~~~
What of the wretched hollow?
~~~
She dipped her (brand new) horse hair brush in black ink and set it against the off-white pages of her (not so brand new) notebook, watching with child-like fascination as the ink seeped in, spreading along the grain of the paper like blood through veins, and she took in a deep breath before tilting her wrist and writing over the page, her script curled and graceful, slightly shaky on the first few strokes, her tongue between her teeth as her hands sought to remember what her mind had long forgotten. She underlined the result with a flourish.
20th March, 2011
It seemed she'd finally found peace – on a low wooden bench in a dusty studio with a brush in her hand and a smile on her face.
...
Somewhere in a corner on the Browns' sprawling backyard, Amelia leaned against the plastered drywall, her hand attempting (and failing) to settle on a pile of wooden planks, swallowing back her nervous chuckle and trying to look dainty instead.
It wasn't working out so well.
Months and months she'd spent gawking at him – him in his light blue jersey in the football field across from her school, a lanky figure in mid fielding position who didn't wait by the wired fences for Beth to walk home, a daily afternoon tradition that featured multiple St. Anthony suitors who'd flirt with Beth on a ten-second basis while Amelia walked beside her, as silent (and unacknowledged) as a ghost. Jeremy Warner would, however, stay by the bleachers or bounce the football off his knees, a lone heretic who'd never paid homage to this teenage goddess. This act of blasphemy was all it took for Amelia Barnett to be thoroughly enchanted.
This midsummer evening's tryst was all that had been required for this enchantment to solidify into a crush.
Even though she'd like to pretend otherwise, she knew he wasn't here for her benefit – Bethany had disappeared into the fray a few minutes ago, back into the rear lawn that had come alive with the fairy lights adorning the hydrangea bushes and the patio with the food-laden tables resting beneath, back into the chatter and laughter and the clinking of glasses that was the graduation party that the Browns had thrown in their daughters honour. Amelia, in all (private) honesty, couldn't make much sense of having anybody's GCSE grades celebrated, much less Bethany's, who had scraped by with less than stellar scores in nearly everything, but apparently parental pride didn't work that way. And so here she was, having managed to lose her parents in the crowd, and hanging out with the popular kids in the quiet corner.
It didn't feel as cool as she'd hoped it would.
His face half-illuminated by the pale white light from the party, Jeremy Warner looked positively dashing, at least in Amelia's opinion. He was dressed in a rather fashionable tweed jacket, his hair falling over his eyes, a faint, cordial smile on his lips, his back straight as he looked over her head and into the party. Her heart ached at the very sight of him – him and his left hand stuffed in his pocket, his mild, easy mannered smile, his eyes and the way they sparkled whenever Bethany was in the vicinity. Her hands smoothened the creases of her skirt nervously, acutely aware of her hideous outfit and her stringy hair, her palms clammy and her throat dry as he devotedly ignored her in favour of her friend.
They spent many minutes in dead silence, each awaiting Bethany for reasons all their own. She hadn't missed his nervous laughter or his lingering eyes –it was no surprise that despite the deception, he was just as taken by Bethany Brown as every other boy from St. Anthony's. However, for sixteen year old Amelia, it was sweet how much he wanted to impress Bethany. It was also sweet that he didn't try to chat her up in her friend's stead, as Wes had done seven months back, and that, in Amelia's opinion, was nothing short of gentlemanly.
She was spared of further adulation as the girl in question appeared, clutching her own glass and swaying merrily in her high heels. Envying her grace just a little, Amelia stood a little straighter, smiling at her friend, (begrudgingly) relieved at her arrival. Bethany walked over in her form-fitting beige dress, clutching two flutes of champagne, handing one over to Amelia and keeping another for herself, jabbing Jeremy lightly in the chest as she placed a hand seductively over her hip.
"You, are not a gentleman. So no more champagne for you."
Jeremy chuckled nervously, quite unsure of what to say, and brushed his hair back from his eyes instead. Bethany smirked at him, leaning towards Amelia conspiratorially and talking in a stage whisper, "Isn't he cute when he's nervous, Amy?"
Amelia merely grimaced in response.
"Say Jeremy, do you know why I don't think you're a gentleman?" Jeremy shuffled uncomfortably on his trainer clad feet and avoided a reply, clearly intimidated by this interrogation at the hands of the Teenage Goddess. Amelia avoided eye contact with everyone present, as per usual, while poor Jeremy stalled for a couple more seconds before giving in with a non-committal shrug of his lean shoulders.
"Because nobody ignores Beth's best friend", Bethany replied, rather haughtily, a saucy smile on her face, as Amelia felt her face grow red from embarrassment. Nudging Beth slightly, she whispered, "Stop it!"
"Stop what? I'm only telling him the truth. So Mr Warner," she prodded him in the chest again, "you should know that a bloke should always get Amy a champagne first, before he gets one for himself. Isn't that right, Amy?"
"It's quite alright, really – I didn't want any."
"Rubbish – It's dad's finest Dom Perignon! How could you possibly not want some?"
Amelia wished fervently for the courage to say that it wasn't unheard for someone to not miss what they've never had, but shuddered at the thought of what will Jeremy think of a girl who'd never had champagne before, and thus shrugged in response instead.
Beth, counting her victories, thrust the flute in her best friend's hand, and took a swig from her own. Amelia, welcoming this break in unsavoury conversation, took a sip as well.
...
It tasted like...sparkles.
Amelia conceded that it wasn't the finest definition a twenty six year old could offer.
She held the flute up for inspection – light amber liquid sloshed merrily inside the fine crystal, bubbles floating in swift spirals to the surface, as the word effervescent bounded through her mind. Not particularly apt, but it'd do for the moment.
She set her glass down with a snort. Beth's Dad certainly didn't order Dom Perignon all those years ago.
With what was perhaps the first real smile on her face for the evening, she leaned against the parapet and surveyed the scene laid before her – the Roof Garden had come alive with scores of flood lights, illuminating artwork and visitors alike, like giant embers on the concrete floor, and Amelia wondered if a solitary owl passing overhead had been temporarily blinded by the sheer luminosity. She was surprised at the number of people who had turned up – there were the art elite, the artists and the critics and the collectors who roamed about with a dignified air, clad in black and chiffon and class, their champagne flutes held aloft by dainty wrists that followed the lift of their (equally dainty) chins. Among these connoisseurs of art were some familiar faces, and she was absolutely certain she caught sight of Armin at least twice, his hair grown out and tied back in a ponytail, bigger and gruffer than she'd remembered, with a pretty red head on his arm. She didn't know if she should be overjoyed at this development or saddened by the history, and had decided to solve the dilemma by hiding behind a sculpture instead.
Others she spotted from this vantage point were the regular folk – parents tugging children by the hand (or vice versa), enthusiastic young couples and wide-eyed teenagers, clutching pamphlets and brochures and reading as much as they were looking. She had a nagging suspicion that the presence of much of the underage population here was His doing, and thought she even spotted Ben once, but pushed the thought out of her mind determinedly.
She pulled out her phone and counted the minutes since Emily had disappeared – fifty six – and sighed, turning back to the parapet and looking out over at the city in all its night time glory, smiling slightly at the artwork her kind had created.
...
"And then Coach Arnie said, 'Reg if you don't find me those knee pads right now, I'll bump your sorry arse right off the team!'"
Amelia and Beth threw their heads back in laughter, while Jeremy continued his ridiculous deep throated impression of Coach Arnold.
"A-and then," Jeremy said, chuckling as well, "Reg, that tosser, he just walked upto Coach Arnold, and then he said, 'sir, you're standing over them!'"
The four roared with laughter again.
Amelia couldn't quite remember why they'd swapped their pretty champagne with cheap beer that Wes had smuggled in when he'd shown up fifty minutes ago. Hidden safely in their corner, they had substituted their champagne at the cost of their conversation, which had simultaneously deteriorated in quality and improved in terms of entertainment. The night found them in various states of casual undress, with Wes and his tie around his head, Bethany's hair that had come undone from her sleek updo, and Jeremy and his tweed jacket that now hung over the picket fence. If Amelia had been even marginally more sober, she'd notice that she'd kicked off her shoes and was now sitting cross legged on a wooden crate, laughing merrily with her head thrown back, as Jeremy pressed on with his marginally amusing story.
The following day she would be informed by a gleeful Bethany that she was a sodding lightweight. But that didn't matter at the moment.
"Say Wes, d'you remember what Coach Arnie said to Theo the other day?"
Wes guffawed as he answered, "Yeah, I remember. Wanker told Theo to behave when the lad was hit in the stomach with a football and started vomiting all over the field. Dunno what he wanted – how does somebody behave while they're spilling their guts out?"
"You blokes are so gross", said Bethany, giggling in contradiction, "nobody wants to know about coach Arnie and his rulebook for throwing up, right Amy?"
Amelia merely chuckled in response, quite content with the state of things either way.
"Oh yeah?" Said Wes, a challenge in his voice, as he inched closer to his girlfriend, his arm snaking around her waist, "then what do you birds wanna talk about?"
Before Beth could reply, Amelia interjected loudly, "Coach Arnie sounds about fine. Just don't mention Theo – I hate his stupid teeth."
Wes grinned, almost maniacally, "Ooh, not a fan of Theo here, are we?"
"Hush, you", said Amelia, with a flat stare, "I don't fancy your stupid teeth either."
The other two laughed again, while Wes grumbled under his breath and Amelia hummed contently, a lazy smile on her face.
...
"Isn't it fantastic?"
"I ... suppose? This isn't typically his style, though."
"But look at the lines! It's so wonderfully realistic despite the form and I think it's a great concept and – "
"There's a concept?"
"Of course there's a concept! I mean it is open to interpretation, naturally, but his artwork is so honest and this one just speaks volumes and – "
"But what's the concept?"
"Oh, I can't say for sure", Emily faltered for a precise half - second, "but I'd say it has to do with emotional dishonesty, you know? Like building walls around oneself and not opening up for fear of getting hurt. I bet this has a story behind it – I bet his heart got shattered at the hands of some chick and this is him spelling out his pain for the world to see – isn't that romantic?"
"Yeah, his heart", said Amelia, with a wry smile on her face, feeling sick to the stomach, "no way to know for sure it wasn't someone else's?"
The two of them stood in silence for a few seconds before Emily put in, "You mustn't let yourself think like that", she said, patting her friend on the arm sympathetically, "for all we know he wasn't even thinking of you the whole time he was making this."
Amelia stared at her for a full second before bursting out laughing, "Oh god, that was terrible, Em! I was only joking – just so we're clear – but you were ruthless!"
"Oh dammit, it didn't come out right, did it? I was only trying to get your mind off it but – "
Amelia waved her apology aside, clutching her glass and chuckling merrily, "It's alright, I get it. By the way, I needed that."
"You need me to be mean to you?"
"If that's how you'll dish it."
The two stood in comfortable silence, both part embarrassed and part relived, each unaware of the other's state, each gazing at the sculpture with renewed interest. It struck Amelia that this had indeed been the moment of catharsis she'd come out seeking tonight, and the weight in her stomach seemed to lessen (just a little bit).
Emily spoke again, "Umm, I don't know if this is the right moment to tell you but... "
"What is it?", Amelia inquired.
"It's just umm... I was going through the invites a week back for the catering order and they have this separate list for invites to the participating artists and – "
"And?"
"Well, I shouldn't have looked – I mean I should have looked, it's my job – but I don't know why it kinda stuck in my head and I've been meaning to tell you since we were at your apartment but I thought –"
"Em, what is it?"
Emily drew in a deep breath before replying, "Adam McAllister checked plus one on his RSVP."
...
Jeremy hovered beside her, his hand clutching at the stem of his glass rather thickly, a grip befitting a wand better than it befitted the bubbly, and Amelia tried to imagine that if they were in Hogwarts, he'd be a roaring Gryffindor.
Buzzed Amelia thought that was a fantastic thing to say.
"You'd be a Gryffindor", she said sagely, to a mildly inebriated Jeremy, who accepted that as a reasonable statement and sipped his champagne before replying,
"That'd be brill, wouldn't it?"
Amelia nodded again, equally sombre.
"But why Gryffindor?"
"The crimson would suit you."
Jeremy considered that for a second then nodded, "Fair enough."
"Ooh, what'd I be, Amy?" asked Beth enthusiastically.
"You'd be a Gryffindor too", said Amelia decisively, then threw caution to the winds as she declared, "And I'll be your match making friend from Ravenclaw – the two of you'll thank me for your happy ever after in seventh year."
Beth threw her head back and laughed as Jeremy chuckled nervously, his drunken self unable to hide his visible discomfort.
Wes snickered (cruelly) and cut in, "Just how sloshed are you, Barnett? Are you really talking about Harry Potter?"
Amelia wrinkled her nose and replied curtly,
"You'd be a stinking Slytherin."
Wes, like a gentleman, ignored this comment and turned towards his girlfriend to lodge a complaint, "Beth, rein in your other girlfriend."
Jeremy asked curiously, as Beth snorted and rolled her eyes at no one in particular, "Why is Barnett the other girlfriend?"
"Why not?"
"But that'd make you the first girlfriend."
"No, it would not."
"Shouldn't she be the other boyfriend?"
Beth snorted again and put in, "But she isn't a boy."
Amelia gave Wes a flat stare, even as he formulated another witty comeback, and stated "I'm not the other girlfriend, you are."
Jeremy tittered again.
"Whatever, Amy", Wes spat out, enunciating her name with drunken contempt and wrapped his arm territorially around his girlfriend, who smiled lazily and snuggled closer to him. Within half a minute, they two were playing a game of tongue tag, leaving their friends to fend for themselves. Jeremy stood by awkwardly, his eyes darting everywhere but the two of them before they settled on Amelia.
"Say, Barnett – will you take calculus next year?"
Amelia looked up at him and smiled. It was a magical night.
...
Amelia made an interesting observation about herself that night – she was almost always hiding in the corner at parties.
Well, granted – this wasn't a party – it was an exhibition, well, The Exhibition, and there were no viable corner on the roof to be hidden in, but in all fairness she stayed away from the crowd, sighing as she found herself by the parapet once again. The dinner banquet had been opened, and Emily had vanished again to make sure everything went smoothly. Not that Amelia minded terribly – she realized she needed some time to process the information she'd been bequeathed.
It had been three hours. Three hours of skulking in corners and sighing inaudibly and checking her phone to pretend she was busy. Three hours looking over her shoulder for the man in the charcoal grey tuxedo, with his hair slicked back and his shoes shined to perfection, his appearance so drastically altered that she was convinced she was running away from a stranger. She barely looked at the artwork, passing from painting to scroll to sculpture, her attention always on him, and she felt a knot form in her stomach each time she did see him.
Him, smiling and shaking hands and making easy conversation.
Him, the centre of attention.
Getting away should be easier.
But it wasn't. Each time she did pause to ponder over a piece, she resolutely ignored the brass placards that stood beside, determined to avoid names and identities and the familiarity they entailed, focussing on nothing in particular. She did give in every once in a while, relenting and taking a look at the names of the artists, her heart jumping to her throat every time she read his name.
Six paintings, three sculptures, and that bloody scroll. Not that she was counting.
Pushing aside the sense of pride that surged through her veins and the indignation that followed (there should have been so many more!) she had finally made her way to the parapet, standing by the sculpture of the girl wrapped in barbed wire (twelve unanswered texts) for the sake of familiarity, and waited for Emily to show up so they could head for the buffet.
Amelia would've denied it any other day, but tonight she felt a shiver run down her spine as she stood hunched over her cell phone, like the ghost of a whisper on the back of her neck, and she felt the knot in her stomach tighten.
She looked up.
He stood in front of her, a mere ten feet away. Still, silent, statuesque. Her breath caught in her chest as he looked at her impassive, the tiniest of frowns on his forehead as he slowly drew his hands out of his pockets, his movements deliberate, his gaze fixed. She waited for him to speak, for a warm greeting or a harsh rebuke, anything that would break this wretched silence.
He did not comply.
Amelia felt poison seep through her skin as he turned on his heel wordlessly and walked away.
...
He watched her from a distance, as Ben dabbed his fingers in paint and smeared shades of blue over a sheaf of handmade paper Adam had procured specially for him, watching her bite her tongue as she twirled the brush between her fingers, her brow furrowed. Wisps of hair fell out from their knot and onto her neck as she hunched over her work, looking up after a few seconds and setting the brush aside with satisfaction, the ghost of a smile on her lips. Adam was counting the shades of gold in her brown hair when Ben tugged at his arm and pointed at his masterpiece.
"Yes, Ben, that looks wonderful", he said, smiling down at the little blond boy, who proudly showed off his little fishies. "Would you like to sign that?"
Ben nodded enthusiastically, scribbling his name at the corner of the sheet, offering his pencil dutifully to Adam who took it with a smile and added the date below the sprawling letters.
20th March, 2011.
...
Author's Note – I apologize, first of all for the four day delay. In Another Lifetime, I would've posted this chapter on a Saturday and not grappled with writer's block and played video games through the weekend (eleven hours is insanity). Be that as it may, I'm rather happy about how this chapter turned out – less existential philosophy and more dramatic actions. Virtual cookies for those who reviewed – your messages keep me afloat. :)