MSCL Fic--"Staring Down The Sun" Chapter 7
YESSS!
Chapter Title: "Complete(ly Miserable)"
Fandom: My So-Called Life
Pairings/Characters: Rayanne/Sharon, Angela, Rickie, Amber and others.
Rating: PG-13 for "it's a kissing story", drug use, swearing, mentions of sex and teenage-brand humour.
Word Count: 4575
DISCLAIMER: Still live with my parents.
Summary: On a field trip to the art museum, Rayanne's reading Angela's unsent letter when she overhears a fight...
This one's for you, lalagirl33 (aka beta extraordinare)!
Past chapters here
Chapter Seven: "Complete(ly Miserable)"
"Dear Jordan,
I love you. No, wait, I hate you. But now I love you again. My indecisive mind is all your fault. For you are like a mountain--no, wait--you are like an airplane--no, wait--you are like a beautiful song. Like, a Crowded House song. You don't know me. You pretend you do, but you don't. No, wait, you do. No, wait, you don't. No, wait..."
Three pages later...
"Love Sincerely,
Angela Chase"
All right, so maybe I was paraphrasing the letter a bit, but honestly? This was all I could make out of Angela's unsent note to Jordan Catalano. She'd given it to me fifteen minutes ago as we arrived at the art museum. I loved field trips; you could pretend to be learning even as you were getting drunk, or checking the entire female Class Of '97, or giggling over your best friend's obvious--and quite permanent--lust over a rocker who didn't understand the word 'lyric'.
As multitaskers go, I was pretty good. The pithy fact that none of my tasks were, how do you say, productive, didn't mean squat.
But back to the letter. Angela wrote well, there was no denying that, but not even on paper did she stop having wild mood swings (not that this wasn't a "Pot, meet Kettle" kind of situation). Nor did she back off in her unrelenting obsession with Catalano. Sure, she entertained other thoughts for a while, but those thoughts were always interrupted by one thing. And that thing was--
Hey, wait a minute! Wasn't that Cherski over there behind the whale sculpture? Why was she... gesturing and talking animatedly? To thin air?
Overcome, I crept spy-like across the room and crouched behind an empty display cabinet, viewing her through the glass. I figured the villainess had gone slightly insane--and the thought didn't really shock me--until I grasped that she was talking to something hiding behind a harpoon statue. When I cocked my head as far as I could, sure enough, the side of Kyle Vinovich materialized. He appeared just as frustrated as her, shaking his head violently as she hissed words at him. God I hated that guy so much right now, and I hardly knew why. I pressed my face against the bottom of the glass and tried to hear.
"I don't understand why you have to keep pressuring me. I'm not ready, okay? Nothing you, or any of your stupid friends, say, will change that."
"Babe, I know you're scared, but--"
"I'm not scared, Kyle. I'm just not ready to have sex!" She mimicked his shaking of the head and ran her hands through wild hair. "Can't you get that through your thick--"
"Hey! There's no need to insult me, okay?"
I snickered. Vinovich glanced my way.
"I mean, it's been a month."
"I just don't think we're close enough to--"
"No, more than a month. Counting the first time we went out. I mean, how much closer do we have to get?" He spoke this last part softly and took a step toward her. But she wasn't buying it.
Her arms wrapped around herself. "A lot closer, Kyle. And... I doubt that's going to... happen."
"What's that supposed to mean? I mean, do you even love me?"
Silence. Then, "No."
"What?" His voice got dangerous and he stepped a foot closer. "You're lying."
"Well, you're the one that asked!" She shuddered a sigh and bent her head to the ground. "Kyle, I..." I barely caught the next thing she whispered: "I don't think this is working out."
The room got so quiet I felt that if a bomb went off somewhere in the museum, it'd be a relief.
"No. No, you're not breaking up with me," Vinovich said eventually. "You can't be."
"I'm sorry, Kyle." She'd almost walked away, but then...
"Wait a minute." And he snatched her arm. Sonofabitch, he was way too lame to get to hurt her. (That was what I told myself as I winced.) "Sharon, I love you. I shoulda told you sooner. There, is that what you wanted to hear?"
"Ow! Kyle, you're hurting me!" Her face was taut with pain and irritation. I rose up for a second to help her, then realized I had a screw loose and slumped down.
"Say you love me," he murmured. "Look, quit moving around. I'm not even holding you that hard."
"I--don't--" She somehow wrenched her arm free and accidentally whacked him; I whooped inside my head. "Love you, Kyle."
He lit up. "You do?"
Oh, for Elmo's sake...
"I said I don't!" She seemed aghast at the loudness of her voice, but I wanted to cheer her on. Maybe get one of those foam finger things. At the same time I wanted to deck her for dealing a bigger blow to stupid Vinovich that I ever could. She leaned toward him and continued quietly: "I'm breaking up with you, Kyle. I know you may not like it, but... but... I have to go."
And she bolted out of the room.
Vinovich looked confused for a second before he grunted and chased after her. I could hear his voice carrying through the museum: "You'll regret this, Sharon! You regretted it last time and you'll regret it again..." Ha. Ha. Screw punching Cherski, this was gold.
It was a lot like a soap opera. No, scratch "a lot like". It was a soap opera. Sharon could have been the nitwit femme fatale who was always getting pregnant, and Vinovich... Vinovich was the guy in the shady corner, twirling his evil moustache in between his fingers, a top hat resting on his head. At the end he'd sit in the back of a police car telling everyone they'd rue the day. So what did that make me?
Probably the girl crouched behind an empty display cabinet realizing she was out of vodka.
"Do you need help, miss?"
Caught off guard, I jumped to a standing position and spun to face the goofy voice. "Guh! You scared me."
The dude merely simpered, running a hand through oily black hair. "Hi, I'm George, your friendly museum guard." As in, eighty-year-old school janitor George? I mentally shuddered. At least that George was too wise to hit on me.
"Good for you, pal," I snapped and again faced the cabinet.
He didn't back down. "Are you lost? 'Cause I can definitely help you in that department, if you know what I mean." I could see his reflection and boy, did it creep me out. Smooth wink. Sparkling white teeth. The stupidest grin known to man.
For the next few seconds, my brain broke many a gear trying to formulate a proper diss--and all the while, George had that freaky smile on his face. Then I had it. A holy occasion--the perfect insult. My mouth quivered in anticipation of delivering such a gospel: "Are you getting lost? 'Cause I can definitely help in that department."
Oh, how I wished to taste the air for its sweetness.
Life had meaning again. I had purpose, a duty, a position, and I was off in seek of it. Two words: Rebound. Fling.
---
Fifteen minutes later, wandering through the portrait gallery, I found her. She was leaning on one of the velvet red ropes and when I came up from the side, I could see her profile. She looked sober--not that Bambi here had ever drank or done anything fun in her life, except for... well, I wasn't going there again. But she resembled some philosopher. Deep Thoughts With Sharon Cherski.
I coughed. It got me nowhere last time, but I was a "try anything twice" type of gal. Plus, I couldn't think up a good line. I gleefully expected her to yell at me.
Instead, she groaned. It wasn't a 'There's Rayanne Graff' groan, either. "Kyle! How many times do I have to tell you we're through, I--oh." She turned around milliseconds before that syllable, and furrowed her brows milliseconds after it. "What are you doing here?"
"Um, field trip. Remember?"
"Oh."
Oh? That was it? After all the trouble I'd--okay, I hadn't really gone to any trouble, but dammit! I was used to getting her goat. I relished it. I had to cause like a, a chemical reaction of epic proportions. Or at least come up with a better line than, "Hem, hem."
"So, uh..." I began, staring idly up at Winston Churchill's fat, glaring face. "So what's up?"
It was times like these when I made Brian Krakow seem like the world's biggest lady killer. I had to try again.
"I mean, I heard this rumour that Closeted Poet Chick called it quits with uh... Closeted Jock Guy. Know anything about that?" Mission accomplished. I alternately studied her and Winston, and waited for her to catch on.
Which she did. She wasn't as stupid as she--well, she wasn't that dumb, let's put it that way. "Closeted?" Her face scrunched up cutely--er, irritatingly. "You don't mean... Kyle's not gay!"
I smirked at her half-giggle and at her not prodding the other insinuation. "Maybe not, but he's an idiot, and a manhandling jerk, and I can't really blame ya for not wanting to do him." Oh God, what had I just said? Hopefully she'd be stupid this time.
She smiled incredulously at me before just looking incredulous. "What do you mean, manhandled? And how do you know I--you saw something. You saw something, didn't you? Did you, like, spy on me?"
Deny deny deny. "What? Pfft, no!" I scoffed loudly for a few seconds then chanced a look at her. She had her hands on her hips. Damn. "I happened to be in the, y'know... general... vicinity?"
"Uh huh."
This sucked. Why did she suddenly have the upper hand and why was I suddenly babbling? Must have been love. "Yeah, okay, ya got me. Whatcha gonna do..." My smirk returned. "Have any handcuffs, Cherski?"
Rayanne Graff - one; Hot Girl - zip.
She comprehended this for a second, finally got it, and shook her head; it completely made up for the lack of a proper groan. "Ugh. You are so--" She searched around for the right diss, as I had before, but she needed more practise.
"Well? What's the answer?"
"Ugh!" She threw her hands in the air; now the score was two to zero. But then she started to walk away. The gap was closing; maybe she did know how to play the game after all. Maybe she knew I'd chase after her.
"Hey, Cherski, wait up!" My feet hit the polished wood hard. I hated her, seriously. "Look, I thought we were cool."
That made her stop, got the motion back in my favour. "We are... cool," she relented and faced me. Her whole expression crinkled."It's just... sometimes you can be such a guy."
"That's 'cause the bums I hang out with influence me. Like, all my friends are guys, whatdya expect?"
"I guess. But what about..."
"What about what?" I asked. Cherski looked away--coy or ashamed, I couldn't tell. "Oh, you mean Angela?"
"Well, I-I mean--"
"Look, how 'bout we do a trade-off?"
"A... trade-off, what--"
"Of information." I nodded decisively, for both of us. "You tell me about your jock problems, I tell you what's happenin' with Chase."
"What, this is like, blackmail now?"
"It ain't blackmail, it's a fair trade of information! Come on, I'm not sticking around forever. Going once... going twice..."
"Ugh, okay, fine, fine! But can we go someplace else? Richard Nixon is like, staring at me."
I guffawed and gave ol' Dick a flirty wink--but sadly enough, it wasn't for him at all. "That dog. Yo, let's check out the modern art."
"Modern--" She huffed again, squinting intently. "You like modern art?"
"Nah. I just like makin' fun of it. C'mon."
Cherski kept squinting at me 'til I literally spun myself past her, going around in circles with half my cowboy shirt hanging off my arm and my bag drooping low to the ground. I didn't think any more of my hatred. We were actually going somewhere together! To "talk"! As I swivelled back to her, my gaze instead landed on a familiar, far less attractive, face. I did my victory lap. And I did it right past George the Museum Guard.
---
"So then he looks at me all like, 'Pfft, dude, that is so not romantic.' Like, what, he thinks doing guys is about romance? I'll tell you what's really romantic. It's romantic when they take, like, five minutes. No, no, wait. More like five seconds."
Sharon nodded as if she understood what the hell I was talking about, when really, I didn't even know what the hell I was talking about. Or why I was talking about it to her. Just having her eyes on me, and her giggles for me, made me yap. About anything. It was awful. "So what did Angela say?"
"Um, Angela said..." I cocked my head at the Picasso wannabe across from where we sat. "She said--you know what, I was really drunk." At that, I cracked into hysterics again and it made no sense. Maybe because it made no sense. I'd been telling her about that time in the Let's Bolt parking lot, only leaving out a few very minor details. Like just how drunk I must have been to fall in love with Angela for that one night.
"You were drunk?" Sharon said, her smile a little more terse.
"Oh yeah! I remember now. She said, it was something like," I put on my Harlequin romance voice (I was a woman of many accents), 'It hurts to look at your beauty. Sigh...'"
Sharon watched as I brought the back of my palm to my forehead and swooned all over the expensive wrought-iron bench. She watched, but the smile had evaporated from her face.
"Anyways, so then I was like--"
"Um, I don't think you should be here."
Our heads upturned in unison to meet Krakow, as in, Brian Krakow. He just stood there and shifted from one foot to the other, gawkily, because everything he did was gawky. The expression on his face--incredulous, never ever in-the-know--proved it. Yet apparently, he was the smartest kid in school.
"Heya, Bri! What can we do for ya?" Man, I loved that pet name. I wondered if he thought he had any kind of chance with me.
"Uh..." he said, deer meeting headlights, and tried to recapture his sanctimony. This guy was way too much fun. "I just--said that--you know, Lerner told us to stay with the group."
I angled forward. "And?"
"And--I just--you know, think that--we should like follow the rules. Because they're there for a reason. And if no one follows rules, it becomes, like, anarchy!"
"That's a very good point, Bri. Now tell me: where is your group? Or did you just break away from them to deliver that, very thoughtful, public service announcement?"
"Just shut up, okay?!" he broke through my public sarcasm announcement. "They're around here somewhere--which is--which is completely not the point." Krakow looked to Cherski for help but she only shrugged condescendingly.
Fake empathy overtook my face as I stage-whispered, "You better go catch them then, you don't wanna become an anarchist!"
He scowled and gawked his way off.
An appropriate amount of time lapsed before Sharon and I burst open laughing, so hard than we leaned on each other for support and her leg brushed against mine. No, not just brushed, but stayed there for a good ten seconds. I'd never been more glad that I was born female. Poor Krakow. His, er, "excitement" was probably much more visible... which would explain why Angela wanted nothing to do with him.
But then, thinking about that could really ruin the mood.
While I tried to shut down my brain, Sharon calmed down and brought her legs up underneath her, Indian-style. Dammit. The scrutiny she gave me, though, and the little way she bit her lip, made up for it. It was dim amazement, like I was one of those modern art paintings and she had to write an essay on my meaning. But there was no meaning, so eventually she just said: "Can I ask you a question?"
'Take me now, Cherski.' "Shoot."
"Um... like, it's just, you know--" She exhaled like a dying man. "Are the rumours true, about Angela having complete sex in the back of Jordan Catalano's... like, car?"
What? After all that, she had to ruin the day and bring up some dumb rumour she--
Now I remembered. After all the confusion of kissing her and her kissing back and that whole boiler room thing and that whole haiku thing... my head hurt. It was always this way. I was always supposed to hate her. Things changed so fast, and now they were changing again. "As opposed to what, the back of his bike?"
Cherski backed up a bit at my tone. "No, I mean it's just... how I heard it." Smooth.
"How you--what a crock. The rumours you started aren't true." I didn't add that it was actually pretty cool gossip. Her heart still hadn't exactly been in the right place.
"No! I didn't start them! I mean... I mean..." She fingered the iron of the bench. "Someone told me, okay? And, well, he didn't exactly say they, like, had it. But Kra--the person who told me, like, can't say the word 'sex' anyway... I thought--I thought she would have. Considering."
"Considering what?"
The corner of her eye challenged me. "Considering how she's been acting," she said levelly, but her gaze retreated and I could see her trying to swallow the tension.
"Oh." Low and attempting to stay just as balanced. "Like who she's been hanging out with, you mean?"
"I didn't--"
"You meant to. I guess 'cause she hangs out with me, that automatically makes her a slut, huh?"
"No, I'm not--"
"Well then what does that make you?" I tried to breathe but could only force myself off the bench. Cherski watched as I stalked past her and back again. I was restless. I was tired. I was starving. I was all that I always was. "Why are you here anyway?" I said to the long, long hall in front of me. "Aren't you s'posed to hate me?"
"I'm here because I want to be. And because..." As she trailed off, I couldn't stop myself from looking back at her. Her head bowed and her next words were scarcely there. "Because... I'm alone."
I scoffed. "You have friends, Cherski."
"I know. And they're probably like, way nicer than yours--no offence. But none of them are Angela. Sometimes I really... miss her." She raised her head and her eyes contemplated mine.
Every time we saw each other like that felt like the first... first trip to the moon. A strange, alien world was right there in front of us. Maybe that's why I said it. "Me too."
"Have you ever felt, like, so hurt that you--I mean, I know you've started rumours about people before. Like Jody Barsch."
What?
"That's different!" I yelled, feeling stranded. The spaceship or whatever had left without me and I was running out of air. "Just... shut up, Cherski." I began walking again. To nowhere, really.
Those fucking dainty footsteps came up behind me. Great. "Look, if you, like, don't want to talk about this--"
"I don't wanna talk, period. Not to you." I passed by some painting that consisted of a bunch of stripes on my way out of the modern art section. Her hand brushed against my shoulder; I was too fast.
"Did something like--you know what, if it's not important then that's fine."
"It's the bee's knees. I'm still not talking to you."
We didn't say much for a while, but I knew I'd never lose her. So finally I stopped in front of a painting I didn't pay much attention to, except to notice that a six-year-old probably drew it. I bravely faced Sharon. "Look, I'm usually the one doin' the stalking so could you like, scram?"
"I don't think you're a slut."
I blinked. "Even if I believed that--which I don't--"
Sharon did an about-face, composed herself, and raised her voice. "Are you capable of letting me finish?" The sentence was complete with several wacky hand gestures. "Now. As I was trying to say, I don't think you're a slut. I think you're annoying as heck sometimes, and... and sometimes I hate you. But I can't just walk away--as much as I would like to sometimes," she added under her breath, "because, as much as it bugs me to, like, death? You sort of... get me. I can tell you things I can't tell anyone else. I mean, I haven't told another living soul about, well, you know..."
"Your confusion or whatever?"
She scoffed. "Right. Go ahead. Make a stupid joke."
But I couldn't think of one. I couldn't think, period. "I shouldn't have to take this crap," I said a bit hoarsely.
"I mean, it's just that..." She started a tiny grin that seemed almost ironic. "I mean I have never had such weird conversations. It's almost like we're getting nowhere, we're, like, strangers, but then? Then suddenly we're not. When really, we are. It's just... what's the word, what's the word..."
"Vulnerable." I said it against my will. God save me. God kill her, please, please?
She nodded slowly. "Kind of. But also something else." The way she forced my gaze to meet her weirdly calm one was just pointless. Why was I here? Why could I never shut my mouth when I needed silence the most? "Anyway," she broke the contact by seeing in every direction but mine and started chewing on her lip, "there's just one... more... thing."
"Oh yeah? What?" It wasn't even me. It was my evil, Cherski-enslaved twin. What other explanation could there be?
"Don't," she said, "look up at that painting."
I instinctively found the painting behind us, the kindergarten Van Gogh. It was a picture of two sideshow freaks kissing. They both had the same condition: their lips were ginormous. And they were naked as two shaved puppies.
Forgetting my sulky resolve, I raised my eyebrows at Sharon. "Wow, I'm scarred for life at how awful that is. Thanks for the warning."
"But don't you, like, notice anything strange?" she said quietly, still murdering the skin on her lower lip. I shook my head and she met my eyes, whispering dramatically: "They're both women."
I double-checked and noticed the poorly done boobs. "Oh. Well, that changes everything. Seeing this painting, which a four-year-old drew of his two mommies, has made me want to maul you with unrelenting lust."
"Oh, shut up." She dismissed me with a loud click of her mouth, but there were stars in her eyes. Nervous, crazy, sexually ambiguous stars. "But, it doesn't like... like remind you, of anything?"
"Sure it does." Was she batting her eyelashes at me? Seriously? I grinned, loving the idea of setting her up again: "It reminds me of that movie. Like, that flick with uh... what's her face, with the really long legs? Sharon Stone. I guess she's your alter ego, huh?"
"Shut--I mean, like, whatever." The eyelashes struck out. We were closing in on each other. "So, um... what did you write about? For the Lit?"
She'd again dismantled me. "Oh. Well uh, of course it wasn't as sensational as yours..."
"Shut up," she breathed.
Our shoulders were touching. My bag bumped her leg. Her amazingly-tight-jeans leg. I remembered. Sweet. Bitter. Enchanting. Tasteless. Fallacy. "Vodka."
She squinted at the truth. "Your poem?"
I nodded and inched closer. My thoughts didn't move. "Vodka."
She smiled, almost a simper. Edged closer. "Oh." Like it was her duty to say something.
Couldn't think more than a few words at a time. Like drunkenness--light, free, willing.
"So what does it remind you of," I paused, exhaled her name, "Cherski?"
She gulped--couldn't blame her. So close, so close.
"Graff. Rayanne."
So close, so close.
Our... everything was touching. Her blouse hung off her shoulder. Just a little bit. There was this... round thing where her arm began. Like a socket. It all became too... blurry. Her eyes molded into one big eye. Hot cyclops.
Then there was no eye. She'd shut them, leaning in. I inhaled and did the same...
Closer. Closer.
But then... nothing. I cracked one eye open, then the other. Blinking washed the blurriness away. She walked in the wrong direction. The direction not to me. "Cherski..."
"I can't," she said, strangled. Then she turned, and I hardly recognized her. The emotion in her face, in her posture, it was all gone. Her jaw set, and she yelled the only thing that gave her away as human: "I can't! Please... just leave me alone." Then the hall was empty. No.
Hot, Evil Girl - a million; Rayanne Graff - zip.
I slumped against the wall and fumed. Wasn't I s'posed to be the one walking away when I was done? She wanted me to leave her alone, but she wouldn't leave me alone. What the hell gave her that right? The right to make my day the most confusing trial ever? Seriously, first I was amused, then sneaky, then vengeful yet lapdog-ish, then ecstatic, then furious, then disturbed, then lustful and thoughtless, and now lustful, furious and with a numbing loss of control. Around her, I had a serious case of Multiple Personality Disorder.
The thing about "principled" girls was, they really sucked at rebound flings.
I rubbed from my eyes the minute wetness that said I never got anything right. It wasn't like I cried over girls, or was doing so now--that would have branded me a chump forever. But crying over myself? I did that more than I could tolerate. Sometimes it came on so sudden, for no reason at all. Frequently the reason was the lack of, or too much, booze. I knew I was--
"Rayanne!"
Oy with the interruptions already. I faced the callous voice: Angela's delighted face.
"Rayanne, Oh my God," she squealed, grabbing me, "you will not believe this. I'm not even sure I believe this."
Ah, Angela. A happy drunk but totally sober. I wished I could write an idealistic letter but my inner cynic would never let me live it down.
"Jordan Catalano and I, like, had an actual conversation!"
Wait a goddamned second. The letter! Shit. Where had I left it?
"And it was a nice one, too. Like, really nice!"
This was it. I deserved the guillotine. Transport me to the 1600s or whatever and give me a public execution.
"The only thing I couldn't figure out is, what brought this on?"
She kept hanging on to me as if expecting a taste of my infinite wisdom. Her beam was so big it almost reached her forehead, like in all the comics where horny and fucked up didn't exist and happiness was never fleeting.
"Angelfood, girlfriend, buddy, pal, listen..."
---
Chapter Title: "Complete(ly Miserable)"
Fandom: My So-Called Life
Pairings/Characters: Rayanne/Sharon, Angela, Rickie, Amber and others.
Rating: PG-13 for "it's a kissing story", drug use, swearing, mentions of sex and teenage-brand humour.
Word Count: 4575
DISCLAIMER: Still live with my parents.
Summary: On a field trip to the art museum, Rayanne's reading Angela's unsent letter when she overhears a fight...
This one's for you, lalagirl33 (aka beta extraordinare)!
Past chapters here
Chapter Seven: "Complete(ly Miserable)"
"Dear Jordan,
I love you. No, wait, I hate you. But now I love you again. My indecisive mind is all your fault. For you are like a mountain--no, wait--you are like an airplane--no, wait--you are like a beautiful song. Like, a Crowded House song. You don't know me. You pretend you do, but you don't. No, wait, you do. No, wait, you don't. No, wait..."
Three pages later...
"Love Sincerely,
Angela Chase"
All right, so maybe I was paraphrasing the letter a bit, but honestly? This was all I could make out of Angela's unsent note to Jordan Catalano. She'd given it to me fifteen minutes ago as we arrived at the art museum. I loved field trips; you could pretend to be learning even as you were getting drunk, or checking the entire female Class Of '97, or giggling over your best friend's obvious--and quite permanent--lust over a rocker who didn't understand the word 'lyric'.
As multitaskers go, I was pretty good. The pithy fact that none of my tasks were, how do you say, productive, didn't mean squat.
But back to the letter. Angela wrote well, there was no denying that, but not even on paper did she stop having wild mood swings (not that this wasn't a "Pot, meet Kettle" kind of situation). Nor did she back off in her unrelenting obsession with Catalano. Sure, she entertained other thoughts for a while, but those thoughts were always interrupted by one thing. And that thing was--
Hey, wait a minute! Wasn't that Cherski over there behind the whale sculpture? Why was she... gesturing and talking animatedly? To thin air?
Overcome, I crept spy-like across the room and crouched behind an empty display cabinet, viewing her through the glass. I figured the villainess had gone slightly insane--and the thought didn't really shock me--until I grasped that she was talking to something hiding behind a harpoon statue. When I cocked my head as far as I could, sure enough, the side of Kyle Vinovich materialized. He appeared just as frustrated as her, shaking his head violently as she hissed words at him. God I hated that guy so much right now, and I hardly knew why. I pressed my face against the bottom of the glass and tried to hear.
"I don't understand why you have to keep pressuring me. I'm not ready, okay? Nothing you, or any of your stupid friends, say, will change that."
"Babe, I know you're scared, but--"
"I'm not scared, Kyle. I'm just not ready to have sex!" She mimicked his shaking of the head and ran her hands through wild hair. "Can't you get that through your thick--"
"Hey! There's no need to insult me, okay?"
I snickered. Vinovich glanced my way.
"I mean, it's been a month."
"I just don't think we're close enough to--"
"No, more than a month. Counting the first time we went out. I mean, how much closer do we have to get?" He spoke this last part softly and took a step toward her. But she wasn't buying it.
Her arms wrapped around herself. "A lot closer, Kyle. And... I doubt that's going to... happen."
"What's that supposed to mean? I mean, do you even love me?"
Silence. Then, "No."
"What?" His voice got dangerous and he stepped a foot closer. "You're lying."
"Well, you're the one that asked!" She shuddered a sigh and bent her head to the ground. "Kyle, I..." I barely caught the next thing she whispered: "I don't think this is working out."
The room got so quiet I felt that if a bomb went off somewhere in the museum, it'd be a relief.
"No. No, you're not breaking up with me," Vinovich said eventually. "You can't be."
"I'm sorry, Kyle." She'd almost walked away, but then...
"Wait a minute." And he snatched her arm. Sonofabitch, he was way too lame to get to hurt her. (That was what I told myself as I winced.) "Sharon, I love you. I shoulda told you sooner. There, is that what you wanted to hear?"
"Ow! Kyle, you're hurting me!" Her face was taut with pain and irritation. I rose up for a second to help her, then realized I had a screw loose and slumped down.
"Say you love me," he murmured. "Look, quit moving around. I'm not even holding you that hard."
"I--don't--" She somehow wrenched her arm free and accidentally whacked him; I whooped inside my head. "Love you, Kyle."
He lit up. "You do?"
Oh, for Elmo's sake...
"I said I don't!" She seemed aghast at the loudness of her voice, but I wanted to cheer her on. Maybe get one of those foam finger things. At the same time I wanted to deck her for dealing a bigger blow to stupid Vinovich that I ever could. She leaned toward him and continued quietly: "I'm breaking up with you, Kyle. I know you may not like it, but... but... I have to go."
And she bolted out of the room.
Vinovich looked confused for a second before he grunted and chased after her. I could hear his voice carrying through the museum: "You'll regret this, Sharon! You regretted it last time and you'll regret it again..." Ha. Ha. Screw punching Cherski, this was gold.
It was a lot like a soap opera. No, scratch "a lot like". It was a soap opera. Sharon could have been the nitwit femme fatale who was always getting pregnant, and Vinovich... Vinovich was the guy in the shady corner, twirling his evil moustache in between his fingers, a top hat resting on his head. At the end he'd sit in the back of a police car telling everyone they'd rue the day. So what did that make me?
Probably the girl crouched behind an empty display cabinet realizing she was out of vodka.
"Do you need help, miss?"
Caught off guard, I jumped to a standing position and spun to face the goofy voice. "Guh! You scared me."
The dude merely simpered, running a hand through oily black hair. "Hi, I'm George, your friendly museum guard." As in, eighty-year-old school janitor George? I mentally shuddered. At least that George was too wise to hit on me.
"Good for you, pal," I snapped and again faced the cabinet.
He didn't back down. "Are you lost? 'Cause I can definitely help you in that department, if you know what I mean." I could see his reflection and boy, did it creep me out. Smooth wink. Sparkling white teeth. The stupidest grin known to man.
For the next few seconds, my brain broke many a gear trying to formulate a proper diss--and all the while, George had that freaky smile on his face. Then I had it. A holy occasion--the perfect insult. My mouth quivered in anticipation of delivering such a gospel: "Are you getting lost? 'Cause I can definitely help in that department."
Oh, how I wished to taste the air for its sweetness.
Life had meaning again. I had purpose, a duty, a position, and I was off in seek of it. Two words: Rebound. Fling.
---
Fifteen minutes later, wandering through the portrait gallery, I found her. She was leaning on one of the velvet red ropes and when I came up from the side, I could see her profile. She looked sober--not that Bambi here had ever drank or done anything fun in her life, except for... well, I wasn't going there again. But she resembled some philosopher. Deep Thoughts With Sharon Cherski.
I coughed. It got me nowhere last time, but I was a "try anything twice" type of gal. Plus, I couldn't think up a good line. I gleefully expected her to yell at me.
Instead, she groaned. It wasn't a 'There's Rayanne Graff' groan, either. "Kyle! How many times do I have to tell you we're through, I--oh." She turned around milliseconds before that syllable, and furrowed her brows milliseconds after it. "What are you doing here?"
"Um, field trip. Remember?"
"Oh."
Oh? That was it? After all the trouble I'd--okay, I hadn't really gone to any trouble, but dammit! I was used to getting her goat. I relished it. I had to cause like a, a chemical reaction of epic proportions. Or at least come up with a better line than, "Hem, hem."
"So, uh..." I began, staring idly up at Winston Churchill's fat, glaring face. "So what's up?"
It was times like these when I made Brian Krakow seem like the world's biggest lady killer. I had to try again.
"I mean, I heard this rumour that Closeted Poet Chick called it quits with uh... Closeted Jock Guy. Know anything about that?" Mission accomplished. I alternately studied her and Winston, and waited for her to catch on.
Which she did. She wasn't as stupid as she--well, she wasn't that dumb, let's put it that way. "Closeted?" Her face scrunched up cutely--er, irritatingly. "You don't mean... Kyle's not gay!"
I smirked at her half-giggle and at her not prodding the other insinuation. "Maybe not, but he's an idiot, and a manhandling jerk, and I can't really blame ya for not wanting to do him." Oh God, what had I just said? Hopefully she'd be stupid this time.
She smiled incredulously at me before just looking incredulous. "What do you mean, manhandled? And how do you know I--you saw something. You saw something, didn't you? Did you, like, spy on me?"
Deny deny deny. "What? Pfft, no!" I scoffed loudly for a few seconds then chanced a look at her. She had her hands on her hips. Damn. "I happened to be in the, y'know... general... vicinity?"
"Uh huh."
This sucked. Why did she suddenly have the upper hand and why was I suddenly babbling? Must have been love. "Yeah, okay, ya got me. Whatcha gonna do..." My smirk returned. "Have any handcuffs, Cherski?"
Rayanne Graff - one; Hot Girl - zip.
She comprehended this for a second, finally got it, and shook her head; it completely made up for the lack of a proper groan. "Ugh. You are so--" She searched around for the right diss, as I had before, but she needed more practise.
"Well? What's the answer?"
"Ugh!" She threw her hands in the air; now the score was two to zero. But then she started to walk away. The gap was closing; maybe she did know how to play the game after all. Maybe she knew I'd chase after her.
"Hey, Cherski, wait up!" My feet hit the polished wood hard. I hated her, seriously. "Look, I thought we were cool."
That made her stop, got the motion back in my favour. "We are... cool," she relented and faced me. Her whole expression crinkled."It's just... sometimes you can be such a guy."
"That's 'cause the bums I hang out with influence me. Like, all my friends are guys, whatdya expect?"
"I guess. But what about..."
"What about what?" I asked. Cherski looked away--coy or ashamed, I couldn't tell. "Oh, you mean Angela?"
"Well, I-I mean--"
"Look, how 'bout we do a trade-off?"
"A... trade-off, what--"
"Of information." I nodded decisively, for both of us. "You tell me about your jock problems, I tell you what's happenin' with Chase."
"What, this is like, blackmail now?"
"It ain't blackmail, it's a fair trade of information! Come on, I'm not sticking around forever. Going once... going twice..."
"Ugh, okay, fine, fine! But can we go someplace else? Richard Nixon is like, staring at me."
I guffawed and gave ol' Dick a flirty wink--but sadly enough, it wasn't for him at all. "That dog. Yo, let's check out the modern art."
"Modern--" She huffed again, squinting intently. "You like modern art?"
"Nah. I just like makin' fun of it. C'mon."
Cherski kept squinting at me 'til I literally spun myself past her, going around in circles with half my cowboy shirt hanging off my arm and my bag drooping low to the ground. I didn't think any more of my hatred. We were actually going somewhere together! To "talk"! As I swivelled back to her, my gaze instead landed on a familiar, far less attractive, face. I did my victory lap. And I did it right past George the Museum Guard.
---
"So then he looks at me all like, 'Pfft, dude, that is so not romantic.' Like, what, he thinks doing guys is about romance? I'll tell you what's really romantic. It's romantic when they take, like, five minutes. No, no, wait. More like five seconds."
Sharon nodded as if she understood what the hell I was talking about, when really, I didn't even know what the hell I was talking about. Or why I was talking about it to her. Just having her eyes on me, and her giggles for me, made me yap. About anything. It was awful. "So what did Angela say?"
"Um, Angela said..." I cocked my head at the Picasso wannabe across from where we sat. "She said--you know what, I was really drunk." At that, I cracked into hysterics again and it made no sense. Maybe because it made no sense. I'd been telling her about that time in the Let's Bolt parking lot, only leaving out a few very minor details. Like just how drunk I must have been to fall in love with Angela for that one night.
"You were drunk?" Sharon said, her smile a little more terse.
"Oh yeah! I remember now. She said, it was something like," I put on my Harlequin romance voice (I was a woman of many accents), 'It hurts to look at your beauty. Sigh...'"
Sharon watched as I brought the back of my palm to my forehead and swooned all over the expensive wrought-iron bench. She watched, but the smile had evaporated from her face.
"Anyways, so then I was like--"
"Um, I don't think you should be here."
Our heads upturned in unison to meet Krakow, as in, Brian Krakow. He just stood there and shifted from one foot to the other, gawkily, because everything he did was gawky. The expression on his face--incredulous, never ever in-the-know--proved it. Yet apparently, he was the smartest kid in school.
"Heya, Bri! What can we do for ya?" Man, I loved that pet name. I wondered if he thought he had any kind of chance with me.
"Uh..." he said, deer meeting headlights, and tried to recapture his sanctimony. This guy was way too much fun. "I just--said that--you know, Lerner told us to stay with the group."
I angled forward. "And?"
"And--I just--you know, think that--we should like follow the rules. Because they're there for a reason. And if no one follows rules, it becomes, like, anarchy!"
"That's a very good point, Bri. Now tell me: where is your group? Or did you just break away from them to deliver that, very thoughtful, public service announcement?"
"Just shut up, okay?!" he broke through my public sarcasm announcement. "They're around here somewhere--which is--which is completely not the point." Krakow looked to Cherski for help but she only shrugged condescendingly.
Fake empathy overtook my face as I stage-whispered, "You better go catch them then, you don't wanna become an anarchist!"
He scowled and gawked his way off.
An appropriate amount of time lapsed before Sharon and I burst open laughing, so hard than we leaned on each other for support and her leg brushed against mine. No, not just brushed, but stayed there for a good ten seconds. I'd never been more glad that I was born female. Poor Krakow. His, er, "excitement" was probably much more visible... which would explain why Angela wanted nothing to do with him.
But then, thinking about that could really ruin the mood.
While I tried to shut down my brain, Sharon calmed down and brought her legs up underneath her, Indian-style. Dammit. The scrutiny she gave me, though, and the little way she bit her lip, made up for it. It was dim amazement, like I was one of those modern art paintings and she had to write an essay on my meaning. But there was no meaning, so eventually she just said: "Can I ask you a question?"
'Take me now, Cherski.' "Shoot."
"Um... like, it's just, you know--" She exhaled like a dying man. "Are the rumours true, about Angela having complete sex in the back of Jordan Catalano's... like, car?"
What? After all that, she had to ruin the day and bring up some dumb rumour she--
Now I remembered. After all the confusion of kissing her and her kissing back and that whole boiler room thing and that whole haiku thing... my head hurt. It was always this way. I was always supposed to hate her. Things changed so fast, and now they were changing again. "As opposed to what, the back of his bike?"
Cherski backed up a bit at my tone. "No, I mean it's just... how I heard it." Smooth.
"How you--what a crock. The rumours you started aren't true." I didn't add that it was actually pretty cool gossip. Her heart still hadn't exactly been in the right place.
"No! I didn't start them! I mean... I mean..." She fingered the iron of the bench. "Someone told me, okay? And, well, he didn't exactly say they, like, had it. But Kra--the person who told me, like, can't say the word 'sex' anyway... I thought--I thought she would have. Considering."
"Considering what?"
The corner of her eye challenged me. "Considering how she's been acting," she said levelly, but her gaze retreated and I could see her trying to swallow the tension.
"Oh." Low and attempting to stay just as balanced. "Like who she's been hanging out with, you mean?"
"I didn't--"
"You meant to. I guess 'cause she hangs out with me, that automatically makes her a slut, huh?"
"No, I'm not--"
"Well then what does that make you?" I tried to breathe but could only force myself off the bench. Cherski watched as I stalked past her and back again. I was restless. I was tired. I was starving. I was all that I always was. "Why are you here anyway?" I said to the long, long hall in front of me. "Aren't you s'posed to hate me?"
"I'm here because I want to be. And because..." As she trailed off, I couldn't stop myself from looking back at her. Her head bowed and her next words were scarcely there. "Because... I'm alone."
I scoffed. "You have friends, Cherski."
"I know. And they're probably like, way nicer than yours--no offence. But none of them are Angela. Sometimes I really... miss her." She raised her head and her eyes contemplated mine.
Every time we saw each other like that felt like the first... first trip to the moon. A strange, alien world was right there in front of us. Maybe that's why I said it. "Me too."
"Have you ever felt, like, so hurt that you--I mean, I know you've started rumours about people before. Like Jody Barsch."
What?
"That's different!" I yelled, feeling stranded. The spaceship or whatever had left without me and I was running out of air. "Just... shut up, Cherski." I began walking again. To nowhere, really.
Those fucking dainty footsteps came up behind me. Great. "Look, if you, like, don't want to talk about this--"
"I don't wanna talk, period. Not to you." I passed by some painting that consisted of a bunch of stripes on my way out of the modern art section. Her hand brushed against my shoulder; I was too fast.
"Did something like--you know what, if it's not important then that's fine."
"It's the bee's knees. I'm still not talking to you."
We didn't say much for a while, but I knew I'd never lose her. So finally I stopped in front of a painting I didn't pay much attention to, except to notice that a six-year-old probably drew it. I bravely faced Sharon. "Look, I'm usually the one doin' the stalking so could you like, scram?"
"I don't think you're a slut."
I blinked. "Even if I believed that--which I don't--"
Sharon did an about-face, composed herself, and raised her voice. "Are you capable of letting me finish?" The sentence was complete with several wacky hand gestures. "Now. As I was trying to say, I don't think you're a slut. I think you're annoying as heck sometimes, and... and sometimes I hate you. But I can't just walk away--as much as I would like to sometimes," she added under her breath, "because, as much as it bugs me to, like, death? You sort of... get me. I can tell you things I can't tell anyone else. I mean, I haven't told another living soul about, well, you know..."
"Your confusion or whatever?"
She scoffed. "Right. Go ahead. Make a stupid joke."
But I couldn't think of one. I couldn't think, period. "I shouldn't have to take this crap," I said a bit hoarsely.
"I mean, it's just that..." She started a tiny grin that seemed almost ironic. "I mean I have never had such weird conversations. It's almost like we're getting nowhere, we're, like, strangers, but then? Then suddenly we're not. When really, we are. It's just... what's the word, what's the word..."
"Vulnerable." I said it against my will. God save me. God kill her, please, please?
She nodded slowly. "Kind of. But also something else." The way she forced my gaze to meet her weirdly calm one was just pointless. Why was I here? Why could I never shut my mouth when I needed silence the most? "Anyway," she broke the contact by seeing in every direction but mine and started chewing on her lip, "there's just one... more... thing."
"Oh yeah? What?" It wasn't even me. It was my evil, Cherski-enslaved twin. What other explanation could there be?
"Don't," she said, "look up at that painting."
I instinctively found the painting behind us, the kindergarten Van Gogh. It was a picture of two sideshow freaks kissing. They both had the same condition: their lips were ginormous. And they were naked as two shaved puppies.
Forgetting my sulky resolve, I raised my eyebrows at Sharon. "Wow, I'm scarred for life at how awful that is. Thanks for the warning."
"But don't you, like, notice anything strange?" she said quietly, still murdering the skin on her lower lip. I shook my head and she met my eyes, whispering dramatically: "They're both women."
I double-checked and noticed the poorly done boobs. "Oh. Well, that changes everything. Seeing this painting, which a four-year-old drew of his two mommies, has made me want to maul you with unrelenting lust."
"Oh, shut up." She dismissed me with a loud click of her mouth, but there were stars in her eyes. Nervous, crazy, sexually ambiguous stars. "But, it doesn't like... like remind you, of anything?"
"Sure it does." Was she batting her eyelashes at me? Seriously? I grinned, loving the idea of setting her up again: "It reminds me of that movie. Like, that flick with uh... what's her face, with the really long legs? Sharon Stone. I guess she's your alter ego, huh?"
"Shut--I mean, like, whatever." The eyelashes struck out. We were closing in on each other. "So, um... what did you write about? For the Lit?"
She'd again dismantled me. "Oh. Well uh, of course it wasn't as sensational as yours..."
"Shut up," she breathed.
Our shoulders were touching. My bag bumped her leg. Her amazingly-tight-jeans leg. I remembered. Sweet. Bitter. Enchanting. Tasteless. Fallacy. "Vodka."
She squinted at the truth. "Your poem?"
I nodded and inched closer. My thoughts didn't move. "Vodka."
She smiled, almost a simper. Edged closer. "Oh." Like it was her duty to say something.
Couldn't think more than a few words at a time. Like drunkenness--light, free, willing.
"So what does it remind you of," I paused, exhaled her name, "Cherski?"
She gulped--couldn't blame her. So close, so close.
"Graff. Rayanne."
So close, so close.
Our... everything was touching. Her blouse hung off her shoulder. Just a little bit. There was this... round thing where her arm began. Like a socket. It all became too... blurry. Her eyes molded into one big eye. Hot cyclops.
Then there was no eye. She'd shut them, leaning in. I inhaled and did the same...
Closer. Closer.
But then... nothing. I cracked one eye open, then the other. Blinking washed the blurriness away. She walked in the wrong direction. The direction not to me. "Cherski..."
"I can't," she said, strangled. Then she turned, and I hardly recognized her. The emotion in her face, in her posture, it was all gone. Her jaw set, and she yelled the only thing that gave her away as human: "I can't! Please... just leave me alone." Then the hall was empty. No.
Hot, Evil Girl - a million; Rayanne Graff - zip.
I slumped against the wall and fumed. Wasn't I s'posed to be the one walking away when I was done? She wanted me to leave her alone, but she wouldn't leave me alone. What the hell gave her that right? The right to make my day the most confusing trial ever? Seriously, first I was amused, then sneaky, then vengeful yet lapdog-ish, then ecstatic, then furious, then disturbed, then lustful and thoughtless, and now lustful, furious and with a numbing loss of control. Around her, I had a serious case of Multiple Personality Disorder.
The thing about "principled" girls was, they really sucked at rebound flings.
I rubbed from my eyes the minute wetness that said I never got anything right. It wasn't like I cried over girls, or was doing so now--that would have branded me a chump forever. But crying over myself? I did that more than I could tolerate. Sometimes it came on so sudden, for no reason at all. Frequently the reason was the lack of, or too much, booze. I knew I was--
"Rayanne!"
Oy with the interruptions already. I faced the callous voice: Angela's delighted face.
"Rayanne, Oh my God," she squealed, grabbing me, "you will not believe this. I'm not even sure I believe this."
Ah, Angela. A happy drunk but totally sober. I wished I could write an idealistic letter but my inner cynic would never let me live it down.
"Jordan Catalano and I, like, had an actual conversation!"
Wait a goddamned second. The letter! Shit. Where had I left it?
"And it was a nice one, too. Like, really nice!"
This was it. I deserved the guillotine. Transport me to the 1600s or whatever and give me a public execution.
"The only thing I couldn't figure out is, what brought this on?"
She kept hanging on to me as if expecting a taste of my infinite wisdom. Her beam was so big it almost reached her forehead, like in all the comics where horny and fucked up didn't exist and happiness was never fleeting.
"Angelfood, girlfriend, buddy, pal, listen..."
---