Trying to Float (15 page)

“The main character, my character,” I began, “is a young woman . . .”

But that was as far as I was going to get.

“A young woman? Are you certain?”

There was a click in those words—the sound of a safety being flipped off a rifle.

“A young
ish
woman . . . ” I sputtered.

“It's my recollection,” a judge interrupted, “that she was forty.”

“The new fourteen?” I tried.

Not a chuckle. I was now in their crosshairs.

“For your information, Miss Rips”—this from one of the two judges who'd perked up when I'd mentioned the name of the play—“there is little funny about the play: the protagonist just had a miscarriage and is an alcoholic—the result of having married a Jewish man whose family hates her because she's Christian.”

Father!
my mind screamed.

Now it made sense. He had only given me a couple pages of the play because he knew that if I'd read the whole thing, it would be clear to me that the role was not for a thirteen-year-old girl.

But it was my fault. Why had I listened to him? For that matter, why had I ever listened to him? He nearly murdered my first crush, caused me to be diagnosed with an eye disorder, and initiated countless other failed schemes and misadventures.

“And those sisters you were making fun of in your monologue were Siamese twins,” the same judge added.

So the play was not only inappropriate for my age but was politically incorrect, and that, at a public high school in New York, was inexcusable.

“Pardon me,” I managed. “Are we finished?”

I should have seen the whole thing coming. What had possessed me to think I could go anywhere near this school? I could blame my father but, honestly, it was my delusion which led me to the auditions in the first place.

I was a fool.

THE PLAYING FIELDS OF WEST CHELSEA

I VOWED THAT
before I left middle school, I would get myself invited to one of the soccer games that the popular kids spent their afternoons playing.

The key to that invitation was Joseph, my Stoner Corner companion.

A good-looking boy, Joseph was unusually lazy. While others as popular as Joseph spent their time making fun of kids like me, Joseph decided that making fun of others took too much energy.

Joseph was lethargic, but you'd think he would have bothered to learn a thing or two about his own anatomy; evidently not, since one day in health class, upon being questioned by our teacher on some special part of the male body, he sat shocked, and glanced toward me for the answer.

The question was how many “gonads” do boys have.

I felt sorry for Joseph and whispered my best guess.

Wrong.

That did not stop good-natured Joseph from thanking me for trying to help him, and I knew that he was the sort who would return the favor.

So just weeks before school ended, Joseph and I strolled onto the soccer field in west Chelsea together.

In addition to the pretty boys, there was the usual crowd of attractive female onlookers: Penelope Brewster, Ana Penny, and Greta (who by then had dumped Joseph).

But there was someone else there that day . . . the Schnoz.

The Schnoz hadn't been included because he was well liked (he was too odd for that and, of course, there was the whole problem with the slootz), but because he was from Europe and knew how to play soccer.

After nodding to the Schnoz, I joined the girls on the sidelines. They appeared to accept my arrival as some sort of strange end-of-middle-school doomsday situation and continued on with their conversation about high schools. Acceptance letters would arrive any day and it was all anyone could talk about.

Just before the game was to start, I spotted a speck moving across the field. As the speck drew closer, it remained a speck, defying the laws of optics until immediately before us. It was none other than my first crush—Uhura.

My presence at this event was so unlikely that Uhura walked right up to our group and greeted his friends without realizing I was there.

In case any of us had forgotten that he was smart, he announced how well he had done on the test to get into what was said to be the best school for science and mathematics in the city. This was especially bothersome to me because I was facing certain refusal at the only school I applied to.

“It couldn't hurt,” I pointed out, “that you were named after the communications officer of a starship.”

Noticing me, he flinched. I'd infiltrated his lair, and he wasn't pleased.

He turned to Penelope Brewster.

“My girlfriend wanted you to know that she's sorry she couldn't make it today. Her family is on the Island.”

The point here was that her family was rich.

“Staten Island?” I asked innocently.

“No,” he snapped. “The Hamptons.”

I was about to release my most dismissive “The Hamptons, Uhura? Really?” when the Schnoz bolted toward us. The game was about to start, and he saw this as his last chance to win back the affection of the girls who once adored him.

“Helloooo, slootz!”

Uhura glared at the Schnoz, offended by the interruption.

“Today I show you slootz something special,” the Schnoz announced, taking no notice of Uhura.

Uhura, who had been staring at the Schnoz, was now focused on me, his sneer replaced with something else. It looked a little bit like respect.

But why?

Then it came to me. Uhura thought the Schnoz was my boyfriend.

And why wouldn't he think that: in my last conversation with Uhura, I'd assembled a Build-a-Boyfriend which looked a lot like the Schnoz—tall, beautiful, and foreign.

Now I was torn. On one hand, the appearance of the Schnoz would convince Uhura that I had a boyfriend and wasn't stalking him. On the other hand . . . well, I'm not so sure what the other hand was, but there had to be something.

I was going through the possibilities when I noticed that everyone, including Uhura, was staring at the Schnoz.

Just in back of me, the Schnoz had flipped himself upside down. Supported by his hands and the top of his head, he stretched his legs straight upward.

From there, slowly, slowly, he brought his legs down until they were perpendicular to his body. A human right angle.

And in this position he remained until, suddenly, he jerked his knees toward his torso.

Straightening his legs out again, he repeated the contraction. This he did two more times and then . . .

Kaboom.

His head buried in the grass, he cried out to the girls:

“I fart. You smell!”

Releasing one of his arms, he waved his hand around his buttocks.

“You smell. I fart.”

Another jerk of his legs.

Kaboom.

“I fart again. You smell again!
S
ì
,
slootz?!”

He laughed maniacally.

Uhura was standing within inches of the Schnoz and received the worst of it. As he reeled, the Schnoz used his legs to scissor Uhura's head, drawing it into his crotch.

Racing away, we looked back at Uhura. There was no saving him.

Uhura took the final blast to the face.

From then on, I had no desire to see Uhura, his image forever attached to the carnage of that afternoon. I was cured of Uhura as he was cured in the fumes of the Schnoz.

MR. CRAFTY MOVES OUT

COMING HOME FROM
school one day I noticed that Mr. Crafty's seat in the lobby was without Mr. Crafty. My first thought was that he'd had another stroke and was in the hospital or worse. I asked the woman behind the front desk where he had gone, but she had no idea.

If there was anyone who had the answer, it would be Uber-Crafty, his best friend, who lived on the fifth floor. I ran up to his apartment. He was there, painting, and wasn't pleased to be interrupted. But he invited me in.

His apartment was so full of paintings that there was nowhere to sit. Everything but his bed and his canvases had been cleared out. I stood in front of a brightly painted nude girl whose head was turned on its side, resting atop her own shoulder. The first layer of the canvas was thousands of postage stamps.

But I was not there to admire his work. He knew that. Mr. Crafty, he told me, had left the hotel and would not return.

Mr. Crafty had received a call from a woman who claimed to have been a friend of his from high school. He didn't recognize her name.

They arranged to meet in the lobby of the hotel, and when they did, he remembered that this woman was someone with whom he had once been very much in love. As Mr. Crafty's story spread further into his past, he was awakening things in himself. And on that day, he got up out of his chair, walked slowly out the front door of the hotel, and never returned, leaving his friends forever, including his best friend, Uber-Crafty.

It was rumored that the woman lived in a beautiful home in Connecticut, where she would care for Mr. Crafty and help him to overcome his paralysis.

I asked Uber-Crafty how he felt about all that had happened with his friend. Uber-Crafty smiled and delivered the ultimate declaration of respect and affection.

“Crafty.”

I would like to think that Mr. Crafty knew, on some subconscious level, that memories are not linear or static, but overlapping, twisting, and dynamic. And that one needs to add the fuel of new memories to keep the whole thing churning. I believe that Mr. Crafty left to create his own memories, but that he took some of the Capitan, Uber-Crafty, Crafty One and Two and, hopefully, me with him.

AT LAST

WE KNEW IT
was coming. But not like this.

Let me take a step back.

There is a period between the application deadlines for high school and the arrival of acceptance letters. That period is long enough to allow tensions to subside, and there is a general sense of good feeling. Even one's enemies seem to lose their bite.

It was in this atmosphere that we were enjoying ourselves when an announcement was made on the loudspeaker that we had to report to the cafeteria immediately. The cafeteria doubled as the gymnasium, and after lunch, the tables were pushed aside, the basketball hoops lowered, and various gymnastic equipment returned

Around three o'clock the sweat from the athletes mixed with the odor of cooked vegetables and luncheon meats.

It was in this environment that the principal had gathered us. With the temperature outside above 80 degrees and the room now stuffed, we felt nauseous.

“Students,” the principal began, “when I say your name, raise your hand.”

As the principal called our names, the vice principal walked into the crowd of kids and handed each of us an envelope. Was this part of our graduation? Our diplomas?

Then a cry. A cry sharp and slicing. The world came crashing down on Atlas's feet: it was not our diplomas; not even our report cards. It was our high school acceptance letters.

Nothing could have been crueler. Instead of allowing us to absorb our disappointment alone, in our homes, with our families, we were being outed in front of every other kid in the school.

The wailing began immediately. Followed by cursing. The few who'd been accepted to their schools of choice were sensitive enough to keep quiet, so the dominant sound was of inflating pain.

But word of those with good news could not be suppressed, and onto the bonfire of disappointment was tossed the gasoline of jealousy.

Some kids yelled at each other, others pounded their fists against the walls. But no one wanted to leave the room. We were the battered fighters who insisted on staying in the ring, eyes swollen, mouths filled with blood, until the end.

I didn't know what to do. The principal was still at the start of the alphabet, so I had time to think. I wanted to avoid the suffering. Then I remembered a promise I'd made months before: my mother had made me swear that I would not open my envelope until she was with me.

My mother has great intuition, especially when it comes to me. She is also my greatest comfort. Though I told her that I was prepared for rejection, she knew me, understanding that it would be hard on me, and she also understood that at that moment, I would want her to be there.

When my name was called, I took my envelope and, with the greatest will I'd ever mustered, stuffed it into my pocket and marched out of the school, my fingers plugged into my ears.

Outside, I stood alone, the sun brushed my face. I pulled out my phone and dialed my mother. She didn't pick up. I tried again. No answer. I left the message that I'd received my high school letter and I was heading home.

By now, kids were leaving the school. I spotted Maria, the Planker, and others from my table huddled on a corner, all of them talking about their letters.

When they heard that I hadn't opened mine, they couldn't believe it. They thought that by calling my mother and leaving a message, I'd satisfied my promise. But it was not so much the pledge to my mother. I didn't want them to see my disappointment. There was also the suspicion that they might not be as sympathetic as I would want them to be.

We walked another few yards.

It was too much for Maria. She lunged at me.

“OPEN THE DAMN LETTER!”

She grabbed the letter from my pocket, and I, trying to get it back, lost my balance, knocking both of us over.

The Planker, shaking his head, stared at us on the gum-speckled pavement. Meanwhile the letter floated into the middle of the road, where Krysta, the crossing guard, grabbed it. Halting traffic, she held it up, slowly turning it over in her hands.

As she returned to the sidewalk, to the soundtrack of honks and cursing, she opened the letter.

I gasped. Maria helped me to my feet.

Krysta frowned.

“You're going to LaGuardia.”

—

Walking back to the hotel, I thought about my mom. She was the one who was always surprising me with good news; now I had something for her.

As I entered the lobby, Uber-Crafty and Crafty Two were in their chairs. Stormé was there. I nodded to them, but wasn't going to stop. I needed to get upstairs to Mom.

“Excuse me.”

It was Uber-Crafty.

“Where are you going?”

Puzzled, I turned toward him.

“Did you forget to tell us something, Little Crafty?”

Was it that obvious? Did they know me that well?

It was too much to think about.

But think about it I did. Their faces, their gestures, their personalities, their humor, and their kindness had carried me through, unaware.

When I told them about LaGuardia, they were on their feet hugging me.

—

The next day, Maria, the Planker, Joshua, the Licker, and I met up at a coffee shop in the Village. We were there as we had been so many times in the years before. And, as so many times before, a couple tables away were the popular kids from our school. The ones I'd spent so much of my life pursuing.

All of us knew that the next few months could be our last opportunity to spend so much time together. We might see each other in passing, but that would be it. Shortly we would be going off without each other. Off to new schools, new lives.

Whether it was from the weight of this or something else that none of us could articulate, the Planker stood up, moved his chair aside, and, in the space where his chair had been, lay facedown on the floor.

Immediately the kids from the other table began to point and laugh, making sure that no one else in the coffee shop missed the Planker.

As the laughter in the room rose, I knew exactly what I needed to do.

I stood up, moved my chair over, and lay down next to him. Staring up from the floor, the world, for the very first time in my life, could not have looked better.