Audacious (7 page)

Never mind

With my history

Would probably result

In a trip to the shrink.

Mom and Dad have scoped one out

In this new city

For sure

Just in case.

So private and secure

I print and crop

And glue to the canvas

The last picture

The
C

For

Me.

STRATEGIES FOR THE DISPLAY OF ART

Let's go for an eclectic approach

Ms. Sagal says

And I agree

I hate when they group things

Or try to make some kind of flowing theme

Or narrative

Or chronological journey

Like they are telling you

How and what to think.

Instead we try for symmetry or asymmetry

Clashing colors, conflicting ideas,
Ms. Sagal says

Juxtaposition.

Buzzcut,

Who is hanging his military cross-sections

Between a bouquet of flowers

And an abstract decoupage in soft yellows,

Clearly agrees.

I love that word,
he says to me

Unexpectedly.

Juxta-position

Is that like “missionary position”?

I can't help it.

I burst into laughter

Which echoes through the hall.

Buzzcut laughs with me

And soon we're hanging freshman art together

Commenting scathingly

And hilariously

Where necessary.

But he is genuine

And appreciates what deserves it.

EIGHT PANELS

It's amazing

Says Ms. Sagal

So lyrical and moving

Don't you think so?

She says to Buzzcut

Who lingers nearby

It's awesome,
he says

I have hung eight

Of the nine canvases

In a bright prominent space

Between a large lavender-toned watercolor by Puffy

And a blood-soaked comic

By the former rent-a-geek

About a terrible dystopian

Snowboarding school

My centerpiece

The
C

Is drying, hidden away, at home.

Still Ms. Sagal gushes

It's really excellent work Ella

I'm so proud to be your teacher

And one of the subjects

Marika will be delighted.

She admires the calligraphy

Disabled

I feel a small pang of guilt

Tomorrow, when Marika comes to the show

No one will be looking at her picture

Or any of the other eight canvases

When my
C

Is hung
U
p

N
o more will I be

T
-cher's pet.

GROWTH SPURT

I'm starving,
says Buzzcut

Who signs his drawings—

Which are actually excellent—

David.

The next thing I know

We are on the way

To the falafel place.

He orders two extra-spicy chicken rolls

While I have some baklava

And crazy strong coffee.

Why do boys eat so much? I ask.

Growing
, he says, mouth full

I'm already six-one

But my brother is six-four

So you never know.

I think of Samir

Suffering through Ramadan

When as if by magic

He appears.

With his sister, and I guess her husband

A handsome man with glasses

Hello Ella
, Hala says

We do some introductions.

Her husband is Yusif

Samir knows David from calculus and art

They grunt a weak begrudging greeting

I'm Ella, who took the photos.

I emailed the shots to Hala

They're wonderful
, her husband says

I'm looking forward to the show.

(Oh dear, think I.)

They sit on the other side

Out of earshot.

Weirdos
, David says.

Get that nun suit they've got her in.

He chews thoughtfully

Still, I'd like to see what she looks like underneath

But that's true of all girls.

I smirk with false reproach.

Tomorrow

For me at least

He will get

His wish.

MY PROCESS, FOR ANYONE WHO
IS INTERESTED

I started with the photos

Which I printed on plain paper

In black and white

The contrast slightly enhanced

Bold and graphic

Then I pasted them to canvases

Which had been pre-painted

In various shades

Feminine and fresh

Minty green or raspberry pink

Some portraits I tore or cut

And reassembled

Carefully

Letting the gaps

Just barely show

One I cut up like a jigsaw puzzle

Another in zigzags

Like Charlie Brown's shirt.

I left only one intact

(Guess which one)

After the glue dried

I varnished them

Some with crackle finish

Some antiqued

Some sepia-toned or vaguely metallic

One I varnished in pure clear satin

It will shine like a beacon

Because in the end

It is the one that speaks

The whole truth about us all.

TRUTH

No one is completely disabled

Marika has her arms and her smile

No one is ever old

If they don't feel old

No one is totally single

Or alone

The Phantom is not ugly

Not even a little bit

Kayli might be asthmatic

But that is something she HAS

Not something she is

Mom has no job

But that doesn't mean

She has nothing to do

Even the girl with the baby

Didn't use the word “Indigenous”

No one word can encompass

Ten thousand years of history

And five hundred of heartbreak

Like “Arab”

A language

A people

A religion

A country lost

And fragmented

And cobbled back together

By strangers

One word is not enough.

But we are all

Women

And all

The same

Down there.

ART SHOW HAIKUS

I hang the last part

Surreptitiously, alone

Before we open

My parents approach

And are shocked but smile bravely

Kayli simply laughs

David says,
Jeez-us

And soon there's a crowd of them

Boys ogling my bits

I drift away, faint

With adrenaline and power

Perusing the art

There's tension in here

Something more than the C-word

Is raising hackles

An edgy crowd mills

Gathers, accuses, argues

Over Samir's piece.

ROOF

Are you mad at me?

I ask Samir

His square shoulders a silhouette

Against the streetlight snow haze

Of the rooftop parking lot

I saw him disappear up here

When things got, well

Tense

In the art show.

It was foolish of me

Arrogant in fact

To think that I was the only one

With a controversial idea.

His giant canvas

Oh God it was so stunning

But apparently

There are parents at our school

Who objected to the implication

Of a Star of David

Reduced to a shadow

Of glossy glaze on matte black

Obscured by a Palestinian flag

Made with collaged news reports

Of Palestinian deaths

Or suicide bombers

And graphic photos

He got from who knows where.

Never mind

There was his beautiful pregnant sister

Next to a picture of my snatch.

Which of course

Caused quite a sensation of its own.

Why would I be mad at you?

He says facing the dark.

Below us

On the front steps of the school

A couple is leaving

…expecting to see that sort of thing…

One of them is saying.

…what they call art these days…

Says the other.

Meanwhile, inside, I know

Ms. Sagal is struggling

With certain parents

And their friends

On one hand

And trying to stop David

From taking cell-phone snaps

Of my open parts

And uploading them

To Facebook.

Samir turns

I thought it was beautiful

Even the center panel?

Someone says

(Not Ella, Raphaelle.)

Samir grins

Especially the center panel.

He chuckles

My sister was shocked

But I think she secretly loved it

She was an artist once too, after all.

RUM

Were you shocked?

I ask him.

Not really,
he says,

I expected something outrageous

You didn't disappoint.

And anyway

It's not like I was seeing something

I haven't imagined a million times.

It takes a moment for that to sink in

And in that moment he crosses the distance

Between us

I know you didn't mean it to be

But for me

It was kind of hot.

He's so close

I can smell his breath

Cinnamon and something

Rum?

Are you drunk?

I ask, barely believing

Or breathing.

I'm not a very good Muslim
, he says.

Me neither, I say, stupidly

But he laughs

One hand slides into the hair spilling from my hat

The other passes me a bottle from his coat pocket.

The first gulp burns

The second stings

The third I don't even feel.

He downs the last dregs

And lets the bottle fall.

Before it even lands

He's kissing me.

chapter eight

PORNOGRAPHY

KISS

Seconds pass

Or days and nights

His other hand finds my waist

And pulls me, urgently

Close

A small moan escapes

One of us

I'm not sure who

As our tongues mingle

I sneak my arms inside his coat

And circle his chest

Through his sweater I can feel

His heartbeat.

Are you cold?

His breaths come quickly

And hard

As though he just won a race.

Samir, I say,

Samir

And lift my face to his

Raphaelle…

He exhales, like a spell

Into my open mouth

And his lips

Seal it back inside me.

HUNGER: PART TWO

Are your parents still here?

He whispers,

His lips tracing the shape of my ear.

They left, I say

I said I'd take the bus home.

What about yours?

I told them not to come.

He kisses my mouth again

I was hoping I could steal away

With you.

Where will we steal away to?

I ask, when he stops to breathe.

ESCAPE PLAN DELIVERED BREATHLESSLY
AND INTERMITTENTLY, BETWEEN KISSES

Somewhere warm, like a beach

With dolphins swimming in the waves

White sand and palm trees

And a salty lagoon

We can float together, holding hands

Naked.

Or a cabin, high on a mountain

With a log fire

And a big soft rug

A kettle,

I'll make you all the hot chocolate

You can drink.

Or a sailboat, far out to sea

We'll have a box of books

And art supplies

We can paint and read

All day

And all night we'll…

Lie together letting the ocean

Rock us to sleep

Like children

Innocent and free, no parents, no school

No religion

No you, no me.

HUNGER: PART THREE

Instead, when it gets too cold

We take a bus to the falafel place

Sitting in the back

Making out.

People stare

But we don't care

At first.

But as we get closer to downtown

Samir pulls away

Mouths a piece of cinnamon gum

And offers me one.

We smell like rum.

I'm confused at this change of tone

But he explains

The people who own the place

Go to our mosque.

I'm not hurt

Yet I feel burning behind my eyes

Which I cover by yawning.

So we order falafels

Which he devours

And I pick at, feeling only

Hunger for him.

JEALOUSY: PART ONE

Why did you bring David here?

I'm expecting this question

And decide honesty is best.

No idea, I say, at first and then

I suppose some part of me

Thought you might be here

I wanted to make you jealous

As if David would ever…

Samir gives me one of those looks

David should be so lucky

Then he shakes his head, with a sad smile

Oh boy, I'm in trouble,
he says.

I don't know why

I wanted to make him jealous

I know we're both in trouble now

For more reasons than one.