Emily Franklin - Principles Of Love 06 - Labor Of Love (14 page)

Before I get sidetracked, I grab a red Swedish fish from my bag. Note to self: Must go to candy store and replenish supply. I look at the questions--elaborate on an extracur ricular one. This is supposed to be brief, but it takes me a long time. I waver between singing--which has been a primary focus for longer and therefore, I imagine, would be taken more seriously than anything else--and writing, which sounds like a sudden interest but isn't. If you look at my life, the lyrics, the lists, the English papers, the extra work on the Hadley literary magazine, it adds up. I write all that, plus I weave in my long project with Poppy Massa-Tonclair, my professor in London, who loves my writing and happens to be a world-famous author of "stunning literary novels

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with commercial appeal" (this from the New York Times Book Review).

The next question, the long essay, uses up what's left of my Swedish fish and takes me a while, but I'm confident with my subject choice.Whom else can I write about except Mable? She's the obvious choice, but the best one, too. Her presence in my life, both maternal and otherwise, her per sonal struggle and how it affected me, and helped me grow, but how it's the kind of growth I wish I could give back.

The pages take a lot out of me. I wind up crying at the end. Partly because the essay has its sad moments, of say ing good-bye to her, the twinkling lights of Boston glow ing outside her window as a reminder of the world she was leaving, and partly because of the relief of having written it. It's the same feeling I get with singing sometimes, an excite ment when I know and love a song that comes on the radio, and as I sing it, and then a combination of letdown and relief when it's done.

I print out a bunch of supplementary forms required by certain colleges--Dartmouth's peer evaluation, which I will give to Chris, Sarah Lawrence's learning essay, multiple re quests for additional essays ranging from books I've read over the past twelve months to unusual life experiences to travel in other countries. Harvard, for example, lets me provide fur ther reason they should choose me from the swill of appli

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cants by submitting proof of my "exceptional talent." Have I sleuthed my way to a scientific breakthrough? No. Have I been picked up by a record label at the ripe age of seventeen? No. But do I have anything of merit--yes. From my bag, I pull out the original of my journal project for Poppy Massa- Tonclair. Sending it is a risk in some ways, because it's very personal, but with her recommendation it's got to at least make me stand out. I email myself as a reminder to make clean copies of it to include with my applications.

I won't necessarily apply to every place, but I am too focused right now to stop. I figure it's better to have more essays done. I write furiously, unaware of time, or the red fish dissolving in my stomach, the light changing into afternoon speckle outside.

As payoff to working so hard, I email Arabella and find out she's online.

I pour out everything--my unopened letter from Gala, questions about Sadie, getting more physical with Char lie, talking to Jacob, seeing the smooch in the House of Hauntings.

LoveBoo2

It's like he wanted me to see it. To see him kiss her. Or maybe

Chloe kissed him. I don't know. But he put his hand on mine

when he was in my cart. Why?

&). :b^an;gVc`a^c PieceofBella He was testing you, I think. Giving you one last shot at giving in to him--to whatever it is that draws you both together-- LoveBoo2 And I refused. PieceofBella And he made a point of telling you that okay, fine, he'll move on. LoveBoo2 Rather quickly, don't you think? PieceofBella You know what they say, the faster you get back in action, the more you're denying your feelings. . . . LoveBoo2 Do they say that? PieceofBella Who knows. But it seems like that's what he's doing. LoveBoo2 And what about you? What's new with you and Surfer Boy? PieceofBella His name is Chase. And it's kind of fizzling. LoveBoo2 Really?

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She tells me how there's no point really, since they're bound to go their separate ways. How the major flaw in flings is that they have to end. I tell her I'll miss her, that I do miss her, and she writes fast, slapping the words over one another, both of us knowing that with the holiday weekend coming up we'll have to deal with a tough good-bye in person.

LoveBoo2

Do you realize it'll be our first good-bye when we don't know

that we're going to see each other again? It's so open-ended.

PieceofBella

We'll sort something out, right? Don't think I could handle too

much time apart from my Love! Maybe you could come with

me to Europe. . . .

LoveBoo2

Hey--I just spent hours doing my college apps--don't stick

that carrot in front of me now.

PieceofBella

A girl I know is going off to be a Chalet Girl--working in the

Alps making good money for socializing and skiing. . . .

LoveBoo2

Sounds awesome but . . .

PieceofBella

I know, I know. Back to your regularly scheduled program, right?

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I nod at the computer. I can feel it, that fall chill at night, the back-to-school ads on the radio. Soon. By the time I look up from my cubicle, I know the day has slipped by. I check my watch, which says it's four thirty. Is that possible? Have I worked for that many hours straight? I sigh, content but jit tery from so much work and so little to feed me other than ideas.As I stretch, I allow a quick peek out the front windows as I gather my work into neat piles, separated by paper clips. I tuck everything into folders and furrow my brow at the steady clumps of people walking by. Normally, this street isn't so crowded.Then I remember. Illumination Night.

"How apt that you found inspiration on a night like this," Dad says to me as I hold the phone to my ear, my backpack slung over my shoulder, my stomach growling in double time.The librarian locks the doors after I leave.

"I'm so relieved, Dad," I say and chuck my stuff in the car."You have no idea."

"Actually, I have a very good sense of the stress. . . ."

"Oh, that's right," I say, remembering he sees this all the time. "Anyway, I'm glad to be mostly done." A huge sigh escapes my mouth--even my breath can't wait to shake off the day."Can you believe I did it in one day?"

"Isn't that how you tend to work?" Dad asks rhetorically. "You think and think. . . ."

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"I am a churner. If thoughts were milk, mine would now officially be butter.Yeah, I stew about things and then just do it." I peel off my top layer--and leave on the tank un derneath. I feel grubby though, my fingers sticky from the last of my Swedish fish."Essays, done," I say, miming making a check on a list even though Dad's not here to see it."Ap plications, done. Except for a few little details."

"Now you just have to narrow it down to where you actually want to go." He waits, opening a space for me to blurt out a sudden first choice. But I don't have one. Or a second for that matter.

"Right . . . wherever that is.And they have to choose me. Or not."

We finish talking, confirming his plans to come down for Labor Day--otherwise known as the family reunion from Mars--and then I sign off. I need to shower off the slime of too much library action before joining the Illumi nation Night festivities. Charlie and I are meeting by the pink house, a large Victorian seaside cottage, and planning on walking around the village together.

As I'm about to leave for Edgartown, I shrug to no one in particular and lock the doors, enjoying feeling free of actual weight from my bag and conceptual weight from my essays and applications, and walk toward Chili's house. She and Haverford are hosting a roaming dinner with their

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parents, and I told Charlie we'd stop by, but maybe they need an extra set of hands right now. Cars are already jam ming into the few parking spaces, and cottage owners are busy setting up their porches for tonight, when streams of people will wander around in the lantern light.

Past the aquamarine-colored cottage, I cut between two other houses so I arrive at Chili's house from the back. Her parents have a sense of humor and didn't mind when she erected a sign from the eponymous restaurant and hung it from the back door as a welcome. I see the sign, the green and red of it, and smile, thinking how glad I am to have her as my friend, even if she's younger. I walk to the sign, knock on the back door, and find that it swings open, revealing the open layout of her family's bungalow.The kitchen counters are set with trays, empty though, since their party doesn't start for a while. No one answers when I say hello and no one responds when I clomp around.

It's funny, too, because while Chili has become a close friend, and her brother is a by-product of that, we're not so close that I could just walk into their parents' house and kick off my shoes to watch TV. So I tread lightly now, and figure I'll go out the front door, make my way back to the car from there.Through the hallway, each wall painted a differ ent color--orange, bright yellow, indigo--I glance at family portraits and gulp, thinking how many there are, how many

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different places they've been together; how few pictures we have at home. How no matter what, my family will always be unique--oddly shaped, triangular at best. Does Gala have lots of her with Sadie and Sadie's dad? Does she expect to suddenly insert herself into our albums?

I reach for the front door handle, peering as I do through the diamond-shaped cut-out window. As if the window is a camera, I have a close-up shot of Chris and Haverford.To gether in a decidedly nonplatonic embrace. Do I open the door and interrupt them? Or back away? I decide the latter is the way to go--the last thing I need is to be witness to yet another round of random kissing.

The back door slams with a thud, I hope surprising Chris enough so he comes to his senses and realizes that kissing someone who already has a boyfriend--a long-term one-- isn't the best idea. No one can be happy with that.And most likely Chris'll be the one to take the fall.

On the way back, I think about sisterhood and Sadie, about where she'll wind up at college, if she's figured out that we're so close in age.The radio is tuned to the Vineyard station,WMVY, which I love even though they seem to play a certain group of songs over and over again, mixing the perennial favorites in with enough new stuff that you might not notice. I sing along to "The Boys of Summer" as it plays, wishing the lyrics didn't pull me into September--saying no

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one's on the road or at the beach, feel it in the air, summer's out of reach. . . .

Where will I be when this song becomes reality? And what will happen then? I catch my reflection in the sideview mirror, and feel older. Not old, but a glimpse of maybe what I will look like later on, at that reunion Jacob spoke of.What parts of you remain the same after a season ends? What peo ple, which memories do you keep? Which bits of your per son get discarded?

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7 ack at the caf�, I nod to the servers, sneak a raspberry- lime soda from the back cooler, and go up to the apartment. Instead of throwing my bag down, I'm careful. Finished ap plications along with a note about copying my Poppy Massa- Tonclair project go in a special box I've labeled. Chalk it up to watching one too many design shows last spring, but I am actually enjoying feeling tidy. Compartmentalizing my stressors into containers.

I sip my drink, look in the empty fridge for nothing in particular, and then pad barefooted into my room to search for something new and exciting to wear. Not one for mak ing fashion my statements, I tend not to spend time ago nizing over outfits, but tonight's different. It's Illumination Night.A night of enchantment.And the first time I'll expe rience it with a boyfriend, so it means something. All those

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firsts--the first time Charlie and I kissed or fought or shared a drink or . . . lots of firsts. But what about that first?

Chris comes in while I'm wearing not one but two dresses--a long, black sheath on my right side and a white cotton one on my left. Both simple, both possibilities.

"Looks like your right side is heading to a funeral and your left side's off to beddy-bye," he says, helping himself to a handful of rainbow goldfish in a bowl on the counter before he realizes they're totally stale.

My first thought when I see him is: How can he be talk ing about my clothing when his lacking love life just got a literal mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?

"Are you really wearing those?" Chris asks.

"Huh?" I stare at him, still stuck on the mental image of him with Haverford. I pluck at the dresses. "Not neces sarily. I was just testing them out." I want Charlie to be overwhelmed by me tonight. Not just happy to see me but a real wow moment. Often, I'm so caught up in talking or just in living, that I let that stereotypical girly stuff go--and I'm glad for the freedom from it. But every once in a while, like tonight, when I'm eased of academic worries and plopped right in the last weeks of summer, I want it all.To be that girl who has a brain, a decent life--albeit a slightly whacked out family--and a guy.The guy.The one whom I like who likes me back."I'm debating which one."

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"Well, they both fail." Chris purses his lips and gives a frustrated look at the fish in his hand. "These are disgust ing, by the way." Chris's tone is sharp. Funny like usual, but caustic, too.

"They're just stale, is all," I say and shrug. "Arabella bought them a while ago, so . . ."

"Ever heard of the wastebasket?" He grabs the bowl and dumps the assorted rainbow of minifish into the trash.

"I'll call animal control if you like," I say, laughing a little at the idea of the cracker fish being rounded up with nets while I try to sweeten his sour mood. "What's going on?" I attempt to be casual and unassuming, not wanting to be obvious about what I saw him doing.

"Nothing." Chris marches to my closet and flings through items, disregarding this one, considering that one, until he pulls out a swirly patterned dress and holds it out to me as though he's solved the issue, no question.