Simon Says (10 page)

Abruptly I break contact, the way I did when I walked away from Adrian earlier, except now I feel a strange tightness in my chest, as if I can't breathe. There's not enough air in her small office. My eyes drop down to my sketch of Tyler dueling with the mirror, neatly centered on her blotter. What would Mr. Wallace say about that example of "drawing what I see"? That steadies me. "Okay. So who did you have in mind for this article on the seniors?"

She sets the puzzle aside, pulls out a file folder, and opens it. "We're planning to feature Marc Worley—he's a director from the drama department. And Sara Hoffman, a poet. I'd like to include Kikuei Isomura, a pianist, but I'm not sure there's enough substance there. Why don't you talk to him and tell me what you think?"

She rattles off more names I don't recognize, and I pull out my sketch pad and jot them down on a blank page. My handwriting is spiky at first, then it settles down.

"And Graeme Brandt, of course."
Of course.
"Do you have a feel for him yet?"

I snap shut the sketch pad. "Not yet," I tell her.

She nods. "He's difficult," she offers. "I've published several of his essays, but I don't feel I know him."

I change the subject. "Why editing? Why don't you write, yourself?"

She smiles. "I do! More than just the editorial in every issue—I'm working on a novel. But there's something about editing ... I read a manuscript and I can see the potential in it, even if the author hasn't done her idea justice. I see what she wants to say, and I shape the piece to say it more clearly."

But what if you see something different than the author intended?
At least she can't do that with artwork, I reassure myself.

"Of course," she adds, "that's only with writing. I can't do much shaping with a caricature—though if I think you need to clarify something I'll point it out and ask you to redo it."

As if there's anything she could see that I'd need to clarify! "Strange job," I mutter.

"I suppose so," she says, undisturbed by my lack of enthusiasm. "But I think it's exciting to look inside something and find its potential and let it out" She turns back to her file folder. "I'd like to run this piece before Thanksgiving." She adds to her neat hieroglyphic notes. "Will you be able to see them all and work up the sketches by then?"

"Unless I flunk out," I quip, but Rachel doesn't laugh. She studies me as though I'm one of her puzzles, or a manuscript with hidden potential that requires considerable editing. I slide the sketch pad back into my
pack. "If I run into trouble with any of them, I'll let you know."

"Good. How're classes?"

Her calm, interested tone imbalances me, and I answer before thinking. "Landscape is a bore and Still Life is torture—" Then I interrupt myself, realizing she's listening too closely. She wanted me to expose myself, the way she wants to expose the seniors in this article. Well, forget it "But I'll survive. I may even learn something in spite of myself."

"Don't let Wallace ruin you," she tells me, her fingers playing idly with the ring on the puzzle. "Who's your mentor?"

"Mr. Brooks."

"Talk to him if Still Life gets too bad."

What does she know? It was Brooks who put me there. "Anyone can paint a bowl of fruit on autodraw." I almost tell her about my idea for a computer program oozing colors onto a scanned photo, but I stop myself. This isn't a friend, despite her clear brown eyes that seem to see too much and still smile. This is an editor—an editor who digs inside things (
manuscripts, paintings, people
) to put the pieces together more efficiently. "Thanks for the advice, though."

Rachel looks at me thoughtfully, then deftly slips the wooden puzzle piece attached to one side of the cord through a slot in the base. She eases the brass ring over the doubled cord, then slides the ring through the slot, and up and over the base to freedom. She smiles and stands, replacing the solved puzzle on its shelf and
setting die brass ring beside it "I have to check Buffi's layout."

As I stand aside to let her lead the way out of her office, I see the tops of the file cabinets. Not all of the decorations are puzzles. She also has a collection of kaleidoscopes perched on wooden stands. Maybe Rachel's fascination with the puzzles and kaleidoscopes is more than just seeing inside something (
somebody?
) to see how it works. Maybe she takes things apart to find the potential hidden in the fragments. But how can she be so sure her reassembled pieces are an improvement?

"So you
have
been working!" I drop my backpack on my bed and stare at the program he's handed me. The second performance is String Quartet in G Minor by Adrian Lawson.

"I worked on it last summer, actually," he admits, blushing. "I've just been polishing it up this semester."

"And rehearsing it," I point out. I look up, delighted for him and amazed at the risk he's taking by letting everyone listen to his music. Isn't he afraid that people will hear what he can do and resent him for it? Or does he expect people to resent him anyway, because he's gay and doesn't hide it? Or does he simply think it's good enough for the teachers, but not exceptional enough to disturb anyone? Somehow, none of these feels like the real explanation. "I can't wait to hear it."

"You really want to come?" Adrian sounds surprised. "It's not all that great," he warns, flapping his hands awkwardly as if he doesn't know where to put them. "Well, it is kind of neat—with lots of string plucking instead of bowing—but it's pretty derivative, too..."

Maybe he really doesn't think it's very good. I won't know until I hear it, so I just joke, "Quit criticizing yourself before Tyler does it for you." Then I add, not certain why, "It's got to be good, or they wouldn't be performing it, right?"

"Well..." He hunches one shoulder and looks unconvinced.

"I really want to come," I assure him.

"We're having kind of a party after," he says slowly, "to celebrate. I don't suppose you'd want to go to that..." He lets the words trail off.

I almost groan. Trapped. But I am curious about his music. "Yeah, sure. As your roommate, not your date," I add quickly.

He smiles. "Of course."

***

Adrian was wrong—his music is terrific. And I like the odd voice of the plucked strings—like a harp, instead of the whining bows that usually give me a headache in string music. Adrian manages to make the strings sing and purr and hum. I could paint shafts of silver light in a blue-gray wash that would shimmer like those strings.

I glance behind me in the school concert hall. Adrian stands at the back of the rows of seats, a stiff shadow dimly illuminated by the glow of the exit lights. He holds his arms folded tightly across his chest, one fist pressed against his mouth as if he's gnawing his knuckles. Is that what it's like to have a crowd of people studying your work? It was bad enough with one. Why does he do it?

Turning back to the four musicians on the stage, I see Tyler slumped in an aisle seat a few rows in front of me, probably imagining himself a critic for the
New York Times,
ready to jump from his seat at the curtain and race to his office to dash off his latest poison-pen review. He'll probably burn Adrian to a crisp to get even for my sketch. I ignore the pang of regret and let the music wash over me.

After the final movement, I grab my pack and slip out of my seat during the applause. I corner Adrian in the lobby as he's heading out to circle around to the stage entrance. "It was great," I tell him honestly.

The awkward tension has drained out of him, and he looks radiant, almost luminous, like that dazzling music.
Is that why you risk it? To become part of that radiance?
"Go—" I give him a slight push toward the stage. "Enjoy. I'll be back for the party."

I let myself into the dark, away from the lighted building, away from the people. The party will be here, in the concert-hall lobby, but I want some time alone first I walk through the night listening to the strains of music in my memory. A fresh wind blows into my face, not hot for once. We'll have rain later on, the drops echoing the sound of the plucked strings. The wind in the leaves hums like the violins singing; the clouds scud across a quarter moon like the mellow drone of the cello. I lean into the wind, into the sounds, and the world feels new-made and full of promise.

I see a single tree illuminated by a street lamp. It stands out starkly against the swirling grays of the sky, bent sideways by years of wind. The trunk and branches
have allowed the wind to cripple them rather than break under its onslaught I stare, transfixed by the sharp, dear image of the tree against the sky, painting it in my mind as color and texture on a waiting canvas.

Why couldn't I have
someone
to share this moment with? Someone who understands tormented trees fighting ceaseless winds in a canvas world? There
has
to be someone, somewhere, to whom I could describe this tree and the things it makes me feel—even someone who could see the tree and know how I feel without my saying a word. Someone who could look at the painting I'll make of this twisted trunk and gnarled branches—hunched even on a still day against the winds that have tried to beat it down in the past and will come back, again and again—and understand the feelings mixed with the oils. Other people have friends who share their dreams.... For a slow moment, the longing is piercingly sweet.

Then I turn away from the crippled tree. Other people open themselves up, the way Adrian opened himself tonight by having his music played. They've found a place to belong, a way to be accepted for themselves. Why is it so much easier for them than it is for me? Why am I the one who doesn't belong anywhere—isn't accepted anywhere? I can't risk opening myself up, not the way Graeme risked opening himself in his book. Or did he? Adrian's self was in his music tonight, just as my self is in my painting. I thought Graeme's self was in his book, but the pieces don't fit together. Is that really why Rachel wants me to sketch him? Because she wants someone to rearrange the pieces so they fit?

I head back toward the concert hall, drawn by the light of the party. The music crowd seems delighted with Adrian's quartet and excited about the opening concerto for oboe and violin composed by a senior, Kayla Swenson. She's not one of the ones Rachel suggested I sketch. I wonder why. Adrian is still glowing, but I don't go over to him. He reads my feelings too well—no point in letting my lonely ache sour his evening's high.

"So—who're you skewering tonight?"

The sharp voice cuts into my retreat and I look up, edgy. Tyler is glaring at me. "Enjoy the music?" I ask him.

He snorts. "That cheap copy of Debussy and Ravel?"

For a second I'm lost. Then I remember Adrian telling me apologetically that the quartet was pretty derivative, and I think of the Ravel CDs scattered around the room. Plenty of Stravinsky and Rachmaninoff, but I can't recall seeing Debussy. Not that I've listened to any of them. But I'll bet Tyler hasn't, either, and I decide to bluff. "I'm surprised you could recognize the influence of Ravel, Tyler. I thought your specialty was words. Not Debussy, though. He's not as high on Adrian's list. I hope you didn't put that in your review."

For an instant, panic flares in Tyler's eyes. Then he counters, "Ravel clearly based his quartet on Debussy's!"

I knew I was right to sketch him as a fencer. I offer a mock gasp. "What—Ravel a plagiarist? And Adrian, too?"

Somebody snickers and Tyler's expression darkens. "Someday we'll see if you play with colors as well as you
play with words." He practically spits at me. "If you ever dare to show your paintings and let anyone critique them, that is."

I feel like I'm the one who just got skewered. It was a stupid idea to come, to let myself in for this.

"Anyone but you, dear. You wouldn't have a due." Adrian's voice is light and amused as he suddenly appears beside me. "Anyway, I thought dares were for grade school Aren't you a little old for that game? Now run along and stir up some other mischief. Try telling Kayla that she copied Bach and see how she likes it."

Without waiting for a response, Adrian heads to the concession stand and I follow. I shy away from the sweet caffeine and get a ginger ale. As we stand there together, I watch the carbonation fizz in the plastic glass.

"I'm afraid you've made an enemy," Adrian comments, not blaming me became Tyler's going to roast his music for my sake.

I shrug and smile faintly. "Yeah. I wonder how Tyler got in here. What did he do to audition? Drag Sondheim's latest over the coals to demonstrate his reviewing abilities?"

Adrian glances over his shoulder. "Actually," he says thoughtfully, "Tyler's a very good writer. He had a couple of essays in
Ventures
before he started writing reviews, and I believe he's working on a play. But I've also heard he's a terrible perfectionist—he agonizes over every syllable. I think he finds it easier to criticize other people's work because he's dissatisfied with his own."

I can't believe Adrian's actually excusing him. "Well, thanks for the rescue."

He turns bade to me and his face lights up. I almost regret my smile. But I can't help liking Adrian for his music, and maybe even just for himself. Anyway, he deserves something for stepping in and distracting Tyler from my painting. I don't like owing anybody, but I don't know how to pay him back without letting him expect too much. It's hard to like someone and hold them at arm's length, knowing their eyes will slide away uncomfortably and they won't like you if they get too close. Then I almost snap my fingers.

"What's that for?"

How did he see the thought hit me?
I ignore the question and grin, and my tone matches the lightness in his, although I can hear that his is forced. "I was just thinking I hadn't done any sketching tonight—seems the perfect way to say thanks."

"Oh, no," he says quickly. "You don't owe me anything."

And I suppose I don't But I suddenly think of the crippled tree and wonder—if Adrian can write that music, would he understand that tree? "Wait till you see the sketch," I tell him, leaning in toward him slightly so I can keep my voice low.