Riley, and Maggie are in the bleachers ignoring me again.

  Ned and his boys won’t even make eye contact.

  Neither will my old soccer teammates.

  As I look around at my classmates, I wonder if Booker went to his high school graduation; I’m pretty sure Wrigley and Eddie Alva didn’t.

  Everyone looks so happy and excited.

  We line up and they play the song and we march in just like we practiced a million times, and I hate it all more than I even thought I would. But when I stand in front of my metal folding chair on the football field and look up into the stadium seats, I locate my parents, and both of them are wiping tears from their eyes. For a fraction of a second, I’m glad to give them this moment, even though it means absolutely nothing to me. Just as soon as they learned about the real Nanette, they adapted and tried to help me the best they could. And it brought them back together, too, which is so strange. Maybe I should have been honest with them earlier. But how was I to know that being honest would make our relationship so much better? Honesty doesn’t always produce such good results. And then I think about how I’ve never really been honest with my peers, either. I never really let them see the true, authentic Nanette O’Hare. Few people besides Alex and Oliver got to hang out with her. And maybe that was my big mistake.

  Old men in suits say the same generic things they say every year, the choir sings “Time After Time” by Cyndi Lauper, and then it’s time for the speeches delivered by the two students who had the highest grade point averages.

  Salutatorian Janelle Priestly is introduced.

  They announce that she is going to Princeton, and everyone except me claps as if Janelle Priestly has discovered how to turn dog shit into gold.

  She stands and adjusts the microphone, which squeals when she touches it.

  I’ve never before spoken with Janelle Priestly.

  We’ve attended the same high school for four years now, and Janelle Priestly and I haven’t exchanged one single syllable.

  “It’s a great honor to represent this beautiful, promising, and beloved class,” she begins, and then waves her hand over all of us like we’re a brand-new sports car she’s about to give away on some stupid game show.

  Janelle Priestly doesn’t represent me, I think. She probably doesn’t even know my name.

  In her effort to “represent” me, Janelle Priestly goes on to say words I would never use and proclaim ideas that I do not believe in, and as I look around at my classmates and the school board and the faculty and the band and the parents and even the police officers gathered at the edge of the field…

  Just sitting there, enduring the dull, antiquated ritual of a traditional high school graduation, hurts—it feels like there are flames beneath me heating up the metal chair I’m seated on, like my stupid square cardboard hat is full of fire ants, like this whole fucking overprivileged town is slowly grinding away my eyeballs with sandpaper.

  But then I realize that I’m free if I want to be—no one has chained me to this folding chair.

  So I simply stand and walk out.

  Janelle Priestly keeps speaking and my classmates listen and parents fan themselves with programs and everything goes on just fine without me seated among the crowd.

  They probably think I have to use the bathroom.

  Or maybe they think nothing at all.

  The world doesn’t really care too much about what you do sometimes—as long as you let certain types carry on en masse without you.

  Looking perplexed and a bit terrified, my parents arrive at my Jeep only a few seconds after I do, and, by way of explanation, I say, “I just couldn’t do it.”

  My dad gives me this terribly sad look that makes me feel shitty, and I sort of hate him for it, even though I realize he’s mostly just confused.

  “I don’t get it, Nanette,” Mom spits. “Why leave your own graduation? Why? It’s a celebration FOR YOU. We’ve been doing everything you want. We’ve been so tolerant of your needs. Why did you do this to us?”

  “I would have stayed for the whole ceremony if that were a possibility, but it just wasn’t. I know that sounds like an exaggeration, but it’s not. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you that.”

  Mom’s mouth is open, but no words are coming out.

  When I look at my father, I can see that he doesn’t get it, either, and right then and there, I realize that there’s a big part of me that my parents will never get no matter how many therapy sessions we attend—even if we have a million and one conversations about who I am.

  “I wish I could be who you want me to be,” I say. “It would make everything so much easier.”

  When Mom starts crying, Dad puts his arm around her, but no one knows what to say.

  The last of Janelle Priestly’s words echo out through the green leaves and blue sky and setting sun, and then the crowd breaks out in wild applause.

  The O’Hares are outside the circle now, standing in the street, just the three of us.

  “Shortest graduation ceremony I’ve ever attended,” Dad says, going for humor, when our silence grows too loud. “And those things can drag on forever.”

  Mom forces a laugh and then wipes away a tear, but I can tell she’s still mad. More precisely, she’s embarrassed. It was one thing to have a crazy daughter in private, but many of her professional contacts were in the crowd tonight—the insecure wives and moms with pitiful sex lives and large houses in constant need of updating.

  But I can tell that Mom is conflicted, too. June has explained to her what I need, only Mom can’t always give it to me—just like I can’t always give Mom what she needs from me.

  We stand by my Jeep for a few minutes not saying anything as the next speech begins, and it’s like we all know that we’ve reached the end—that things are never going to be the same again. There is something deep within all three of us that doesn’t want to let go of whatever we’ve had for the past eighteen and a half years, even though that’s exactly what we have to do.

  “See you at home?” Dad finally asks.

  I nod.

  When they turn their backs, I open my Jeep door, and there’s a mysterious book on the driver’s seat.

  A young, androgynous-looking face stares up at me from under the title: The Picture of Dorian Gray.

  I look around, my eyes scanning the line of cars on the street and the sidewalks, but I don’t see anyone, so I flip through the novel.

  No handwritten note inside the flap, but there is one page folded down. On it is a highlighted sentence. It glows neon yellow.

  Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.

  My mind starts racing.

  Who put this book here?

  What are they trying to tell me?

  I read the entire novel that evening, and if you read it, too, you’ll surely see how it relates to what happened my senior year—how Alex and I became obsessed with a piece of art after seeing some part of ourselves in it and how that obsession began to destroy us and maybe even helped to kill Alex.

  But what was truly tragic and what exactly was exquisite?

  My parents, Mr. Graves, Shannon, Ned, Booker, Oliver—they’d all have different answers to that question. There is a price to pay for pushing beyond everyone else’s answers, and what I’m finding out is that I’m more than willing to pay it.

  I like to think that Mr. Graves left Dorian Gray in my Jeep as a way of officially saying good-bye, but I bet it was Booker.

  Either way, I take it for what it’s worth—an end o
f sorts, and a beginning.

  40

  Velvety as a Good Kiss

  The day after graduation, I put my Jeep into drive and head for the shore. The top is down and my hair is trailing behind me. I’m listening to Los Campesinos!’s album Hold On Now, Youngster…, blasting my eardrums with singsongy pop punk. When I arrive, I find parking and then walk to the beach. I have no idea whether this area is where Mr. Redmer dumped Alex’s ashes, but it doesn’t matter, because this is where Alex and I went when we cut school the first day of my senior year—so it’s one last time at our place.

  With my feet in the wet sand, foamy waves licking my ankles, I pull my iPhone from my pocket, plug in my headphones, and listen to Lightspeed Champion’s song “Salty Water” in memory of Alex.

  Alex was more of an idea than a true friend or a lover. We never got the chance to really know each other or test our compatibility over a significant period of time. I see now that he was sick—that maybe he pushed his needle too far away from the middle of the herd. But being with him for a short time helped push my needle just enough to free me from the life I hated, what everyone expected of me. And even though I have no idea what comes next, I’m grateful that I’m not signed up for a life that would make me miserable. I’m glad I got to be with Alex Redmer for a few months.

  When the song finishes, the sun is setting behind me and there are hardly any people left. I strip down to my bikini and wade into the ocean, which is flat as a lake tonight—almost like a bed someone else made, pulling the sheets and comforter tight, everything neat and tucked in.

  Perfect.

  The water is still cold from winter and spring, and so my skin rebels with goose bumps, but I push on anyway until the ocean rises up to my chin, at which point I lean back and allow my toes to poke out, feel the seawater creep up into my hair. I float that way for a long time, thinking about all that has happened.

  “You still identify most with Unproductive Ted,” I say to myself, and then stretch out my limbs, lick salt from my lips, and allow the water to fill my ears.