Heartache and Other Natural Shocks (15 page)

Carla’s going to be so mad! But it’s not my fault he offered me a ride. And why shouldn’t I talk to him? We were just talking about fencing. He said I was a natural. He said he wanted to spar with me,
if
I ever get good enough. Sometimes I think he likes me. And I know I shouldn’t read into these things, but he
did
pick me to be his partner. And, yes, he was pissed off with Carla, and I’m not saying he made a play for me, but there are twenty-three other students in drama, and he didn’t pick any of them.

I really did feel the connection. But maybe it’s just me, not him. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s real or to know the truth about another human being.

“You’ve Got It Bad Girl”

When Ma sees me limping and wailing into the house, she takes me right to the North York General Hospital Emergency, which is the most depressing place on earth, full of old, sick, moaning people and crying, screaming children. I say, “Ma, just take me home and let me die,” but Ma shushes me and puts her arm around me.

The nurse at the front desk asks what the problem is. I tell her I accidentally banged my toe on a table. Two hours later, I’m still in the waiting room and my toe is swollen like a giant sausage. Finally, I get an X-ray. The doctor says that my toe isn’t broken, just sprained. They tape it up and tell me to ice it, keep it elevated and take an aspirin. Gee, thanks. I waited two hours for that?

I want to kill Julia Epstein. I want to saw off her head with a rusty blade. I want to throw her into a pit of poisonous snakes with big, sharp fangs. I want to drop her from a plane into an ocean full of thrashing, hungry sharks. I want the sharks to chomp on her flesh in a feeding frenzy until there’s nothing left, not even the bones.

At home, I phone Marlene and Debbie. They rush over, and the three of us sit on my bed. They can’t believe how gross my toe is. I tell them about drama class. I say, “Marlene, remember after Rummoli, when you said that Julia Epstein is boring, but harmless? Well, think again. Today, she rode off on Ian’s motorcycle.”

Debbie and Marlene gasp. They can’t believe she had the nerve. After all, isn’t it obvious that I am Ian Slater’s girlfriend? What kind of person takes a ride from someone else’s boyfriend? A slut, that’s who. A slut disguised as Little Miss Perfect.

Of course, Debbie is quick to point out that it was Ian who asked Julia to be his partner and offered her a ride home.

“Yeah, that’s true,” I say. “Ian Slater is a self-centered, egotistical jerk. But he’s
my
jerk, and it was up to Julia to turn him down. She’s poaching.”

Marlene says, “Maybe this is a sign.”

Debbie says, “Yeah, like maybe you should be done with Ian.”

“Oh, I am absolutely done!” I say. “I’m not going near him. He’d have to beg me on his hands and knees, and kiss my big, fat, ugly, swollen toe before I’d ever think about going out with him again.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Mar says.

“I’ll cross him off the party list,” Deb says.

“Good,” I say.

“There’s plenty of fish in the sea,” Mar says.

“Damn right,” I say. But the only fish I want is Ian.

At dinnertime, Ma brings me a plate of ravioli, but I’m too bummed to eat. I can practically feel my heartbeat throbbing in my toe. When Papa gets home, he comes upstairs and sits on my bed. He stares at me with his beady, all-knowing eyes.

“It was an accident,” I say.

Papa shrugs; he knows I’m lying. He says, “
Cara
, you’ve got to watch your temper, eh?” He hugs me, and I push my head into his shoulder. “So, what happened? Was it that boy?” I grunt. Papa squeezes me tight. “
Tesorina
, he’s not worth it. Send him packing. You’re the prize.”

But I don’t feel like the prize. I want Ian. He’s perfect for me. We like the same music. He gets my jokes. I’m wild for his kisses. And he doesn’t let me push him around the way most guys do. Tears well up in my eyes. Papa gives me his handkerchief. He says, “You know what Nonna Cabrielli would say?”

I glance at him and nod my head. “
A tutto c’è rimedio, fuorché alla morte
,” I mumble. There’s a cure for everything except death. Great.

In the morning, I can barely walk because of my sprained toe. In fact, I have to wear sandals because there’s no way I can get a shoe on my foot. When I stagger into drama, Mr. Gabor does a double take. “What happened to you?”

“Sprained toe,” I say, sliding into my seat and sticking out my bandaged foot so everyone can see it. “But don’t worry, I can still fence,” I add, trying to show Mr. Gabor what a brave little trooper I am.

Mr. Gabor raises an eyebrow. “Why don’t you go read
Hamlet
in the library.”

“No!” I blurt. The last thing I want to do is leave Ian and Julia alone in the studio. “I can learn a lot by watching,” I say.

Mr. Gabor points to the door. Maybe he thinks he’s doing me a favor. “Take your
Hamlet
and get outta here,” he says sternly.

I sigh. This is horrible. I limp toward the door just as Julia walks in, and in a fit of spontaneous rage, I give her a quick hip check into the door frame. She hits it with a loud thud. I say, “Julia, would you watch where you’re going! I’m injured!”

Heads turn. Julia says, “I didn’t—” But by this time, everyone is staring at her, thinking she’s the one who bumped into me.

Seconds later, Ian saunters around the corner. He looks at my foot and asks, “What happened to you?”

“Like you care,” I snap. “Creep.” I wish I had crutches so I could whack him.

In the library, I pop an aspirin and dig
Hamlet
out of my bag. I try not to think about Julia making doe eyes at Ian. I flip open the play and read the first few pages without understanding a word. It’s a very
long
play. I doodle in the
margin. I draw a crown. Queen Gertrude. I put down my pencil and try not to skim the pages because if I’m going to perform Shakespeare onstage for Mr. Gabor—which I am!—I should probably understand everything. Julia Epstein is not the only one with brains in this school, and she sure as hell is not getting my part!

I focus on Gertrude’s speeches, but the language is practically in code. For example, when Gertrude says,
“Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off,/And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark,” what she means is Hamlet, take off those ugly black clothes because ever since your father died, you’ve been moping around the castle like the world’s biggest grump. Basta. Everyone dies. Be happy you’re back home in Denmark, and move on with your life
.

Gertrude certainly knows how to move on. Her bed’s not even cold before she’s screwing her dead husband’s brother! I guess Claudius must be a real stud, or a terrific liar, because Gertrude is totally taken in by him. She doesn’t have a clue that he’s the one who murdered her husband. I guess, as they say, love is blind—which, of course, makes me think about Julia and Ian and how she’s seducing him with this fencing fixation. The thought of them darting around the studio and smashing their swords together makes me want to erupt like a volcano. I slam my book shut and head home.

I take the street route instead of the ravine because it’s drizzling and I’m afraid of slipping and hurting my sausage
toe. I’m about two blocks from my house when I hear a motorcycle edging up behind me. I don’t even have to look to know who it is.

“Hey, what happened to your foot?” Ian calls out over the noise of his bike. I keep walking. “You want a lift?” he asks.

Is he kidding? What nerve! “What is this, musical rides?” I mutter. “Every day a different girl?”

Ian laughs. “Are you jealous?”

“Me? What gives you that idea?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The big dent in my locker?” I limp faster. Ian smirks. “It almost looks like someone … kicked it in.”

“Fuck off,” I say.

Ian grins. “If you really wanted to do damage, you should’ve used a baseball bat. It’s not nearly so hard on the body.”

“Look,” I say, facing him. “Why don’t you go play fencing with Julia. I’m sure she’d really love that.” I try to limp away, but Ian rolls his bike over the curb and across the sidewalk, blocking my path.

“I don’t want to play with Jules,” he says. “I want to play with you.”

“Is that so?” I ask sarcastically. I want to slap him across the face. I want to tell him that I don’t need to go out with a jerk like him. I could date any guy I want. Guys who actually invite me to their house, and take me to movies, and tell me
how great I look. I want to say this right to his face, but my lip is trembling, so instead, I blurt, “Tell me, why are you so mean?”

Ian looks almost embarrassed for once. He says, “You sort of pissed me off.”

“I was joking,” I snap.

“I know. I lost it. Sorry. But fencing is kinda personal with me.” He slouches forward on his bike. I can tell this isn’t easy for him. He’s not the type to apologize. He waits for me to say something.

I stare at his face, and he stares right back, serious and quiet, not messing around. Why is it that when a guy is sincere for about twenty seconds, you already feel your heart melting?

“Let me make it up to you,” he says. “What are you doing Saturday night?”

“Icing my toe. And babysitting Buzz.”

“Great. I’ll keep you company,” he says.

I look away. I drag out the moment, like saying yes would be doing him the biggest favor in the entire world. But now he’s smirking, ’cause he knows I’m giving in. He reaches for me and pulls me close. He wraps his arms around my shoulders. I slide my hands under his jacket. Then we French-kiss, right on the sidewalk, and neither of us cares who sees.

“It Ain’t Me Babe”

I learn everything I can about fencing from Mr. Gabor, not because Ian’s interested in it, but because I am. I like the style of movement and the strategy of the fight. Mr. Gabor says that “fencing is like chess for athletes.” It’s a game for the mind as much as the body. When I walk to school, I play matches in my head. At home, I train every day. In class, I like to fight against the
J
s. I never spar with Ian anymore. Carla keeps him on a tight leash. Sometimes I feel him watching me, studying my progress and technique, and I’m flattered, but I keep away. Fencing is enough of a dangerous game.

At the end of October, as a kind of wrap-up, Mr. Gabor teaches us the first part of the duel sequence from
Hamlet
, act 5, scene 2. It’s the climax, where Hamlet and Laertes fight to the death. Mr. Gabor’s choreography is fast and exciting—lots of lunges and clashing swords. There’s even a part where Laertes swipes at Hamlet’s legs, and Hamlet has to jump over the blade.

Geoff ends up partnering with Ian. It’s a terrible combination. Geoff leaps at Ian like Nureyev doing a grand jeté, and Ian snaps. “What are you? A ballerina?”

Mr. Gabor barks, “Slater, keep a lid on it.” Then he turns to me and says, “Ms. Epstein, please switch places with Mr. Jones.”

I have no choice. For the first time in weeks, I come face-to-face with Ian. He gives me a mocking bow and says, “Rapunzel, you’ve been avoiding me.”

“No,” I say defensively.

Ian smirks. “You’re looking stronger.”

“I practice.”

“I noticed. Do you want to be Hamlet or Laertes?” he asks.

“Hamlet,” I say. “I like Hamlet better.”

“Then I’ll be Laertes, but you’ll have to work hard to hit me. Salute.” He raises his sword.

“En garde,” I say.

Ian smiles and we spring into action. We work through the sequence a couple of times with Ian offering comments and advice. “Keep your tip up,” he says when my sword sags. “Relax,” he says. “You can’t fence if you’re tense.” I shake out my shoulders and take a deep breath. We vary the pace of the fight, drawing out the suspense, circling each other, then pushing hard and fast so the fight becomes dramatic and intense.

At the end of the session, Mr. Gabor stops the class and asks everyone to stand against the wall. He turns on the spotlights so they illuminate the center of the studio, and then asks Ian and me to demonstrate. “With dialogue,” he instructs.

Ian and I move to opposite ends of the performance space, as if we are Hamlet and Laertes preparing for a “friendly” duel.
Of course, Hamlet doesn’t yet realize that King Claudius and Laertes have poisoned the tip of Laertes’s sword, so that Laertes has only to prick Hamlet’s skin in order to cause his swift and painful death.