Steph’s eyes widened at my unfamiliar tone. I rarely got pissed off with my friends. Correction: I rarely revealed when I was pissed off with my friends. “No, I didn’t mean that. God, Comet, I’m sorry. You know I say stuff without thinking.”
“No, you say mean stuff when you don’t get your way.”
Vicki’s jaw dropped and I couldn’t work out if that was horror, amusement or respect in her eyes or even a mixture of all three. Steph flushed.
An awful silence fell over our table.
We stared at anything but each other as the noise of the cafeteria faded into the background. The impulse to apologize, to make things all right, clambered up my throat, and the determined stubbornness within me tried to stop it. However, the truth was my friend had apologized, and it just made me an ungracious arsehole to not accept it.
“I’m sorry.” My gaze flitted to Steph, who looked ready to cry. “You apologized. It was mean of me not to accept it.”
My friend looked up at me in relief and gave me a tremulous smile.
“Phew!” Vicki relaxed back in her chair. “Okay, now that’s done with, back to this weekend. Before you say anything, Comet, I get it. We can’t have a party while your parents are away. But we could have a sleepover and not tell our parents your parents are away. Instead we could go hang out with Jordan and his friends.”
Jordan as in Jordan Hall? The nineteen-year-old almost boy next door Vicki had been crushing on for two years? I raised an eyebrow and she laughed. “We ran into each other this morning, and he mentioned his friend was having a party on Saturday and I should come.”
Steph’s eyes almost bugged out of her head. “Oh my God. Oh my God!” She squealed and reached across to squeeze Vicki’s arm in excitement. And then she swung her gaze back to me. “Comet, come on! We have to do this for Vicki.”
I didn’t want to hang out with a bunch of college boys.
I didn’t want to go to a party where no one knew me and wouldn’t care to know me.
I wanted my friends to just sleep over at my house so I wouldn’t be alone the entire weekend.
No doubt seeing the thought in my eyes, Vicki’s expression fell, disappointment clouding her features. She gazed at me in reproach, as if to say, You promised you’d try. And I had promised, hadn’t I?
Feeling angry butterflies at the thought, I nodded. “Sure. Let’s do it.”
While Steph practically bounced in her seat with excitement, Vicki’s disappointment melted into gratitude. “Thank you.”
I smiled in return, but inside I was already dreading this weekend more than I dreaded end-of-term exams.
* * *
When the girls asked me if I wanted to hang out with them after school the plan had always been to lie and tell them I had a dentist appointment. Before lunch I would have felt bad about the lie, but after stewing over our conversation in the cafeteria I didn’t feel guilty about heading into the city without them. Being corralled into doing something I didn’t want to—being made to feel guilty for not wanting to go to some party with strangers—made me feel resentful. It also made me feel even more insecure than normal. While most days I could argue that wanting to live inside the world of books more than I wanted to live in the real world was perfectly rational considering how boring and sad my life was, there were days like today when I couldn’t. Because Vicki and Steph made it seem like it wasn’t normal. And maybe they were right.
Maybe there was something wrong with me.
Maybe I really was a weirdo.
Good thing I was going to the one place I didn’t feel that way.
After school I hurried home and changed out of my uniform, and then I caught the bus from Portobello High Street in the center of town. It took me into the city, to Edinburgh University, and from there I walked to Tollcross where my favorite café was. Pan was this almost ludicrously hipster café for poets and artists. There was a mishmash of murals painted on the walls, and a gallimaufry of furniture, including tables and chairs, sofas, armchairs and beanbags. Rugs of all sizes and colors had been thrown across the scuffed hardwood floors, and the café counter was discernible as such only because of the coffee machine behind it and the cake stands on it. At the far end of the room a small stage with a mic awaited poets and musicians. While I ordered my usual—a hot chocolate with whipped cream on top—a young guy, around college age, was onstage reading a poem from the crumpled piece of paper in his hand.
Taking a seat at the back of the room, loving how no one here paid attention to me or my ruby-red Dorothy shoes, I took a sip of my hot chocolate and listened. The guy’s voice trembled and his hands shook, but it was hard to tell if it was from nerves or because of the subject of his poem.
“It was like a knife of white heat
Plunged into my chest
Exploding in a myriad of pain and anger.
Like a long lost letter unopened,
Its pages waiting to bring
A sudden dawning;
To complete a puzzle that once
Had been so difficult
For a little boy to understand.
The realization is consuming in its accompanied rage.
Does he know what he did?
A little boy suffers as another
Parades his falsities
To an audience of jesters.
His teardrops fall
Among the court of
Villains and victims,
Whilst another’s falls silently
Behind his eyes and down
Over his broken heart.”
As much as I loved being at Pan, soaking in the good and the bad poetry and the fact that you could be a purple elephant in this room and no one would care, I could never dream of getting up on that stage and reading my own poetry aloud. It was only upon visiting the café that I’d discovered something depressing. Apparently, I belonged to a group of poets that had fallen out of fashion.
A poet whose poetry rhymed.
The only poets here who rhymed were the spoken word artists—those who wrote slam poetry.
I wasn’t a spoken word artist.
And the only other kind of poet I’d come across in Pan were the free verse poets. Maybe rhyming wasn’t cool anymore. I was a lover of Robert Burns, William Blake and John Donne. I loved rhyming. I loved the challenge of it. But I knew that a lot of people thought rhyme felt forced and that poets shouldn’t be constrained by it.
Being in the minority didn’t give me a lot of confidence in my work. Pan was the one place where no one made me feel abnormal. I did not want to put myself in the position of being judged by a crowd of people I admired.
Shoving my worries aside, I lost myself in other people’s thoughts, emotions and imaginations. The poetry café was another escape. The surrealism of the venue, with its murals and tie-dyed fabric billowing across the ceiling like a canopy, made it feel as if I had walked into a dream. Here, I was in a bubble in the same way I was when I cracked open a book. Yet, it was different because I was alone without really being alone. I was surrounded by real live people who liked the bubble just as much as I did.
“Comet?”
The familiar voice made me tense.
No.
This wasn’t happening.
Not here, where I was perfectly anonymous.
My inability to be disrespectful to the owner of the voice made me look over my shoulder and up. Sure enough, Mr. Stone stood behind me with a cup of coffee in hand and the leather satchel he wore that was always bursting with papers slung over his shoulder. His smile was curious as he stepped toward me. “Do you come here a lot, Comet?”
I nodded. And since when did you start coming here?
As if he’d heard my unspoken thought he said, “A friend recommended this place. I usually do my marking at school but I fancied a change of scenery. Do
you perform?” He gestured to the stage.
I shook my head.
“Do you have material you could perform?”
My heart rate increased at the inquisition. I knew Mr. Stone didn’t mean it as an inquisition, but the intrusion upon a part of my life I kept private unsettled me. “Maybe.”
He gave me a knowing nod. “You should think about performing. Your poetry assignments are stellar. You’re talented. You intend to go to university, yes?”
I nodded again.
“Well, universities look at your outside interests and passions. Lots of kids have good grades. You’ll need something that stands out. Performing here regularly would be a start.” He smiled at me again, clearly waiting for a response.
I didn’t know how to respond. My palms were sweating and I was feeling cornered. Thankfully, someone else stepped onstage and Mr. Stone leaned over to whisper, “I’ll leave you to it. But think about it, Comet.”
“Thanks, Mr. Stone,” I whispered.
But inside I was yelling at my favorite teacher for pointing out something I’d been doing my best to ignore. That my excellent grades weren’t a guarantee of admission into the University of Virginia, and that a university such as it was would be looking for students who stood out among the crowd. Mr. Stone was right. Being a part of Pan, gathering the courage to tread the stage here, was just an example of what it would take to make it into UVA and flourish there if I got in.
I couldn’t just sit passively by in the audience.
Yet I wanted to.
For the first time, I couldn’t just enjoy myself at Pan. Instead I imagined myself finally being brave enough to get up there and perform. Of being brave enough to remove the anonymity from my blog and use it as part of my application process for university.
Yet, I didn’t make a move to do anything. I was stuck. Courage wasn’t something you found at the bottom of a hot chocolate or in a few words of encouragement from your favorite teacher. Courage was clearly something I needed to find, but how was I supposed to when there was a big part of me that didn’t mind the fact I hadn’t discovered it?
Going to UVA was the biggest goal I had in my life. If I wanted it that badly...surely something would have to give?
THE FRAGILE ORDINARYSAMANTHA YOUNG
6
Shakespeare said it best,
To thine own self be true.
To his wisdom, I attest,
So I’ll be me, you be you.
—CC
How the hell did I end up here?
I had asked myself that question maybe thirty times from the moment we’d arrived at Jordan Hall’s friend’s party. The party was in a flat less than a minute from my house and from what I could tell was rented out by four students. The flat’s windows looked out over the sea and from the noise blaring from the speakers in the sitting room I was surprised it hadn’t been shut down by the neighbors downstairs yet. Everyone here was college age or older, and I felt like a kid as I stood in the corner of the room, nursing a can of soda.
I wasn’t oblivious to the looks being thrown my way, and it was making me nervous.
It was a rare occasion when I was uncertain of my wardrobe choices, but tonight I was. I stood out from this art crowd, who all wore a surprising amount of black for supposedly creative people. Tonight, I was wearing above-the-knee-length bright yellow socks, an oversize blue tartan shirt dress with a large slouchy black belt around my hips, a black boyfriend cardigan with a brooch shaped like a yellow teacup pinned to it and a pair of patent blue-and-white striped Irregular Choice ankle boots. They had an oversize blue bow on the side, but what made them really different, was the fact that the heel wasn’t conventional—it was a mini-sculpture of Alice from Disney’s Alice in Wonderland.
My parents might not pay me a lot of attention but they gave me a generous monthly allowance and, while I did save some of it every month, I spent a lot of it on books and clothes. Nearly every pair of shoes I owned were Irregular Choice. I could probably open my own shop with how many pairs I had in my closet.
Vicki, who had disappeared with Jordan almost the moment we’d arrived, suddenly reappeared. She strode over to me, grinning happily. I gave her a fond smile even though I secretly blamed her for putting me in the position I was in. Loving people was complicated, right? “You look happy.”
She nodded. “Jordan is so cool...and—” she stepped into me, her back to the room, and gave me this look I didn’t understand “—his friends are fascinated by you.”
I blushed. “They think I’m a weirdo, right?”
Vicki laughed. “No. The opposite. They don’t realize you’re shy. They just think you’re mysterious and unusual—but in a good way. These are art students, Comet. They like different.” She gestured to my clothes. “A few of the guys have asked who you are.”
This time I blushed for a whole other reason. “Funny. Steph bolted from me as soon as we got here.” She didn’t have to tell me she was embarrassed by how I was dressed.
“Steph wouldn’t know individuality if it bit her on the backside.” Vicki threaded her arm through mine. “These aren’t high school students, Com. They appreciate someone that knows who they are and isn’t afraid of it. Talk to one of them.”
The thought of talking to one of these strangers made me want to run in the opposite direction. What if I said something stupid? Or couldn’t speak at all and just stood there gaping at them like a guppy? I suddenly found myself irrationally angry with Vicki for trying to push me. It may have been residual irritation from Mr. Stone’s surprise appearance at Pan this week and his unwanted but sensible words of advice. He hadn’t meant to be pushy and neither had Vicki, but I felt pushed all the same.
“Jordan’s friend Ethan told us he thinks you’re gorgeous.” She subtly nodded her head to the opposite side of the living room. “He’s the one in the black Biffy Clyro shirt, standing near the television with the redhead.”
My gaze flew in that direction, curious despite myself about a guy who would call me gorgeous. No one, as far as I was aware, beyond Vicki, had called me gorgeous before. To my surprise the guy in the Biffy Clyro shirt was cute. Really cute. In that disheveled “lead singer of a rock band” kind of way.
Our eyes met and he smiled at me.
Stunned, I looked back at Vicki and she laughed. “Told you.”
I wanted to run. Run right out of the party, down the beach and lock myself inside my empty house. I didn’t know how to speak to boys my age; how the hell was I supposed to speak to an older, more experienced boy? And I didn’t want to speak to him. I didn’t know him. He was just a random at a party, and speaking to him meant a racing heart, sweaty palms and most assuredly boring him until I was mortified by his discomfort.
I wanted to kill my friend.
“He’s coming over. See you later.” And just like that Vicki was gone.
Yes.
Definitely going to kill her.
“Hi, how’s it goin’?”
My gaze flew to the guy who was now standing in front of me. Ethan, wasn’t it?
Our eyes were on level with one another, and I realized Ethan was the same height as me. He had a rangy, sinewy physique, however, that gave the illusion of greater height. The dimple that popped in his cheek with his lopsided grin was all kinds of charming.
He brushed his dark hair off his forehead. “I’m Ethan.”
“Comet,” I said quietly. And I’d like to leave now.
“That is such a cool name.” Ethan grinned harder. “Really suits you.”
It really didn’t. “Thanks.”
We stared at each other and I blushed. Again.
Ethan’s eyes brightened. “So...you go to Blair Lochrie with Vicki?”
I nodded. Words! My head was filled with bloody words, and yet I was taking so long to come up with ones that sounded oka
y that the silence just stretched between us.
A gaping, yawning chasm of silence.
Mortified, I looked anywhere but at the boy in front of me.
“So, uh, is that a cartoon character on your shoe?”
Stunned he was still standing there, I shrugged. “Kind of. It’s Alice from Alice in Wonderland. She’s really a book character more than a cartoon, because Lewis Carroll published the novel in 1865 and the Disney version came out eighty-six years later, although technically my heels are the Disney version of her...” Shut up! Someone shut me up!
To my wary surprise, Ethan nodded like I’d said the most fascinating thing ever. “Cool.”
Sensing it was my turn to ask a question I blurted out, “Are you an art student?”
He shoved his hair out of his face again, and I had to curb the urge to advise him he should just cut it if it was annoying him. “Aye. Photography. But I’m more focused on my band, right now. We’re called Lonely Boy, inspired by the song from the Black Keys. We’re kind of The Black Keys meets the Arctic Monkeys meets Babyshambles. Our musical aesthetic is alternative punk-dance-rock wrapped up in a social conscience. We’ve been playing a lot of gigs in...”
As it turned out, there were some boys you didn’t have to say anything to. You just had to pretend to be interested in what they were saying.
* * *
After an hour of listening to Ethan, lead singer of Lonely Boy, wax poetical about his life in the band, I excused myself to use the bathroom. I had a headache and needed the reprieve. On my way out, Steph cornered me.
“What does biomorphic mean?” Her pupils were large, her skin was flushed, and she was swaying a little.
“How much have you had to drink?” I nodded to her beer.
“Just a few.” She waved me off. “Comet, hurry, what does it mean?”
“Biomorphic? Why?”
She stamped her foot like a petulant child. “Because the cute art guy I’m talking to keeps calling his work biomorphic, and I’m just smiling at him like an idiot because I don’t know what it means.”
I took her beer. “You’ve had enough. And it means taking living things, like plants, the human body, and making abstract images from them.”
The Fragile Ordinary Page 6