by Sara Ryan
“Thank you,” I say to the back of her head, and begin following her.
My head throbs, and so does my ankle. Is Battle mad at me? If she is, what for?
At the edge of the woods, Battle stops walking, and turns around to face me. I wait for her to say something, but she doesn’t. Instead she puts her arms around me, hugs me so hard it almost hurts, and doesn’t let go for a long time.
An RA catches us walking up the stairs to our floor.
“Do you remember the ground rule about curfew?” she asks.
We nod.
“You chose to break that rule, and I am going to have to write up a warning for each of you. Do you think you made a good choice?”
Yes, I think, remembering Battle’s arms around me. Yes, yes, yes.
July 19, 7 p.m., Katrina’s Room
“What do you need it for again?” Katrina asks, rummaging through her giant box of clothes.
“Something I’m making for Battle—I mean, if that’s okay with you, if you can spare it.”
“Oh, sure, raid my wardrobe for all your deviant needs . . . . What are you making, some kind of fabric-covered sexual aid?” Katrina holds up a pair of green velvet leggings. “Here, these don’t really fit me, goddammit, so you can use them.”
“They look perfect! Thanks a lot,” I say.
“So, what are you making?”
“A present.”
I can’t be any more specific than that. If I told her it was a puppet, she’d want to know why the hell I was making one, and then I’d have to tell her about Nick-with-a-K, and then Battle would never speak to me again.
“A present,” Katrina mimicks coyly. “God, you and Battle are rubbing off on each other—what kind of—”
“Yup, every chance we get!” I interrupt, cackling evilly. “Thanks again, see ya at breakfast!”
field notes:
-cut up the leggings to make dress
-hair will be her real hair, from the braid (duh) need: sculpey for the head & hands, stuffing for body (where to get?), a crown
July 20, 12:30 p.m., Cafeteria
“I’m gonna write a song about your head,” Kevin says to Battle. She laughs. Kevin rubbing Battle’s head has become a daily lunchtime ritual, and every day it makes me more uncomfortable. Have I said anything about this to Battle? No, of course not. Why? Well—all together now—words don’t always work.
Battle asks, sounding almost painfully interested, “You write songs, too?”
We all know he composes for orchestra, that’s unavoidable. Sometimes he’ll look up from the music he’s always carrying, and just start going off about the influence of nineteenth-century popular music on symphonic structure, or how Alban Berg was a genius, or how five other composers I’ve never heard of were actually far more significant than Elvis and the Beatles.
Kevin nods. “You guys know Nietzsche, right?”
This question shocks me. Despite his nearly constant composing and his mentions of obscure musicians, I still think of Kevin as a moron. (“Cut him some slack,” Katrina said once when I’d made it more clear than usual what an idiot I thought he was. “His first language isn’t language.”)
“That Which Does Not Kill Us Makes Us Stronger,” says Isaac in an Arnold Schwarzenegger voice.
“I tell you you must learn to harbor chaos if you wish to give birth to a dancing star,” says Kevin, apparently at random.
“Is that Nietzsche, too?” Battle asks.
“Yeah. It’s where my band’s name comes from: Chaos Harbor.” Kevin takes a giant bite of brownie.
“That works,” Katrina says.
“I don’t know if it does,” I say. “I mean, think about what a harbor is, and think about what chaos is. They cancel each other out. A harbor is all about things going into their proper places, like a safe harbor, you know? And chaos is about nothing being where you think it’s going to be at all.”
“That’s why it’s so cool,” says Kevin with his mouth full. “It’s like, you have to make a space for all this chaos, so that’s the harbor, but then you don’t know what the chaos is going to do, and so that’s the chaos.”
“That’s deep, man. You should have lived in the sixties,” says Isaac, sounding nearly as disgusted as I am. Go, Isaac.
“Only if I could’ve jammed with Jimi,” says Kevin.
“We could set your guitar on fire; that’d be almost as good,” says Isaac.
Kevin shakes his head.
“How about if we just gave you a lot of drugs?” asks Katrina.
“That’d be cool,” says Kevin.
“So, are you learning anything in Music Theory?” I ask. My voice sounds brittle.
“Nothing you’d understand. No offense, but it’s all pretty technical. Schenkerian analysis, stuff like that.”
I wish I had the faintest notion what Schenkerian analysis was.
“Is it helping you with your composing?” Battle asks. He nods vigorously.
“Definitely. It’s way beyond the circle-of-fifths crap I had in school. I’ve gotten to a whole new level, I can tell.”
“Oh, Mister Composer Sir, I hope one day I will be lucky enough to solo with your orchestra,” says Isaac.
“Isaac! I didn’t know you played an instrument! What do you play?” I ask.
Instead of answering in words, Isaac licks his left hand, sticks it underneath his right armpit, and starts making disgusting noises. Isaac is such a good friend that I had allowed myself to forget until now that he is a Teenage Boy™. Everyone is irritating me today.
“That’s nothing. I bet you can’t belch on command,” says Katrina.
“Can you?” asks Isaac.
Katrina belches. Isaac and Kevin applaud.
I say, “You are all totally gross. I’m going to go read about nice inoffensive dead people and where they put their garbage and what that says about their culture.”
“I bet they could all belch on command. I bet it was their most important religious ritual. And you could be studying the way it has come down to us today, but no, you’re going to bury your head in some dry old book,” says Isaac.
“If I find anything in the book about the Grand Exalted Burpfests of Sumeria, I’ll be sure to let you know,” I say, trying not to look at the way Battle is looking at Kevin.
When I knock on Battle’s door, much later, she only opens it a little way. She says, “I’ve got a big test tomorrow that I have to study for—you should probably just stay in your room tonight.”
I’m so stunned that it doesn’t even occur to me to say that we’ve studied together before without any problem.
I walk back to my room and sit on my bed for a while, feeling dull and confused. Then I walk down the hall to Katrina’s room. She opens it and says, “Geez, I never see you around this late. Did you and Battle run out of whipped cream or something?”
I explain what Battle said to me. Katrina says,
“Did you consider that maybe she has a big test tomorrow that she has to study for?”
“But I don’t know why she didn’t tell me about it before.”
“Maybe she finds your presence just a teensy bit distracting, and she didn’t remember to tell you before now?”
“Maybe,” I say. “But I still don’t understand.”
“Well, then you should talk to her about it tomorrow. Assume that she really does need to study tonight, and don’t bug her, but talk to her tomorrow,” Katrina says. She sounds impatient.
“It’s not fair,” I say. “You’re making way too much sense. I wanted to whine.”
“You should always feel free to whine, hon, but it won’t change my opinion,” says Katrina. “And actually, no joke, I have a bunch of homework to get done tonight myself. I’m gearing up for my masterwork for Carl. And I’m in a really bad mood, because I am bleeding like the proverbial stuck pig. Hey, maybe that’s why Battle doesn’t want to see you.”
“I hadn’t thought about that. Mine hasn’t started yet.”
“Oh my god, Nic, maybe you’re pregnant! Alert the media, it’s the first lesbian conception without artificial insemination!” Katrina cackles.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Why are you so obsessed with the whole lesbian thing? I’ve liked boys before, I probably will again, so I believe that the appropriate word is bisexual, since you’re so desperate to give me a label.”
“Why are you so obsessed with not being one? I believe that that the appropriate word is denial.”
I sigh. I don’t know what I am, I just want to see Battle, and getting angry at Katrina isn’t going to help. “I’m sorry I bugged you, Katrina, I’ll let you get back to your homework.”
Katrina is instantly pure sympathy again. “Hey, no worries, bug me any time, even if I’m bitchy. ’Cause that’s—what—friends—are—for,” she sings tunelessly.
“Thanks.”
I’m some kind of cosmic ingrate. They really are my friends—better friends than I’ve ever had, better even than Jamie before he was James—and that’s not enough anymore.
I walk back to my room slowly.
After I unlock my door, it suddenly occurs to me that I haven’t picked up my viola since I played for Battle. I close my door, and then I kneel down in front of the bed as though I’m about to say my good-night prayers. I reach the case out from underneath my bed, unzip the cover, unfasten the latches, and open the lid. The blue velvet lining looks incongruous as usual, as though my viola is wearing an evening gown.
It takes forever to tune the damned thing. It’s too humid.
I should warm up, do some scales or études. But I’m not practicing to practice—I’m practicing so I can make my mind do something other than obsess about why Battle sent me away.
There’s a piece I always play when I’m depressed. It’s a viola transcription of the slow movement of Tartini’s Devil’s Trill violin sonata. I can’t play the fast movement to save my life, but the slow one is mostly about double stops, vibrato, and of course trills. Whenever Mom hears me start playing it, she’ll knock on my door and ask if everything’s okay.
Nobody’s going to do that tonight.
I’m not a real musician, not like goddamn Kevin the Brilliant Composer God. Chaos Harbor. Jesus Christ. I know the harbor he wants for his chaos.
Maybe she wants that, too.
Stop it. Play your damn viola.
Something happens, sometimes, when I play. The only way I can explain it is that I go further inside whatever I’m feeling, and the feeling itself doesn’t seem to matter as much as what the feeling and the music are mixing together to make.
I tighten my bow and start rubbing rosin onto it. The repetitive motion is comforting. Then I fasten the little cloth covering back onto the rosin cake and put it back into my case.
I take my viola out and spend a few minutes messing with my shoulder rest, getting it into the right position. Then I pick up the bow again and put the viola under my chin.
It feels good to plant my fingertips on the thick strings. It hurts a little, too. My fingers have gotten soft. And some of my chords are dissonant in a way that Tartini never intended them to be.
Someone bangs angrily on the wall.
Oh, that’s right. It’s late.
But I don’t feel considerate, so I play until my fingers are sore and my neck is tired. Then I put my viola away and start working on the puppet.
July 21 (two-week anniversary), 7:56 p.m., Battle’s Room
“Okay, I have something for you—I really hope you like it, I made it myself, although I did use something of yours—”
“What is it, a voodoo doll?” Battle sounds amused.
“No! If it was a voodoo doll, I wouldn’t be giving it to you, I’d be using it to make you obey my every whim! But I figure I can persuade you most of the time to do what I want anyway. . . .”
“Ha!” says Battle, pulling my hair. We kiss.
Then I pull away. “You’re distracting me when I’m trying to give you a present!”
“Oh, excuse me.” Battle gets up and sits on the other side of the room.
I take a deep breath and say, “All right, so after you showed me the puppet that was Nick-with-a-K’s, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and everything you said about how you guys used to do puppet shows together, and I just thought, why doesn’t she have her own? I mean, obviously that one was Nick’s, so where’s Battle’s?”
Battle is frowning, but mostly that just means she’s listening intently.
“And then it hit me: of course you wouldn’t have it, because Nick would have taken it with him when he left. As kind of a reminder of you, a way he could take you with him, even though he was leaving you behind. And the more I thought about that, the more I thought: I want to make her a new one. I know it’s not like having Nick-with-a-K back, but it was just something I wanted to do for you, just, you know, because, and anyway, here it is. She is, I, um, call her the Empress. Empress of the World.”
I walk across the room and put the Empress into Battle’s hands. She came out really well, I think: the green velvet leggings made a beautiful dress, the head and hands actually don’t look mutated, and Battle’s hair is so gorgeous that there’s no way it could look anything but great. Of course, I didn’t braid it.
Battle is turning the Empress around in her hands, which are shaking a little, I notice. Wow, I didn’t think she’d be so excited. I feel a warm glow of accomplishment.
Then I notice that her shoulders are shaking, too.
“Stop—stop trying to explain me. I can’t take this,” Battle says through tears.
She holds the Empress out to me. “Please go,” she says.
“Battle, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it would upset you, I don’t under—”
“Please.”
I go.
Part Two
field notes:
things to forget:
EVERYTHING.
July 23, 12:30 a.m., Katrina’s Room
“Explain this to me again. Why aren’t you and Battle speaking to each other?”
“She didn’t like a present I made for her,” I say helplessly.
“The one you used my leggings for? The one that for some reason, you won’t actually explain to me what it is? Was it some weird sex thing? And then she wasn’t into it, and she got mad?”
I shake my head. It suddenly occurs to me that when Katrina doesn’t know what’s going on, she makes up a story to make all the things she doesn’t understand make sense.
And that I do the same thing.
And that Battle doesn’t. Ever.
field notes:
when you play the viola a lot, you get a red mark on your neck that looks not unlike a hickey. this causes people like isaac to make lewd comments, until they remember. then they feel all sheepish, and you have to tell them it’s okay, even though it isn’t.
July 25, 4:42 p.m., Under the Big Tree in the Courtyard
“This is the nastiest assignment I have ever had in my life,” I say. I have rubber gloves on. Ms. Fraser passed them out in class a few days ago. She said, “I don’t know why, but parents just seem to worry when you tell them that their children need to buy rubber gloves for one of their assignments.”
I am sifting through the contents of a medium-sized plastic Ziploc bag. I have ten of these bags. They contain samples from the contents of several different garbage cans, picked (by me) from different buildings around campus. Some of them are the kind of garbage cans that are just for cigarettes, and so mainly all they have in them is cigarette butts and sand. The other ones are worse. I’m saving them for last. I’m convinced that I’m going to find used condoms in them, or worse. I am supposed to note down the contents of each sample as precisely as possible.
Isaac and Katrina are watching me at my work, apparently fascinated, or maybe just wanting to procrastinate about whatever it is they’re supposed to be doing.
“Here you go, babe—have another sample,” says Katrina, offering me t
he butt from the cigarette she’s just finished smoking.
“I don’t want it! It’ll mess up my data!” I carefully set a Marlboro butt down next to one just like it. They both have the same color lipstick around the filter end, too—a possible correlation? I say, “Look at this guys: people who smoke Marlboros are more likely to wear really bright red lipstick.”
“Hon, Sherlock Holmes has got nothing to worry about from you—those are obviously two butts smoked by the same person,” says Katrina. “Look—you can see that the lipstick is lighter on the second butt, because some of it wore off on the first one.”
“Or it could be that the lipstick was lighter on the first one, and then she reapplied it before she smoked the second one. Never thought of that, did ya?” says Isaac.
“You can’t be sure it was a woman. Men wear lipstick sometimes,” I say, thinking of the skirt-wearing boy.
Isaac has picked up one of the other plastic bags and is starting to screw around with it. He holds it up and says, “Exhibit A,” trying to sound like a TV detective. He adds, “Ms. Lansdale, I think you’ll agree with me that this conclusively proves that our murderer is a chain-smoking transvestite.”
“Oh shit,” says Katrina. This doesn’t seem to be an appropriate response to Isaac’s comment, so I look up from my notebook to see if there’s something else she might be reacting to. That’s when I see them. It’s Battle.
And Kevin.
They’re holding hands, and Battle is laughing.
“Give me that!” I snap at Isaac. He blinks, then quickly hands me the plastic bag. I snatch up all the other ones from the ground.
Then I run, across the courtyard and away. I don’t stop, even though my breath is ragged and I’m crying, until I get close to the river.
I should have ripped open all the bags and dumped the garbage on their heads.
Katrina has been rationalizing for hours. I made her wait in my room with me until near the end of dinner before we went down, in case they were there. She says, “Sometimes people hold hands just because they’re feeling friendly, you know. It doesn’t necessarily mean the end of the world as we know it.”