A girl is standing in the corner of the playground on 67th Street and First Avenue; an old institution, concrete and gray and checkered with hives. She is gazing at her nails; her ocean blue eyes angulated around them as her ginger colored skirt pleats around her pale, bony thighs. She looks morose, ostensibly frightened, and unwelcome. To her left, peers engage in an assortment of games. Basketballs and tennis balls dribble and flounce, lurk up to the musk of a summer afternoon, while hula hoops, like wax bangles, pivot around waists. The children wear fabric from a panoply of textures. Patterns of chrysanthemums and blood-orange marigolds are dyed on to their wisp-cotton shirts. Beads of sunlight spill down the ribbings of beige corduroys. It is lunch time at Middle School 64. The children are at play within their nests of familiar faces. But she is not welcome.
The expression on her face, her low hanging brows, the weight of a grimace bearing down on her lips, brings back memories of my own experience in middle school. Memories that had turned to vapor, precipitate back into my mind. Accusations and expletives pour into my arteries, the way water dribbles out from wringing washcloths and slithers into a funnel. Images of violence canoe into my eyes, accents of bullies lean against my ears. The bruises feel alive again, twitching under my dark mustard skin. And I flinch in fear, in broad daylight, mulling over days that Time had licked away.
Do you remember that August of 2003? Mrs. Jackson's English class had just ended and the lunch bell was ringing in the hallway. I had walked up to Simon Pashua and asked, Can I play ball with you'll today? He scanned my body, his triangular chin following his eyes, and said, No. No fags or fatties allowed, get it? His eyes dilated in disbelief, in a sense of ridicule that I, of all people, could have had the audacity to ask him, a local hero, for a spot in his team of gold medalists. Just one time, please, Pashua? I pleaded, by the statuette of Mary, freshly painted red and green. He never replied, and walked away, the melody of his footsteps fading amidst the shuffle of stationery.
I walked back to 7B, the classroom by the east stairwell, where you were reading a story from Reader's Digest, and sat on the bench closest to the window. I could see the field, its patchy green grass and pollarded trees, and scores of classmates playing in teams of their own. The rejection had hit me hard, and my eyes were heavy. But my gaze was still on the boys below, light brown like Band-Aids and nimble like stars, as sunlight, the color of butter, washed over their skin. You doing okay? You asked me carefully, closing the magazine and putting it back in your backpack. I'm fine, I said, unflinchingly. You sure? You don't look okay. Tears had dripped out of my eyes, without my knowledge, making webs across my cheeks. I cleaned them hurriedly, with medals of saliva, and shouted, I'm fine. Get it? I'm fine. I felt a flush sprint through my face, and arterioles, pregnant with blood, erupt on my forehead. Pashua rejected me, I finally relented. To which you walked over to my bench, hugged me, and said, I'm sorry mate. That sucks. You know he can be a dick sometimes. I maintained silence. And then you asked, Want to go to the Green Room instead?
I said yes. Immediately. And we walked over.
There were drapes along its perimeters with splashes of dandelions, and the seat covers by the podium had hyacinth and lily prints. Aromas of acrylic were curling across the room, bunching along the frame of an upright piano, chocolate brown and polished, along the south end of the wall. Chandeliers, shaped like lotus buds, hung from the ceiling. It was a miniature auditorium, barely used, nestled by the stairwell leading to the Chapel. I walked toward the piano, sat on the stool, opened the lid, and struck a chord. The sounds of A minor ribboned towards the ceiling, and my fingers felt alive; liquid like mercury. I looked over at you while examining the sounds, and you nodded at me, and smiled in reassurance.
I played for an hour that Tuesday afternoon. My fingers sang and my veins trembled at Satie's composition of Gymnopedie. The trills were crisp, and the scales flowed like water. The arpeggios galloped, like Derby gems, through pillows of air along the bricks. Beethoven swung along the ladders of notes, shimmering and swaying in thunderous harmonies. And the voices of melodies, duplicating, triplicating, in doles of three, and choruses of six, grew louder and louder, shriller and shriller, maniacal and frenzied, as my fingers thumped and leaped and roared and rumbled over ivory keys and ebony sharps, before finally collapsing to a pause. Bubbles of sweat had sprouted through my shirt, but I felt calm and relieved. Music does to me what Spring does to the cherry trees, I said to you, with a smile on my face. Like Neruda, my friend, you whispered.
Do you remember that August of 2003? Mrs. Jackson's English class had just ended and the lunch bell was ringing in the hallway. I had walked up to Simon Pashua and asked, Can I play ball with you'll today? He scanned my body, his triangular chin following his eyes, and said, No. No fags or fatties allowed, get it? His eyes dilated in disbelief, in a sense of ridicule that I, of all people, could have had the audacity to ask him, a local hero, for a spot in his team of gold medalists. Just one time, please, Pashua? I pleaded, by the statuette of Mary, freshly painted red and green. He never replied, and walked away, the melody of his footsteps fading amidst the shuffle of stationery.
I walked back to 7B, the classroom by the east stairwell, where you were reading a story from Reader's Digest, and sat on the bench closest to the window. I could see the field, its patchy green grass and pollarded trees, and scores of classmates playing in teams of their own. The rejection had hit me hard, and my eyes were heavy. But my gaze was still on the boys below, light brown like Band-Aids and nimble like stars, as sunlight, the color of butter, washed over their skin. You doing okay? You asked me carefully, closing the magazine and putting it back in your backpack. I'm fine, I said, unflinchingly. You sure? You don't look okay. Tears had dripped out of my eyes, without my knowledge, making webs across my cheeks. I cleaned them hurriedly, with medals of saliva, and shouted, I'm fine. Get it? I'm fine. I felt a flush sprint through my face, and arterioles, pregnant with blood, erupt on my forehead. Pashua rejected me, I finally relented. To which you walked over to my bench, hugged me, and said, I'm sorry mate. That sucks. You know he can be a dick sometimes. I maintained silence. And then you asked, Want to go to the Green Room instead?
I said yes. Immediately. And we walked over.
There were drapes along its perimeters with splashes of dandelions, and the seat covers by the podium had hyacinth and lily prints. Aromas of acrylic were curling across the room, bunching along the frame of an upright piano, chocolate brown and polished, along the south end of the wall. Chandeliers, shaped like lotus buds, hung from the ceiling. It was a miniature auditorium, barely used, nestled by the stairwell leading to the Chapel. I walked toward the piano, sat on the stool, opened the lid, and struck a chord. The sounds of A minor ribboned towards the ceiling, and my fingers felt alive; liquid like mercury. I looked over at you while examining the sounds, and you nodded at me, and smiled in reassurance.
I played for an hour that Tuesday afternoon. My fingers sang and my veins trembled at Satie's composition of Gymnopedie. The trills were crisp, and the scales flowed like water. The arpeggios galloped, like Derby gems, through pillows of air along the bricks. Beethoven swung along the ladders of notes, shimmering and swaying in thunderous harmonies. And the voices of melodies, duplicating, triplicating, in doles of three, and choruses of six, grew louder and louder, shriller and shriller, maniacal and frenzied, as my fingers thumped and leaped and roared and rumbled over ivory keys and ebony sharps, before finally collapsing to a pause. Bubbles of sweat had sprouted through my shirt, but I felt calm and relieved. Music does to me what Spring does to the cherry trees, I said to you, with a smile on my face. Like Neruda, my friend, you whispered.
1 comment:
7E. And Reader's Digest. Might have been Tolkien. And yes, Neruda and the piano and the magic.
makes the past almost bearable, does it not? as if all those little stray pieces of happiness, collaged together out of their careless scattering, can make do for one big happy childhood.
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