All Girls

by Emily Layden

  I mean who else would I get ready with

  lol same

  Celeste types, deletes, retypes. She appreciates her friend saying the right thing, but she knows that’s exactly what it is: kindness, or even pity.

  omg

  Bracket’s updated!

  Celeste puts her phone down and refreshes the browser window. She scans the names with a kind of heart-thudding delirium, as if the thing she’s doing is fatally dangerous. In the bottom half of the bracket—the part Celeste hadn’t finished—Ms. Trujillo has advanced against Mr. Fink; Mr. Breslin, like Josie predicted, is into the round of eight, and now faces off against Mr. Banks, who apparently did not face a unified-enough write-in challenge to be spared the humiliation of being among the top-eight faculty most likely to fuck a student.

  And Celeste can’t explain it, but she feels a vague kind of relief at the fact that Mr. Banks moved on—that no one wrote in Owen or Ms. Ryan. Or maybe someone did, but not enough someones. The image of Ms. Ryan and her husband having sex remains Celeste’s alone, a private detail, a secret only she knows.

  * * *

  In the morning the school wakes to the final four, the ballots cast overnight (or, more likely, in the immediate aftermath of the publishing of the round of eight): Mr. Morgan, Ms. Hammacher, Ms. Trujillo, and Mr. Breslin. Celeste also wakes to a text from Josie, furious that Mr. Gregory lost to Ms. Hammacher. She does not point out that she heard a rumor that Ms. Hammacher actually dated a former student. By the afternoon the Playoffs are as compelling a backdrop to their getting-ready revelry as the pop/hip-hop cacophony that thumps down the hallway, her hallmates shuffling from one room to another, borrowing eyeshadow palettes and hair spray and the good mascara, leaving straighteners and curling irons plugged in by the hallway mirrors for optimal sharing.

  Josie sits very still in Celeste’s desk chair while her friend smears highlighter on her cheekbones and the tip of her nose and the high points under her eyebrows and draws winged liner at the corners of her lids.

  “Honestly you should charge people for this,” Josie says, mumbling so as to only minimally move her face. “You know that, like, Collier and Addison hire people to come do their makeup for prom?”

  “Mmm,” Celeste murmurs, intensely focused. Celeste started wearing makeup in eighth grade, after Kelsey Friedman pointed to a smatter of acne on Celeste’s left cheek and said, “I thought Asian people were supposed to have perfect skin?” When her mother refused to use her day off—she worked long hours as a home health aide—to walk Celeste to the local Rite-Aid, she nicked a wad of cash from the bottom of her mother’s purse and assembled her own kit of basics: concealer and powder and blush; a stick of black eyeliner and a pink-and-green tube of mascara. She zipped it all into a small pocket in her backpack and applied it each morning on the bus, perfecting a steady hand as she flicked black charcoal along her waterline at long red lights, trying not to dwell on how her mother never mentioned the theft, and how this must have been a sore spot for her, too, the fact that their family had no spending money to spare.

  At Atwater she discovered that most girls don’t wear makeup on a regular school day, or maybe just a little concealer and a swipe of mascara to look awake, but by then Celeste liked doing makeup, liked marking her face in a neat grid of light and dark foundation before sponging the colors into one another. She started practicing alone at night, after dark, the chatter of a YouTuber directing her: highlighter for day, highlighter for night, cut crease eye makeup, glitter eye makeup, glitter for day, how to do a cat eye on a monolid.

  As Celeste combs Josie’s eyebrows, fluffing them with a plastic spoolie, there’s a shout from the bathroom down the hall—“It’s updated!”—and Josie jolts out of her seat, smacking at her phone on the desk, where she announces—they hear it shouted down the hall, too—that Mr. Morgan and Mr. Breslin are the final two.

  Celeste does not vote, not again, but not because she wants to take some kind of moral stance on the thing, not because she thinks they shouldn’t joke about which teacher might sleep with a student and not because maybe—as she heard one of the seniors suggest over lunch—it’s sort of sexual harassment, isn’t it, to rank a group of people according to their presumed sex drive? She doesn’t vote because she cannot stop calling up the image of Ms. Ryan and Owen together, because she cannot look at the bracket without wanting to scream out that she actually literally knows about the sex life of one of their teachers. So instead she lets Josie—who understands the currency that polished, shining hair is at Atwater, who notices the bottles of thirty-dollar shampoo in her hallmates’ shower caddies, who once told Celeste, bitterly, that at least they didn’t have to be rich to have the hair everybody wanted—smooth her hair in a neat center part and tuck each side behind her ears, sleek and on trend. Celeste closes her eyes and sings very softly along with the pop medley that streams from Josie’s phone, the terrible fury of a very good secret nipping at the edges of her focus.

  * * *

  It begins like this: They funnel into the tunnels from their dorms—underclasswomen from Lathrop, juniors from across the Bowl in Whitney—and snake their way beneath the ground to Trask. At the entrance that separates the bowels of Atwater from the century-old halls of the art building, they organize themselves into a long line, two-by-two, 150 students deep—freshmen then sophomores then juniors, so that the oldest among them are the last to enter the auditorium. Waiting, her classmates fuss: they twist their hair behind their heads, sweeping it to one side or the other; they tap gently at the corners of their eyes, heads tilted upward, fighting against the ceaseless migration of eyeliner and eye shadow downward into the circles below; they reach their hands beneath the necklines of their gowns, cupping one breast and then the other to coax them to maximum perk; they drum their almond-shaped acrylics against one another, tap-tap-tapping.

  Linda Paulsen oversees the operation, shuttling back and forth between the front and the back, counting students, physically moving them back into place if they step out from their lines. Last year, at her first Vespers, Celeste didn’t know what to expect—it’s the kind of tradition, like so many at Atwater, that requires experiencing to understand. Standing near the front of the line, she felt like a bride about to walk down the aisle, or a runway model: Should she smile? What if her dress, which was sort of short, shifted with each stride until it grazed and then revealed the bottom of her underwear? She wonders if this year’s freshmen—smooth and soft, almost all of them in minidresses, except for Bryce Engel, who is apparently the kind of fourteen-year-old who can pull off an emerald-green silk midi dress—feel like Celeste did then: nervous and curious and excited all at once. Behind her at the end of the line, the juniors exude a kind of superiority, standing tall in the knowledge that next year they will be the ones the school waits to watch. Brie Feldman’s thick curly hair is woven into an unruly bohemian French braid. Blake Trude’s eyes are haloed in smudged black shadow. Sloane Beck’s silver dress puddles on the ground behind her.

  Standing next to Josie in the middle of the line with the other sophomores—Camilla Frazier in magenta taffeta, Hannah Griffin in cascading ruffles, both of them a little bit bored-looking—it occurs to Celeste that everything about being a sophomore is about biding time between more meaningful stages. As Linda Paulsen opens the door and the line rushes forward—“Slowly, slowly,” she hisses after them—it seems to Celeste like the whole grade is just passing through.

  * * *

  Vespers opens the same way every year: The lights dim, the curtain rises, and for a few seconds the only thing the audience hears is the opening lines of the first song. The absence of light heightens the senses, attuning them to the voice that diffuses through the auditorium. Celeste feels the skin on her forearms prickle, her hairs standing at attention. For once, the entire school is on its best behavior, hanging on every note, trying to guess the identity of the singer before the light goes on.

  Noelle Taylor sings a cappella for the first thr
ee verses of the song, all the way until the first “‘All I want for Christmas…’” The spotlight flips on, the band behind her kicks in, and Celeste’s classmates roar so loudly that they drown out the music. At the second “‘All I want for Christmas’” Noelle holds the mic out to the audience, who finishes the verse in a cacophonous “‘you-oooo.’” They sing along for the remainder of the song, unselfconsciously, the audience altogether so raucous that it is impossible to distinguish one voice from another. For a brief moment (“‘and everyone is singin’ / oh yeah’”) it occurs to Celeste that Noelle Taylor probably practiced quite a bit for this performance, hours of rehearsal spearhead by Mr. Banks’s sweaty enthusiasm, only to lead the school in a massive sing-along.

  As Noelle takes her bow, grinning widely, her sequined gown fanned out at her feet, Josie pauses between whistles to hiss in Celeste’s ear to lament her failed prediction that Ayesha Hobbs would open the show: “Damn, oh for one!”

  To no one’s surprise, Olivia Anderson takes the stage, arm outstretched, conferring a few additional seconds of glory upon Noelle, which is something of a lost cause because Olivia is a vision. She has, in fact, chosen to wear a sort of tuxedo, but with a nipped waist and tapered leg it’s a decidedly feminine suit. She has also chosen to forgo a shirt underneath the tuxedo jacket, leaving exposed a deep V of gleaming skin. Her collarbone shimmers as she turns toward each side of the auditorium, the light catching on whatever highlighter Celeste imagines she dusted across her chest before going onstage. Celeste finds it impossible to believe that she herself is only two years younger than Olivia. The woman standing onstage in front of them seems a lifetime away.

  “One for two,” Josie shouts in Celeste’s direction.

  “I don’t think you get any credit for this one,” Celeste says, rolling her eyes.

  Josie waves her hand dismissively.

  Olivia gives the crowd a minute to settle, standing before them with a politician’s patience. Her smile is warm and generous. With the nudging of some of the faculty—who bring pointed fingers to their lips or make a sort of patting motion with their hands, hushing the students around them—Celeste’s classmates quiet enough for Olivia to welcome the audience to the two-hundred-and-second Atwater Vespers.

  “Surprise!” Olivia says. “It’s me! I bet you guys had no idea.” She winks and pauses for a sort of accommodating laughter before continuing: “I promise the entire show won’t be a Love Actually cover.” She angles her body in the direction of the stage’s wings: “Right down to the Black girl in sequins, huh, Mr. Banks?”

  Around her, Celeste’s classmates’ eyes widen and jaws drop in delight. They all understand that Olivia can get away with this joke not only because she is multiracial but also because her success is evidence against the very thing she’s mocked: she is the school’s diversity-and-inclusion poster child, the story it tells when it wants to say, Look, see? You don’t have to be white to thrive here.

  “Speaking of,” Olivia continues, “I do want to take a moment to thank our fearless leader in both on- and offstage drama, Mr. Banks, for putting together this show. You may find us exhausting, Mr. Banks, but I promise you that you more than returned the favor during rehearsals.” Celeste watches the faculty next to her, looking for a stiffening in their body language, any flicker of nervousness that Olivia is going to exploit this opportunity—or, perhaps, the slightest and nearly imperceptible rankling at the word favor, loaded as it could be with connotations of sex—but they seem perfectly fine, the light from the stage highlighting sort of bemused smiles. Celeste wonders if any of the Atwater faculty will ever trust her the way they trust Olivia.

  “Thank you, too, to the rest of our outstanding faculty and staff, who understand that absolutely zero learning happens this week and adjust their plans accordingly. Let’s give them a hand, huh?” She stretches out her arms, clapping in the direction of the faculty section. “We’ve got a great show for you tonight—some might say the best Vespers in Atwater history. So, without further ado, please welcome Kat Foard to the stage!” The curtain behind her raises, and Olivia—in high-heeled stilettos—glides offstage.

  Celeste recognizes the classical music that plays as Kat poses at a single barre positioned to the left side of the stage, at an angle. In third grade, a local dance company visited Celeste’s elementary school—later she’d understand as a kind of community service commitment; her entire childhood Celeste attended programs and lessons that were part of outreach efforts—and performed an abridged version of The Nutcracker for her classmates. The boys squirmed, bored in their seats, until the Mouse King took center stage; the girls twirled on tiptoe out of the auditorium and practiced their balance on the playground jungle gym.

  Kat is long-limbed and sinewy like the dancers Celeste remembers from that performance, but she wears joggers cuffed at the ankles and a kind of racer-back top. Even from this distance, Celeste can see that the bun atop Kat’s head is secured with a scrunchie. The dance she does is not anything Celeste remembers from that performance almost seven years ago: It’s more athletic, more dynamic—a modern dance riff on centuries-old choreography. After a few minutes, the music fades out, and in the space between songs Kat is joined onstage by the rest of the seniors in the upper-level dance course: Emily Malone, Nina Henderson, Gabby Woods, and Tatiana Quirk. They, too, are dressed in what Celeste can only describe as Lululemon-meets-ballet: athletic, not too dainty. Kat anchors a performance whose steps mirror the original. Celeste understands there is probably a statement in the juxtaposition of the athletic attire with the classical dance, but it goes a bit over her head.

  Olivia returns to the stage as the curtain drops. “Don’t worry, Blake,” she says, eyeing the junior in the front row. “I’m sure you’ll be able to pull that off next year.”

  There’s some low-toned ooooohs as the audience reacts to the barb. Under normal circumstances Celeste thinks that Blake—whose temper tantrums are as notorious as her competitiveness—might have stewed in reaction, but Blake cups her hands around her mouth and hollers at the stage, “Challenge accepted!” and the audience laughs, the tension eased.

  “This next duo apologizes in advance for the language, and defers all teacher protestations to Mr. Banks. Please welcome Ariyana Amado and Sophie Wagner to the stage!”

  The show goes on like this: music and dance performances intercut with Olivia’s emceeing, which is for the most part unobtrusive in terms of material, exactly the kind of confident, easy, non-distracting space-filler Mr. Banks likely requested. Ariyana and Sophie do a version of the Pogues’ “Fairytale of New York,” complete with the line “You’re a bum / You’re a punk / You’re an old slut on junk.” Olivia makes a joke about the Christian-normative-ness of the show that goes over fairly well. Cate Evers plays the piano and sings Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah,” and by the time she gets to the bit about the flag on the marble arch Josie is weeping, as are most of Celeste’s classmates. For her part, Celeste is not sure it counts as a holiday song.

  Olivia brings Ashley Witt and Isabelle Baldwin to the stage. Izzy is dressed—unmistakably—as a man, in jeans and a plaid button-down and a Patagonia vest and her hair is slicked back into a curled-under bun at the nape of her neck. Ashley wears dark denim and a leather jacket that looks very expensive. A corner of the stage is reconstructed to look like a bar, and Ashley hops onto it, crossing her dangled legs, as Izzy sidles up to her, resting an elbow on the corner.

  “‘I really can’t stay,’” Ashley begins, her voice throaty like a 1940s movie star.

  “‘Baby, it’s cold outside,’” Izzy answers, and Celeste sees Kit and Blake in the row ahead of her stiffen. “But—I respect your decision,” Izzy says, winking at the audience. Laughter rumbles from the audience, mostly from the juniors at the front, who likely have thought more critically about consent as it plays out in the mid-century holiday song than the freshmen have. The duet keeps up the gag throughout the entire song, replacing the male character’s insi
stence with respectful and helpful responses: “No cabs to be had out there” becomes “The Uber should bring you where?” and instead of protesting that “it’s up to your knees out there!” Izzy offers “a hat to cover your hair!”

  Around her, her classmates love the bit. They hoot and whistle and clap, and with every collective approval Izzy and Ashley dig in a little bit more, embellishing, gesticulating, their confidence growing visibly the longer they spend onstage. Celeste cannot stop wondering if Isabelle Baldwin—the Proctor on the second floor of Lathrop, whose room is next door to the faculty apartment—has ever heard Ms. Ryan and her husband having sex, if at night she sits cross-legged on her dorm bed with her head craned toward the wall behind her, her ear attuned to the rhythmic thumping of a headboard. Suddenly, Celeste hates Isabelle Baldwin. When they finish, Josie leans toward Celeste and says, still giggling, “That was awesome, right?”

  Celeste shrugs. “It was okay.”

  “What’s wrong?” Josie says, nudging Celeste in the hip.

  Celeste can feel the sweat pooling underneath her arms. She wonders if pit stains are forming in half circles in the fabric and clamps her inner arm to her side. “Nothing. Just have a headache.”

  “It’s loud, I know.” Josie gives Celeste a little squeeze—one hand curled quickly around Celeste’s forearm—and then goes back to clapping wildly for Olivia, who has returned to the stage to introduce the faculty performance.

  “Now,” Olivia begins, “I know the best part of the faculty performance is—usually—getting to watch our teachers suck at something. Sorry, guys,” she adds, shrugging in the direction of the faculty, who chuckle good-naturedly. “But I’ve got some bad news. This year’s performance is actually … good? So … Let’s give it up for the Educators!”

  The curtain rises, and in the few seconds of silence that follow they can see that there’s a full band onstage and that the teachers who helm each piece are dressed in their nerdiest version of themselves. On the guitar, Mr. Morgan has a calculator and a ruler tucked into his shirtfront pocket; seated at the drums, Mr. Clark wears a lab coat and safety goggles; standing at the mic at center stage, Ms. Trujillo is dressed in a Spain fútbol jersey; on the floor next to her spot at the keyboard, Ms. Daniels has stacked a pile of textbooks; and near the back of the set, on the bigger-looking guitar that Celeste assumes to be an electric bass, Ms. Ryan is dressed like a less-stylish version of her regular self, in a slouchy cardigan and Dansko clogs—a loose interpretation of regular suburban English teachers everywhere.