Effortless

by Marina Raydun

  As I squeezed past him inside the stuffy establishment where John, Paul, George, and Ringo smiled at me from every which angle, Jamie gave me a knowing nod. I could still taste his lips on mine, feel the tickle of his hair on my neck.

  Mere hours before, I lay awake with the burgundy roses painted on Jamie’s skin draped around my shoulder. To feel a body contour mine, its heat so close, so imminent, was a far cry from being resolutely rolled over onto my side of the bed after the compulsory (and arbitrarily set) ten minutes of cuddling post any kind of intimacy with George; he got too hot, otherwise, or so I was informed, and couldn’t sleep.

  Though it was painfully twisted around my body, my theatre dress was still on, as were my underwear and tights.

  “Wow! This is a real vintage record! Signed by George!” Riley exclaimed, attracting looks from the store proprietors, who stood sipping coffee (or perhaps tea) in amusing unison at the cash register.

  “Hmm,” Jamie nodded, looking away from me to take the square record out of the girl’s hands and proceed to examine it with the put-on concentration of an appraiser. His wedding band was on his finger again; when he’d tried to pick it up from the dresser on his way out that morning, it escaped his grasp twice as we pecked modestly but thirstily, apprehensive of our own morning breaths. I’d helped slide it back on his finger.

  Looking for something to do, I took to pretending to flip through a bin of plastic covered records, myself, my face struggling to suppress a smile.

  “Hi, Ms. Levit,” Veronika chirped.

  “Hi, Veronika.”

  “Hi….”

  She saw me that morning. There was no doubt.

  “Listen, Veronika—”

  “Ms. Levit, I’ve been waiting for this to happen since Mr. Sola first came to teach at Talents,” Veronika whispered conspiratorially, grabbing a hold of my sleeve with too much gusto for a student. Her chipped black nail polish stood out harshly against the caramel of my coat.

  “But—”

  She was pretty. Not just interesting or unique, but actually pretty. Maybe not “Paz” pretty, but on the spectrum, for sure. The dirty green of her eyes, the downward turned strips of her lips—it worked, somehow. I’d just never paid attention before.

  “You guys are perfect for each other, don’t you see? You even look good together—that similar lanky look. And all that black hair! Though you two will have to spend double on shampoo with all that going on,” she giggled quietly, her bony shoulders bobbing up and down.

  Pulling her by her outstretched sweater, I led her into an empty corner of the claustrophobic shop.

  “Veronika, I thought you had a crush on Mr. Sola,” I tried, careful to make sure I left the girl enough room to let her tell me what Jamie seemed to already know.

  “Um, no, Ms. Levit! I’m gay! Everyone knows that! I was sure you knew, too,” she laughed, heartily, slapping me on the arm. “And, to be perfectly honest with you, since I guess we’re having a moment here, I’m full of shit about college—I know where I’m going, but it’s not what anyone expects…. I didn’t want to disappoint you, so I thought I’d keep mum for as long as I could…. Anyway, I’m going to Hunter, is what I’m saying. To study accounting! Such is my penance for coming out to my less than worldly parents. What are you going to do, right?”

  She didn’t look sad or upset. It was what it was. This was her fate and she was prepared to take what was hers, accepting that she deserved nothing more than what she was getting. The kid had years of evolution on me.

  “That’s wrong! It doesn’t have to be…,” I began my spiel, abandoning the thought when I realized that I had no convincing follow-up, nothing to preach with conviction. I was homeless, myself, and wouldn’t even be able to offer the girl a roof over her head should my “holier than thou” advice get her kicked out of the house. Wasn’t Jessica afraid for the fate of my children?

  “It doesn’t matter, Ms. Levit. I can still play. And I will still play. It can be a thing I do on the side…a hobby,” she smiled, the word awkwardly tumbling out of her mouth.

  “Not the way you do it!” I shrieked, too loudly according to the looks thrown our way by the same pair of synchronized tea drinkers.

  “Ms. Levit, this is not about me—this is about you and Mr. Sola,” Veronika determinedly steered me back.

  “Jesus, Veronika, what are you—my matchmaker? For all you know I’m engaged,” I groaned at the girl’s resolve.

  “Oh, please, Ms. Levit! I’ve known you since I was a freshman, and never have I seen you half as happy as you look right now,” she gushed, dismissing me. How one person was this capable of looking (let alone feeling) this wholeheartedly happy for another was physically beyond me; the actual concept of it went right over my head. No, this wasn’t a mini-me, I’d been wrong all along. I’d never been, nor would I ever become, this capable, I knew. I suppose George wasn’t all wrong about me. “When Paz told me what Abbott told her about your engagement being off, I almost had to pinch myself—it was too good to be true! This was meant to be!”

  “And when was that?”

  “On the plane ride over!”

  “Duh, of course! And what about Mr. Sola’s marriage?” I pressed.

  “Oh,” Veronika whispered, briefly peeking over my shoulder to confirm that we were out of Jamie’s earshot. “That’s not news either. In general, I knew who this Jamie Sola was long before he came to teach for us. One of my guitar teachers outside Talents was a roadie with the band Sola was playing with when the whole unfortunate thing happened, so he knew what was going on from the get-go, so to speak. Poor guy was so ripped off, I don’t know how he can show his face on the scene and stuff, you know what I mean? The thing did make him a bit of a laughing stock, so it makes sense for him to want to hide out in the school system for while,” she grinned nervously, as if to hide her vicarious embarrassment. “When I was punished in Paris, after that whole Paz thing, and Sola stayed with me, he told me he’d just been talking to his attorney the other night and that it’s all finally officially over. And he’s out of the woman’s parents’ basement in the Bronx. Meaning, that’s where they had been living all this time, I understand. That’s why he dragged his guitar here—he didn’t trust to leave it with his ex, obviously, and he doesn’t yet have anything permanent lined up. It’s too precious to him, so he won’t stash it at a friend’s house or anything. Not that this is his only guitar, but still, there’s something about this one. But it’s so over, believe me. You have nothing to worry about,” she assured as she rolled her eyes, much to my relief—it was of comfort to see that there was a teenager inside there, after all.

  “Is that what you two were talking about by the theatre last night?”

  “Yup. I told him what a jerk I thought Abbott was for making that snide remark. I didn’t even know that Abbott knew all this, but I guess he’s always on top of things,” Veronika nodded to herself. “Anyway, I’m not sure if he’ll be able to stop with the ring—”

  “To prevent Paz-like incidents?”

  Veronika turned to flip through a bin filled to the brim with vintage magazines, each covered in a dingy plastic jacket. Shrinking somehow, she looked as if she was trying to pick out the words she wanted her lips to deliver, her brain struggling to put them in the desired order. Uncomfortable burdening her with my stare any longer, I looked toward the exit to check on our company.

  “Look, Ms. Levit, Paz was obviously drunk that night at the club. And she was obviously throwing herself all over Sola even when she was sober, remember? As early as the museum our first day! It was disgusting—I’ll be the first to admit that! But, and I’m sorry to sound this cliché, I really don’t feel it’d be right to discuss the rest with you. Sola never came to our room, like I told you about ten times already. Nor was he ever interested in her, thank God. Rest assured. He would never! But…. Well, you’ll have to talk to Paz about why she said all that yourself. I’d be violating her privacy and I’d just feel rotten. She never spille
d the beans about my secret. It’d be wrong of me not to keep hers.”

  I should’ve just given up then and there—this kid had clearly surpassed me a long time ago, when I’d been too busy grading papers to pay her proper attention. I’d always thought that I’d eventually become a better teacher than I actually was.

  “What secret are you talking about, Veronika?”

  “That I’m gay, Ms. Levit!”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Goodbye

  “Hi,” Jamie said, his tone gentle, as he sat down in the seat next to mine atop the hardened velvet of the bench of the Tower of London bound train. The man whose thigh rubbed against mine the entire way was gone, and Jamie was quick to claim his spot.

  “Hi,” I whispered back, startled.

  My eyes hurt from the strain of staring at my cellphone screen, too afraid to blink or look away.

  “What is it?” Jamie asked, likely concerned by my rigid posture, which remained unmoved even as the train crawled out of the station and swiftly picked up speed. “Don’t say it—your ex again?”

  I nodded. Ever since I’d finally turned on my phone in the morning, it chirped at alarming intervals all day: between George’s texts and Jessica and Javier pummeling me at Words with Friends, it seemed to be having a full-on epilepsy attack at times.

  “He’s threatening to kill himself,” I reported.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Jamie wrinkle his beautiful brow. He pushed his hair back behind his ears.

  “Is that a new phenomena?”

  An involuntary chuckle erupted from my throat.

  “Oh, no,” I admitted, breathing easier with the touch of Jamie’s leather sleeve against my bare arm, my coat limp in my lap.

  Our bench vibrated as we pulled into the next stop.

  “Were you happy?” he asked.

  His eyes were no longer on me; I knew this because I couldn’t feel their heat on my skin anymore. I turned to confirm and saw him studying the map overhead with concentration feigned convincingly enough. It was three more stops to Tower Hill.

  My lips folded in on themselves, as if caught by surprise at how hard I had to think about this question. I wasn’t sure what the right answer should be. If I answered “no,” then the logical follow-up would be to wonder why I hadn’t left half a decade ago. If my answer was “yes,” then what would it do to what was just beginning to take shape with Jamie. It was a no-win, dead-end of a conversation path. The pause was growing, filling the space inside the car, inflating like a balloon that was bound to burst at any second.

  At some point, certainly the answer would’ve had to be “yes,” even if a reluctant one. There had to be something in those seven years that could justify my sacrificing a significant chunk of my youth. Now it lay buried deep and forgotten inside one of my many boxes, but it had to exist. He used to make me mixed CDs in the beginning: “Helen’s Monday Mix,” “Helen’s Tuesday Mix,” et cetera, until there were seven. He’d insist that I was entirely too skinny when I wouldn’t want to indulge in his organic, soy, kale-flavored ice cream. He claimed to like the gap between my top front teeth. His parents seemed to be utterly convinced that I was good and smart, not merely a hapless victim of some dumb luck. But did that even count? Because George felt just the opposite, actually: George was convinced that I was an ingrate, a provincial simpleton blessed beyond my own comprehension.

  “Maybe in the beginning,” I shrugged, stumped. “Not in a while, though.” I hoped my answer, despite its honesty, was strategic enough.

  “Why didn’t you leave before? I hear you’ve been engaged a short lifetime.”

  Attempting to read into his tone did little to help me decipher it. Perhaps it was this control of his vocals that made him a good vocal coach.

  “He threatened to kill himself every time I left. Which was like, five times, if I’m not mistaken,” I reported, feeling heat rush to my ears. “I think my sister-in-law kept track, so—”

  “And is he still alive?”

  “Very much so,” I laughed as my phone belched two more messages. was promptly followed by

  I could hear Jamie’s jacket announce a shrug.

  “From what I know about these things, which, I guess isn’t all that much, those who threaten suicide aren’t the ones who actually follow through.”

 

  He was probably right.

  ~ ~ ~

  A “theatrical dinner experience” was what was promised in our itinerary under the bold heading that read Medieval Banquet. Located mere feet from the Tower of London itself, given the dying light of the early spring evening, it seemed like the scripted part of the evening commenced as soon as you exited the Tube.

  “Ooh, gluten-free and vegetarian options available! This place must be authentic,” Jamie put away his menu and whispered in my ear just as the mic’d Henry VIII entered the low ceilinged premises. My phone now quiet in my purse hanging on the back of my chair, I laughed loud enough to be reprimanded by the heavy-set “King.” My punishment was missing out on the role I was allegedly born to play: “Lady of the Court” (or at least our table). Instead, Stephanie stepped up to the plate, her lipstick seemingly permanently etched into the wrinkles around her mouth. When Jamie waived a modest but definitive no, Abbott jumped up as his ready understudy for the part of the “Lord.” Girls with tambourines followed, draping our noble couple in velvet capes that had surely been donned by dozens of bodies before. I shuddered thinking of bedbugs. Alone at our table soon enough, watching the party quickly come alive with all the noise that was music audibly aching to be played at a genuine medieval banquet (not one held inside an old hospital, in 2013), we leaned back in our seats, unenthusiastically picking at our cold chicken cutlets.

  “Oh, I meant to ask you,” I screamed over the racket, leaning in Jamie’s direction. “Riley told me that a bunch of them want to go to a club afterward. This thing is over at 10:30, so I guess we could go right after. Do you know of any clubs we can take them to? Abbott already said he’s giving them all a curfew-free night. You know, because all this privileged fun is over tomorrow.”

  My heart seemed to pick up speed as I neared the end of the sentence, my insides growing cold. Come 7 P.M., New York time, tomorrow, all this really would be over. And by midnight (New York time, of course—the day after tomorrow, really), I’d be in my father’s car on the way to my parents’ house from the nearest park-and-ride, going to what was meant to be my former home, not future.

  Jamie gathered his hair with his limber fingers and let it fall back down on his face again.

  “I’m not one for clubs. And my last clubbing experience didn’t quite work out all that well for me.”

  Laughing along, I slapped his knee, my hand lingering where it landed.

  “Oh, come on, Paz is far away—you’re safe now! And these kids deserve a fun last day in Europe. You know, to say goodbye,” I insisted, careful not to give his knee a squeeze with my chipping nails. “You’ve been to London before! Don’t make me ask the concierge.”

  I peeked out from behind Jamie’s shoulder to check on the group. Deep in the crowd of jumping tourists, Sophie looked uncomfortably squished under Abbott’s arm as they posed for a photo. Directly to the left of them, Veronika sat in the bearded “King’s” beefy lap, looking as if she’d been physically placed there against her will. Stephanie was busy taking everyone’s picture.

  “Abbott and Stephanie have been here before, too,” Jamie countered, bringing me back.

  The cupid’s bow of his upper lip was so distracting, it was maddening. I didn’t want to go to the club; nor did I want to stay away from those lips any longer than I absolutely had to.

  “Yes, but they are also nearing retirement,” I eventually replied.

  “True, but have you heard the noises that manage to escape their room? Neither have I, but reportedly they are rather enthused. So much so that the kids are unlikely to sleep a wink ever again,�
�� Jamie laughed, landing his hand atop of mine, our fingers interlacing on top of the denim covering his slim thigh. “Okay, well, there is one in Piccadilly, I believe. That would be convenient, walking-distance-from-the-hotel-wise. We can check it out.”

  Chapter Thirty: Moot Point

  House music pulsed through the floor of the darkened basement club, beats of indistinguishable nature pushing their way out of oversized speakers. I could feel the bass in my ribcage as I hunched over the bar, ordering my third ginger ale.

  “Having fun?” Abbott screamed into my ear, his voice nothing but a whisper to my eardrum. His face rapidly changing color with the hot lights overhead, from purple to pink and back, he stood expectant of my answer, sipping his beer.

  I smiled and nodded tensely, my temples thumping.

  “Where is Stephanie?” I mouthed.

  “Oh, she wanted to get a head start on our packing,” he screamed back before dancing backward and away, jumping up and down to the rhythm along with Jordan and Liam. It was endearing to see him act so youthful, his jeans and his sweater cut almost too slim for a man his age. His gray hair swept back, he looked genuinely happy—no sarcastic snarkiness to be heard (though we could probably thank the volume of the music for that). Maybe such abandon came with decades of experience. Maybe there was hope for me yet.

  My purse strap solid across my chest, I let myself sway with the music as I silently surveyed the room through the migraine-inducing lights, counting all the bobbing heads of the kids I would have to say goodbye to in only a few weeks’ time. This was the first class I’d brought the entire way: ninth to twelfth grades, fourteen to eighteen years of age. I couldn’t stop wondering how much of what they had become was really my responsibility? My fault?

  “If you don’t dance with me, I’m afraid either Wisdom or Sage will try to reprise Paz’s spectacular performance.”