Between You & Me (5 page)

It's a sunny morning and the golden brick of the school glows warmly. We cut across to the English rooms, and I catch my reflection in the window. I feel grown-up today, wearing new jeans and a purple V-neck that makes my boobs look good. You've commented, said, with a little smile
of approval, that I look pretty, but you haven't asked why I'm dressing up these days. The remnants of red have been trimmed out of my hair but the sun intensifies my natural brown and I've started putting it up, which makes me look older. We have a class with Mia this morning, giving me a reason to make an effort. I hug my books to my chest and glance around as we continue to skirt the courtyard. You ask if I'm looking for Mia. I falter. Have I talked about her that much? I didn't think you'd noticed. Am I looking for her? Yes. Thinking about her? Have I stopped? I wonder if anyone notices me the way I notice her. I wonder if they
will
me to look toward them the way I hope with each step that she'll be around the next corner. I find myself waiting in places that I know she will be and, when I don't expect her, I look anyway. I know I'm blushing. And you're still waiting for an answer:

ME

For who? Mia? Oh, you know …

I have no idea what that's supposed to mean. I'm sure you don't either but you tactfully let it go. I see her then, in the reflection of the glass door as I pull it open, her sleek beautiful profile behind me. She's in a sky-blue shirt trimmed with lace, her hair pinned up. She looks almost like a school-teacher today, the kind that shakes her hair loose under a waterfall in a shampoo commercial. For a minute we're framed together as people move through the door in the
other direction. I see my reflection with hers there behind me, our images side by side. Next to her, my feeling of being grown-up evaporates instantly. She's so graceful—beside her I feel young, childish. I prefer the image I have of myself in my head to seeing us here together where I am small and unexceptional. Deflated, I follow you through the door into the frenzy of the voices and faces. It takes me a second to adjust and, as we move through the crowd, I press forward to reach the peace of the theater, not just because of Mia, but because the only thing that gives me pleasure besides being near her is her class.

Mia comes down the aisle behind us, talking attentively to Kate, and passing us as we slide into a row of seats. Settling herself at the front, she clears her voice and raises her radiant eyes to us.

MIA

Sense memory!

Her expression invites input.

RYAN

The recall of physical sensation.

She rises above his choice of tone.

MIA

Correct! Remember, we visualize something every time we speak. Every thought triggers infinite images and associations.

She gestures to her necklace, playing with the delicate silver pendant. I look at her hands. They're soft and narrow.

MIA

Every little thing contains a sequence of memories—where it came from, what it means to you. Characters need those to feel real onstage.

She catches my eye, her thoughts seeming to collide with mine for a moment before she speaks again. She is my visual image, pictures of the possibilities of our imagined friendship spiraling through my head as I look at her.

MIA

Sense memory can evoke physical sensations and conditions. When we're
offered a drink, we subconsciously recall taste to make a choice. We think of a place we love and we can see and smell it, even if just for a split second. This requires your imagination!

She invites us onto the stage and we collect in a circle. Realizing my eyes are still on her, I blush, remembering what she said in our first class, that our physical life speaks for itself. I try to relax, nervous about what my subconscious might tell people that I've not given it permission to tell. Around Mia, I feel like a ball of luminous energy. I can still picture Grace flirting on the opposite side of the courtyard—obvious just from how she was standing. Tell me I'm not that transparent. Mia pushes her sleeves up her elegant arms and asks for a sensory state.

ELLE

Cold.

MIA

Circle the stage as though it's cold.

We set off, briskly.

Remember a time when you were really cold. Imagine exactly how it felt and how you responded. Feel your toes starting to ache, your fingers turning
numb, your knees shivering, your shoulders hunching.

I ball up my fists and cross my arms, tucking in my hands and my chin to stay warm. The wind is picking up, she says. People have turned up their collars and are bracing themselves against the imaginary chill.

After a few minutes, Mia relaxes, tells us it's summer. From the corner of my eye I see Ryan unbuttoning the collar of his shirt.

MIA

Close your eyes. Feel the heat of the sun on your face. Smell the summer air, the fresh-cut grass. Hear the birds singing, a lawn mower in the distance. Imagine that you're standing in bare feet, there's grass between your toes. Feel it—moist and cool.

I start to feel the grass beneath me.

Step from the grass onto a picnic blanket. It gives softly under your feet. You sit down.

She tells us now to lie down where we are and get comfortable. I settle on my back, closing my eyes again as people move about me.

MIA

That's right, Phy. Close your eyes, everyone.

She called me Phy.
It sounded beautiful. I don't open my eyes but I imagine her looking at me. She waits for everyone to settle and when she speaks again her voice is soothing:

You're lying on the blanket in the warm sun, your eyelids glowing, everything quiet except the birds singing. Just in your imagination, reach out and run your hands through the grass, catching it between your fingers. You pluck a buttercup and rub the soft petals between your fingertips. Sit up in your imagination and see the picnic spread beside you on the blanket. Take a strawberry from the tub and bite into it. The sweet juice runs down your chin, you wipe it away. Have a sip of the icy lemonade, tart and cold, the beads of water on the bottle cool and wet in your hand. Your eyes are getting heavy in the bright sun. Someone sits down on the blanket beside you …

She goes on and, guided by her voice, I'm carried away, beyond grass and sounds on a warm day. She's the one
there on the blanket beside me, the reality of her voice colliding with the pictures playing in my head. When she tells us to open our eyes, I'm slow to let in the light. The stage seems blindingly bright and we sit up as though we've spent the duration of class somewhere else. I catch sight of you beside me—I didn't realize you were lying so close. We get to our feet. Mia's voice is quiet, almost a whisper.
See you next time
, she says.

She stands at the door when we leave class. Some days she says my name when I pass her. Every day I wait and see if I'm a simple good-bye, or if it's “Bye, Phyre.” “Phyre” changes my day. We're reaching the door as she hushes us.

MIA

It's the theater trip next month. I'm running a scene-study class every Tuesday at lunch to read the play we're seeing. Come along if you're interested.

Interested? I drop my gaze to hide any visible sign of the excitement she's ignited dancing behind my eyes. They're still giving me away as I tuck in behind you and Kate at the door. Mia smiles at you, then at me, then at Eva behind me.
Bye
, she says. Just “bye.”

I close my door on the world and collapse onto my bed to stare at the ceiling. I stretch my arms out beside me, finding the button on the radio with a fingertip to fill the pressing silence so I can quell the ever-present rising hum of thoughts in my head. Music fills the room. Everything, it seems, is against me! I listen to the song that shouts back at me as if it can hear the thoughts pursuing me.
It started out as a feeling
,
which then grew into a hope
,
which then turned into a quiet word, and then that word grew louder and louder …

MOM

Honey!

Mom, calling from downstairs. I press my hands to my temples to keep out the words that reel through my head anyway. I have a crush on a girl?

MOM

Supper!

I swing my legs to the floor, prize myself up off the bed, ignore the static tuft of sticking-up hair caused by dragging my head across the duvet, and head downstairs to stoke the embers of the fire that keeps me going.

Settled on a stool at the counter near the window, hands curled around a chai tea, I'm tired of feeling sorry for myself. We said good-bye earlier at the school gate but, tempted by the pleasant anonymity of
girl sits alone at coffee-shop table
, I came in here. Sitting behind my cup, amid passing shapes and the tinkling of spoons in saucers, I can dream about my romanticized future self: the free-to-be-me, respected, celebrated self, catching behind my sunglasses the stolen glances of people who recognize me from my illustrious film career. I see my reflection in the polished chrome of the coffeemaker:
girl with a milk-froth mustache watching the indifferent world go by
, and heroically concede the point to reality. A new influx of people moves past me in a blur, a hazy backdrop to my thoughts. There's a figure beside me, a wash of deep red, too close for me to see. Her voice:

MIA

Phyre. It's nice to see you.

Mia! Here! This is where I have to speak. To remember words. I'm trying to make the transition from thinking about her seconds ago to seeing her smiling before me. Still no words! It's like I've never said anything clever in my life.

ME

You're here.

Ah, blessed as always with the ability to make statements of genius at just the right moment. Did I expect her to evaporate out of context?

MIA

Yeah, I love this place.

She holds up her cup.

Have you tried their chai?

I overzealously pick up my own.

ME

Have I ever!

I do plenty of unnecessary laughing and more gesturing until:

MIA

Well, I should be going.

ME

Okeydoke.

Crap! I haven't said that since I was five.

She waves good-bye and leaves.

ME

(Head in hands)