Of Pens and Swords

by Rena Rocford

  I checked my form, sinking into a better—if harder to hold—en guarde. The rest of the group work went by quickly, but I could be yanked back into memories of Christine at the drop of a hat.

  Would I always be this distracted? Even when the memories weren’t so volatile?

  Was this why they didn’t think I’d make the Olympics?

  “Cyra, come into my office.” Ferrero’s eyes had an odd glint to them, so I followed without a word. No quips, just obedience.

  Her office smelled damp, like the air in there didn’t get breathed very often. Of course, it could just be the weather. Winter brought rain. That’s how green hills worked. By April, the rains would stop and everything would dry out over the summer.

  She pointed at a chair, and I sat. A puff of disturbed dust rose off the seat. It scattered the light raining down, framing Ferrero in a tight circle of light. Her face had that look like she was about to talk about Christine.

  I didn’t want another person unloading their grief on me. Everyone wanted to talk about it, but they were too afraid to ask. If I hadn’t already had to deal with people’s quiet probing questions on the topic of my hand, then I would have thought they’d all gone crazy. Nope, just curious.

  I didn’t want to go through it with my coach.

  “Is this about my friend?” I asked.

  “No. I heard about that, and it is very terrible, but I wanted to focus on you and your growth.”

  I blinked at her. No one said things like that to me, not now.

  “Grief is weird, and you have a long way to go, but there’s no hurrying it. No words from me could make what you’re going through easier. Grief is sort of like a lake. You feel extremely sad when the lake is empty. It’s a deep lake, with lots of canyons and gullies. Even a little bit of rain will hide those extremely raw, deep places. But after those are filled, you’re still at the bottom of the rest of the lake. It’s a huge volume that has to be filled, and sometimes the rain doesn’t come.

  “Sometimes, people find that they become used to the lake at those new lower levels, and they learn to live with the scar where the shore used to be. They don’t mind that the docks are now high and dry. They don’t mind that the water is so shallow that any touch of drought will dry out their lake. Sometimes the rain comes and fills the lake easily. Sometimes, it’s the middle of a drought, and the only thing filling the lake is a steady, if very diminished stream. You can’t hurry it, but you can look for the rain, I guess. Everyone is different.”

  No one talked about the after, but exposed and raw pretty much nailed it. It felt like someone had run my knuckles across a cheese grater, and everyone wanted to clean it out with lemon juice. My throat ached, and I nodded, not trusting my voice.

  “But like I said, we can’t hurry up grief. What I wanted to talk about was something you could have control over: money and the Olympics.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “But you guys…”

  “First off, people get things wrong all the time. I think Ethan is wrong. I think you have an excellent chance of making the U.S. team regardless of your money or your hand.”

  “But not medaling.” I pointed out the disparity in her words.

  “Four years is a long time. You’ll have Julian as a coach——”

  “The letters haven’t come back yet! I don’t know if I even got in!”

  She barked a laugh. “Cyra, one thing to know about Julian, if he wants something, he gets it. And after what happened on New Year’s, he’s going to make sure the offer from him comes with a scholarship. I don’t think he realized that you guys didn’t have money. You will need sponsors, and grants, and loans, and the support that Olympic athletes need to make it. People who don’t have a large fundraising network usually have independent wealth.” She took a breath, and I followed suit.

  “What I wanted to tell you was that there’s still hope. The Olympics is four years away, but they will pick the team three years from now. You’re going to need to get moving.” She handed me a sheet of paper. “If everything goes smashingly well, this is the timeline for a shot at the Olympics.” She held her hand up. “This is just a timeline, and this is if everything goes perfectly.” She pointed at the paper. “You could follow everything on here, and there would still be fencers better than you. What you need to do now is start winning more. You only get one shot at the big events, and those are the events where you have to prove yourself. This year, next year, and the year after. There are other events to be sure, but we need to focus on the big ones coming up. You have to qualify for divisionals. I’d like you to qualify in the top tier. You need a better rating.” She handed me another sheet of paper. “This is a list of A tournaments being held. I want you to show up at all of these, except maybe this one.” She pointed to one coinciding with Christine’s funeral. “But I want you at this one next weekend. You need to get moving on this, and this is how.”

  I nodded, still not trusting my voice.

  Ferrero’s grim exterior softened. “I know you’re still sad. I know this part is hard. But you do nothing for her memory if you let all your dreams die with her.”

  Silently I nodded, my throat tightening. “But it’s so unfair.” My voice cracked. “She’s—”

  Ferrero squeezed my shoulder. “One day at a time. Take a minute, then get your weapon and fence.”

  till grimy from a competition—they didn’t have a shower at that gym—I parked my car on the street. I pulled the medal off. As much fun as it was to wear them, they sort of mocked me. They were cheap, and the gold plate was already peeling. In my room, I had a box for fencing prizes. This would be an unremarkable addition. Despite winning the top medal at the competition, there weren’t enough high rated fencers in the final rounds, so I walked away without a rating increase. Time and opportunity, at this point that was all that stood between me and the rating I needed.

  I ran up the stairs to the salle to pick up some blades I was going to work on before the next competition. When I got back down to the car, I noticed the gallery across the street.

  Rochan had invited me to come, but I hadn’t taken it as a real invitation. He had invited the whole school. I checked my phone, plenty of time to catch some art. When I reached the gallery door, I pushed through. Mid-afternoon on a Sunday was usually prime viewing time, but we weren’t in tourist season yet. During the summer, this place was impossible on the weekends, though art wasn’t a big money maker in the historic downtown area.

  When I stepped into the lobby, it was blank white walls leading to a door. On either side of the door were donation slots, one for the ballet studio across the street, and one for the gallery we were in. I signed the register so Rochan would know I’d come. I sort of liked the anonymity of it. He could know I’d come without me pressing in on his time or space.

  It was a hard dance between us to be friends now. I knew too much. He was blissfully ignorant and clinging to an idea of a person that wasn’t real. I didn’t want to disturb his memory of Christine.

  Through the door, the gallery had been set up with dimmed lights. Christine hung on the wall, decked out in her best costume, a picture he’d snuck at the competition. The next picture had Christine in her costume and an old pair of point shoes in the redwoods. She stood on point in front of those monolithic trees, her arms carving the air. In front of those trees she should have looked tiny, insignificant, but somehow, all the light was drawn to her. She commanded it out of the sky, and the world had obeyed.

  By the Hook, she was stunning.

  Each picture more improbable than the last, until there she stood, on point, in the surf. That was a very dangerous picture. Water rushed up behind her, spraying the rocks—and probably Christine—but the light of the sunset cast her face in fire. She was as fierce as the waves behind her. The whole gallery was filled with her. A braver stronger tribute than I’d given her in words.

  Maybe my words had helped them find each other, but he had loved her. He loved her.

 
I heard another person enter the gallery, and I slipped farther in. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this. Each picture had stabbed at my barely healing heart. Someday, I might be able to look at pictures of Christine without tears, but that day hadn’t come.

  Time, I needed time.

  I turned to leave but noticed another white door. It was unlabeled and half hidden. I couldn’t tell if it was part of the exhibit, but I tried the knob. It opened. Hesitantly, I pushed through. On the far side, a smaller exhibit waited. The images here were done like photographs, but they were impossible things, fantasy fused with real photos.

  One picture had Christine, on point, bent at the waist and blowing something off her hand. Instead of lint or fluff or even glitter, a whirling tornado stormed off her hand, heading for the distance. In another image, she held back the leading edge of a dust storm. Then an image of Christine sitting at a bench, but instead of shoes, she slipped her feet into the tops of mountains.

  The giant wearing mountains for shoes.

  The main piece sat on the center of the miniature exhibit. A butterfly. How cliché, a little butterfly? It wasn’t even centered up. Its wings hung at mid flap, as if the wind beneath it had just swelled, and it wanted to catch the rise. Something bright trailed off the back like a con trail from an airplane. I scoffed.

  A butterfly.

  One of the things Rochan had always impressed me with was how he never just fell for the cheap and easy, the commercial, but here was a butterfly.

  I took a step closer. The con trail off the back of the butterfly was a sunny day. The butterfly itself flew through a maelstrom. In its wake, the storm had broken, the sun shone, and flowers opened to the day.

  My whole body tensed.

  This was the conversation I’d had with Rochan through the bathroom door. These were my words, brought to life in magnificent color. All around, my words made real, like he’d painted my thoughts. My heart ached, and for the first time I admitted why I was so sad. I hadn’t just lost my best friend; I’d lost my love as well. My chest ached under the pressure of knowing: I could never find a way to tell Rochan. I had threatened bodily harm to Sara if she ever told. I had written the last letter and begged—begged—not to be revealed. And now?

  Now, if I told him, he’d think I was defiling her memory. My heart broke again. No one knew. Weeks and he mourned for Christine and me, and I was still alive. Alive but I stood across a chasm. Christine separated us.

  I had to let go of them both.

  Fat tears rolled down my cheeks to splash my feet.

  I thought I’d run out of tears, but somehow, I always managed to find more. My throat constricted, and I tried to keep my breathing even. After two giant gulping breaths, I thought I might be able to talk. If I ran into someone in Christine’s exhibit, I might be able to say “Thank you,” if they offered their condolences. I scrubbed my face on my sleeve and prepped to face whoever I might bump into at an art exhibit in historic Petaluma.

  I just didn’t want someone to say, “If she could see you now…” A derisive snort escaped my chest. If she could see me now, she’d be appalled at how I’d come apart at the seams. I was made of stronger stuff, she’d say. Act like the bringer of chaos and destruction, the woman who lays waste to her opponents.

  “He got this one wrong,” I said to the portrait. “You didn’t send the storm back with your wings. You brought it in your pocket.”

  A sharp intake of breath behind me whipped me out of my private moment. I spun, my heart hammering away in my chest. Rochan’s wide eyes found mine, searching for the truth. I tried to speak. My mouth opened. I’d referenced the night of the competition. I searched for any hint of a reaction.

  “How did you know about that?” he asked.

  I tried to speak, but the words were gone. I needed to hold up the lie, but I faltered, and my throat constricted. I could tell him Christine had talked about it. That could solve it all.

  Or I could tell him everything.

  Fear poured through every limb. My body rebelled against me, and words were gone. This was my moment to tell him the truth, but I couldn’t. Mouth like cotton, I stood as still as a tree. His eyes searched something I couldn’t see.

  Air puffed out of his chest. “She had sounded off that night. How come I didn’t see it?”

  My arms clenched against my side. He knew. I started to shake.

  He shook his head ever so slightly. “She sounded different because it wasn’t her.”

  “Rochan, I don’t—we never.”

  “How come you didn’t tell me? How come you didn’t say anything? We sat in that room, waiting for hours. Why didn’t you tell me then? It was you all along?” Then to himself. “Of course it was you. Thick as thieves, and she could never quote her own poems.” He balled his hands into fists and hit his thighs.

  “I’m so sorry. I never meant for it to get away from us. I just helped and then things were different. She loved you so much!” I touched my forehead, as if I could hide behind my own hand.

  “But it wasn’t her. It was a lie.” He caught me in his gaze. “How come you didn’t tell me? All those days in class, I was right there!”

  “I just—it was complicated!”

  He ran his hands into his hair, twisting it back. “But all this time, and you were right there!”

  Stomach roiling, I looked everywhere but at him. My humiliation complete, now he knew, and he’d hate me forever. I’d failed at everything. Could I call in sick for the rest of the school year?

  My hand shook, so I crossed it over my chest. “I never meant for it to go on. It started so simply. I never meant to hurt you.”

  He stiffened. “They were just words to you.” His hand pushed against his chest, and his knees wobbled on the spot. Rochan looked for a place to sit, and lacking one, grabbed the pedestal next to the door. “You didn’t feel them.”

  “No! They were my letters. I couldn’t have written them unless they were true!”

  Hope lit his eyes, but it winked out almost the second it was there. “But it was a lie. What were you thinking? How could you?”

  “I wasn’t thinking! That’s what I was trying to tell you!” I twisted my shirt in my hands. “I was trying to keep it up because you cared so much, and she loved you. She loved you so much.”

  Tears spilled down his face. “I loved her, all of her. Yes, I loved the poetry first, but she was…” He held his hands out in front, reaching for something.

  I offered a word. “Radiant?”

  “Yes! That’s it exactly. Like she took up more air in the room. A shooting star, a candle.”

  “A butterfly who brought a storm,” I said softly.

  “But then was torn apart by it.” He nodded, and after a moment, he shook his head. “How come you didn’t tell me? Not even after?”

  My words stopped in my throat. I started to speak, and my voice cracked. I cleared my throat. “We were going to tell you that day. It was tearing her apart thinking you loved something other than her. I was scared you’d hate us both. And someone like Christine deserves so much.”

  “And you don’t?”

  I didn’t. Not after what I’d done. I didn’t deserve to be loved anymore, and his words were like razors across my skin.

  “It wasn’t about me. It was never about me. At first it was because Christine loved you so much. After the accident, I couldn’t say anything because I didn’t want to ruin what you felt for her. She deserved all of your love, and you deserved to have her as the person you believed her to be.” I paused. “I’m so sorry. I never meant for any of it. I’m sorry I lied. I didn’t want you to think any less of her. She was a force of nature.”

  He snorted. “Yes, yes she was.” Silence hung between us.

  “Your pictures are amazing,” I said. “Your work has really improved.”

  “Her—your—words gave me these.” He pointed at his fantasies. “I’m thinking about retiring the camera and learning something else. This hurts too much.�
�� He kicked at the ground. “And I got in at Brown. My father wants me to be a lawyer.”

  “You can’t just give it up.”

  “Right, so tell me, have you written much?”

  I deflated, shook my head. “Just the speech for her.” I leaned against a wall between pictures. “I guess that comes back in time.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I feel dead inside, numb. And then it was a lie.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”

  A tear escaped down my cheek. “She loved you so much, Rochan. Don’t ever forget that.”

  “Remembering her isn’t going to be the hard part. It’s like a piece of me died with her.” He ran his hand through his hair, increasing the puff. “I still don’t feel right doing normal things, like going to the movies.”

  My throat ached with the need to cry again. “I had to fence in a competition last weekend, and I sucked. My coach almost pulled me. I got to practice sucking.” I raised my eyebrows, drawing a smile from him. “She told me sucking was part of the game, but I had to figure it out and get back to practicing winning.”

  A smile twisted across his face. “How’d that go?”

  “Golden.” I held up the cheap medal.

  He laughed. “Well there you go. Indomitable to the end.”

  Then reality leaned back in. “I’ve blown it.” I gestured between us. “This is pretty screwed up.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, it is, but I’m an idiot, too. I knew. I knew all along. I just—I wanted that version of reality.”

  My stomach squirmed.

  He kept going. “She was talking about the Academy in The City. I applied everywhere in San Francisco. I made plans. I was going to defy my father and go to Stanford. But now I got in at Brown. I didn’t expect that.”

  “Have you heard back from the UCs yet?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Maybe it’s better this way. I can go off to the East Coast and maybe do something… I don’t know, important.”

  “But your art is important. It’s your dream!”

  He gave me a sad smile. “I’m glad I know the truth. I just don’t know how to take it. I think I need time. I have too much going on right now.”