On an Edge of Glass (31 page)

“No.  He’s not.”  I pause
. My head moves left an inch.  I curl my fingers into my palms.  “
I’m
not.”  

Mark rolls his eyes.  “Yeah
.  And I’m straight as a pin.”

“Mark…”

“Ellie, you can pull this shit with other people—even yourself—but, don’t pull it with me.  I’ve seen the way that you look at him, and I’ve seen the way that he looks at you.”

“
Fine.  How does he look at me?” I ask because I want to know.  Of course I’ve seen the way that Ben looks at me, but maybe I’m missing something. 

“
He looks at you like you’re the only person in the room.  Like he’s trapped underwater and you’re an oxygen tank.  Like he’s in anaphylactic shock and you’re an EpiPen.”  Mark shakes his head.  “He looks at you like you’re the last cello left on the planet.”

“Pfffttt.
”  I squeeze my fingers tighter.  I’m too wound up.  Too suspended in insecurity and disbelief.  “But, he said…”

“I don’t care what he said.”  Mark points his finger at me.  “You
also blamed alcohol, and we both know that’s not true.”

“Because I was embarrassed,” I say
, defensiveness straightening my shoulders.

“
Did it cross your mind that Ben might be embarrassed too?”

“Of course it did, but—”

Mark won’t let me finish.  “You’re the one that broke things off with him.  He’s got some pride, you know.  It’s not like you’ve made anything particularly easy on the guy.”

“
Since when did you start taking Ben’s side?”  My voice is getting higher and tighter.  I feel like I’m slipping. “You’re
my
friend!  You’re supposed to be on
my
side.”

Mark looks almost sad for me. 
“This is me being on your side, Ellie.  This is the side that cares about you.  The side that doesn’t want to see you keep throwing all the good things in your life away when something doesn’t go exactly like you plan.”

I rub my fingers against my eyes.  I won’t start crying now.
  It’s too humiliating.  “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about all of the times that you’ve given up too easily.  I’m talking about that night
at The Hill when you walked away from Ben without fighting for him.  I’m talking about
these.
”  Mark picks up a stack of unopened envelopes from my desk.

“That’
s different,” I object.  “Those have nothing to do with Ben.”

“They have to do with
you
.  Isn’t that enough?”  Mark snorts, raising his hand, the envelopes trapped in his fingers.  They are the letters that I’ve received from different law schools over the past week.  “How many of these do you think are acceptance letters?”

Unceremoniously,
I cross the distance and snatch the envelopes away.  “You should just go home.”

Mark blinks.
  “I love you Ellie, but you can be an ass sometimes.” 

“Right back at you.”

Mark stands.  He lets go of a strong sigh.  “I hate to be the one to break this to you, but you have to get over this idea you have that everything in the world needs to fit inside a tiny, perfectly square box.  If you don’t, you’re never going to be satisfied.  Life is unpredictable and it doesn’t follow a map.  Columbia’s out.  So, get a new, revised dream.  You still want to go to law school?  All you have to do is open one of these envelopes.”  He touches my shoulder lightly.  “And the same goes for Ben.  If he’s not the kind of guy that you thought that you’d end up with—who cares?  I know that the way that you feel about him scares the crap out of you, but if you love him like I think you do then you have to tell him so.”

“It’s not that simple,” I say.

“Maybe…  Maybe not.”  Mark smiles, scanty and asymmetrical.  “Happiness isn’t something that you can plan for.  It comes knocking unexpectedly, just like opportunity.  And it’s up to you to answer the door and invite it inside.”

“Mark… I—I—”  My voice is shapeless.

He leans in and kisses my cheek.  His fingers squeeze my hand—the one that’s holding the envelopes.  “Just think about it, Ellie.  Okay?”

I swallow hard and screw
my eyes shut to keep the tears inside.  “Okay.”

I’m at my desk.  The small light is flipped on, casting my bedroom in
a warm brownish glow.  The first envelope that I pick up is from Vanderbilt.  My fingers fumble as I tear along the seam and pull out the folded two-page letter.  My name is braced across the top.  I scan down. 

             
We are pleased to offer you placement…

             
I don’t even get through the first line before my vision blurs and my breath catches in my throat.  Everything inside of me is toppling.  It’s like I’m being pushed over by possibilities that I hadn’t dared to let myself imagine.

             
The next envelope on my desk is from William and Mary.  Heart hammering, I slide my finger under the fold, less cautious this time. 

             
Congratulations!  Our Admissions Committee is pleased to inform you…

             
The postmark on the third envelope tells me that it’s from Boston University. 

             
On behalf of the Dean, faculty and students, it is my pleasure…

             
Then I pick up the envelopes from Pepperdine, and Emory, and Fordham.  I rip into all of them, my stomach knotted in anticipation and my fingers tight with excitement.  Each one is an acceptance letter.  Each one is a soft knock on the door.  Each one is a heartbeat tapped out against my breastbone.

             
Finishing the pile, I open the top drawer of my desk to look for a stray rubber band to bind the envelopes together.  You can always find those things in drawers.  Paper clips, safety pins, rubber bands.  It doesn’t matter that I don’t ever remember buying them.  They always just seem to appear out of thin air, stuffed in the far reaches of a little-used drawer. 

             
Seeking a rubber band, I stumble across something else entirely.  It takes me a second to recognize the piece of paper, and when I do, I hold onto it for a long time, my eyes lingering on the words.  And slowly, like water drizzling from a leaky faucet, a new sensation fills me. 

I find him in the coffee shop like I knew that I wo
uld.  With the weather still a bit chilly to be outdoors for long, this is his favorite Wednesday afternoon hangout spot. 

The rich sce
nt of dark roast fills my nose as I walk by a few tables to where he’s bent over, rifling through a book—probably research for that paper that he mentioned last week.

“I need your help, and I’m so, so sorry, and you were right about everything.”  The words come out all crushed together
like they’re in a mad dash to get out of my mouth.

             
Mark’s head comes up.  He pushes a stray blond curl away from his eyes.  He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me with his eyes round and glassy.

             
“I—I’m sorry,” I say again, flustered, feeling the warmth gushing to my cheeks.  “And you were right about me.  About Ben.  About law school.  All of it.”

             
Mark looks at me intently for a few more seconds.  Then he says, “I like the way that you’re wearing your hair today.”  And just like that, I know that we’re okay.

             
I sit down in a chair across from him.  “I have an idea to run past you,” I say, finding a shaky smile.  “And it’s going to require your help.”

             
“I’m all yours,” Mark replies.

             
An hour later, Mark’s pushing me down the walkway toward the front door of my house.  He texted Payton and Ainsley fifteen minutes ago with a directive meet us in the living room for what he described as a summit.  Ben is at band practice and won’t be home for a few hours.     

“You don’t think it’s a
ridiculously idiotic plan?” I ask over my shoulder.

             
“I thought we went over this already.  I told you not to call it a
plan
.  You’re through planning for things Ellie-bear,” he says stoutly and adjusts his jacket. “And, honestly, I think that most grand romantic gestures are supposed to be that way.  They wouldn’t be grand if they weren’t at least a little bit idiotic.”

             
“Ah, great,” I say, shaking my head.  I realize that he’s just telling me the truth.  But, it’s one thing to think the truth.  It’s an entirely different thing to hear it said out loud.  “That’s just what I want to hear when I’m about to put my heart out on the line.”

             
Mark laughs, and it’s an unsteady sound that rises from deep within his chest.  “You’re the one that asked.”

             
“I did,” I say softly, brushing my fingers across the doorknob and pushing forward. 

             
Ainsley and Payton are sitting on the floor in matching positions.  Their backs are resting against the low half-wall that separates the dining room from the kitchen, and their knees are pulled up off the ground.  Neither one of them is wearing shoes. 

             
“What’s going on?”  Ainsley asks.  Her face is pinched with concern.  She’s got her long blonde hair pulled up into a high ponytail. 

             
“Yeah,” Payton adds moodily.  “Your text woke me up.”

             
Mark strides through the door.  Five feet into the house, he spins and waves his hands theatrically in the air.  “Girls,” he proclaims.  “We have a project!”

An Idea is Afoot

It gets finished the
way most great works do—as a collaborative effort.  Mark, Payton and Ainsley all skip out on their Thursday classes to help me.  Mark dictates.  Payton jokes.  Ainsley makes a run to get us all lunch.  Even Hal, Mark’s boyfriend, plays a part.  He knows a guy who knows a girl who works at the campus printing lab.  Using some pretty epic flirting, he convinces her to get my oversized prints done in record time.

I have just over
twenty-four hours to complete the collection.  The flyer that Ben left for me weeks ago—the one that I found when I was going through my law school acceptance letters—says that all submissions must be dropped off to Michaela Fincher’s office in Reamer Hall by Thursday at six o’clock.  According to the University website, Fincher is head of the school’s Photography Department. 

I know what this means.  I know that my amateur
ish photos are going to be up against photos shot by people that have been studying photography as a career—people that understand balance and lighting and subject matter.  I know that the odds of my collection being chosen for the gallery showing are slim.  I probably won’t hear back from Michaela Fincher at all. 

I’m going to try anyway.

It’s five fifty-four on Thursday.  Her office is on the third floor of Reamer Hall, down a hallway lit by florescent light and past a row of classrooms.  The door is only partially closed.  I knock lightly and it glides open on its hinges.

“Sorry,” I say
quickly, and start to pull the handle back toward me.

A woman
with large, blinking owl eyes and a slight overbite stands from a chair.  “No worries.  Come in please.”

My eyes dart around the room.  A low, modern desk with sleek black legs and a matching chair fill the center of the space.  There’
s a small two-seat leather couch against one wall.  A colorful mosaic mural is hung above it.  The other walls are filled with framed photos, mostly black and white landscapes.

“Can I help you?”  The woman asks politely as she comes around the desk.  Her dark
blonde hair is pulled back.  She’s wearing a stylish black pencil skirt paired with heels.  Her off-white blouse has a mandarin collar and no sleeves and I spot a matching jacket slung over the couch. 

“I—I—” I hold up the black leather portfolio in lieu of a proper greeting.  Payton’s
friend Dominic let me borrow it.  “I have a submission for the Pratt Gallery’s showing.”

The w
oman glances at an analog clock mounted over the door and smiles.  “Alright then,” she says and holds out her hand.  “I’m Michaela Fincher.  Call me Michaela.”

I shake her hand.  It’s bony and cool.  “It’s nice to meet you.  I’m Ellie Glass.”

“And Ms. Glass, what do you have to show me?”  She nods her head to the portfolio.

My stomach clenches.  “You want to look right now?”

Michaela’s eyebrows lift.  “There’s no time like the present.  Let’s see what you’ve got.”