The Transmuted (Chapter 9)
“Hey that project went really well,” Donald said taking a bite of his pizza.
“Thanks, man,” I said looking over to Beatrix and nodding.
“Oh, what project?” Camila asked.
“In English for our final, we just had to write a short play and perform it for the class. I was just O.K., Beatrix was amazing,” I answered.
I could see Beatrix smile slightly under the hood then subdue it under a blank expression.
The play had been about two people who run into each other after witnessing a calamitous event. However, though they both speak English, they use different words and phrases to describe the phenomenon which the other perceives as an entirely different event. The play ends with the two heading in different directions, not completely sure of the scale or even the nature of the disaster. It ran mostly as a comedy but did bring up some larger questions about life, and Beatrix was truly remarkable in her role. We ate in silence for a while until another question was posed
“So Michael, how was the date this weekend?”
Scraps of lettuce fell off my face back into the paper wrapper as my attention went from the sandwich to Anthony, his eyes waiting expectantly for my answer. I put the food down and slowly chewed the bit I had in my mouth taking a quick look around to find that all eyes were patiently waiting for my reply. Squarely at the center of attention, I methodically chewed the last of my food, carefully swallowed it, and cleared my mouth, the lighthearted suspense building with every passing second.
“It went well,” I finally said in reply, “we went to that new coffee shop on Broadway. It was cool, she was a really fun to be around.”
“‘Was?’” Camila asked.
For a second my mind flitted back to Violet’s voice, which carried like a rocking chair on a forgetful summer afternoon.
“Yeah, ‘was’. We haven’t really talked since.”
There was a collective eyebrow raise of acknowledgment like when a distant acquaintance is found to have a minor injury. A moment of silence followed it, blessing the passing memory of Violet, as the sun hid behind a large cloud. I looked over to the right to see a couple sitting by each other on the ground, the girl affectionately guiding a cookie into the boy’s mouth. They laughed quietly after he had taken the bite and, even with eyes narrowed, maintained eye contact with the other. I turned back to the group,
“But it’s fine, there’s always more fish in the sea though right?”
The group nodded again with a couple scattered agreements ringing around the table. I sat back to take another bite of my sandwich, the bland ham hid under the mustard spread generously over the sandwich. Ham and mustard, the combo had brought me through the year and I was growing increasingly tired of it. My eyes worked independently to pick out Mary, for a second she was alone (Zack had recently gone inside), and she stared off into the distance vacantly. I sighed, I was increasingly growing tired of everything.
“It's probably best that you don’t start anything long-term now anyway since we’ll be out of here soon,” John said stuffing a handful of chips into his mouth.
The rest of the table looked at him with reproach, like when a child irreverently mentions a stranger’s disability, but I understood that he didn’t perceive the potential harm that the question could uncover.
“Yeah it’s probably a good idea to keep things light going forward,” I said cautiously keeping any hint of pain out of my voice.
A solemn nod rode like a wave in the circle and, though I appreciated that they were trying to look out for me, I wanted to show them I didn’t need to be coddled.
“Guys, I’m fine, really. I’m good,” I said.
“Yeah, we know man,” Anthony said sympathetically.
I know I hadn’t convinced my friends because I hadn’t convinced myself. My eyes drifted again towards Mary, who still sat alone, and I formulated a half-baked scheme to approach her and win her heart and then scolded myself for the idea. John was right, I needed to wake up from the fantasy that in these final days of high school I would meet the one person to complete me and understand me. I tried to comfort myself with the hope of finding her in college or even beyond, but the thought gave me no solace.
“So what did you guys do over the weekend?” I posed to the table trying desperately to change the subject.
“Camila and I went to that new park on Friday,” Donald said after a quick pause, “and I learned how to play Without A Face yesterday. Pretty great weekend.”
“That’s impressive,” Anthony said nodding.
“Yeah for sure,” I added, “what about you John?”
“Terrible weekend for me honestly,” John said hanging his head while sinking his shoulders, almost as if he was melting into ground, “I lost my spot on the spinner leaderboards and my mom wouldn’t loan me the money to make my spinner better so I was stuck at home doing nothing all weekend.”
“Oh, did you ever get to check out that book of Neruda poems I gave you?” Donald asked hopefully.
“Oh yeah man,” he said hopefully, “I used all of the love poems I could.”
“Used?”
“Yeah,” John asked noticeably puzzled, “I went through all of my female Instagram followers, picked out the single ones, and direct messaged them with the best quotes in the book.”
John laid out his plan with such frankness we all had no choice but to laugh. Sometimes he was an idiot, but watching his mind work was hilarious. He wore a face that made it clear that he took the scheme seriously which only made the situation funnier. In a way, it was the prototypical move of our day, overwrought and undeniably ingenious yet without the integrity or emotional fervor of days gone by. We are a generation of readers, not writers; critics, not thinkers.
“Did any girls write you back?” Anthony asked after we’d settled down.
“Yeah one girl asked me if I’d made it up myself and I was like “yeah, I like to write or whatever.” and she totally went for the tortured artist vibe I was giving off.”
“Typical John building a relationship out of lies,” Camila said matter-of-factly.
“That’s where you’re wrong my sweet,” John said with a smirk, “I intend to build a hook-up out of lies, which are the very lifeblood of a hook-up.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
John straightened, relishing the opportunity to speak on what he knew for certain,
“Really it's quite simple. Both parties lie to each other and themselves, imagining a future for themselves or trying to convince themselves that they’re not “that type of person”, but by the time the actual hooking up begins both have long since discovered that this is a one-time thing but, out of common decency, refuses to tell the other in the moment and opts for a slow decline to eventual cessation of communication afterwards to get the point across. Sometimes even before meeting each other in person, the two know the relationship won’t progress further than one or two passionate connections, and in that situation, deception plays an even bigger role, a constant denial of what will become obvious as soon as the potential meeting becomes reality.”
“That can’t be right,” Camila said shaking her head.
“No, he’s actually has a point,” I said, unconscious emotions transfiguring into words in my throat as I continued, “Maybe the whole thing is a deception. Every time I go onto Tinder I trick myself into believing that the perfect girl is always right around the corner. Maybe all I’ll ever get is the occasional match with someone I have to make myself believe is right for me, settle for about a third of those matches actually turning into hook-ups, and ignore the nagging feeling that they’re never right for me, and then go back and do the whole thing over again”
The table sat in silence for a moment with the solemn nods beginning to reappear when Beatrix broke her silence and said,
“Well, maybe you should stop opening Tinder.”
I began to laugh and I felt the table join me in relief. I knew she was right but as I looked around at the couples sprinkled around the courtyard I also knew I would still use the app. However, as I looked around at my friend’s smiling faces I also knew that I would have someone to talk to when I did.