Extraordinary Theory of Objects (6 page)

“You've been begging me to go and here I am, so we should do it now.” He said it as if he might not be coming back.

He realized the finality of his comment and tried to make light of it. “Also for inspiration.”

“Inspiration for what?”

“Our papier-mâché babies.”

“We could go to the zoo.”

“No, if we are creating mythological creatures in the basement we need to look at these beasts up close, to be as accurate as possible.”

“Accurate to what?”

“Their animal halves.”

“May I buy a beetle pinned in a little black box there?” I asked. I had always wanted one.

“Do you have any money?”

“No.”

“What about from babysitting?” I babysat the four Southern children who lived in Le Vésinet. They were all blond, under the age of five, and completely wild. I made fifty francs, about ten dollars an hour, to prevent them from killing each other.

“I spent it all on the magazines I bought last week. American
Vogue
costs the equivalent of two hours of work.”

“Then, no bug. You have to live within your means.”

I followed my father into the car and slammed the door.

“We need to go,” he said without warning after looking at something in the pocket within his blazer. “I mean we can't go to Deyrolle.” He kept glancing down as he started the engine.

“Why all of sudden?”

“I need to go into the office.”

“Can I come?”

“No.”

*    *    *

The long-awaited field trip had arrived, and for whatever reason, spelunking was part of the activities our class was to enjoy during our sojourn in the French countryside. We were instructed to wear clothes that could be thrown out when the day was over and to show up on time at the base of the mountain.

There was little instruction before we entered the cave, except for how to turn on our headlamps. In the first minutes, we saw three bats and countless stalagmites and stalactites. This was in the larger part of the cave, where we could all stand up and see one another, as well. After walking for half an hour, we came to a small opening in a wall. “You are each to crawl through this hole,” the instructor said in French. “It will be tight the rest of the way, just breathe and do not worry.” With that we started to enter the hole headfirst, lights beaming. I stuck my head in just as Charlotte's feet slid forward. There was cool mud everywhere, and I had to pull my body up and into the tunnel. It was suffocating, and I couldn't extend my arm or leg anywhere but forward. We slithered until we came to a larger opening where we were able to stand again. As far as I could tell, no one made an official count to make sure everyone had made this leg of the journey. Then, it was a short drop down another hole via a black rope and into another tiny tunnel, which smelled of mildew and something else. Someone yelled, “Stop.”

“What's up?”the instructor asked.

“He's stuck.”

“Who?”

We all knew who it was. Our Thai prince was too round for the tunnel. Someone should have thought about this sooner. We were all going to die in this cave in the South of France, become legendary like Lascaux.

“He's moving!” And then we were off again, slinking around, eager to get out into the open air.

The following day there was to be no more outdoor sports, only a sightseeing trip to Vézelay.

We'd left the hostel where we were all staying to go visit the cathedral and surrounding town. After we were dropped at the center of the village, we were allowed to wander for three hours. This free time was standard for such trips. The same had happened when we'd gone to Avignon last year. Everyone took advantage of the hours differently. Jake and Raees usually went to a café to smoke, and sometimes I or Charlotte and Sarah—never both at once—joined them. Natalie would go shopping for souvenirs. I would often walk around alone with my
camera
.
*

I loved going into the old churches—the Gregorian chants eerily pumped into the cavernous halls, the stale air, the candles lit for loved ones. I was obsessed with
relics
*
and reliquaries, the idea that part of an ancient body or blood could be housed in a beautiful, little monument for future pilgrims.

That night, back at the hostel, we were supposed to have a canteen. I thought a canteen was a cafeteria, but I soon learned it was a dance. Everyone was excited about the event, although the boys feigned indifference as they drank behind the rooms. We were all allowed wine at dinner, and they'd made friends with the busboy, who gave them full bottles on the sly.

I couldn't decide what to wear. A dress might be trying too hard, so I settled on a pair of two-tone shorts and a black T-shirt with my scarab necklace. I had also found a little turquoise bead on one of my nighttime outings and strung it on a black cord to make a choker. I decided my Adidas Samba sneakers were most appropriate with the outfit. Then, I saw Charlotte.

She was wearing jean cutoffs with high-heeled glitter jelly shoes and a concert T from when the Red Hot Chili Peppers had come to Paris. There was a black bandanna rolled up and tied around her neck. She looked sexy and insouciant. Her blond hair was messy and down, falling around her shoulders. All the girls were meant to meet at the bottom of the hostel to walk together to the room where the canteen was to be. I watched from the window and then followed a few paces behind. When we arrived, we were met with the flashes of a dizzying strobe light someone had brought along for the occasion. Without warning, the music stopped and ten of the guys ran into the room, two with guitars. One started strumming the cords to Nirvana's “Rape Me” as the others started singing the PG version they'd written at the café earlier that day.

“Eat Grapes” was the refrain.

At the end of the parody number everyone applauded, the teachers the loudest. The social studies teacher, Mr. Goose, couldn't stop laughing. The room was silent, as he was DJ for the evening and was fumbling for the next song. I knew what was coming. Charlotte had started to move in the direction of Raees, and the other girls had followed her lead to look for dance partners. Guns N' Roses' “November Rain” began to play, and I watched Raees put his hands around Charlotte's waist. She balanced her wrists on his shoulders. Everyone had found someone; there was no one left. Even Jake had already coupled with the new girl from New York City.

Nobody noticed as I walked off. There was a path marked with neon orange spray paint that led into the woods. I followed the markers to a clearing filled with moss-covered logs. As I lay flat facedown on the ground, I could feel the moisture seep into my clothes. I closed my eyes and flipped over. This night walk would end differently from the others. I was the odd number, on my back, staring up until my eyes crossed and everything appeared mirrored, like the picture within a
kaleidoscope
.
*

My legs were spread to each side and my hands overhead so that my back arched toward the sky. I started to cry quietly at first. In the stillness of the night, I could make out the song that had started to play back at the dance, one of my favorites: Bush's “Glycerine.” Then I felt my chest lift and my stomach turn. I hadn't eaten anything all day, for a few days. Not eating was a nice distraction. There was nothing to vomit, even though my body tried.

Le Vésinet

I was surprised the bathroom mirror didn't break when I threw the razor. It was one of those disposable models with a hot-pink handle and three tiers of blades from a drugstore in America. I wanted the glass to break, but instead, the square mirror of the medicine cabinet was swiped shiny and clear where the plastic hit the foggy glass. A pump of
pamplemousse
-scented body wash lay on the floor bleeding shower gel, next to the toilet. I was lying there with my left leg hanging over the edge of the white basin, my right leg bent backward violently shaking, beating the tile wall. My hands were trembling. I couldn't open my eyes. They were so wet, red, and raw from crying.

It had started with that telling pressure, that feeling when the tears start to pool behind my nose. I had tried to suck in air an even number of times, as if to be cured by my own twisted numerology. The rising sensation came too fast and two became three and then six became seven and then I knew what would happen. It reminded me of Cécile in the movie version of
Bonjour Tristesse
, except she liked odds until Anne died in the seventh accident on that corner in the South of France. Françoise Dorléac, Grace Kelly, and Albert Camus died in car crashes, too. I knew that fact but not much else about them. What was the point? It had been three days since I'd eaten anything.

The teenage Cécile had been similarly bothered by cloying thoughts that made her try to push them out of her mind with games of odds and evens. I was momentarily proud of my own intelligence with this reference, inflated at a moment when everything else was overblown too. Perhaps the reason Cécile would never do her philosophy homework was because she knew that old Pascal's theories on distraction would explain away her silly diversions and then they wouldn't work anymore. She didn't go for religion but instead for sexual desire and counting until it didn't work anymore. I would never have the boy. I didn't have the South of France, either.

Only Le Vésinet.

So far from anything.

I didn't know how to have fun, how to look forward when there wasn't much to see. Ever since the school trip, when they had found me in the woods lying in clear vomit, and word had gotten around school, things became worse. You'd think girls would be nicer if they knew you'd had a breakdown, but the opposite happened. They taunted me daily with their laughter and stares, which always made the tears come, even if quietly. I tried to hold my feelings in, but I knew that they saw. They could see me start to hyperventilate as I sucked air in and my chest lifted, the beats between breaths getting shorter and shorter. And it was more evidence that they were right about me.

In the shower, I found that the tears went away. They blended in with the running water, which made everything seem more normal. I didn't like seeing my naked body in the light. It was all boyish and ugly. The magazines and models were only fantasy, another diversion. I'd never get there, to that place where I would feel beautiful and loved and fine, or even pretty and just okay. I was left to think and remember, think and remember, until it drove me mad and into the shower. Always into the shower, avoiding the mirror, allowing it to fog. I would stay under the water for so long that my hands would prune as they did when I was a child, happy in my bath.

This time, I'd been in the bathroom for hours. At some point, I'd knocked down the convertible showerhead. It had undulated on its articulated cord and hit me in the face before falling down and spraying water everywhere. I didn't care. I counted seven of its slams, before it lay still.

I was numb, starving, and shivering, naked on the shower floor, my head propped against the wall I had kicked until my heels hurt. Everything was wet. I couldn't breathe, the air thick with humidity from the steam. The window to the street was too high up and far away for me to open it and let in some fresh air. I tried to get up and fell backward. Then, I managed to stand and turn off the water. I made it to the sink before I fell forward, my head creating a half-moon on the door of the medicine cabinet next to where the razor had hit earlier. I don't remember much after that.