by Andra Brynn
There’s not much back here. The really expensive equipment must have been taken and sold, but there are still a few brushed metal racks on wheels floating around. It’s dark in here with no windows, and only the light, meager already from so few windows in the dining room, is downright paltry as it filters through the half-closed order window.
I like the dark. It heightens my other senses.
Behind me, Daniel moves. I can hear the sound of his clothes moving together, the shifting of his feet on the gritty floor. If I am very quiet, I can hear him breathing. I wonder if he’s listening to me breathe, too. The thought leaves a funny feeling in the pit of my belly.
“You’re naïve,” I say. “I could be a serial killer. Luring you into the dark.” I keep walking, away from the order window, looking for the darkest place, a place to hide, a place where all that stands between the darkness outside and the darkness inside is the thickness of my skin.
“How do you know I’m not going to kill you?” Daniel says.
I turn to see him, but it’s so dark, and there are just enough leftover trays and rolling shelves that I no longer know where he is.
“I don’t,” I say. “You never know what someone could be.”
He shifts. My hearing, heightened and sensitive, picks up the sound as though it were broadcast through a loudspeaker.
“That’s cynical,” he says.
I think I see him, in the darkness. The slightest curve of light falls on his cheek, gleams off his glasses.
“Is it?” I ask. I shuffle across the floor, my hands out, until I find the wall. “Want to hear a story?”
“Yes,” he says.
“My mother thought I was possessed by demons.”
Daniel doesn’t say anything to that. I trace the tiles on the wall, the bumps and ridges.
“In the church she picked, demons were anything you didn’t like. Like demons of irritable bowel syndrome, or demons of alcohol, or demons of porn. If you got caught doing something bad, it was a demon. And you had to be exorcised.” I feel myself smile. “I was possessed by the demons of talking back. My mother hated whenever I ‘talked back.’ Except it was whenever I talked. Anything I said was talking back, or I guess anything that made her uncomfortable was talking back. She used to get so mad at me... Disobedience. That was another one. If I forgot to load the dishwasher, it was the demon of disobedience. And then she’d take me to church that Sunday and I’d have to sit up at the front and all these people would gather around me and put their hands on me and howl in tongues and it was so fucking stupid.”
If I think too hard about it, I can still feel those hands on me. On my shoulders, on my head, my back, my arms.
“Those people actually thought they were casting demons out of me. It was the same no matter what. If I was sad, or angry, or anything at all... demons. Like anything that wasn’t happy-happy joy-joy was the opposite of the will of God or whatever.”
My jaw is clenching now, my arms and back tight. “But there’s all sorts of horrible, shitty things in this world. My mom wanted me to believe in God, like Jesus was some sort of Prozac that would make me happy. ‘Be healed in Christ,’ she’d say. So I stopped talking to her about anything.” I let out a laugh. “But wouldn’t you know, there’s a demon of sullenness, too? I’m just demons all the way down.”
Daniel says nothing, but I can hear him breathing.
I rake my fingernails through my hair. “Anyway. You think that might have something to do with why I don’t talk?”
His soles scrape over the gritty floor. “It’s not always like that,” he says. “Churches, I mean.”
“I know,” I tell him. “She only went there for a few years, then we started going to a nice little church that didn’t believe everything bad in the world was caused by demons.”
“That’s good,” he says.
“Is it?” I ask him. “Because those guys thought everything bad in the world happened for a reason. We couldn’t know the reason, but there was a reason for it. So which is better? Pretending to know the reason, or thinking it’s okay to be kept in the dark?”
There is silence for a long moment. “Why did your mother turn to a church like that?” he asks finally. His voice is so low, I have to strain to hear it.
“Problems,” I say. My voice is low, too, as though talking about these things is taboo, only to be done in hushed whispers. “She was just trying to figure out how to survive. People do crazy things to survive.”
He’s quiet. Then: “You are very understanding, Bianca. It takes a lot of people years and years to forgive something like that.”
You really don’t know anything at all about anything, do you? I think. He’s so sweet, so nice. I almost want to protect him.
“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t forgive her. I hate her guts. When I’m done with college, I don’t think I’ll ever speak with her again.”
He inhales sharply. “Even though you know why she did it?”
My teeth clench. It all happened years ago, but talking about it has brought back the white-hot rage, the smoldering fury. “Especially because I know why. She projected all her pain onto me, like I didn’t have enough of it on my own. People who make their problems into other people’s problems are worse than shit.” I laugh again, but it’s an angry thing, as though I’m spitting venom. “And here I am, being your problem. I just can’t stop being a problem.”
Footsteps. He’s walking toward me. They echo in the small kitchen with its concrete floor and tiled walls. I feel the air shift as he draws near, and then the warmth of his body.
I put my hand out to let him know that I’m right there, that he needn’t come any closer. My palm lands on his stomach, and I feel the hard flex of muscle beneath his sweater. “Stop,” I say, pulling my hand back.
“Bianca,” he says.
I hold my breath, not knowing what to do or say.
I hear him move, and when his hands alight on my upper arms, I jump, but don’t pull away.
Slowly, gently, he draws me in, until I have to take a step forward, and then another, until his arms wrap around me and I am fully pressed against him.
My heart is racing, my body alive at the contact, but nothing more happens. He just holds me, and I hide my face in his chest, feeling the beat of his heart thrumming against my brow.
“You’re not a problem,” Daniel says. The vibrations of his voice pass through his body, echoing into mine.
I smile, bitter, even though I know he can’t see it. “Then why are you so desperate to solve me?”
He doesn’t answer, just tightens his hold on me. My hands are on his chest. His muscles bulge under my hands and my mouth is dry. This is the first time a boy has hugged me in years and not wanted something out of it. So why can’t I quiet my body? Why can’t I stop responding to him? I’m going to ruin it. Just letting him hold me is going to ruin it all. And yet, maybe I should ruin it. Maybe I should stretch up and kiss him and change everything. Then maybe he’d go away and leave me alone, to fail in peace...
What is wrong with me? I think. Why are you trying so hard to push him away?
I straighten, and push him away, and the relief I feel when he releases me is so powerful I am dizzy with it. I work my tongue, find my voice.
“So. Quid pro quo, Clarice,” I say. “You have something you’d like to spill your guts about?”
I hear him breathe in. “Yes.” Then, “No.” Then, “I don’t know.”
“Got it,” I say. The warmth of his embrace is dissipating, giving me a cooler head. “Let me spill my guts, don’t spill yours. That’s cool.”
“That’s not it,” he says. He sounds pained, and I feel bad for him.
I sigh. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to spill your guts if you don’t want to. It was just... it made me feel better, thinking it was kind of an exchange. Not, like... I don’t know. Sorry.”
“No.” I can barely see him, looming over me in the dark, but I can tell he’s shaking his head. “Tha
t’s not it.”
I stare up at him, wondering how much of my face he can see. “What is it, then?”
He is silent for a long moment. “Nothing,” he says at last. “It’s nothing.”
A sharp lance of disappointment pierces through my chest. It surprises me. Did I really want to hear a secret?
I must have.
But I won’t.
“Okay,” I say, and my voice is light. “Then let’s get out of here.”
He doesn’t answer, only follows me out of the diner, and a silence lives between us as he drives me back to campus.
He gets out with me at Marchand, and follows me inside. In the lounge, I pick up studying again while he waits for me on the couch, reading his book, but it’s different now. Our silence isn’t comfortable. There’s a brittle quality to it that forces me to focus on my work rather than face the awkward reality between us now. He brings me lunch and when I’ve finally had enough and cannot cram any more into my brain today, I tell him so and he nods and stands up to leave.
I walk him out to the parking lot.
“See you,” I tell him when he gets into his car.
“Take care,” he replies.
I watch him drive away, and then I turn around, hugging myself, and trudge inside.
I didn’t need a friend anyway, I think.
.0.
My mother didn’t like it that I liked ghosts. Devil’s work, she called it after she went holy roller on me. Tales of Satan, meant to lead us astray. Ghosts aren’t real, because if they were, then why weren’t they in Heaven or Hell?
I always said they were already in Hell. What worse fate could there be after dying than having to stay here?
Just imagine dying, especially after a violent death. The pain’s been arcing through you, burning away your rational thought, fear clawing your sanity to shreds, and then... bliss. Peace. No more pain. No more worries. No more money troubles, or broken hearts. No more painful memories. All of that gone.
You have escaped the bonds of your body, slipped free of its vagaries and lusts and hurts and needs.
Then you open your ethereal eyes, and everything is exactly the same.
Oh no, you’d think. Not this shit again.
.11.
I don’t expect Daniel to ever come back, so imagine my surprise when I wake up on Sunday morning to the sound of knocking on our bedroom door.
“Tanya,” I moan. Of the two of us, Tanya is the heavier sleeper, but she insisted on being on the bottom bunk, so it’s her responsibility to answer the door.
She doesn’t respond.
“Taaaanyaaaa,” I say again before dragging myself up onto my elbows and peering over the side of the bed. To my surprise, Tanya isn’t there. Then I remember that she went out to a study group last night. And we all know that study groups rarely mean any studying gets done. She’s probably crashed on someone’s floor or couch or, if she’s lucky, bed.
Me, I spent all last night studying and trying to push away the memories that drifted through my head like flying cinders, burning wherever they landed. But I didn’t drink. The fear had subsided, though it had been replaced by melancholy. I knew from experience that drinking while sad was never a good thing to do. This didn’t stop me from doing it from time to time, of course, I just knew it was bad.
Now I sigh and climb down off the top bunk. “I’m coming.” It’s probably one of the guys, wanting to borrow something.
I open the door in mid-yawn. Daniel stands there.
My yawn aborts itself prematurely, and I frown. “What are you doing here?” I say.
“I came to apologize,” Daniel says. He looks strangely nervous.
“Apologize for what?”
His mouth twists. “For... for not holding up my side of the bargain.” A tinge of color touches his cheeks and he looks away from me. For a moment I am confused, then I look down at myself. I’m wearing a pair of pajama pants and a tank top, no bra. I look back up at him.
“What’s wrong?” I say. “You never seen a pair of tits before?”
His blush deepens. It’s fascinating to watch. I can’t recall the last time I saw a guy get flustered.
“Jeez, wait here,” I tell him. I turn and grab my hoodie off my desk chair, pull it on, and return to the door. “Now what’s this about apologizing?”
“I have something to tell you,” he blurts.
I am taken aback. “What?”
“I don’t want to...” He trails off, and as he does I notice he’s holding a brown grocery sack.
I point to it. “What’s in there?” I say.
He looks down. “Breakfast. If you’d like some breakfast. Unless you want to eat canned ravioli again...”
“I’m out of canned ravioli,” I tell him. “You want to eat in the lounge?”
“I have somewhere better in mind,” he says.
All right. I have to admit. I’m intrigued. I don’t want to show it, though. “Is this somewhere better somewhere I have to be dressed for?” I ask.
He tilts his head. “You should put on some jeans and some shoes,” he says. “But that’s all you’ll need.”
My eyes narrow. “Where are we going?”
“Just let me surprise you, okay?”
I sigh. “Fine. Go wait downstairs.” And I shut the door in his face.
In record time, I have a pair of jeans and my sneakers on, and I head downstairs to find Daniel standing in the foyer. Since it’s Sunday, no one else is up, or if they are it’s because they stayed up all night, so we have the house to ourselves for the moment. I look up at him and say, “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go see this big surprise.”
He winces a little bit at the sarcasm in my voice. I must still be bitter about yesterday.
“It’s on campus,” he tells me. “So it’s not far.”
I wave my hands. “Let’s go, let’s go.”
He exits the house and I follow him out.
We don’t speak as he leads me across the campus. I have no idea where he’s taking me until we stop in front of Seele Hall.
I look up at it. Seele Hall is being renovated and should open again in a year or two. For now, it’s closed up.
I smile. “Are we going in there?”
“That was the plan.”
“How naughty.”
“Yes,” he says. “I suppose it is.” He leads me around the back of the old dormitory, and points to one of the windows. Inspecting it, I find that it’s slightly open, and my smile gets bigger. Reaching out, I haul the window open and clamber inside, and Daniel follows me, closing the window again behind us.
Almost immediately I’m filled with that delicious feeling, the feeling of transgression. We’re not supposed to be here. We don’t belong. It thrills me, and, strangely, comforts me. I realize that I love how solitary it is in here. Not only are we the only two people here, but we are the first in a long time, and will be the last for a very long time afterward. No one to bother me. No one to interrupt me. In a place like this, you can be truly alone with yourself and your thoughts.
Well, almost alone.
Daniel passes me, and opens the door. “This way,” he says, and walks out into the dark hallway.
We stroll through dusty corridors. Everything about the building speaks of the era when it was built, when things were supposed to last. The doors are heavy and solid, and the plaques on them, proclaiming Suite 103 or whatever, are made of metal instead of plastic. These were plaques that were meant to last through the cold war, and they did.
When we reach the end of one of the halls, Daniel opens the door to reveal the stairwell. “Going up,” he says, and begins to climb. I follow him, and I note, purely from an academic standpoint, that he has very nice legs, and he is wearing very nice jeans. Is there anything he owns that isn’t nice? Besides his shitbox car, I mean?
Seele Hall is three stories high, and when we finally reach the third floor, Daniel exits the stairwell, then leads me down another hall to another door. This one
is marked Staff Only.
An illicit shiver races up my spine.
Daniel opens the door and reveals another set of stairs, and when we reach the top, there is a thin wooden door. Daniel turns the knob and pushes it open, and then we are on the roof.
“Wow,” I say as I step out on to the gravelly rooftop. “Wow.”
The whole campus spreads out below us. Seele Hall is on top of a small hill, and from our vantage point the land sweeps out and down, a jumbled mess of faux-gothic buildings and autumn trees. There’s no sun in the sky again, just diffuse gray light. The air is cool and soft, and I breathe it in.
“Do you like it?” Daniel asks.
“It’s pretty damn pretty,” I say.
“Perfect place for a picnic breakfast,” he says. Setting the grocery bag down, he reaches in and pulls out a large, soft quilt, which he shakes out and spreads over the gravel, right near the edge of the roof. Then he pulls out two little Tupperware containers and hands me one.
I take it and peer through the foggy plastic. “What’s this?” I say.
“Delicious,” he promises me. “And I brought coffee. Do you drink coffee?”
I drink coffee. I’ll drink anything that promises to keep me awake while I try to get the last thousand words out about the Opium Wars or transcendental moral law or whatever. I nod, and together we sit down on the blanket. Daniel takes a thermos from the grocery bag and unscrews the top, then pulls out two cups and pours us both a nice cup of coffee.
“Okay,” he says. “Now you can open up the Tupperware.
I open the Tupperware.
Inside are small square pastries, like little cups, filled with fruit and cream cheese and topped with large grains of sugar. The sticky sweetness of them hits my nose and my mouth waters. “What are these?” I say.
“Kolaches,” he tells me. “Go ahead, try them. They’re good.”
I give him a look. “I’m not suspecting they aren’t. Did you make these?”
He nods.
I look back down. I have to admit I’m impressed. My baking ability extends purely to premade cookie dough, and most of the time the cookie dough never makes it to the cookie sheet. My mouth always seems to intercept it somehow.