by Jessica Park
-Justin
It hadn’t started off that well, she thought. She did like shrimp, but that was not enough to entice her to venture out to a social event for a college that was not on her list, nor for her to do so just to please this person who needlessly sent multiple messages. She did note that it was quite bold of Barton to hold this affair in the middle of Harvard territory, and that confidence piqued her interest slightly. Still, this was not for her. There would be conversations to be had, and awkward exchanges, all of which were unnecessary because she was applying to other schools. Applying via written applications and one-on-one interviews with academic and professional people from those schools. People who would be appreciative of her intellect and not judge her on her ability to make small talk while eating crustaceans.
There was a knock at the door, and Matt leaned in, swinging a brown paper bag in her direction. “I heard Mom made stuffed peppers tonight. Last time she made those, I nearly died from flatulence. I assume she stuffed them with her usual repulsive ground chicken, quinoa, Brussels sprouts, and pomegranate seed mix?”
Just the sound of Matt’s voice made Celeste relax. She smiled at him. “Based on the smell, I believe you’re right.”
“So you didn’t eat then? I was right!” Matt flopped onto her bed and lay down, his long body scrunching up the neat white comforter that she had spent ten minutes arranging before she’d gone to school this morning. “I thought I’d take a break from studying and bring you something edible.”
“It smells like a burger from Mr. Bartley’s,” she said as she got up and took a seat next to Matt. “Hand it over, thoughtful brother.”
He tightened a hand around the top of the bag. “You have to guess which kind I brought you first.”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“Close your eyes.”
She did as instructed and felt him move the bag under her nose. Sweet, spicy… a bit garlicky. “Aha! Boursin cheese and bacon! The Mark Zuckerberg burger!”
“And sweet potato fries and a bottle of iced tea, but you win. A burger named after the so-called ‘richest geek in America.’”
“You will be the richest geek in America after you finish your Ph.D. Program,” Celeste said through a mouthful of fries.
“If M.I.T. doesn’t land me in a psych unit first.”
“You only have this year left to endure. And you will hardly find yourself in need of psychiatric care, Matthew. You are doing stupendously.”
“I’m scraping by.” Matt reached into the bag to grab a handful of fries and opened her iced tea.
“You are not ‘scraping by.’ You are teaching classes, excelling in your own, and in all ways performing to standards that exceed even the high ones our mother set for you.” She frowned as he chewed on the fries. “Did you not eat?”
“I did. A Big Papi burger and a Fiscal Cliff. But you can never have enough sweet potato fries.”
“I have a finite amount of my own from which you are stealing. But I shall not complain because this was very kind of you.”
Matt chewed and studied her. “Are you okay?”
“Why do you ask?”
“No contractions. When you’re stressed out, they disappear.”
“I know. But most days, I do not care to use them. If it is an effort, then I do not push.”
“Okay. I get it.” He chewed for a minute. “I heard your presentation went well. Did your friends like it?”
“It went marvelously. My friend Dallas took me aside to offer quite the list of compliments.”
“That’s great, Celeste.” He was downing half of her iced tea.
“And then I bitch-slapped her.”
Matt choked on the drink and desperately tried to clear his airway. “I’m sorry. You did what?”
She cocked her head. “I bitch-slapped her.”
“That… that can’t be right,” he sputtered. “I mean, I hope it’s not.”
“I slapped my hand against her hand. Up in the air.” She looked at Matt blankly. “Is that not the right term?”
“Thank God, no, it’s not. I think you mean a high-five.”
“If you say so. Well, either way, it happened. You know I have trouble with colloquialisms, so I resent your shocked reaction.”
“I do know that about you, and I apologize.”
“Since we are on the subject, there is something else I would like for you to clarify.”
“Shoot.”
“What is meant by ‘nut bag’? Is that a testicular reference or merely the identification of a satchel of cashews or pecans?”
Matt groaned. “This conversation has gotten really weird. Could we just talk about— Wait a minute. Why are you asking me this? Did someone say that to you?” He looked angry.
Celeste picked at her fry. “No. Certainly not. I heard the term and had a natural curiosity.”
“Okay then…” Her brother crumpled up the paper bag and then smoothed it out in his hands. Then crumpled it again. “It’s the same as ‘nuts.’ You know, crazy.”
“Thank you for the definition.” She took the last bite of her burger and wiped her hands on one of the paper napkins. It shouldn’t matter what her classmates thought of her. Celeste would just be strong about this. She would move on. “I got an email from someone at a college in San Diego.”
“Oh?” Matt continued to avoid looking at her.
“Yes. It’s called Barton College. It’s in San Diego,” she said pointedly.
“I heard you the first time.”
“Julie is in Los Angeles.”
“I know where Julie is.”
She waited, but Matt said nothing else. “Maybe I will go to school there, and then you will be forced to come visit me, and you two will be in the same state.”
Matt sat up and threw the bag across the room and into the trash can. “Celeste… Knock it off, okay?”
The door to her room swinging open and a simultaneous knock interrupted them.
“Celeste? Oh, hey, Matt! What are you doing here?” Their father, Roger, stepped into the room, still in his corduroy pants and cable-knit sweater that he’d worn to work. “I didn’t hear you sneak in, but— Oh, you brought food? What is that I smell? Burgers?” He gently shut the door and tiptoed across the room. “Gimme, gimme!”
Celeste had to laugh. “We have already eaten.”
“Oh, that’s nice, Celeste. You left me alone to eat all of that couscous lasagna that your mother made? I’m all for experimenting, but that thing was a dud.”
“I did not ask Matthew to bring me a burger, but I am sorry that you had an unpleasant meal. We were afraid it was stuffed peppers tonight, but that sounds even worse.”
Matt made gagging noises. “And how exactly does one turn couscous into lasagna?”
“I don’t know… Overcooking couscous and then flattening it into something resembling sheets… Well, never mind. Do you have fries at least?” He looked desperate.
“Matthew ate them all, or I would be happy to share,” Celeste said.
“Fine. I’ll wait until Erin falls asleep, and then I’ll sneak downstairs for something. I just hope that she doesn’t catch me. I don’t want to make her feel bad. I turned her down when she asked me accompany her to hot yoga today, so I need to be on good behavior.” He pushed delicate silver frames up from the bridge of his nose and then handed Celeste a large mailing envelope. “This came for you earlier. More college stuff, I imagine.”
Celeste read the return address. Barton College. “How strange. I received correspondence from one of their students today.”
“Based on the weight of this package, I’d say they’re certainly interested in you.” Her father winked. “As they should be. Don’t forget we’ve got the trip down to Yale this weekend. Your mother is beside herself with excitement, as you can imagine.”
“Probably excited about all the gnarly snacks she’s going to pack,” Matt murmured. “Glad I’m not going.”
“Be nice, or I’m going t
o make you join us,” Celeste snapped. “Our mother is dipping her culinary hand into new adventures. I applaud her. At least, theoretically.”
“I’d love to join you for a family car trip, really, but I have two study groups and a paper to finalize.” Matt stood. “Speaking of which, I should get going and do a little work tonight.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Roger said.
“Congratulations again on your presentation, Celeste.” Matt put a hand on her shoulder before walking away.
“Thank you, Matthew.”
“You got it, kiddo. Call me if you need anything, okay? For real.”
“I will.”
Alone again, Celeste opened the envelope from Barton College. It wouldn’t hurt to look. The liberal arts school appeared, at least in print form, similar to many others in the brochures she’d collected over the past few months, although it was certainly on the smaller side, with only twenty-five hundred students. Yet she spent a solid thirty minutes studying the course listings, reading about the history of the school, and admiring the full-color photos of the campus and students. Her own picture could be in a brochure, she thought. No one would know the difference. No one would be able to see from a photograph that she was not, in fact, like any of the other students.
Celeste grabbed for her phone. The search bar in the browser called to her, in the relentless way it often seemed to do. So she started to type what she felt obligated to. Asper… And then, as she always did, she deleted the letters.
What is wrong with me? she typed sarcastically.
Celeste practically snorted. The first result was some sort of “emotional intelligence test” which she would likely fail.
Later that night, she was propped up in bed with her laptop as she finished typing up her thoughts on Flaubert for her French class. An email arrived.
PS–When I assured you that the event is on Saturday the 15th, I meant that the event is on Saturday the 22nd. Really. That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.
You must think I’m a nut bag. I’m not. But at this point, I’m wondering if you might need proof otherwise? I can send letters of reference that outline my delightful nature.
-Justin (Likely soon-to-be ex-student liaison to Barton College.)
She smiled. He was quite something, this Justin Milano. And she did not find him to be a “nut bag.” There was in fact, she thought, something rather sweet about his repeated emails. It seemed the decent thing to do to reply and alleviate some of his anxiety. She would just reframe things in a positive light.
Dear Justin-
Thank you for the information about the meet-up on the 22nd. I will look into whether this date will work for me, as my days are very tightly scheduled with activities. I do very much appreciate Barton’s interest in considering me as a potential student.
Please do not concern yourself with the number of emails. You were clearly eager that I have all the adequate information, and I am grateful for your thoroughness. It seems to me that Barton would be impressed with your friendly style and devotion to clarifying details, but you can rest assured that I will not seek to elaborate on our communications should anyone from the college feel moved to investigate, since I do not wish to cause you any trouble. I feel sure that you will retain your position.
Best wishes,
Celeste Watkins
She sent the email and stared at the screen, rereading his messages. Celeste’s stomach sank. Her message was ridiculously stiff and formal, even she could see that. His? Fine, maybe they could have been more professional, but it was easy to read the level of comfort he had with himself. A comfort she could not connect with.
Celeste did what she could to distract herself from the feeling of shame that was taking over. She reread a piece called “Politics and the English Language” by George Orwell. Then she read the more recent “Cyber Neologoliferation” by James Gleick, but she was less comforted than she would have thought by reading the article about lexicographers. Her agitation mounted.
Celeste slammed the laptop shut and drew the covers up over her head. She spent twenty minutes frozen, gripping the sheets. Then her panic rose, and her breathing escalated, until she eventually freed herself from suffocation by sitting bolt upright in the dark.
The night sky was bright from the moon’s glow, so Celeste lay back down and kept her focus on the view from her window. She would count stars, she decided. She would count and count and disappear. But when she searched for stars, there was only one to be seen. Even on this clear night.
“Of course,” she whispered to herself. “Of course there is only one when I need a thousand.”
At three a.m., she awoke. Her comforter, walls, shelves, rug, all were highlighted in the night. Celeste blinked and looked around. Something had disturbed her. Although she scanned the placement of nearly every item three times, organization prevailed. Nothing had randomly flown off a shelf, so what had woken her up?
She smoothed out the sheets and shut her eyes, but fifteen minutes later, she was still awake. She reached next to her bed and opened her laptop.
After she reread the emails from one Justin Milano of Barton College in far–away San Diego three times, she grew more unsettled. Celeste did not like the idea that this Justin might have any rumblings of discomfort regarding his earlier messages to her. In fact, it bothered her quite a bit. Celeste wrote a second reply to him.
Justin-
I have been thinking about your mention of this Camptown shrimp dish, and I’m intrigued. The word Camptown can refer to a number of things, but I’m envisioning frontier towns and fly-by-night living structures. Perhaps shrimp dishes were popular in those communities? Rustic cooking at its finest? Bayou bliss by the water?
And one, of course, thinks of the mid-1800s song, “Camptown Races,” written by Trent Foster. While the lyrics are quite silly, I can see why it was so popular with minstrel troupes across the country. So upbeat and whimsical, don’t you think?
-Celeste
She sent the email and started another.
Justin-
Sorry for another email, but I also realized that “Camptown” is a word often used in conjunction with discussing prostitutes who served in the U.S. Military during the Korean War.
I can’t imagine that this shrimp dish is in honor of that reference. Unless “shrimp” in this context is some sort of inappropriate critique describing the men who frequented such services?
So now I am struggling with mixed feelings about the dish that is served at the restaurant where Barton will be holding their meet-up.
-Celeste
She continued.
Justin-
Please accept my sincerest apologies for all of these emails. Shall we blame restlessness over anxieties about college visits and applications for my inability to condense my thoughts? Or—as a more entertaining possibility and one that carries less shame with it— shall we simply blame the titillating name of the aforementioned seafood appetizer?
I cannot imagine that Barton might have imagined the degree of analysis one such as myself might put into this restaurant selection.
-Celeste
And then one final email.
Justin-
One last thought: My father once spent a month studying shrimp culture. And while his work was very much scientifically based, I always liked the idea that he was embedding himself in true cultural aspects of being a shrimp, as though there exists an entire social world that we did not know about. It amused me to think that there were shrimp out there holding photo exhibits at galleries and designing runway fashions. Or composing folk songs. Or drumming up new lingo for the teenage shrimp to latch onto.
-Celeste
There. Celeste smiled and set the computer on the floor next to her bed.
And then gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth. She may have made a grave miscalculation. Her joke about equating “men” and “shrimp” had meant to address the size of the men. Meaning their height. And perhaps it
had read as belittling… well, another anatomical part.
Well, there was nothing to do about it now. And what did it matter? It’s not as though she would ever meet Justin and have to face him after having made such a tremendous sexual faux pas. And if her multiple emails made him feel better, then it was all right.
She could now fall back asleep.
And in the morning, when she logged back on to her email, she would see this:
Celeste-
Thank you. Thank you for all of that.
-Justin
COCONUTS
THE DRAMA ROOM at school was often abandoned during Celeste’s free period, and there were many days when she snuck in here to be alone. While the library could be a good choice for her, since she liked nothing more than to be surrounded by books, there were always other students there. Being alone held more appeal.
Today she was in the small room that held all of the costumes used for school productions. Celeste sat on the floor next to a garment rack while a vent blew boa tendrils from an elaborate robe of some sort over her arm. She had never gone to any of the school’s shows, but she guessed that the costume was supposed to be for a king. Or a Vegas showgirl. In either case, she liked the tickle that danced on her forearm while she wrote down some thoughts in her American history notebook.
Her phone sounded with a text from Dallas.
Dallas: Did you read the book that I gave you? Hot romance, huh?
Celeste sighed. She truly loathed that the school collected and distributed cell phone numbers. Why was this Dallas girl paying attention to her anyway? It was most confusing. While it was seemingly kind, Celeste needed to put a stop to this, since it would inevitably lead to disaster, no matter how nice Dallas was. She tried to formulate a polite, but distant, text response and then decided that no response at all was the smarter method of shutting down a conversation. It had been nice to talk to Dallas the other week, but it simply didn’t make sense to hope that they might become some sort of power duo.
High school was not fun, Celeste had to admit. It was actually quite disappointing. She knew how to manage it, but that did not mean it was enjoyable. Next year, when she would be on a university campus with access to all sorts of educational avenues, would be much better. Course catalogs and campus maps that identified academic buildings were her saving grace this year. She closed her eyes and let herself daydream about the hours she would spend investigating old books at the library and researching coursework for classes with elaborate and specific titles….