“They were like cartoons,” Veronica said. “They should have been way more animalistic.”
“Really?” Waller asked.
He wasn’t supposed to speak, but I guess he couldn’t hold back anymore.
“I had the same problem with my lobsters,” Brenda said. “And then I asked myself, ‘Can you write it like you are the lobster?’ And I did.” She wasn’t joking when she said this. She was really putting her psychology major to full use.
Veronica seconded Brenda’s response.
And Corky closed out the comments. “I think this fox sex scene is pretty groundbreaking. I’ll compare every fox scene I ever read to this one.”
“Thanks,” Waller said.
I thought Veronica might barf.
After we were finished, Waller was given a chance to speak.
“I guess I don’t mind if my narrator is unreliable. I think it adds a layer of interest. I mean, who among us is completely trustworthy? Who here isn’t a little flawed?”
I was so sick of hearing Waller talk about other people’s flaws. I started getting frustrated with his rebuttal and decided to write down some found dialogue:
“Foxes are very fluffy.”
“Dixon is NOT a stalker.”
“Corky’s comments really nailed it.”
“I think this piece might be part of something longer.”
Mrs. Knox turned Waller’s story over to signal that we’d finished critiquing it. “Okay. Let’s push forward with Corky’s story. Corky, where would you like to read from?”
Corky pulled her story from her bag and carefully flipped to the last page. “First paragraph. Page six,” she said.
“Ooh,” Kite said. “The gruesome part.”
“You got it,” Corky said.
Papers rustled until we all found the place.
“Lilith had never killed a man before. She returned the knife to its sheath and licked her lips.
“‘I’ll hack him apart before midnight.’
“Cecil shook her sad head. ‘I won’t wait up.’
“Lilith found Decker sleeping. She lifted the dagger over her head, and then she held her breath. Now he would never wake up. She wanted to pierce his heart first. But she worried about hitting bone. It seemed unfair to cage the heart.”
I stopped listening. I mean, I literally stuck my fingers in my ears. When Corky finished reading, I didn’t look up. Not even at Veronica.
“Well, I really liked this piece,” Annie Earl said. “At first I thought spending an entire paragraph on the dismemberment of a living being was pushing it. But he certainly had it coming. Jerk.”
“I have no idea who’d publish this,” Brenda said. “But I have to admit, it has something. I usually don’t get into fantasy, especially violent fantasy, but I thought the fairies were kind of … cool.”
“I don’t know,” Veronica said. “I wished the Lilith character would have shown some restraint. I mean, after he was dead, was it really necessary to mutilate his thighs?”
“I didn’t mind it,” Waller said. “I thought the whole story was a metaphor.”
“You did?” Roger asked, surprised. “For what?”
“I think it could be a metaphor for almost anything,” Waller said. “I think that’s how this kind of fantasy works.”
“Anything?” Annie Earl asked. “That’s impossible.”
“Okay,” Waller said. “The metaphor might be flight attendants. This whole story might be about flight attendant revenge.”
Corky looked up and scowled at him.
“The women have wings because they’re flight attendants. And the men don’t because they’re passengers. And when the men violate the rules, they get torn apart and dismembered, which is what would happen if the plane crashed,” Waller said. “Fantasy is metaphor.”
We all stared at Waller. Without eyebrows, hypothesizing about metaphors, he looked a lot less intelligent than he had the first two weeks of class.
“That’s not how fantasy works,” Annie Earl said. “You just perpetrated a hijacking, because what you just said isn’t even in the story.”
“If Waller thought the fairies were flight attendants, who’s to say he’s wrong? It’s his brain,” Kite said.
“But he didn’t really think the fairies were flight attendants. He was using it as an example to say that in fantasy a range of readers can see themselves in the protagonists and feel vindicated. Flight attendants were arbitrary,” Brenda said.
“Right,” Waller said. “Fantasy is about bringing your own sense of reality to the page.”
Even Veronica mulled on it. “So who are the pilots?” she asked.
“I guess there aren’t any pilots,” Waller admitted.
“Okay,” Mrs. Knox said. “Let’s address the story we have and not the story we’ve imagined it to be. The fairies may or may not be metaphors. I think Corky does a nice job creating three-dimensional characters. Without believable, complex characters, the reader will turn the pages out of simple curiosity. And unless you’ve written a potboiler, that’s a sad occurrence. But because this world and its rules are so well realized, we can even sympathize with Lilith as she exacts brutal revenge. I think that’s quite an achievement. I think this is a successful piece.”
There I disconnected from the discussion. I didn’t think Corky’s story was successful. Solving a problem with a butcher knife was the wrong way to accomplish closure. In life and fiction. I looked at the story until the black type began to float off the page. Voices chatted away about various scenes. It was just noise to me. And then Corky was given a chance to speak.
She cleared her throat. “Thanks for all of your wonderful comments. I wanted to write a story about consequences,” she said. “So many people think that you can go through life and do whatever you want. But I wanted my death scene to demonstrate how that isn’t necessarily true. I hope the other message isn’t too strong.”
“What message is that?” Mrs. Knox asked.
“Savage revenge can satisfy a wrongdoing,” Corky said. “It can make the person who was wronged feel whole.”
“Wow,” Roger said. “I’ll never cross Corky.”
“I think that promoting a message is always a risk,” Mrs. Knox said. “But I think you strike a good balance. It’s a very promising piece. I understood what motivated Lilith. And the violence she committed, while grotesque, seemed logical.”
“Thank you,” Corky said.
“Wait,” I said. I couldn’t let Corky get off this easy. “Am I the only one who found the blade violence extreme?”
Silence.
“Nobody else thought, Wow, a character just got sliced apart, and, uh-oh, it took a whole page, and, jeez, it was incredibly accurate in its anatomical references to muscles and tendons, and, hmm, I feel uncomfortable now? Nobody else thought that?”
Everybody stared at me.
Roger lifted his cap to scratch his forehead. “At a certain point I have to admit that I did exit the story, and I wondered if Corky had ever worked in a meat processing plant, or as a butcher in a grocery store, or as an assassin, because I agree that she was very anatomically specific when it came to the cutting scene,” he said.
Veronica nodded enthusiastically, especially when Roger used the word “assassin.” “It’s a story of obsessions. Daggers and death among them.”
Corky’s face turned a pink and unhappy color. And then nobody offered further comment. And I didn’t put forward any more elaboration. If our group wanted to let a sociopath explore her mind, and celebrate the creative fruits of that labor, there wasn’t a whole lot I could do.
I handed my story around. Then I looked up and saw Corky staring at me as if she wanted to stab me right there in front of everybody. “I hate you,” she mouthed.
The way her mouth formed the words looked dangerous and sincere. I glanced around to see if Veronica had noticed, but she was already gone. Which was the way it was going to be. I now had full control of my trim tab. I g
athered my things, stood up, and steered myself out the door.
Chapter Twenty-three
It was Tuesday, and things felt grim. I was standing inside the Museum of Communism staring at a brown, hooded suit that was made to be worn during a chemical attack. It hung in a corner next to a series of photos of actual soldiers running away from a cloud of dust. The museum resembled an apartment, and after two rooms I had to leave. Past the bust of Lenin. Past the statue of Stalin. Past the big red Soviet flag.
I walked down the stairs to the McDonald’s located on the ground level. I considered sending an e-mail to Hamilton about this ironic juxtaposition, but I didn’t. I wasn’t a total idiot.
I was torn inside. Part of me wanted to go out and look at every single remaining attraction in my tour book. But another part of me wanted to go home and take a nap. It wasn’t long before I found myself eating a doughnut on the metro back to the dorm.
The suite was empty when I got home. I sat on my bed and was reading a brochure for a walking tour in New Town when Veronica swung open the door, carrying three bags and a big tube container.
“Did you buy a poster?” I asked.
Veronica didn’t answer.
“I know we’re fighting. But I could sort of use a friend during this difficult time,” I said.
Still nothing.
“It’s pretty obvious that Waller doesn’t like me. It’s just like you said. His interest shifted. And I haven’t done anything course-changing. I think there might be another woman in the picture.”
The painful silence stretched on for seconds.
“I saw him getting cozy at a bar with Brenda,” Veronica said.
“What?” I said. Earnest, innocent, lobster-loving, has- a-boyfriend Brenda?
“She dumped her boyfriend last week. That’s why she moved into her own room,” Veronica said. “Privacy.”
“Oh my god!” I grabbed my pillow and held it in disbelief. “I am miserable.”
After a pause, she sighed. “Don’t be. Waller is an idiot.”
That felt good, but I wanted a little bit more. “An idiot how?”
“He completely flirted with you because he liked the attention, but it sounds like he had little if any sincere interest.”
Little if any sincere interest. How was that possible?
“But you said that he liked me at a level eight, possibly nine!”
Veronica, now dressed, turned around to face me. “Well, I was wrong.” She swept a brush through her hair, tugging out the tangles. She kept her demeanor cool. And it drove me crazy, because I needed her. I needed my best friend.
“Why would he tease me like that?” I asked.
“I don’t really feel like talking about this.”
I let my pillow fall to the floor. And before I knew it, I was fully sprawled out on my bed, crying. I turned toward the wall and breathed erratically, trying to push all the emotions back down. But they refused to stay submerged.
“Don’t,” Veronica said.
“This isn’t voluntary,” I said between sobs. “My heart is breaking all over again. And it’s not like I stand a great chance at ever falling in real love, because, like you pointed out, my dad and I don’t connect, so I’m always going to be looking for his love and acceptance in other men. I’m screwed. Yeah, it’s Waller today, but it will be some other idiot tomorrow. And some other bigger idiot after that.”
Veronica came and sat next to me. “I’m going to talk to you for a little bit like we’re still friends, but after this session I’m going to return to my pissed state and continue to work through my anger toward you. Got it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Just being aware of the fact that you are prone to dating guys who are totally wrong for you because you don’t connect with your father is totally huge in terms of being self-aware. It’s not like you’re blindly hooking up with jerk-guys unbeknownst to you. I mean, it’s totally beknownst to you.”
“Right,” I said.
“And I don’t think that Waller broke your heart. I think he just reminded you that your heart is still cracked from what happened with Hamilton.”
I rolled over onto my other side and faced Veronica. I thought of the e-mail he’d sent me that I hadn’t read. My entire life seemed at stake in that little piece of electronic mail. How could I have deleted it? How could I have been so sure that it said something that I didn’t want to hear?
“Sometimes I think we might get back together,” I said.
“You and Hamilton?” Veronica asked.
I nodded. Veronica looked horrified.
“I never told you this, but the reason Hamilton dumped me, I mean, what he said at the time was that I had these three big flaws that he couldn’t look past. He laminated them on this card and said that I needed to change. And do you know what I think international travel has done for me? I think it’s helped me change. So when I get back to Ohio, I’m pretty sure there’s a good chance that we might patch things up. And, well, I wasn’t going to tell you this either, because I thought you’d think I was spineless, but I e-mailed Hamilton Sunday, and he e-mailed me back, but I didn’t read it because I’m sort of a coward.”
Veronica pressed her lips together and looked down at me. Her eyes were filled with pity. “I don’t think you should have any contact with Hamilton Stacks,” she said.
“Why not?”
“No guy should laminate your flaws like that. Seriously. What an asshole. How come you never told me he did that?”
“I didn’t want to ruin your opinion of him. Because maybe I wasn’t ready for things to be over with him,” I said.
“Are you serious?”
“I knew you’d think it was lame.”
“It’s beyond lame, Dessy. That’s cruel. That’s like saying that you were the reason you two broke up. And that wasn’t the case.”
“What do you mean? Of course that’s the case,” I said. “He couldn’t take my flaws anymore.”
“Everybody has flaws. Look at me. I’m built out of them. But what he’s done isn’t fair. You deserve better.”
I closed my eyes and whimpered. “I thought the pain would go away.”
“It will,” she said. “I think part of the problem is that you have a fairly tender heart anyway. So it gets damaged easier.”
This was an awful realization to share with me.
“I don’t want a tender heart,” I said. “I wish I had a wood heart. Or a cobblestone heart. Or a granite heart.”
Veronica shook her head. “You don’t mean that. I’ve always thought of you as having a fluffy bunny heart. When you feel things, Dessy, you feel things deeply. And that’s a gift.”
“A fluffy bunny heart? It’s a curse!” I said.
“I’m not going to argue with you about this. You need to start pulling yourself together.”
I knew she was right, but it didn’t feel possible. I couldn’t figure out how to turn off my pain or disappointment. I knew I would probably meet another guy, and that I would always have flaws, and he would see them, and the idea that I would be enduring these feelings over and over for years to come made my mind spin.
“Remember,” Veronica said, “it’s better to have loved and died than never to have loved at all.”
“Loved and died?” I said. “It’s loved and lost. Because if you’re dead, you can’t love anymore.”
“I don’t know if that’s true,” Veronica said. “I totally believe in paranormal activity.” She gently brushed my hair off my face and smoothed it behind my ear.
“Do you know what hurts most?” I asked.
Veronica’s perfect face turned away from me. “I don’t think it’s healthy to indulge you like this. Five more minutes and then I’m going to resume the silent treatment. Okay?”
I nodded.
“It’s not just that my heart feels broken. It’s that my overall self feels ruined, because what are the chances that I’m ever going to meet anybody who likes me for me? I was a fool to think
Waller Dudek liked me.”
Veronica stood up and walked over to her mirror. Even though I still had over four minutes left before she resumed the silent treatment, she was through doling out comfort.
“He did like you,” Veronica said. “He’s just messed up. I think this is an important lesson for you. Just because a relationship doesn’t work doesn’t mean you did something wrong. It’s not always about you. Sometimes it’s about them. If somebody is broken, that person isn’t capable of adequately accepting or returning love.”
“Is that from your book?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “A daytime talk show.”
Veronica pulled a key out of her pocket and unlocked her desk drawer. Then she took out her wallet and travel pass.
“No offense,” she said. “These days, I just feel better about keeping my valuables secure.”
“No offense taken,” I said, even though I was offended.
“This is why I’m looking for mature men. Because they’re capable of connecting. Because when you truly connect with somebody, it’s totally obvious.”
I watched Veronica flip her hair back and forth. She’d fallen hard for pseudo-Boz, and for some reason she wasn’t telling me about it.
“I was starting to feel better, but now I feel worse,” I said.
“That’s too bad,” she said. “I feel spectacular.”
“But I feel like you’re on the verge of doing something really stupid.”
“I am done talking to you.”
“Okay. So when will we resume being friends?”
Veronica continued to primp. Blush on cheeks. Shadow on eyes. Gloss on lips. “Listen, I need some time to feel better about everything,” she said. “I’m not trying to be a bitch, but I need to heal at my own pace. You betrayed me.”
A few more tears slipped down my face. I didn’t say anything else, but I was hoping that she’d come to her senses in the next few hours. And then we could make up in the next few days, while we still had time to experience Prague. Because I really didn’t want to return to Ohio and spend my senior year attempting to conform to a new social group. Losing Hamilton was bad enough. But Veronica had been in my life for ages. I loved her. And I wasn’t ready to have things end.
A Field Guide for Heartbreakers Page 24