Veneer (4 page)

The first drops of water were cold, but they warmed quickly as Rosalia put her face under the stream. It felt like a soft massage on her eyelids, little pokes and prods around her mouth. She parted her lips, drew in some water, and pushed it out again. The sudden deluge moved down her chin and neck, reminding her of Deron again. Unlike on the treadmill, here she could close her eyes, put away the bright and flashy world for a moment and live just within herself. It was a state of consciousness that she was always trying to teach Deron about, but he seemed more interested in the real and physical, as most boys were. Still, there were moments when he almost understood, when they would sit together with their eyes closed, not talking, hands barely touching, and be satisfied.

Rosalia withdrew from the waterfall and brushed her hands over her eyes. On her right, Ilya’s head appeared over the neck-high partition.

“What are you thinking about?” Her veneer was slight at best, making her smile more sincere than its reconciled counterpart. Although they had shared classes for most of the year, it was the first time that Ilya had ever really engaged in conversation.

“Nothing,” replied Rosalia, dispensing some soap into her palm.

“My grandmother says that when a woman closes her eyes and sways to music only she can hear, she is always thinking of a man.”

“Then you know who I was thinking about.”

Ilya smiled thinly. “I heard you guys have gone all the way,” she whispered. “Is it true?”

“What do you think?”

“It’s hard to tell,” she admitted. “But there has to be a reason you’re so calm compared to these other girls.” She motioned with her head to the stall across the aisle.

Rosalia glanced back and saw the borderline anorexic body of Vera Delgado covered in suds. She huffed and said, “Not even a good fucking could solve
her
problems.”

Ilya giggled as she pulled her hair together behind her head.

“Can you keep a secret?” asked Rosalia, leaning closer to the wall. Her shoulder touched the cold tile, sending a small shiver up her spine. “We haven’t actually done it.”

“Oh,” said Ilya. “So you’re using it as incentive. Me too.”

“Who are you seeing?” Rosalia was happy to change the subject.

“No one right now.”

“Any leads?”

She shook her head, turned away to wash the shampoo from her hair. “I think I’ve played enough of the Central field. Though Deron’s friend is kinda cute, right?”

“Sebo? Have you ever listened to him talk? He’s all veneer and no substance.”

“Yeah, but we’re all that way.”

“Maybe,” said Rosalia, dialing off the water.

Ilya stepped out of her stall at the same time, but unlike Rosalia, she held her towel in her hand instead of wrapped around her body like a normal person. “Hey,” she said, before Rosalia could walk away.

“Yeah?” Even though she told her eyes not to move, they still managed to inventory the slender Ukrainian.

“See you in Pre-Cal?” The smile on her face didn’t match the banality of her question.

“Sure.”

Rosalia resumed her trek to the lockers and sat down on the bench facing hers. For a moment, the image of Ilya’s body flashed in her head but before a verdict of envy or judgment could be rendered, it was gone. Ilya might have been a model in the making, but Rosalia didn’t consider her more attractive than herself. Looking down as she dried her legs, she examined her body, wondered if Deron would ever prefer Ilya’s petite European curves to her own proportions.

With a smirk, she pulled her bag from her locker and extracted the plain, unreconciled clothes. They were all the same dull gray, but they wouldn’t remain that way. All it took was a little concentration and she could be dressed in any style she wanted. Within reason, of course.

4 - Deron

Between classes, the halls of Easton Central were a mix of vibrant colors and positive reinforcement. Every square inch of real estate had a non-threatening image or a piece of sound advice. Sometimes it was overwhelming; Deron wasn’t always in the mood to be accosted by virtual cheerleaders or by flashy ads that promoted regular attendance and good citizenship. Now in his third year at Central, he had learned to tune out the audio-visual bombardment.

When classes were in session and the halls were empty, it was as if the school grew depressed. The colors faded, the animated characters shuffled off into the virtual distance, and the maxims of the school’s guidance counselor lost their hypnotic luster. It made Deron think there was nothing sadder than a reconciled wall without an audience. They didn’t even take notice of him as he walked by.

Getting out of class had been easier than expected. All he had to do was fake an illness, say that he was going to throw up and better to do it in the nurse’s office than at his desk. So with twenty-five minutes left in the period, he ventured out into the hallway with the confidence only a signed note from a teacher could afford. At the intersection with the atrium where he should have turned right to go to Nurse Hendricks’ office, he turned left and ducked into the dead-end hallway between the two band rooms. The door to the storage room was slightly ajar and Deron took a quick look around before he slipped inside.

In the dim lighting, he could only make out the general shapes of various instrument cases and music stands with sharp edges pointing every direction. Deron made his way around the French horns and trombones to a small alcove hidden around a corner. There, he found an old couch that hadn’t been reconciled in years, a dusty piano with a few broken keys, and most importantly, Rosalia.

She smiled at him from the couch and beckoned him to sit down. The cushion made a whooshing sound when he dropped onto it. At Rosalia’s level, her smile didn’t seem as genuine anymore, as if she were just using it to mask some minor trepidation.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, nudging her with his shoulder.

There was hesitation in her eyes and Deron was observant enough to see the flicker of color pass over them. She looked away for a moment and then said, “I’ve decided to kill Russo.”

She was joking, of course, but Deron played along. “Why?”

“He put up another shop,” she replied. The palette in her lap was blank, but when she placed her thumb on it, the colors started cycling in from the edges. It took her a moment to reproduce the image, as if she were having trouble remembering it. At last, she angled the palette towards Deron so he could see the finished product.

“Uh oh,” he said, taking in the artwork. “It looks like I’ve spilled peanut butter on my vagina.”

Rosalia tried to stifle her laughter.

“And that Terrier looks like trouble,” he continued, nodding his head thoughtfully. Suddenly, his face went sad and he put his hand to his chin. “Can I ask you something serious?”

“Yeah.” Her face mirrored his expression.

“Does this picture make my legs look fat?”

Rosalia bit her lip. “Why aren’t you mad?”

“What’s there to be mad about?”

“This was in the girls’ bathroom!”

Deron sighed and stood up. It was just another shop. Disgusting yes, but no more vile than the hundred others Russo had created.

“It’s not a big deal,” he said, sitting at the piano. He struck a few random keys, thought it sounded like a familiar melody. “There’s not a girl in this school that thinks I have a puss.”

“Seeing is believing,” said Rosalia in a sententious tone.

“So really, the basic premise of the picture is wrong.”

“Yeah, but maybe everyone thinks that if you
did
have one, you would put peanut butter on it and try to attract small dogs.”

Deron struck a dissonant chord on the left side of the keyboard and threw his hands up in the air in mock outrage. “Who knows what I would do if I had a vagina?! I mean, if you think about it, waking up one day as a girl would probably break me mentally. All bets would be off.”

“That doesn’t excuse—”

He turned on the bench and put up a finger. “I think it does. A lot of human behavior could be explained away by the phrase ‘but yesterday I had a wang.’”

Rosalia’s face squirmed; she was cute when she tried not to laugh.

They stared at each other for a full minute before Deron finally said, “Puppy love.”

“Gross!” She lifted her palette, threatened to throw it at him.

Deron put up his arms to protect his face as he returned to the couch. They struggled briefly for control of the weapon before he managed to disarm her. As he stared at his new prize, a reminder about the exam popped up in the corner, bringing the reality of school back to the equipment room.

He handed the palette back to Rosalia and asked, “Are you gonna tell me about the story or not?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Can you keep your mind off interspecies sex for ten minutes?”

Deron’s eyes narrowed. “Who could really make that promise?”

“A normal person.” Rosalia’s palette dimmed and then returned with the title of the story in large, baroque lettering. “Now, pay attention.”

He tried to listen, really made an effort to concentrate on what Rosalia was saying. She used her palette to help him imagine the characters, gave them faces she estimated from their written descriptions. In the right context, it would have been invaluable in preparing for the upcoming test, but Deron found himself scrutinizing her veneer. He spent several minutes staring at her hands, at her fingers as they moved across the palette, correcting a smudge here or an errant line there. She was a natural talent at reconciliation, always had been.

Although they first met in elementary school, they never even shared a teacher until junior high. It was one day in seventh grade that he found her sitting alone in the cafeteria, her breakfast cooling, untouched. Sitting down beside her, he noticed the faraway look in her eyes.

“You okay?”

Rosalia shook her head and cleared away whatever thoughts had been bothering her. Her face grew more animated and she replied in a normal voice, “Oh, hi.”

“You just wake up or something?” he asked.

She gave a nervous laugh. “I had a bad dream last night. Can’t shake the feeling, you know?”

Deron nodded, having had his share. “Tell me about it,” he said. “I’ll tell you what it means.” He didn’t have the first clue what dreams really meant, but he was confident he could make a joke on any subject and hopefully put a smile back on her face.

“It was strange,” she began, her eyes drifting away again. “I was walking in a park or something, at night. There were little lampposts on the sidewalk. Then there was a building, a really old one. It was made of some kind of pink stone. I went inside and it was really quiet.”

Deron’s mouth opened in amazement. The table under his backpack had begun to shimmer and through it he could see the faint image of an expansive green lawn broken up by a cobblestone path. As Rosalia recounted the dream, the image bent to her narration. He saw the interior of a premodern building where the walls were polished stone instead of reconciled patterns. There was even a wobbly avatar of Rosalia walking through the cavernous rooms like a lost child. When he looked over at her for confirmation, he found that she had closed her eyes.

A crowd formed as Rosalia crested the stairs. Surprisingly, they all remained quiet, entranced just as Deron was by the scene playing out on the large table. The haze disappeared and everything became a level of crisp that rivaled reality. A window came into view, cut right into the stone walls with smaller bricks forming its outline. It was flat on the bottom and angled to a point on the top. Rosalia’s avatar paused at the window, put her hands on the sill, and stared out into the night.

In the distance, the ocean swelled with waves too large for the current scale. Above, stars poked out from the black sheet, twinkled in their own carefree way before the brilliance of a full moon blotted them out. It was too close, taking up too much real estate in the infinite sky. Every detail was clear. Every crater and ridge looked dangerously real.

Deron smiled at Rosalia. There was a look of intense concentration on her face as if she were pushing the memory down through her arms and out her fingers. Then, a tremor appeared at the edge of her mouth, followed by a flaring of her nostrils. Deron looked back at the table in time to see the moon crashing into the ocean, sending up an enormous spray that shook Rosalia free of the window. Her avatar struggled to stay on its feet even as the world moved out from under her.

Gravity shifted; trees broke free and floated into the void, their roots still clinging to clumps of earth.

The laws of physics ceased to exist. Staring at the horror in the avatar’s face, Deron suddenly understood. He put a hand on Rosalia’s shoulder to bring her out of the trance. She looked at him, hesitated, and then shrugged his hand away.

“That was beautiful,” said a girl with a pink bow in her hair. When Rosalia didn’t respond, she pointed to the table. The image was already fading.

As the crowd dispersed, Deron asked quietly, “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You made it look so real.”

Rosalia pulled her backpack into her lap. “I don’t know. It’s just something I can do.”

She left him sitting there at the table with the memory of the moon looming in his mind. He had always wanted to ask her about the dream, but never got a chance. Now they had been dating since the winter break and he had almost forgotten all about it.

A pleasant bell ringing in the distance broke Deron from his reflection. Rosalia was still talking about the story and his eyes locked onto her glistening lips as they came together to form sounds. She always wore some kind of lip gloss; Deron thought the Root Beer flavored one tasted best. Caught up in the imagined moment, he leaned forward to kiss her.

Rosalia put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, we should go.”

“Do you remember when we first met?”

“At Bowie?” she asked, slipping her palette into her bag.

“No, in junior high. Remember in the cafeteria? You reconciled a whole table.”

“Are you sure that was me?” She led him to the door and peeked outside.