Flat-Out Celeste (3 page)

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 15
^th
, I meant that the event is on Saturday the 22
^nd
. 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 22
^nd
. 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….

She missed Julie right now. Although Julie would be sorely disappointed in her if she knew the truth about Celeste’s isolation. Her whole family would, but if Julie still lived near here, Celeste would not be able to trick her into believing everything was fine. Shielding them all from the truth was the only option, so she would continue smiling and bantering happily about her days when they asked.

Yes, she spoke to people at school, but that was virtually a requirement. She wasn’t mute. The opposite, in fact. She talked too much, and evidently not in the right ways or about the right things. Dallas had just been very nice to her, but one independent classmate who hadn’t been bored to tears by her philosophy analytics did not count. She deleted Dallas’ text, but did not feel any sense of satisfaction. If Celeste had pink hair and a hyper masculine boyfriend named Troy, she, too, might enjoy the social aspects of high school. As it was, she did not. And so she made sure that she interacted as little as possible with her peers.

High school, she had determined, would be a wash. Constructing an environment in which she would move virtually undetected had been easier than she would have imagined, and it wasn’t as though she had to fend off inquiries for social interaction at every turn. This Dallas bit was an exception.

It was a most strange experience, she thought, to move among crowds of students as she did, and yet not have any real friends.

But whether or not Celeste wanted friends was beside the point. It was best, she had learned, not to set herself up for failure.

Thank goodness that she had Matt. Matt, while not outwardly gallant and heroic, loved her with a ferocity and protectiveness that was quiet and subtle. Matt’s wiring didn’t make it easy for him to lavish affection with words or physical displays. And yet, what he gave her was more than enough. Having him still live nearby and often at the house eased the pain of his moving out. Which of course he had to do. Once he’d finished his undergraduate work, it made sense. She couldn’t expect him to live across the hall from her for his entire life. It’s not as though it was acceptable to have her brother move into the dorm room across from hers when she went to college next year. But she wouldn’t need him then because she would finally be out of high school and in a mature educational environment. Where, exactly, she would end up was still undecided. But there were options.

She turned on her iPad. Reading more about colleges would be comforting now. She couldn’t get enough of the course catalog, so she read about classes for a bit and then did a more general search to see what else she could learn about this legendary school. Celeste gasped when a webpage popped up.

“Oh no. No. No. No.” She glared down at the words on the page.
Campus life
.

Details about parties, and campus events, and lifelong bonds stared back at her. She hurriedly clicked on links to other schools. Greek systems, drinking games… something dreadful sounding called “Springfest” that featured a full day of on-campus bands and student festivities! This was not right.