How to Be Brave

by E. Katherine Kottaras

  “It’s this thing she’s doing—I mean, we’re doing—where we try things we haven’t done before.” Liss reaches out to Evelyn. “Here, let me try the cigarette again.”

  Evelyn laughs and exhales more smoke. “Like cutting class and smoking?”

  “Well, kind of.” I shrug. “There’s other stuff on there. But, yeah. Just, like, new stuff.”

  “Well, cool. Let me see the list.” Evelyn eyes my bag.

  What the hell? I turn to Liss and shake my head. We only just met her. This girl is crossing all kinds of boundaries.

  I expect Liss to read the horror in my face, but instead she exclaims, “Show her!”

  “What? No, it’s personal … I mean, I don’t want to—”

  “Aw, I’m sorry.” Evelyn straps her bag over her head and stands up. “I didn’t mean to barge in on your day. Shit, I’m sorry. I’ll go now—”

  “Number twelve,” Liss whispers to me. She places the sunglasses on top of her head and catches my eye. She’s got that totally honest, optimistic, hopeful Liss grin on, the one that sometimes makes me believe that the world is inherently good and wonderful and rainbows and daisies, the one that makes me expect the best from people.

  Shit.

  “Okay, fine.” I sigh and reach into my bag.

  “Really?” Evelyn sits back down. “Cool. Let’s see it.”

  I hand her the list, which she unfolds and scans closely. She places her cigarette on the bench, careful not to drop any ashes on it. “Wow, man. You tried out for cheerleading?” I nod yes, and she asks, “How the hell was that?”

  “An unfortunate experience, to say the least,” I say. “One that I was more than happy to cross off the list. I am absolutely ready to move on.”

  “Okay, well, yeah, let’s see here. Skinny-dipping, nice. Skydiving, cool. Trapeze? Sure, whatever. And tribal dancing? Fuck, yeah! Totally hot. Can I do that with you guys?”

  “Well, um, sure.” I turn to Liss, who has reached for the cigarette to take another inhale. She’s now simultaneously swallowing down a cough and nodding enthusiastically.

  “The more, the merrier,” she says with smoke streaming out from her mouth. “Why not?”

  “Actually, this shit is kind of awesome. Like, fishing? That’s just like, cute, you know? And flambé? What’s that?”

  “It’s where you set food on fire with alcohol to cook it,” I say. “The Greeks do it a lot.”

  “All right! Yeah, I like it. Can I hang out with you guys while you do some of this shit?” Evelyn takes back her cigarette, which is now just a small butt. “I mean, I can easily get you some pot. We could do number twelve this afternoon, if you guys want.”

  “Um, well, we were thinking about going to the Art Institute…” I say.

  “Fuck, yeah!” Evelyn gets excited. “I’ve got some kick-ass brownies back at my place. Edibles are the way to go. Let’s get high and go see some art!”

  Oh boy. I’m not too sure about this.

  Liss is nodding and Evelyn is nodding and I’m just sort of stunned by the sudden turn of events. I wanted this. I asked for this. But to be high in broad daylight on the streets of Chicago? Is this what my mom meant by do everything?

  “Hey, who’s this Diana Askeridis?” Evelyn asks. “Why are you dedicating this to her, anyway?”

  “Oh, that’s my mom,” I mutter. “She died a few months ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. How’d she die? Like, car accident or something? She was young, right?”

  “No.” I can’t talk about this. Not now. I look at Liss for help.

  Liss explains it for me. “She was diabetic and had kidney and heart failure. She was fifty-six.” It sounds like a coroner’s report.

  Evelyn shakes her head. “My condolences. Really. That just sucks big-time.”

  A security guard who can’t be too much older than us jumps up the steps, pointing his finger. “Hey, ladies. You can’t smoke here. You should know that. It’s a family place.”

  “Oh fuck, sorry!” Evelyn throws her cigarette on the ground and digs her heel into it. “Man, you’re right. There are like, kids here and shit.”

  “You could also watch your language.” The guard frowns at the dead cigarette. “And don’t leave that there.”

  “Oh, yeah, right. Sorry.” Evelyn picks up the crushed butt. She turns to us. “Shall we get out of here, then?”

  Evelyn hops down the benches toward the exit. I say a silent good-bye to the sea lions, wishing with every cell of my being that I could be inside the pool with them, swimming in circles, safe and confined, with no opportunities for illicit drugs or other illegal activity to tempt me. Actually, wait a minute. Maybe that’s the last thing I should be wishing for.

  Liss takes my hand in hers and squeezes it. “You know it’s going to be okay,” she whispers. “We’re just going to have some fun, that’s all.”

  Deep breath, Georgia.

  Try it all once, Georgia.

  And when you do, think of me.

  This is what it was like

  at the end, when the sepsis

  invaded her brain,

  and she didn’t make sense anymore.

  She spoke of colors and light

  and when I told her I got straight A’s

  she said, Of course you did, you’re in kindergarten,

  they give A’s to all the kids.

  And then she caught herself and said,

  I’m proud of you, honey. You keep working hard, okay?

  That last day, when she no longer made sense,

  I squeezed her hand and she squeezed it back,

  and it was the last day she knew it was me.

  The next day she was intubated,

  and she hated it, the tubes down her throat,

  in her arms,

  in her wrists.

  She screamed and yelled and ripped them out.

  Until finally,

  they had to strap her to the bed.

  Until finally,

  the sedatives wore her down.

  Until finally,

  she wouldn’t wake up.

  Until finally,

  she was done.

  A quiet nurse who was older than my mother

  shook her head.

  This is usually how it goes, she whispered in a thick foreign accent.

  The infection goes to the brain, incites the worst kind of anger.

  And then when it wins,

  there is nothing else left.

  In the end,

  there was nothing left

  of her.

  * * *

  Evelyn lives a few blocks away in a small two-bedroom apartment on the twelfth floor of a high-rise that overlooks the city. She tells us that her dad left her mom a long time ago and that they had bought the place long before “everything went to hell and she couldn’t afford to move anywhere else. The building’s nice, but this apartment’s a tiny little shithole.”

  We head over there so she can grab her “stuff,” and she’s right. It is a shithole. There’s crap everywhere, laundry and dirty dishes and wrinkled magazines from 2004. “My mom’s a stewardess, so she’s never here.” In her room, Evelyn kneels on the floor and reaches underneath an open space of an old wooden cabinet. She pulls out a crumpled paper bag. “She’s always on my ass for doing this shit, but she’s always getting high, too. My feet just stay on the ground when I do it.”

  Evelyn stashes the bag in her pocket. “We shouldn’t eat these here. We should get to the museum first, otherwise we may never find our way there.” She laughs.

  “I don’t want to get too messed up,” Liss says, and I want to hug her. She’s just as big a dork as I am.

  “Me, neither,” I add quickly.

  “Oh no?” Evelyn raises her eyebrow and then nods. “That’s cool. Just eat one bite, then. You’ll be all right.”

  We leave her apartment and walk over to the 151 bus. It takes us alongside Lake Shore Drive, where people are running and sunbathing on North
Street beach, even though it’s sixty-five degrees and the middle of September. I guess we’re not the only ones cutting today.

  The bus stops at the front entrance, where Hare Krishnas are dancing and chanting and jangling their bells between the bronze statues of two lions, who look like they’ve had enough.

  We pay for our tickets and head inside, into the familiar central lobby where school groups and families and tourists shuffle up and down the mass of stairs that weave like a spider’s geometric web under the echo of wide arches and towering columns. I’m instantly regretting this idea, not because we’re about to get high, but more because I shouldn’t be here like this.

  This place is sacred.

  It’s more than a museum.

  It’s a church.

  My mother’s church.

  She came here at least once each month, with or without my dad and me, and she walked and walked, meditating on the endless lines of art. Except for the day of their wedding, he never forced her to go to his Greek Orthodox church with him (though she did a few times each year), and I think it was because he understood that she didn’t need the church’s lessons; she had art. She had thousands and thousands of years of human life to meditate on. She had Picasso and Kandinsky. She had the Hindu sculptures of southern India and the Buddhist heads of Thailand. She had Chagall’s blue windows and the rows and rows of armor and the fragile glass paperweights.

  And now, here I am, about to desecrate her church.

  Or am I? This is what she wanted. This is what she told me to do.

  “You okay, Georgia?” Liss reads me like no one else can.

  I nod, and we head downstairs to the bathroom, where we go in the family stall and Evelyn hands us each a piece of brownie. I take one more. Liss takes two.

  And then.

  And then,

  I’m light. And color. And shape. And form.

  And I think everyone’s looking at me. I think everyone knows.

  And maybe they do.

  And Picasso’s women are thick and round and heavy.

  And they’re blue, so blue.

  And I’m dripping down Pollock’s paint.

  And I’m a child on Seurat’s lawn.

  And I’m a dancer at the Moulin Rouge.

  And I’m a leaf drowning in Monet’s mist.

  And Dalí is laughing at me.

  And then,

  my mother is there,

  right there,

  lounging in a striped red armchair,

  her hips full and round,

  her torso thick with color,

  her eyes

  a confusion of line and sphere,

  but tender,

  and warm.

  They’re smiling at me.

  They are right there,

  so close I can touch them.

  * * *

  The brownies start to wear off. We’re leaning against a wall, staring at Chagall’s blue window, and I’m exhausted—completely and utterly exhausted. “Can we go lie down somewhere or something?”

  Evelyn nods and we follow her down a long back hallway to the new building, where the exit spits us out into the park. We find a tree and collapse under it. Everything is still weirdly bright—the leaves shake in their vivid yellows and oranges—but I can feel the ground, and the earth is there. It’s spinning beneath me—I know that, too. But I also know I’m here. Chicago, Illinois. Millennium Park. Georgia Askeridis. Pothead.

  “Holy shit, man,” Evelyn says. “You guys okay?”

  “Oh yeah.” Liss takes off the sunglasses, and I realize she might have been wearing them the entire time we were in the museum. She lifts her head off the ground and looks at us. Her eyes are bloodshot. “That was … amazing.”

  Evelyn grins. “Turns out that shit was a little stronger than I’d anticipated. Sorry, guys. Hope you’re okay.”

  She pulls out a clove and lights it. Liss takes a drag, and I reach out for it. I inhale, and it burns—holy shit, does it burn—and I cough a little, but then I try it again a few more times. My brain swims a little more, but it feels good. I lick the cinnamon from my lips and rest my head back on the earth.

  We stay there for a while, searching for shapes in the clouds.

  “Elephant,” Evelyn says.

  “Sailboat,” I say.

  “Turnip,” says Liss.

  She would see a turnip. This is why we’re friends.

  It starts to get cold, and we realize we’re hungry as all hell. We stop at Dunkin’ Donuts, buy a dozen to share, and eat them all the way back home.

  I’m not sure exactly what I accomplished today, but I know I feel good.

  I know I’ve done something different.

  I’m marking that down as Positive Thought #10.

  5

  The Second Official Locker Date occurs randomly at the end of the day on Halloween when Daniel looks over at me and says, “Nice costume.” I’m wearing an orange shirt with the silhouette of a statue of Athena that I found half price at the Alley, and I’m holding an old book with the words Forgotten Lore that I drew on with some calligraphy pens my mom had in a drawer. Oh, and best of all, I’m wearing a raven on top of my head.

  Yes, an honest-to-goodness fake blackbird, one of those Styrofoam-bodied things from Michael’s that I glued to an old Blackhawks baseball cap. I said I wanted to go bold, but I think today is the day that I’ve firmly solidified my position in No-Woman’s-Land. People have been giving me funny looks all day. But it’s Halloween, people! If there’s any day to be brave and do everything, today’s the day.

  Daniel’s staring at the top of my head, and I think he might actually like my costume, but it could be that he’s staring because I’m dressed like a total dork. He’s dressed normally, a jacket and jeans.

  “‘Quoth the raven…’” Daniel intones in a low voice.

  Yes! Except for my nerdy English teacher, Ms. Langer, he’s the only one who got it today. Liss thought I was an evil librarian, and Evelyn thought I was a witch.

  He’s smiling at me. Okay, yeah. He likes it.

  “Nevermore,” I respond.

  “May very well be the best poem ever,” he says.

  “Agreed! My mom used to read it to me when I was little. That and ‘The Bells,’ which I thought was hilarious.”

  “To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells / From the bells, bells, bells, bells, / Bells, bells, bells.”

  Ah! He’s cute and smart. “Yes! Exactly!”

  “Another great poem. Edgar Allan Poe, man. Nothing like him. How great was it that your mom read those to you?”

  And … we’re having an actual, real, honest-to-goodness conversation that involves something other than stilted salutations.

  Be still, my fluttering heart.

  He’s staring at me, waiting for me to respond.

  Right. Words. Speak, Georgia.

  “Looking at it now, it’s kind of sick, actually, that she read ‘The Raven’ to a little kid, right? I mean, he’s freaking being haunted by a bird of death. Way to give a kid nightmares.”

  Daniel laughs. “Are you headed to the bus stop?”

  I nod.

  “I’ll walk with you.”

  Siiigh.

  “Cool!” I say with maybe a little too much enthusiasm.

  We close our lockers and head toward the door. We walk past Liss, who’s dressed like Rosie the Riveter. She flexes her biceps and mouths to me, “You can do it!” And then, “Number thirteen!”

  Crazy girl. I look at Daniel to see if he saw her.

  He didn’t. Phew.

  We step into the breezy afternoon, passing hordes of people dressed as skeletons and ghouls, farmers and angels, and the ever-predictable guys dressed as cheerleaders and girls dressed as football players. Once we near the edge of the school, I take off my raven hat and tuck it under my arm. We walk toward Lincoln Avenue, past shops and restaurants. It’s a perfect autumn day; the sky is bright and the air is cool. The Second Official Locker Date has just ev
olved into what I will call Our First Semiromantic Stroll. Except that neither of us has said anything in more than a block.

  “Weather’s changing,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he says. “It’s a little chilly.”

  “But nice,” I respond.

  Come on, Georgia. You can do better than that.

  “Um. No costume for you today?”

  He stops right in front of a Starbucks doorway and throws his backpack on the ground. A mom walking out with a stroller and a stressed-out business-looking man have to push past us to walk around. They both grumble, but Daniel stays right where he is. He unzips his jacket and gives me a frown.

  He’s wearing an orange shirt, kind of like mine, except his says “3.14159265358979323…” with more numbers winding around the front of his chest and under his armpit. Then he pulls his jacket down and spins around. The numbers continue around his back and fade into tiny, tiny font. I offer a silent swoon for this close-up glance at those ridiculously chiseled shoulders.

  “Pumpkin pi,” I say. “Nice.”

  “You got it!” He pivots around, a wide smile on his face. “You’re one of, like, three people to get it!”

  Yes! Go, me!

  “Well, you’re the only one who got mine,” I say, pointing to my bird.

  “Really?”

  “Well, you and Ms. Langer.”

  “Yeah, she got mine, too.”

  He zips up his jacket and throws his bag over his shoulder. “Does no one pay attention in class?”

  We keep walking, past the overpriced hipster shops and right past my bus stop, but I don’t say anything. I’ll walk all the way to the Wisconsin border if it means I get to talk to Daniel Antell. “Maybe next time, you should bring actual pie for everyone.”

  “Yeah, for everyone in the dorm or whatever.”

  “Oh, right.” Only eight more months until we all graduate, and then two more after that, we all disperse across the nation. It all seems so far away and yet so close. “What are your plans for next year?”

  “Not sure yet. Somewhere that’s not here. I applied to about eight different schools.”

  “Do you know what you want to study?”

  “Yes. Bioengineering so that I can work with three-D medical technology.”

  “Wow. That’s specific.”