by Daryl Banner
Zara turns around. “So I can have cake?? Have I been good enough?”
“Yes, you have. And yes, of course you can have cake.” I kiss the top of Zara’s head.
Dessie looks like she’s about to explode with emotion like confetti from a piñata. Again, this might be my own darkness determinedly trying to push forward to make a tragedy out of everything, but I can’t help entertaining the notion that Dessie is just riding the high of her opening night, and she would be clapping her hands and near tears about anything in the world at all, regardless of Brant and my presence here. We just happen to be here like any other audience member. If it was another day, she’d probably express just as much excitement in seeing us as she would if her Monday morning barista accidentally put an extra shot of espresso in her coffee.
We aren’t special. We aren’t a part of their lives anymore.
And I think I sorta never was, no matter how hard I tried to be “the girl people like”. I’ll never be that girl.
“I’m so glad you two are here!” Dessie exclaims, as if she was aware of and is directly challenging the shadowy realm that is my emotional landscape.
And just as forced, just as put-on, I stretch my lips into a smile and say, “We are, too.”
I genuinely hope my emotions match my words soon. On some level, I really do mean it.
A while later, Zara, Brant, and I are at the enormous (even for Texan standards) townhome of Dessie’s parents where the after party is being hosted. Or maybe it’s their second or third home, I can’t be sure. Brant explained it on the cab ride over, but I was too distracted staring out the window and wondering why I can’t just be happy like everyone else is. Brant is getting to see his best friend. Dessie is enjoying the exhilaration sparking between them. Zara is about to stay up way past her bedtime with a bellyful of triple chocolate cake.
And I’m busy wearing a smile, begging for everyone to not dread my presence when they look my way, and trying to convince myself that the world isn’t bleak and horrible and lonely.
The one and only thing that makes me feel happy is Brant and the family we’ve created. My Zara. My goblin princess Eden and my black-bat-loving Dalia. I can turn around and go right back home, and all the joy of a happily-ever-after will rush right back into me like the comfort of a warm blanket and hot chocolate on a cold winter night.
They’re all I need. Not Dessie’s approval. Not Clayton’s approval.
Just my family.
Zara and Brant are at the long, extravagant dessert table where my little girl is getting her long-awaited piece of cake … after impatiently waiting in a long line of others serving themselves first. I’m standing by a tall glass window overlooking the street with Sam at my side as she tells me about a composition she’s writing that’s confounding her. The noise in the room is quite loud, as if we’re right back in the lobby of that theater, except now we’re surrounded by people who are making me feel more and more underdressed and unworthy by the second.
“I mean, it’s not that I think I need a reed pipe in my composition, but … I’m just lacking the right voice, the right punch of … obnoxiousness. And I think—”
“What about an oboe?” I suggest, drawing from what limited musical knowhow I have swimming around in my brain.
“Yes, right. Very good. Except …” Sam bites her lip and pushes a finger at her glasses. “Except I don’t think it’s enough of a … a … Ugh, maybe I just … just need to …”
“Not everything you create is going to be clean and perfect. Sometimes you gotta dirty it up, don’t you think?” I catch myself in half a chuckle as I nod toward Dmitri across the room, who’s signing back and forth with Clayton. “Don’t fall into Dmitri’s trap of letting a story torture him for months before he finally realizes his plot can’t work out perfectly in the end. Characters gotta die. Or move away. Or have some horrible, inescapable flaw that the reader may, in fact, never fall in love with. Some characters aren’t meant to be loved.” I fold my arms and tilt my head, my eyes finding Dessie on the other side of the room. “Some characters just get all the attention, all the love, all the favor. And some of us—”
“Are we still talking about music?”
I shut myself up and cast my gaze to the floor. The wood flooring is so shiny in this place, I can see my reflection. “My point is, art is messy. Don’t stay in the lines so much. Draw from the things you hate. Draw from the things that make you uncomfortable. It’s only from those places that something real can emerge.”
“You’re so fucking cool.”
I lift my gaze back to Sam and blink, startled. “Huh?”
“You. Your whole … thing. Back at Klangburg, I kinda thought Chloe was the one I’d connect with the most, seeing as she was the emo, black-eyeliner, punk hair type. Sorry for saying that, since I know she’s one of Brant’s exes and all. But the more I’ve gotten to know you over the years, I realize that … of all Dessie’s friends … maybe even including Dessie herself … I think I relate to you the most.”
My eyebrows go up all on their own. I’m genuinely rendered speechless by her words.
“You have an unapologetic way of artistically expressing yourself,” Sam goes on. “I admire that. I can see in your eyes that you fear things too, and you are sensitive, and … well, maybe you’re also a little intimidating.”
“Intimidating?”
“And maybe when people are talking to you, they’re always afraid of offending you, or of pissing you off, or of saying the wrong thing. I think it’s because there’s something about you that makes people want to … impress you. You’re a person of very high standards, whether you know it or not.” Sam pokes at her glasses again, then bites her lip and peers into my eyes. “Is that okay to say?”
I swallow once, then give a stiff shrug, her words still unraveling me by the syllable. “Uh, sure.”
“It’s a good thing.” She offers me a meek smile. “I … want to be as brave and as free as you are.”
“You’re a New Yorker,” I point out to her. “That already proves you are.”
Sam chuckles at that—which is about the saddest, dullest, most adorably dry chuckle I’ve ever heard. “I appreciate it. But I mean artistically brave. Artistically free.”
“Just dare to be dirty. Dare to be messy.”
“Messy.” Sam lifts the tiny plate of cake in her hand, then pokes a finger into the vanilla cream of a pastry and dabs her own nose with it. She turns her wide eyes to me, a blob of the off-white cream hanging on her nose. “Messy?”
I fight off a laugh. Yeah, me, laughing. “Perfect.”
The next moment, Sam puts her arms around me—still awkwardly carrying her plate—and holds onto me. I think this is supposed to be a hug. I’m almost fairly sure that’s what this is.
I tentatively put an arm around her back, accepting it.
It’s weird. Being hugged. Spontaneously. Without any apparent reason.
Something inside me softens, dying before the swelling shadows of my inner self-hate. A light is cutting through all of that—a light that’s taking the form of a dab of vanilla cream at the end of Sam’s nose, which is dangerously close to wiping itself on my chest.
Oddly, I don’t care. I like it, in fact. I like it so much, my lips are doing a weird sort of twisty thing that feels so alien.
I think it’s a smile.
An actual one.
“I miss you, Penelope,” Sam tells me, half-muffled against my side.
Even Brant doesn’t use my real name. But the strange intimacy that hearing my name inspires in me pulls me right out of the darkness like a drowning child from a lake. I feel the little girl in me suck in her first breath of air in years.
Then across the way, as if choreographed, I spot Dessie watching us. The look in her eye is full of happiness, watching the pair of us awkwardly hug. Dessie’s eyes meet mine from across the enormous room, and then she winks at me.
“Dare to be messy,” I murmur—my own odd advice—then poke my own fing
er into the cream on Sam’s clumsily-held plate and dab my own nose. Then I half-hug Sam tighter, feeling more like a part of the “inner circle” than I’ve ever felt before.
Chapter 5
Sam
It’s good to be weird.
Those are the words I’ve embraced over the years, and they’ve helped me come to terms with so many aspects of my life that someday long ago tortured me.
Now, I love my mom and dad. I love that they’re fantastically strange and unconventional, touring the country and living a reckless life that never sits still. I love that I have a boyfriend—life partner, companion, whatever you want to call it—who is also bisexual. I love that we can check out other guys together and laugh about it. I love that we create things together—music and words and story, all uniting in a beautiful collaboration that fulfills both our souls.
And none of it is made of the stuff you see in romantic comedies, or mainstream love stories, or on family TV.
And it’s good to be weird. Because I’m happy.
Still with a gob of cream on our noses, Nell and I turn to face Dessie, who’s approached us with a glass of champagne in her hand and a delighted, red-cheeked smile. “I love you two. Have I said that yet, today? You’re two of my favorite people.”
Nell’s smile that she returns is warm, which sits strangely on her face, like an unfamiliar face at the dinner table, a guest from a faraway land. “I think your character of Death might be my spirit animal,” Nell confesses.
“Oh? Samantha Hart here isn’t?” teases Dessie, then nods at both of us. “Is this a new fashion trend? Rudolph the Cream-Nosed Reindeer?”
Nell winces. “My mind goes elsewhere when you word it like that.”
I cough on a chuckle of my own. “Rudolph’s been to a few seedy gay clubs, sounds like.”
Dessie gasps. “You two are so dirty! Get your minds out of the gutter!” Then she breaks into a fit of laughter—likely facilitated by her glass of champagne, which I suspect isn’t her first by far. “I just love you two even more.”
“It’s good to be weird,” I state.
Dessie winks at me. “Indeed, it is.” Then she turns to Nell. “I wanted to approach you at another time, but I suppose now is as good as any. Clayton and I might be opening a theater in the next year or so, and … well, this may come much farther down the line … but we want a prominent piece of art in our lobby. It’s part of our whole theme and design. I was wondering if … you might like to be our first featured artist.”
Nell looks genuinely stunned to wordlessness. I’ve never seen this particular look on her face. It’s almost as alien to her as the genuine smile a moment ago.
Dessie goes on. “You can think about it. You don’t have to give me an answer now. Just mull it over.”
“I didn’t know you’re opening up a theater,” I blurt with my mouth full, since I just took a big fat bite of the pastry on my plate.
Dessie nods excitedly. “We haven’t really told many people other than the three or four colleagues we’re collaborating with to make it happen. We want to feature original works, local playwrights, artists, musicians … We even want to host a sort of afterschool acting and writing workshop.”
“I love the idea,” says Nell suddenly. “That sounds so great. And the kids … you’ll put art into their lives.”
“Well, it’s not the genius of inspiring orphans by melting crayons over glass bottles, but I suppose it’s a start,” replies Dessie with a wink and a smile at Nell, who appears touched by the words. “Yes, I still have that photo framed at my house. You and all the kids at Westwood Light that Brant took. It’s beautiful, Nell. Inspires me every day.”
Nell’s eyes mist over.
Okay, seriously, what’s up with Nell?
After lifting her chin and apparently determined not to show any more emotion than she just did, Nell says, “Thank you,” like a businessman, then lets out a little smile and adds, “That means a lot to me.”
“Like I said, you two are two of my favorites in the whole world.” Dessie glances over her shoulder. “I better go check the door. I think Eric might be here sans Bailey. They had drama. What else is new?” She rolls her eyes. “I’m going to go give him shit for not making my opening.” Dessie throws us another wink, then saunters off.
I glance up at Nell, who is still visibly fighting off tears, if I’m interpreting what I’m seeing correctly. “Are you alright?” I ask. “Is it the baby?”
“I’m barely two months pregnant,” she mutters. “I’m fine. I’m happy, really.” Then she smiles, a tiny twinkle in her eye. “Happier than I’ve been in a long time.”
Her words make me smile despite myself. I pop the rest of the pastry in my mouth, then state, “We should probably wipe our noses clean before our boys see us. They’re going to think it’s a competition and plant their faces into the vanilla cream pies.”
“You’re right,” Nell agrees, then we take our napkins and wipe off one another’s noses like a pair of chimpanzees picking bugs out of one another’s hair.
Yeah, weird and slightly gross analogy, but I don’t care. That’s just me, isn’t it?
And it’s good to be weird.
The party is crashed a moment later by an army of students from the local colleges, who have supported Dessie over the years and are somehow associated with a high-school-helping program that Mr. Lebeau runs—I don’t really know the details, to be honest. But I do know that they all worship Dessie, including the very shiny ground upon which she strolls.
Amidst the mess of new arrivals, my pathway toward Dmitri is quickly blocked, and I soon find myself swimming through a crowd like a lost damsel in a forest of misty mystery. Which is pretty much an adequate way to describe the music that’s trying to happen in my head and at my piano at home. Nell wanted me to play something for Zara before we left, but then it was time to go. To be frank, I’m not sure I would’ve had anything in me. Nothing new, at least.
Dmitri and I both have been in a rut. It seems like he just catapulted his way out, and all it took was seeing Dessie’s show tonight to ignite that spark in him again. I’m happy for him, seeing as he can be utterly moody and awful when the characters aren’t speaking.
But the music hasn’t been silent in a long time. Now, I’ve gotten so desperate that I’m picturing reed instruments in my latest composition.
Reed instruments. You know. Like a bassoon.
Lord help me.
It’s not Tomas’s fault that he enjoyed playing bassoons so much. It’s not his fault that I’m forever cursed to gather bile in the back of my throat and spots in my eyes whenever I hear the totally unsexy hum of that horrid woodwind.
My talk with Nell was a good one, but I’m not sure if I can be like her and … dare to be messy. My music is all about control. Measures. Precise notes. Harmonies. A delicate balance of tempo and focus and intensity. It’s why Dmitri and I create so well; we’re both so damned anal retentive, creatively speaking. I keep spreadsheets on my unfinished projects, for Pete’s sake.
Cream on my nose is one thing. How am I supposed to be messy with my music?
“Dear God,” comes a voice from my side, “where in fuck’s hell’s butthole do they keep the wine?”
My eyes go wide and I turn. “Eric?”
He jumps, then slaps a hand to his chest. “Samantha Hart. My arch nemesis! Just kidding, me loves you.” He throws an arm around me for a lazy hug. I smell the reek of alcohol on his breath. “Are you doing well, honey? Where’s Dessie?”
Also maybe marijuana. I can’t tell. He smells very herby. “She’s being assaulted by the theatrical student body of New York.”
“Sounds like the name of a porn I watched.” He brings a glass of champagne I didn’t notice he had to his lips, takes a plentiful gulp, then faces me with his glassy eyes squinted. “Where’s Dmitri?”
I point. “Somewhere that way.”
“Hmm.”
I study Eric for a moment. I’ve drawn my o
wn conclusions, but don’t want to step on his toes or be presumptuous. Despite how cool-mannered and polite he was back in college, he’s grown into a pretty touchy individual. (Dessie tried to lovingly talk to him about it once, but he bit her head off and then expounded—at length—about how he doesn’t need a lecture on how to be a decent human being, and to save her lectures for Bailey when he’s off his meds.) So, knowing how sensitive he can get, I simply play dumb and ask, “How’s your night been?”
Eric answers with a roll of his eyes, then he freezes, as if suddenly unable to keep up his don’t-give-a-poop-about-anything attitude. Then, his face collapses with his shoulders and he shakes his head. “Bailey is too much. Bailey is too much, and I don’t know if I can do it anymore.”
Oh, shit.
This is more than I bargained for.
“You wanna … sit somewhere and talk?” I offer.
Eric eyes me, furrowing his brow. “You? Dead-eyed Sam? You want to talk to me about my failing relationship?”
I blink. “Or we can just stuff our faces at the dessert table.”
He puts a hand to his belly. “I really shouldn’t. I gotta watch my figure.”
“There’s triple chocolate cake.”
“Let’s do it.”
The pair of us cut through the room, which is approximately twenty-six times easier with a powerhouse like Eric ungraciously shoving people out of the way (I apologized to each one), and before long, we’re at the table with plates of cake, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and cheese.
Eric really, really wanted his cheese.
“So I don’t think that Bailey understands the concept of boundaries,” Eric is in the middle of explaining, “and I’d love to give him a lesson, but really, how many times do I have to explain to him that accompanying me to every single one of my rehearsals is … well … clingy? Ooh, he hates that word. Clingy. Even when I describe a sweater as clingy, his eyes burn red.”
I promise I’m paying attention to Eric. It’s just that the cake turned out to be a thousand times tastier than I previously counted on, and I’m genuinely stuffing my face, and I have no idea what the first half of our conversation was about. “He sounds clingy,” I mumble through a mouthful of cake, crumbs dancing like brown snowflakes from my lips.