By: Jessica De Balzo I must be the only person who sees purple rivers. I must be the only person who thinks that black is all colors in the spectrum mixed together. Sometimes I think that my friends forget that they can pay a therapist to do what I always find myself doing: listening to their problems, saying little, and then standing by a river on a cold night, not being surprised when it starts to rain amethyst raindrops. "Stella, my chicken salad is spoiled. When the waitress comes back I'll complain." "Do you want something else? Lunch was, like, nine hours ago. You should eat something." "I had a whole sandwich for lunch." Lea sat there with her head in her hands, elbows on the paper-covered table. Suddenly, she lifted her head fast enough to give herself whiplash. "Wait! I had an apple too. Besides, I've decided to treat myself to cake." "Wow. That makes everything different." Amazing. Lea had decided to treat herself to her own birthday cake. The dogs ran across the dock and into the water of my subconscious. I could feel my opinions paddling around, barking. I jumped in after them, floating in the violet silk of the icy river. All the color drained from my face as I sent out a small part of myself to attend Lea's Sweet Sixteen dinner and pretend to enjoy it (or at least feign interest in the situation). After our salads had been cleared away, I sat with my legs crossed under the table and was careful not to make eye contact with the mirror across from me. I could feel myself drifting a bit and I started reliving the I'm-sort-of-bored-and-I-really-have-to-pee feeling I'd experienced through the entire three hours of Rent and then the long car ride to this bizarre little Italian joint that was really no more Italian than your average Olive Garden. To amuse myself I started thinking about this book Kat had given to the birthday girl in which one could find a wide array of colorful French phrases that make you sound all sexy to the non French-speaking person, but which really have you purring things like J'adore faire d'aspirateur (I love to vacuum). It would be a good moment to smoke a cigarette, only I don't smoke. Ben turned to me after what seemed like hours, breaking off a heated did-Moses-really-part-the-Red-Sea debate with Donald. Lea was dictating to Kat about the evils of cream sauce on the other side of me. I was staring at a stray chunk of tomato from the bruschetta we'd finished off an hour ago when we'd first sat down. "Are you okay, Stella?" "What?" "You look like you're dead. Your fingernails are turning blue." "I should have put on nail polish, then. They always turn blue when I don't move them a lot." "Yeah, but it's weird. Are you stoned or something?" "What?" "You look a little wooo." Ben raised his eyes to the ceiling and flailed his arms about. I saw Lea's father looking at us out of the corner of my dry-contact-lens-red eye. Leave it to Ben to associate any emotion (or even lack there of) with illegal substances. Ben knew better than anyone that I had never been high in my life, except for when I'd had my wisdom teeth taken out when I was fourteen. Anyway, I knew that Ben was mostly talk, just another one for the world to woo (or wooo, in his case). I'd never met anyone so enamored by the So-Close-Yet-So-Far Drug World. Lea looked over at my bowl of lobster bisque, which was now cold since it had been sitting in front of me for quite some time, hardly touched. "Did you like the soup?" she asked. "Of course. I'm just saving room for my entrée." I didn't want to tell her that it just tasted like fish-flavored ketchup. "Why didn't you get any soup, Lea?" "Oh. I was going to get mushroom soup, but Kat was telling me that it's creamy, like that." She motioned to my dish, eyes filled with something that might have been hunger. "So? Mushroom soup's awesome. I just wanted to try something different tonight I guess." "I'm saving room for the cake later. It's chocolate with chocolate fudge icing and flowers. We bought this chocolate rainbow ice cream to go with it. I'm not sure yet if I'm going to have ice cream. What do you think I should do about it? I mean, I don't want to get fat." "Yeah, you were telling me before. About the cake." "Your outfit is so pretty, Stella. You have the best clothes. I wish I'd been able to wear my flowered skirt tonight." "Why didn't you?" "Nothing really fits. I've lost a lot of weight. The doctor says I'm actually about two or three pounds underweight now. I'm supposed to be around a hundred, but I'm not. I'll probably gain it all back today though." "Yeah. From a sandwich and a piece of cake, maybe ice cream, I'm sure. Isn't that, like, physically impossible?" "You know what I mean. Are you okay? You look like you're not feeling well. I practically have a whole pharmacy in my purse. Would you like some Pepto Bismol? Since my stomach has gotten so sensitive I've been carrying it around. I also have Motrin in case I get my period because I haven't had it in a while so it could happen anytime. I have Dramamine too if you feel at all seasick." "Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom." I stumbled in my four-inch platforms to the ladies room, pushed along by the family-style Italian music, well aware that I probably looked like I'd been sampling the same cheap red wine Lea's family had been consuming in mass quantities over the last eternity. When the door was closed behind me I sat on the counter and pulled a deep purple lipstick from my purse. I colored in my lips desperately, trying to make sense of something, trying to control something, keep the paint inside the lines. An old woman wearing a tragic turtleneck that must have been vintage JCrew or Talbot's (circa 1943 maybe?) came in as I was making a face at myself in the mirror and she laughed. "Enjoy your looks now, dear, cause once you hit thirty, it's all downhill from there. You get wrinkles and everything you eat goes right to your ass." |
I hopped down. "Excuse me?" "Life is like a trip to France." "Oh, okay, have a nice day. Enjoy your dinner. The lobster bisque is good. Very creamy. Good night." I stumbled back to the table, wondering why weird people like that always seem to find me. I was also trying to think of just in what ways life could be likened to a trip to France. People do stupid things in foreign countries. Life is expensive? This was all happening at a very fast pace because I walk faster than anyone I know, which I'm sure contributed to the stumbling step I had developed in the last few hours. I actually almost started to laugh right there as I made my way through the restaurant, talking to myself. I sat down hard with a funny look on my face. Lea's dad stared at me with a mix of concern and I-think-you're-drunk/stoned/high/mentallydisturbedbecauseyourmom'sahypnotherapist expressed on his face. "You look fatigued, dear. Waitress! A pot of coffee over here!" I guess he thought I was drunk. Of course, in Driver's Ed I had learned that only time and vomiting could sober a person up. Maybe a long flight to France would do the trick? I wanted to be anywhere but La Trattoria Something in between two groups of old friends who really didn't know me anymore and eight drunk-on-wine-in-a-box adults, one of which who was going to drive me home. And I was the one who needed the coffee? I was quite close to calling the nearest Dunkin Donuts to have a Box-o-Joe delivered right to our table (not that it would make any difference, and not that Dunkin Donuts delivers anyway). The shiny silver pot arrived with my name practically scrawled onto the fogged sides. I poured myself a little cup of it and downed it in one steaming gulp after adding milk and sweet n lo. Our entrees arrived as I was finishing off a second tiny cup of coffee. I looked down at my plate, thankful that I could finally get something in my stomach aside from caffeine and chemicals that are clinically proven to kill you. I glanced quickly over at Lea. Her dish had only been sitting in front of her for a matter of seconds, and already she was separating the grilled chicken from the penne pasta. Her dad looked heartbroken that his daughter was eating grilled chicken for the eighth time in the last four days. Not that I knew that for sure, but that's how he looked like he felt. It didn't matter though. I ate my meal, and I drank my coffee. Before long at all the pot was empty and still sizzling hot. Between bites Ben looked over at my hands. "Oh my god, Stella, are you okay?" "Yeah, why?" "Your hands are all red!" "So they are. Must be the coffee." "Are you sure you're not high?" "Quite." Soon after I had finished eating (some surprisingly delicious fish dish) and drinking (coffee, thank you very much), I started to feel like I was awakening from a long sleep, the kind you sleep after a long plane ride to another country and your internal clock is all screwed up. We finally left the restaurant and I crawled into Lea's dad's luminescent mini-van with Lea, Kat, Donald, and Ben. We three girls were in the back, and Lea and Kat were singing Disney songs on each side of my head. At first I was afraid I wouldn't live to witness Lea consume a slice of cake. However, by the second verse of a Little Mermaid song, the coffee and fish protein had really kicked in and I was all but flying high as a kite, as Ben would say, and soon leading the troops through the wonderful world of Disney music and philosophical expressions. What does Hakuna Matata mean again? Damned if I remember. Finally the moment of truth was upon us and Lea was standing above the glowing cake, pausing to make a wish before blowing out the seventeen (one for good luck) candles. I want to be as thin, stylish, sophisticated, knowledgeable of trivial song lyrics, smart, and cosmopolitan as Stella. I could practically see the words twirl up into the light fixture and wondered if I was the only one to be concerned. Then everyone disappeared in a cloud of white smoke for a second. When it cleared we were each holding a paper plate of bakery cake and chocolate rainbow ice cream. Since I was already hungry again (normal people need to eat every three or four hours, you know) I was glad to be given food. I pretended not to be watching as Lea lifted a tiny forkful of cake to her mouth. I pretended not to notice that she was trembling a bit. I pretended not to know that she'd be punishing herself for three days after tonight. I pretended not to care. I pretended that I was having fun and wanted to be in the hazy dining room, standing against the wall next to Ben, eating the overpriced birthday cake. As I said good-bye to Lea's parents, I wondered if her father still thought I was drunk. Her mother said a few thank-you-for-coming words to me. Her dad looked kind of scared and upset. As I walked by him I let him kiss my cheek and then clunked my way out the door. When I got to my door (Kat's parents had given me a ride), I remembered that my parents were at some boring navy-blue-suit-business dinner and that they wouldn't be home for another hour or two. So I took a walk in the dark. I knew that it wasn't safe, but at least it wouldn't be hard for a car to spot my glittering skirt. I could probably have gotten to the river around the corner in my sleep. I actually kind of wondered if I was dreaming right now, and if I would suddenly wake up in a cream-colored hotel room in Paris, looking out the window at a groggy Eiffel Tower, knowing that I was where I should be. I speed-walked like the wind to the water. I was so tired and freaked out by the events of the past twelve hours, everything seemed to be a hazy purple, due to the fog behind my eyes that kept me from thinking clearly. Was I really supposed to be in this town? Was I really supposed to be with these people? Or was I just sort of biding my time until my Real Life started? Maybe I wasn't really my parents' daughter after all. Maybe I was someone else's demon child, who saw things she wasn't supposed to and pretended to ignore them, or who was always thinking too far away from where anyone else ever was or ever would be. Or maybe they were the demon children, the friends who had no idea who Stella was. The friends who didn't know that Stella saw things in purple and liked to wrap herself in black so she could wear whatever color eye shadow she damn well pleased. The friends who wanted her to give them free counseling and to take up memory space in her soul and on her computerized Christmas list. I looked up at the black-violet sky and closed my eyes, feeling the frost and the fog soak through my shoulders while I sent the red anger out of my body. I imagined that it rose and then fell to the earth, into the shallow water that might have been blue a long time ago. I opened my eyes and turned around. It was time for me to get home. If I didn't get out of my soaking wet clothing, I'd probably freeze into a rocky piece of amethyst and be sold for much less or much more than I'm worth at a gem show in Florida. I took the long way home. On the street with all the old houses, I saw an Eiffel Tower of a tall tree dressed in purple lights. Just for me. |