“Yeah,” Bryan says. “Something like that.”
Tristan turns, sees us, and bounds over. “Let’s go in. There’s Tit-tian to be seen.”
“Did you just say something dirty?” Bryan asks, and Tristan wraps his hand around Bryan’s wrist and tugs him along.
“I hope you didn’t come expecting excitement,” Melanie says. “It is a museum, you know.”
“Museums can be exciting,” I say.
I incline my head toward Bryan and Tristan, who are holding hands. Tristan whispers something into Bryan’s ear, and Bryan goes so pink, he’s almost purple.
Melanie makes a face. “Gross. Let’s go learn something about art.”
The exhibit is fascinating. It’s all about color, the differences between how painters in Venice were tinting and adding tone and dimension to their work. After a while, the images blur together into a sea of warm shades and faded landscapes.
Then one catches my eye, digs its fingers in and holds me still.
It’s a reproduction of a fresco that is painted on the walls of Scuola del Santo in Padua, part of a series on the life of Saint Anthony. The title is The Miracle of the Jealous Husband. The composition is strange: The entire top half of the painting is a landscape, displaying a mountain with spindly trees poking out of it. The colors are cool and quiet, grays and blues, peaceful. In the right-hand corner there are three small figures, nearly indistinct, but pictured in the bottom half are two very distinct figures: a man wearing a red-and-white-striped tunic belted at the waist, and a woman, sprawled on the ground below him, in a dress of vibrant orange-yellow. The man holds a knife in one hand, and she has one arm flung out to keep him at a distance.
I get it, suddenly. She’s trying to keep him from killing her. It is a painting of brutal, anticipatory slaughter. He's stabbed her but now they are both frozen, destined to spend forever preparing for a final blow that will never come.
“Wow,” Melanie says, and I jump. I turn to look at her, and there is sadness in her eyes.
“Yeah,” I say. “Exactly.”
“You forget, sometimes,” Melanie says, “that he does that. Othello. I mean, you don’t forget, but you don’t think about the reality of it, the fact that he kills his wife. In a lot of productions Desdemona just sort of wilts under him, goes to sleep, and then she’s so beautiful laid out on that bed, and—”
Melanie stops. Her lips twist as if she’s swallowed something bitter.
“I don’t ever forget,” I say softly, then realize how harsh that sounds. “I mean—”
She places a hand on my arm and squeezes, just once: I know.
We take in the rest of the exhibit in silence, the low murmur of voices of the surrounding tourists providing constant white noise. All of the images are interesting, but none make me feel the way The Miracle of the Jealous Husband did—desperate and afraid, like I was that woman on the ground fending off the descending knife.
“Kind of amazing, isn’t it?” Melanie says. “That’s one thing I like about paintings: You can show people what’s on your mind, what no one else can see. It’s harder to do that with a camera, I think. You have to create something new out of what’s already there.”
I think of what’s still in that box of photos in my closet. I think of the photos I’ve pasted all over my bedroom walls. Those photos are what Carlos left behind, and yet what really matters are the things I can never see or know, the tangled fantasies that existed only inside Carlos’s head.
I have lost Carlos’s mind.
“But you can still make people see things in different ways,” I say. “Make them see what they didn’t on first glance.”
“Yeah,” Melanie says. Her eyes are heavy. “Let’s go outside. Please?”
We leave Tristan and Bryan to flirt their way through the exhibit and wander down the circular staircase, out and around to the Sculpture Garden. Many of the sculptures are strange and modern, in diametric opposition to the exhibit we’ve just seen. A Louise Bourgeois spider sculpture sends tingles down my spine—the long, thin legs support the hovering arachnid, and it towers over our heads as if ready to lunge out and grab us.
Why does everything seem so menacing today?
Everything but Melanie.
“I like how in the winter they turn this into an ice skating rink,” Melanie says as we settle onto a bench. “It makes everything all smooth and pretty.”
“Yeah,” I murmur.
I know I’m not being much of a conversationalist, but my throat is dry and nothing’s making sense right now.
“My mom loved it here in the spring. I’d come down with her a lot,” Melanie says. “She liked to draw out here, when the cherry blossoms and magnolias were out. She’d lug this big old sketch pad so she could try to capture the shape of the petals and the exact color of pink around the edges.”
“So your mom was an artist?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Melanie says. She flushes a little, and I think of those magnolias and cherry blossoms with their pink edges.
“Like you,” I say.
Melanie looks up, startled.
“No, not—I mean, I’m not an artist. Not like her.”
“But you’re doing the sets—”
“I’m not like her,” Melanie says, her voice sharp, and I stop.
It’s quiet for a moment. I know she’s not telling me everything, but how can I ask her to tell me these things when I’m keeping so many secrets of my own?
“In fifth grade we took a field trip here to see the Degas, and Carlos climbed into the fountain with his new waterproof camera,” I say.
I remember watching Carlos standing under the spray, grinning, so thrilled with himself even as the security guard ducked under the cascade of water to drag him out.
“Carlos was like that,” I continue. “There were so many times they called security or the cops on us because he was trying to take some picture, like, dangling from the bottom of Chain Bridge or some shit.”
“Carlos took photos?”
That description just slipped out—that memory, so easy to share with someone else who was remembering too.
“Yeah,” I say. “Carlos was more of a photographer than I am, actually.”
“Oh,” Melanie says.
We sit like that for a few minutes, each watching the air for our separate ghosts. I try to breathe normally. I can feel Melanie beside me breathing too, her inhales and exhales slow and steady.
I know she wants to ask. Everyone does, even when they don’t say it. They want to know how. He was seventeen. It’s the natural thing to wonder. How did he die?
But I don’t want to tell her.
“Carlos was a total shit-starter,” I say. “Stubborn as hell and . . . kind of an asshole, you know? But in a good way.”
Melanie laughs a little. “Those are the best kind.”
“I think it made him a good photographer, though,” I say. “Because he was fearless.”
Melanie’s watching me. Up close her eyes have gold in them. For some reason that makes me want to kiss her.
“My mom always seemed pretty fearless,” Melanie says. “Like maybe that’s what you need to be to create art.”
“Theater’s like that,” I say. “I mean . . . to be a good actor I think maybe you need to be fearless.”
“Or just act fearless,” Melanie says. “It’s like that quote: ‘Courage is not the absence of fear, but the mastery of it.’”
“Like you never stop being afraid, you just don’t let it stop you.”
“Yeah,” Melanie says. “Exactly.”
The wind whips up around us, making me shiver.
For someone so fearless, Carlos sure was afraid of something.
“Are you okay?” Melanie asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say.
So automatic, the w
ay people say that.
“Hey,” Melanie says, and takes my hand in hers and squeezes.
I look down at our fingers, intertwined.
Hey. Hey.
• • •
As I walk home from Melanie’s house that afternoon, an image hits me hard and fast, no warning: Carlos, knees pulled up to his chest, strands of his sweaty hair stuck to his forehead. Post-crew practice, an early morning on a day like today, warm for fall but with an occasional cooler breeze, a preview of the months to come. Everything a vivid green. Sun cut through the trees and Carlos plucked grass out of the ground, single blades and then tufts and handfuls.
Hey, man, don’t do that, I said. You’re gonna mess it up.
Carlos snorted, but he stopped, hands wandering to his thighs and tapping out an uneven beat.
We gotta go to school, I said. Class in twenty minutes, and I gotta grab a shower.
You go, Carlos said.
You can’t miss more class, I said. Mrs. Taylor is gonna fail your ass.
Carlos shrugged. Let her fail me then.
You realize that you aren’t hurting anybody but yourself, I said.
Carlos stared straight ahead, his brown eyes flat.
Yeah, Carlos said. I realize.
So why do you—
You could stay, Carlos said. His hand fell to my arm and squeezed. We could just stay here.
Dude, I can’t, I said.
Carlos curled his lip and looked away.
What do you want from me? I wanted to say. What do you want—
I stab my key into the lock on our front door with unintentional violence. I can hear my mom inside, talking to my dad. The TV’s on in the living room—football, probably, Dad watching the Redskins game.
If Carlos were here, we’d probably drive out to Montgomery Mall, wander around and mess with stuff we couldn’t afford, harass the piano player at Nordstrom until he played “Für Elise.” Carlos loved that song. So weird.
We’d catch a movie, throw popcorn at the screen, maybe get kicked out. Carlos would hit on some salesclerk at Macy’s or the french fry girl in the food court and miraculously walk away with her number. Carlos was like that: charming.
But somehow Carlos still managed to be an outsider, an observer. Always the one holding the camera. Never the one connecting. He never seemed to call those girls when he got their numbers, or if he did they only lasted one date, maybe two. He never let anyone close.
Nobody but me.
But did he ever let me that close?
I keep thinking that if I dig down far enough I’ll understand why. Why didn’t he tell me what was going on, how desperate he was, how afraid? Why did he never let me in?
Was I just dumb, or willfully blind? Why didn’t I see what was happening to him? Between us? It’s like digging in the rain: The more I dig, the muddier it gets. I’m so tired of being the punch line of a joke I don’t get. I feel like giving up, washing my hands until the water runs clean.
• • •
On Monday Melanie finds me before rehearsal backstage, sitting with my back against the wall, earphones wedged in my ears, listening to Ray Charles.
“You okay?” Melanie asks. “You look sad.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, and I think about that word again: fine, how it means okay but also thin, light, insubstantial.
Melanie stands there silently for a moment, then says, “This play is rough, you know. You’re allowed to be kind of fucked up about it.”
The play is one splinter. I’m pretty sure Melanie’s not ready for the whole tree.
“Maybe I am,” I say. “Fucked up about it.”
“I feel like people don’t get this play a lot of the time,” Melanie says, making herself comfortable on the floor. “Like, they always call it ‘the jealousy play.’ But it’s not really about jealousy, is it? It’s about loss.”
I look up at her. “What do you mean?”
“Iago is afraid, right, of losing his wife, his status. So he forces loss on others—makes Othello thinks he’s lost Desdemona, which makes him lose his mind. It’s this play about grief, but everybody thinks it’s about what Iago wants. It’s not about what he wants, it’s about what he fears. Iago’s tragedy is that he lives in fear and makes other people live in fear too.”
I pull one of my sleeves over my wrist and the back of my hand, curling the fabric in my fist.
“Makes sense,” I say, and it does.
But in so many ways it doesn’t.
“The thing is, I don’t get why Othello believes Iago,” I say. “He’s so sleazy.”
“What, your friends have never led you astray?” Melanie says. “Carlos, hanging from the bridge? Getting tossed out of fountains?”
It hurts, a little, to hear her say that, like an ache in a strained muscle after you’ve pushed yourself too hard.
“Yeah, okay,” I say. “But he never straight-up lied to me.”
The second I say it, I realize I’m not sure if it’s true.
“We’re a society of pretenders,” Melanie murmurs.
“Like Iago,” I say.
“Like Othello,” Melanie says.
I blink. “You think so?”
“Sure,” Melanie says. “Nobody’s that smooth. That’s why he breaks down in the end, right? Because he can’t keep pretending everything’s perfect with his perfect wife, can’t keep being the perfect soldier and the perfect leader.”
“I thought he broke down because he thought his wife was cheating on him with one of his friends,” I say.
“Yeah, because it ruins this image he has of her,” Melanie says. “Perfect wife isn’t so perfect! Gotta kill her.”
“That seems kind of—”
“Right?” Melanie says. “It is right, because I am brilliant.”
I smile. It sneaks up on me, a surprise pressing at the corners of my mouth, turning them up.
We wander over to the half-finished sets, and I crouch down next to her as she paints over the rough wooden surface with a steady hand. She turns to me, the tightness around her eyes an indicator of her close focus and concentration.
“Nice job,” I say.
“I don’t know what I’m doing at all,” she says.
“You look like you do,” I say.
Melanie looks at me with unblinking eyes. “Is that what matters? That I can fake it?”
“You’re good at this, Melanie. You are.”
“Thanks,” she says, but she says thanks like I say fine, that automatic reply with no truth behind it, no weight.
You are brilliant, I want to say. You are brilliant, Melanie Ellis.
“Go out with me,” I say.
Melanie’s lips part. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“Nothing,” I cut her off. “Go out with me. For real. Just the two of us.”
“Go out with you where?” Melanie asks. She’s blushing, and she looks like she’s fighting a smile of her own.
“You decide,” I say.
• • •
The next day I’m sitting backstage and thumbing through my blocking script when Tristan appears. He collapses next to me and sighs dramatically.
“Solve my problems, Damon Lewis,” Tristan says.
“Sure thing,” I say, turning a page. “Tell me your problems, and I will solve them.”
“There is nowhere that Bryan and I can make out,” Tristan says. “His parents are not cool with the gayness, and my parents don’t know about the gayness—”
“That sucks,” I say. “If it makes you feel any better, my parents don’t really approve of me bringing girls home to make out with either.”
“People say that teenagers are having a lot of sex these days,” Tristan meditates. �
��But I have no idea how this is possible. Where are these mythical teenagers having all this mythical sex?”
“Clearly backstage at theater rehearsal,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows.
“Hey, I did not have sex back here,” Tristan says. “We were very rudely interrupted, if I recall.”
“I really hope you weren’t going to have sex back here. It’s gross, man. There are probably rats.”
“Who are you making out with, anyway?” Tristan deflects.
Wow, Tristan doesn’t miss much.
“Uh,” I say. “Nobody?”
“Hey, no, you don’t get to . . . Wait, I saw that! There is making out on your horizon, isn’t there? Dish, player.”
“Melanie didn’t—” I start to say, and Tristan clamps his hand down on my wrist.
“Melanie didn’t tell me anything,” Tristan says, breathless. “But you can tell me everything.”
I laugh, extricating my wrist from Tristan’s grip. “There’s nothing to tell, man.”
“Are you going out? Please tell me you’re going out.”
“Ball’s in her court,” I say. “I asked her out. Now she just has to say yes.”
“Well, Jesus,” Tristan says, and yanks his cell phone out of his pants pocket. “We can solve this right now—”
I grasp Tristan’s shoulder, stilling him. “Don’t do that.”
“I just—” Tristan stops. “You’re right. I shouldn’t pressure her, you shouldn’t pressure her, but sometimes Melanie can be really frustrating, you know? You might have noticed she puts up a bit of a front.”
“Might have noticed, yeah.”
“She doesn’t have a lot of experience with boys. I mean—maybe I shouldn’t have said that.” Tristan exhales loudly. “I’m such a dumbass. I should just shut up—”
“Hey, no,” I say. “Relax, Tristan. It’s just a date.”
“Yeah, well.” Tristan tugs a hand through his unruly hair. “What I’m saying is, it’s not just a date for Melanie.”
My heart trips. I clutch my script more tightly, wrinkling the pages.
• • •
That night I get a text from Melanie, short and sweet: ok. location tbd.
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