Flat-Out Celeste

by Jessica Park

  Celeste: Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Justin. I believe your turkey has a degenerative disease. He does not look well. Where are his feathers?

  Justin: Of course he doesn’t look well. He knows death is imminent, but not from a degenerative disease… He saw me sharpening my axe.

  Celeste: Did he drop all of his feathers due to fear?

  Justin: I pre-pluck. Also, he is not as ugly as depicted here. My drawing skills may be limited. (Don’t tell my architecture professors!)

  What was she doing? Celeste had made the decision to distance herself from him and end their exchanges. She had to stop this nonsense. So she blocked him out of her thoughts and went about her holiday.

  Frankly, Thanksgiving at the Watkins house often seemed freakishly more like Groundhog Day, in that they ate the same meal every year, played the same game of Scrabble (literally every year Matt managed to get a triple-word score with W-O-L-V-E-R-I-N-E which they all let him play, although technically it probably wasn’t allowed), and then they all crashed early after overeating. It was a nice enough day, just not particularly exciting.

  By Friday morning, Celeste’s hair had paled to an unattractive, muted pink. She stared in the mirror. “I have been deceived. Viciously deceived. The stylist lied to me about the ease with which one could remove neon red dye from one’s hair, and I do not recall a conversation about various pink stages.” She stomped her foot in frustration and squeezed her eyes shut. “I would like to return to my normal state, please!” she shouted. “I have learned a valuable lesson about going to extreme measures in searching for a new identity, and I have given up on that quest. There is no need for discoloration at this time.” She opened her eyes and frowned. Evidently screaming and begging were not going to fix this. Eleven shampoos in two days. She would just keep at it and hope for the best by the time school rolled around on Monday. And maybe by then she would be able to break this habit of talking to her reflection. There: two goals for the long weekend.

  She heard a text alert. Her heart flew to her throat. Celeste peeked at her phone.

  Justin: I’m picking you up tonight. You can’t say no! I have to suffer through a group event this afternoon, and I know you won’t go to that, so you would give me something to look forward to if you went shrimping with me later!

  This was, without question, the first time someone had indicated that being with Celeste would be a reward rather than some sort of irritation. She didn’t understand why he would want this. Justin was the one with all of the entertaining qualities, not her. Replying to this text felt impossible.

  Justin: Please?

  Celeste: I have pink hair. If it were a wall paint color, it would be called “Faded Bubblegum” and no one would select it for decor.

  Justin: I loved faded bubblegum. It’s a rare and valued shade. Maybe I’ll dye mine to match.

  Justin: We don’t have to meet with Mr. Fritz. Is that better?

  Justin: And I’ll take you for Camptown shrimp. NOW YOU CAN’T SAY NO EVEN IF YOU WANTED TO! #savejustin #shrimpforever

  Celeste laughed. She had never seen any value in hashtags, but maybe that could change. Justin was going to rather extreme measures to entice her to attend Barton. And it did sound as though he would like a respite from his school liaison duties.

  Celeste: You have convinced me. I accept. Thank you for the invitation.

  Justin: Yippeeeeeeee! I’ll tell Mr. Fritz that I need to duck out early from this horrible event. You’ve saved me!

  Celeste: Shall I meet you at Border Cafe then for celebratory shrimp?

  Justin: Absolutely not!

  Celeste felt her stomach drop. She had again misunderstood a communication with someone.

  Justin: You’re the one saving me, and I’m not letting my woman of salvation travel around the dangerous streets unaccompanied. #chivalryaintdeadbaby #sendhelp #sendshrimp #hashtagsgoneinsane #hashtagsdonotbelonginatext #whatever I’ll pick you up at 7, okay?

  Celeste: If you like. Thank you for the ride. That is very considerate of you.

  Justin: You betcha. Catch you later?

  Celeste: Yes.

  Justin: #idontactuallylikehashtagsijustcantstop

  Justin: Okay, see you tonight. Really going this time.

  Justin: Signing off.

  Justin: I’m sure your hair looks awesome. Don’t worry.

  Justin: I understand, though. My aunt worries all the time that someone might see a gray hair if she hasn’t had time to get it colored, and then the world would implode. Or explode. One of those. Whichever is more dramatic.

  So… she would meet with Justin for one last Barton discussion over the now–infamous Camptown shrimp.

  At six forty-five that night, Celeste sat poised formally on the piano bench in the music room, just off of the front hall. It was the first time she was wearing her snow-white pea coat. As much as she loved it, there had never been an occasion to wear such a stylish coat, but there seemed no reason not to go out in it tonight. She pulled on her matching white gloves and hat, both with fake-fur borders. After the disastrous first meeting with this college representative, Celeste was determined to make a more studious, appropriate impression. It was her hope that the white ensemble would eradicate any memories of her in that ridiculous audition outfit. Although she wouldn’t attend Barton College, it remained important to her that she come across as pulled together. Muted pink hair and all.

  From her seat, she could keep an eye out for Justin through the large window, and she could also hide from her parents, both of whom seemed omnipresent this evening. Celeste did not desire to be hovered over in any manner, and both Erin and Roger had been suffocating her for the past few hours.

  “Still not here yet?” her father asked as he came into the room.

  “It is not yet seven,” Celeste said with exasperation. “He was not here at six twenty, and he was not here at six thirty-four, as neither of those times were the agreed-upon time. Stop asking.”

  “Sorry, sorry. Just checking.” He stepped fully into the room and moved to sit next to her on the bench. “Scoot over, kiddo.”

  She obliged and made space for her father in front of the piano.

  “You haven’t played in a while, have you?” he asked as he hit a few keys.

  “I have not.”

  “Play a little something now? I miss the sound of your music.” Roger leafed through assorted sheets of music. “You used to love playing.”

  “I do not love it anymore.”

  Erin’s voice rang from the hall. “Is he here? I thought I heard a car?”

  Roger jumped from his spot and peered through the blinds. “What kind of car does he drive? Why isn’t our porch light on? Quick, Erin, turn it on!”

  Celeste slammed her hands down on the piano keys, punctuating each of her words. “That. Is. Enough,” she said sternly. “It is unclear to me why a college admissions liaison warrants such hysteria, but I shall wait peacefully for my ride.” She glared at her parents. “Please?”

  Erin squinted. “Hair’s still pink, huh? That’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

  “My hair color is of no consequence when it comes to collegiate admittance,” Celeste stated. “I shall wait outside.”

  “I don’t think Justin is taking you out for collegiate—” Roger started.

  “Good night!” Erin cut him off, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him from the room. “Have fun!”

  “But then we can’t see when… Oh, fine… Have fun!” he called when he was out of sight.

  It was Celeste’s understanding that girls of her age were to be filled with the utmost annoyance and disdain for their parents. Her parents’ behavior tonight was indeed making her understand why. Their frenetic energy was not helpful right now because—as much as she was not overtly making a big deal out of this situation—she felt very uncomfortable and edgy. She was not in the habit of dining out socially, especially on a busy Friday night, and certainly not with someone her own age. And especially not with a b
oy.

  Well, it didn’t matter that he was male, she reasoned. College liaisons might as well be genderless. Although Justin probably wouldn’t appreciate that thought. He likely worked at achieving his mesmerizing masculine look, what with the fashionably swept hair, appealing physique, shirts that gripped his biceps quite wonderfully without being too tight or showy, but just naturally draped in such a way that…. Celeste shook her head and ordered herself to knock it off. The hair dye must have seeped into her brain and was causing neurons to misfire or something.

  Headlights pulled up to the house, and Celeste flew out the front door before her parents could swoop in again. This was essentially a business dinner, she reminded herself., and she would treat it as such.

  Justin was out of the car and standing by the passenger door when she reached the end of the walkway.

  “Look at you, blondie.” Justin opened the door, but kept his eyes on her. “It’s hardly pink at all. I didn’t know you were blonde. I thought maybe a brunette. Dark brown. Like, a chestnut color. But now that I see the blond, I can’t imagine anything else. Okay, maybe the bright red, which was cool, too.” Without warning, Justin stepped in and put his arms around her in a quick hug.

  Celeste did not know what to do. His arms were over hers, pinning them against her body, so she couldn’t exactly hug him back. Not that she would. They did not have a hugging relationship. Maybe Barton College was an exceptionally touchy-feely, new-age school where students and staff all hugged each other constantly. There had been nothing about this in the brochures.

  “You are kind, but my hair is very much in the pink family. still.”

  “I don’t care. It looks good.” He moved back and rested his hand on the top of the car window. “Ready to eat? I’m starved. The recruiting event tonight turned out to be filled with alumni, and they had it at some stuffy lounge that looked like an eccentric billionaire’s study. The appetizers looked about as appetizing as—Oh, see what I did there? Anyway, the point is that the food was boring and I haven’t eaten—Sorry, I’m rambling.” Justin stopped himself and took a long, slow breath. “Hi. How are you?”

  Celeste slid into the seat of the Prius and smiled. In that moment, she didn’t care if her parents were staring through the window at them. She was not nervous anymore.

  #ITSNOTADATE

  JUSTIN GULPED DOWN half a glass of ice water. “Told you they were spicy. Whaddya think?”

  “I think that the Camptown shrimp very strongly exceeded their already glowing reputation.” Celeste rested her elbows on the table and put her chin in her hands. “And I’m surprised that you hadn’t mentioned the crusty bread that is served alongside. I do believe that I am drunk on a flavor rush, if that is possible.”

  “Good.” He leaned back in his chair. “I like girls who eat, and we went through three orders. Seriously, there’s nothing more annoying than taking a girl out and having her suck on ice cubes all night.”

  “I do not suck on ice cubes.”

  They had spent most of the past forty minutes discussing… well, given Justin’s propensity for changing topics at the flip of a dime, discussing everything under the sun. His energy, his bounciness, reminded her quite a bit of Tigger from Winnie the Pooh. He did everything quickly: speaking, inhaling his food, and gesturing constantly with his hands. She never knew into which direction he might take the conversation or when one topic would remind him of another. And then another. And yet, even in the throes of his animated and ever-changing dialogue, he never took his eyes off of her. It was rather enjoyable. He did, she assumed, do this with everyone, and his charming style probably garnered him a sizable fan club.

  “So I have an idea,” Justin leaned in and whispered, forcing her to lean in even more to be heard.

  “What’s that?” She forced herself to meet and hold his look, despite this being quite nerve-wracking and unusual.

  “You still hungry?”

  “Would you like to order an entree?”

  “I don’t know Harvard Square well at all,” he said. “How about you show me all the cool insider places to eat here? You must know every good spot, right? Let’s start with pizza.”

  “Pizza,” she said transfixed. It was not her fault, she thought, that his half-smile with its mischievous edge captured her and made it impossible to look away from him. She’d assumed that he would be returning her home after their shrimp tasting, but perhaps it was over pizza that he would give the final hard Barton sell. “Pizza,” she repeated. “Yes, that is an excellent idea. If you would like, I can suggest Pinocchio’s, an establishment that has been here for years. It’s in a picturesque nook off of JFK Street.”

  “Why’s it called Pinocchio’s? Are they all liars there?”

  She smiled. “No. The owners want to be real boys.”

  “Maybe that’s just what they told you.” He winked. “But you can’t trust them because they’re lying.”

  “What is not a lie is that the pizza is lovely, and so we shall ignore any fibs they should throw our way. It is a small place, mostly specializing in take-out orders, so do not have high hopes for fine dining.”

  “Let’s do it.” Justin pulled back quickly from his close position, knocking over a glass and sending water and ice cubs across the table. “Oh God, again? I do this all the time.”

  Celeste reached for all available napkins. “It is not a problem.”

  Justin shook his head as he frantically helped to mop up what they could. “Seriously. You can’t take me anywhere. I’m such an embarrassment. Did I get you? You’re probably soaked.”

  “I’m completely dry. It was an accident, so please do not fret over this. One does not cry over spilt milk, and so one certainly does not feel even the slightest pang of remorse over spilt water.”

  “You’re too nice. I’m a complete klutz. Really, I shouldn’t be let out in public.”

  “Justin?” He looked at her, both of them with soggy napkins in their hands, and Celeste smiled softly. Justin looked near frantic.

  Then very deliberately and very calmly, she tipped over her own water glass. “There. Now we can go have pizza.”

  He looked down at the table, stunned, and shook his head. “You are remarkable,” he said.

  And so they had pizza. Celeste ate her slice and watched as Justin gobbled gooey cheese. In between bites, he managed to eke out, “If loving food made by liars is wrong, I don’t want to be right.” He ate three slices, and she two. It was amazing that he was not sick, given how fast he ate. They tossed their trash and without thinking anything of it, Celeste brushed a paper napkin over a spot of sauce that had fallen on his shirt.

  “Of course I have food all over me.” He rolled his eyes.

  “It’s just a spot. In the shape of a marionette, by good fortune.”

  She pulled her hand away. How odd that she’d made a presumptive move such as this. It was not her place to do this. But then she noticed that she was using her fingertips to brush off a smattering of crust crumbs that had somehow flown onto his shoulder. “It means that you enjoyed your food. And that I picked a good place.”

  “You’re sweet.” Justin held open the door for her. “So pick another place.”

  Celeste pulled on her gloves. It was quite bitter out tonight. “You’re still hungry?” She struggled to put on her hat while wearing gloves, but Justin wordlessly took her hat in his hands and eased it onto her head.

  “Of course I’m still hungry. Thanksgiving was like training day. Besides, as great as the food is in San Diego, I mostly eat on campus. Stupid dining plans. I have to stock up on good eating now so that I can get through until Christmas break. Campus food everywhere sucks, so that’s why I work part-time as a student liaison. Extra money for real food.”

  Ah, yes, here was the confirmation that Justin was only doing his job. Was it wrong that she wanted to delay the end of the night? That she had been relieved each time he hadn’t mentioned courses, or well-published professors, or all the many accomplishmen
ts of Barton graduates? Because she had been. But now it was a matter of waiting for his spiel, signaling the start of the end of their night.

  “So where are you going to take me next?” he asked excitedly. “God, it’s cold. I’m not used to this at all anymore.” He shivered even in his down coat.

  “Hot cider then? At Algiers?” she suggested.

  “Okay, where’s that?”

  She started back towards Brattle Street. “You’ve never been to Algiers? It’s practically an institution here. Dark and worldly,” she hollered through a cold gust that blew their way. “Been here for years, by the Brattle Theatre. The service is dreadful, but that is part of the tradition. You must try the hummus and baba ganoush. Or, if you are still quite hungry, the lamb sandwich.”

  Justin pressed his shoulder to hers as they walked. “Cider first, for sure. Then everything else you mentioned.”

  After running together through the night’s plummeting temperatures, they were soon nestled in a dimly lit corner of the Algiers cafe, surrounded by dark wood and scholarly customers, and both blowing into steaming cups.

  “Where are we going after this?” Justin took a small sip of the scalding cider.

  “It is your belief that you will be hungry still after eating all that we ordered here?”

  “That is my exact belief.”

  She thought for a moment. “I have a plan that will, without question, satiate your desires.”

  “Well, now I can’t wait to hear—“ Justin used his body to turn his chair more in her direction, shaking the table and nearly toppling their ciders. Celeste giggled, and Justin grinned sheepishly. “I know. You can’t be surprised by this point. So tell me this dastardly plan you have.”

  “It is not dastardly, just practical. If you want another true Harvard Square experience, then I will take you to a place that my brother and I love, Mrs. Bartley’s, and we will order you an Upstairs on the Square burger, which is a tribute to the now-defunct restaurant of the same name.”