Forgetting Sylva

Transition

Hannah looks down, over the edge of the cliff, a little away from me. I sit on the grass, farther back, leaning against a tree. Her hair, a bright scarlet, whips in the wind. She told me that, when she was younger, she went through a phase of self-denial in the form of names. She made everyone call her 'Scarlet' because she thought it suited her hair, and she wanted a cooler name than Hannah. I understand, a little. But then, I was named for my looks; for the silvery colour of my hair and eyes. For my disconcertingly pale complexion. My name is what I am, and I am my name.

I hear footsteps before I see the owner of the sound, but I stay still; I'd know Marcus anywhere. I feel him lean down, over the tree; feel his breath stirring my hair. "You think I'm smart?" he asks, his voice deep and a little breathless from running through the trees.

I roll my eyes. "It's not polite to eavesdrop, Marcus," I say reproachfully. He steps over the tree trunk and sits beside me, stretching out his long legs so that they are parallel to mine. His eyes track to Hannah, tall and thin, her hair startlingly bright against the grey of the clouds; she almost looks like a strange type of tree, a Japanese maple, beautiful and resplendent in the scattering rays of sunlight.

I lean against him, feeling his warmth even through my jacket, and he slips his arm around my shoulders. "Thanks," he says.

"For what?" I ask.

"For trying. For talking to her."

"I don't really have to try, Marc. She's easy to like." His lips quirk into a small smile at my words, which grows into a grin as Hannah turns, sees him, and makes her way to where we sit. Marc pulls up his knees, slightly, and holds a hand out to her; when she takes it, he pulls her down, and she settles herself between his legs, her back against his chest. He wraps his free arm around her and leans his chin on her shoulder.

"Hey," she says. He curls his fingers around her side and smiles wider, and the sight of the two of them makes me happy. "What are we talking about?"

"You," Marc says.

Hannah looks at me, raising her eyebrows slightly. "Really?"

"Yes," I say. "I was telling Marcus how much I like you."

Hannah smiles and tilts her head back, resting one of her hands on Marcus's knee, as if he is a human armchair. "You're so honest," she says. "Doesn't it get tiring?"

I shrug. It doesn't really make a difference when you're tired all the time, I almost say. But that will make her uncomfortable, so I say nothing. I listen to them speak, about the trees and the sky and the weather and an assignment they have, and someone called James, who they don't like. And then they fall silent, and we all stare at the sky, and the way that the clouds shift across the sun.

I imagine the picture the three of us make: me leaning against Marc's side, and Hannah against his chest; he with an arm around each of us, holding us together like the metaphorical glue of our little trio.

And I think about Hannah, calling me honest, and about how she is right; I am honest. But she is also wrong. Because I am honest with everyone but myself. And that is the problem. Because I am so used to lying to myself, about what is right and what is wrong, what I want and what I need and what I should not have, that I don't know what to do any more.

"Marc, can I use your phone?" Marcus looks at me for a second before taking it from his pocket and passing it to me. Slowly, I stand, the phone in my grasp, and make my way to the edge of the cliff. I sit a little away from it, and the wind softly ruffles my hair. I am far enough away that they cannot hear me, but not too far for Marcus to worry, like he always does.