Name: Emmaline Grant
Gender: Female
Gender: Female
the art of losing isn't hard to master
It wasn’t for lack of confidence that she was the one who always walked a step behind. That she held the umbrella out at arm’s length, strode slightly more slowly to accommodate whoever walked beside her, her own boots and her back and one shoulder splattered with water. That she was the one to put the dolls to sleep in their flat boxes decorated with glitter glue after everyone else had left, that she picked up the dresses that had fallen and crawled under bedframes to find the missing plastic shoe. Someone had to do it.
On her fourth birthday her first sister was born, a bundle of wrinkled pink and nights lying awake, a shrill roar carrying through thin drywall.
“You’re a big sister now.” You have responsibilities now.
She learned to tuck herself into bed.
Two years later, another scrunched, tiny face was brought home wrapped in blankets, this time with a head of thick brown hair and visits to the hospital, peering through the thick pane of glass; then house visits from the nurse in stark white with her heavy grey carrying bag, whimpering cries behind the closed door; and she learned the meaning of compromise. Three years later came her father’s son, at long last, and she got to ride along to the hospital this time, perched on the seat of honor beside her mother, who was panting with heavy breaths, Emmaline holding a cool cloth against her forehead.
A four-year-old and a first grader do not understand “sacrifice,” only that the bus driver knew to let her off at her stop even when there was no one there to pick her up, and that going home to an empty house meant taking a red box out of the freezer-- they bought one with side-by-side doors so she could reach-- and heating it in the microwave for dinner. They brought her lollipops and teddy bears from the hospital gift shop when they returned. “Don’t worry, your sister will be fine,” they would reassure her, and she would nod as if she knew what was going on. By nine, she was too old for lollipops or teddy bears, and she walked home from the bus stop by herself every day. But there were still the same red boxes-- lasagna, chicken strips, mashed potatoes, fettucini alfredo. Sometimes they came with a chocolate brownie.
“You have to be careful with your sister, she’s not as strong as you are.” She would bend her arm and her father would reach out to squeeze her thin bicep, call her his little soldier. When they played tag, she would slow down a little bit to let her sister catch up, then fall to the ground with wild, flailing limbs and exaggerated moans of pain until the younger girl stopped and stood worriedly, about to run back to the house for help. And then Emmaline would ask her to come closer, voice a weak whisper, until she was within arm’s reach, and she would reach out and clasp her sister-- carefully, always carefully-- and tickle her until they both fell down in spasms of giggles.
faith is a series of calculations
“Emmaline” meant “peaceful home,” or so she was told. “Hardworking,” from the old French; “whole,” from old German. Her mother ran their home like an efficient machine: 6:30, feed the baby, 6:50, pour milk and cereal for the girls; 7:30, off to the bus stop. When they got home from school, it was Emmaline’s job to make sure her sisters finished their homework. Seven o’clock, dinner, sometimes later if the baby was fussing.
She was the one who researched boarding schools online, who printed and filled out the application and carefully placed it in the mailbox one day before school. There was really no way for her parents to object when she received the letter-- full scholarship, the words read, crisp black type slightly raised on smooth cream paper. Was fourteen too young to be living on her own? She was at that age when she thought she could do anything. Her education, this golden opportunity outweighed the help they needed at home, of course. They just couldn’t take it away from her.
It was an old Catholic school, with sprawling Gothic towers and echoing wood-paneled hallways, the scent of mothballs and learning. The desks in every classroom were carved with messages both fresh and decades-old-- “John + Stacy Forever,” “Mr. Carrigan sucks balls.” There was morning prayer every day in the chapel with stained-glass walls, and evening prayer, and Sunday Mass. It hardly mattered that their family came from Protestant ancestors, she had never been to church, and she had never heard of a Hail Mary, nor did it matter that she had never before spent a night away from home. She stepped into her new school with a swelling of anticipation in her throat, eager for the freedom of living away from her parents, and for the freedom of only looking after herself. There were no diapers to be changed here, no quarrels to be mediated, and no crying sisters to be appeased.
over the world and under the world
It was strange how one could step out of one world and enter another in exactly the same place, exactly the same role. She got used to cleaning up after group projects, and washing the dishes when they snuck leftovers up to their rooms, and emptying the water bucket they positioned under the crack in the dorm ceiling when it rained. Someone had to do it.
If there was one thing different about this world, though, it was the silence. At home, it had been a rare commodity. Here, it spilled out from the long hallways and empty classrooms and dimly-lit common rooms into the vast grounds outside, the fields and the forest behind the pond where they were discouraged from entering (not that it stopped them). She liked to sit with a book from the library-- the school had a fantastic library, a gift from generous alumni-- in one of the unused classrooms, where she could lean on the windowsill or on the wide desk at the front of the room, and there would be no one around for hours. On weekdays, after dinner, she would remain until the lights went off, and then she would sit in the silence a little more. There was something about the secluded darkness that made her pause and hesitate when she was about to stand and walk away: the subtle shifts of darkness in the corner of her vision, the flicker of motion that would dissipate when she turned her head to investigate. In the back of her mind there was a voice telling her to run, but another whispered that there was something more than fear here, that there was a reason she should stay, and she found both hard to ignore.
what if the storm ends
For a long time she told herself it was growing up that changed her, and not anything that might be happening around her, or any of her surroundings. As her friends paired off with long-limbed, scruffy-haired boys and smooth-skinned youths with slender fingers, she spent more and more evenings with books, and silence. (She wondered if she would ever finish reading the library’s collection of fiction and romance novels; she could try.) The thing was, they were all so pretty now-- her friends, who had been just as wide-eyed and flat-chested in their first year-- now they flipped their straightened hair with a jaded sophistication and wore cherry red lipstick, shoulders flung back to display newly discovered cleavage. And she could hardly follow suit-- it just didn’t seem appropriate. Where would she get the audacity, the knowledge, the grown-up clothes, the makeup? How could she compare?
She had come to this school earnest and eager for new experiences-- self-sacrificing, but ambitious; shy, but energetic. And now she hung back at the first possible chance, jumped and startled at the smallest things. Sometimes she thought it was the fact that the world seemed to be moving on without waiting for her to catch up; other times she thought it could have been the darkness, and the silence. There was so much darkness here-- unstirring, immaculate darkness-- in the empty, unused classrooms during the winter, shadowed corners under stairwells, in the hallways after lights out, on the grass fields that rustled rhythmically in the wind like a heartbeat echoing her own.
a conversation begins with a lie
This was her first real college party, despite it being her junior year. She had never felt a reason to go to one before, until her friends and dormmates had cajoled her into this one. “It’s part of the experience,” they reminded her.
They arrived an hour late, in a waft of scented hair product and oh-so-subtly-dabbed perfume. She stood uncomfortably in the midst of the crowd. A less than subtle smell of sweat and body heat hung in the air. Self-consciously plucking at borrowed bracelets, furtively pulling up the plunging neckline on the dress they had bought a week ago in town, she braced herself for hours of waiting awkwardly by the food table for the night to end. Hopefully the punch wouldn’t be spiked, and the snacks wouldn’t be laced with something illegal.
There was something about this room that made her uncomfortable. It was in one of the old buildings, one of the few left unrenovated in the university’s revival in the 50’s. She jumped when a voice spoke behind her, and swiveled around to see a tall and wiry boy. He looked vaguely familiar-- she had probably seen him around campus before.
"So,” he stood beside her silently, holding a drink in his hand. “Is this your first college party?"
Was it that obvious? She met his gaze. Was that pity or bland curiosity in his expression? Suddenly she felt defensive. What difference did it make to him, if she was an upperclassman who stayed in her room and read, or studied, or ate quiet meals by herself while others did whatever they did at parties late into the night?
She looked away, tracing the rim of her cup with a finger. “Not really.”
“Oh, I see.” He took a sip and nodded. “How do you like it so far?”
“It’s okay.”
Her weak smile was more of a grimace, and she took a deep gulp from her cup to fill the silence. Her eyes scanned the room, wary of this place that seemed to contain so many more dark crevices and shaded niches than really necessary. Was it her imagination creating shadows within shadows, shifting and breathing silent portents in the dimly-lit common room?
“I’m glad it’s not horrible, at least.”
She dug for something else to say in response, something to continue the conversation so she wouldn’t be the girl who stood apart from the crowd and stared into dark corners.
“So do you know the hosts?”
“Um. Sort of, we have a literature class together, but they don’t show up much.”
“The one in the big lecture hall?” She turned toward him now. “I’m in that class, too. I don’t think I’ve met you before.” Her gaze flitted between his face and the empty space behind him. Almost unconsciously, she felt the goosebumps rise on her skin, yet she couldn’t look away from the darkness. The darkness, and the silence-- though it was anything but in that room of teenage bodies, voices and heat melding into a wave that permeated through the still air and the musty salmon-pink carpet.
“Yeah.” He laughed, a surprised expression on his face. “Same here. It’s a pretty big class, though.”
“Mm, yeah.” She smiled vaguely in response, and forgot to look back at him as she replied.
“Is something wrong?” He tilted his head questioningly.
A long pause. She opened her mouth to answer, but hesitated. She pressed her lips together quickly-- she must have looked like a suffocating fish, mouth agape and eyes wide open. “It’s nothing.”
Extending a hand politely, she introduced herself. “I’m Emmaline.”
“Oh, I see. I’m Wilson. It’s nice to meet you.” His grip was firm, and warm. His face still wore a smile, but she saw the question in his eyes. And there was something else.
“It’s nice to meet you too.” Her tongue licked her lips quickly, and she hesitated again before responding. “I just don’t like being in the old buildings. I’m sorry, I must seem neurotic.” Her laugh seemed too loud to her own ears, and nervous. A self-conscious burble.
“Oh, it’s alright! When I was a kid I never liked old buildings too, but I’ve gotten over it.”
“It feels like--” A stirring in one of the corners of the room, behind an array of couches and side tables, caught her attention. “It feels like we’re not supposed to be here. Or maybe we are, but something bad is going to happen. Not that I’m saying that something... will happen.” She shifted her drink from one hand to another and berated herself for answering his question as if he really cared about the answer, her voice trailing off at the end of her sentence.
His eyes followed her gaze, and he took another drink from his cup. “Oh, okay...” Was that confusion on his face, or the realization that he had started a conversation with a lunatic?
“Yeah, it’s just me being paranoid. I must read too many of those horror novels.” Her eyes lingered on the dark space for a while. There seemed to be nothing there now, but she resolved to leave before she made an even bigger fool of herself. “Please excuse me. I have a test to study for.” She placed her cup down on the table with a loud clack and nodded politely, lips stretched into a half-smile. “It was nice to meet you.”
“Wait-- so soon? I-- At least let me come with you, I can’t have a pretty lady like yourself walk home in the dark all alone.” He followed her to the door, another bright smile on his face. She stopped, one hand resting on the bar labeled Push.
“I-It’s fine. You probably have friends waiting for you.”
“No, it’s fine. They won’t notice my disappearance at all. Please, I insist.”
She shifted forward, and wavered between walking away and accepting his offer. His expression looked so hopeful, and so genuine. Embarrassingly, she remembered the warmth of his fingertips against her own-- her hands always felt cold, no matter what the season-- and she hoped the red flushing into her pale face wasn’t noticeable in the dim lighting.
“Okay. Thanks.” She looked up, with a grateful smile. “I live on the North Campus. It’s kind of far.” Would he turn back now; would he make his excuses and say there was something else he had to do?
“It’s alright. I won’t get tired from walking, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m pretty athletic.”
Her own laugh came as a surprise to her, a quiet chuckle bursting out from her lips. “I’ll be under your protection, then.”
“I’ll protect you to the best of my ability.” His eyes had a way of crinkling when he laughed, and faint dimples appeared on his cheeks. She could feel herself turning red again.
They exchanged quiet words as they made their way across campus, polite small talk and mindless, scripted phrases.
When they reached the front step of her building, she stopped and turned back to him with an almost impish smile. “This is it. Thank you for your gallant protection.”
He laughed, and bowed with a flourish. “All in a day’s work, my fair lady.” He leaned over-- there was a whiff of laundry detergent, and sweat, and something else; there was a light, wet sheen on the tip of his nose, and she hoped her own face wasn’t red and sweaty, and that her pores didn’t seem gaping and wide-- and pecked her on the cheek. She stopped herself from flinching, but stiffened. “Sweet dreams.”
There was no mistaking the blush that crept up her face, and she laughed quickly, self-consciously. “You too.” She pushed open the door and stepped in quickly, but didn’t close it. As he walked away, she turned back and called out-- “Are you sure you didn’t see anything? At the party?”
He stopped. “See anything?” There was a look of hesitation on his face, and a little pensiveness. Her eyes lit up, hopeful.
“...Yeah, I guess I did,” he answered quietly.
“I’ve always seen them.” The words spilled out of her mouth quickly, and it felt strange on her tongue, finally saying it out loud.
A smile broke across his features. “Me too, but after a while I just ignored them. It’s easier to just deny their existence. “
“Is it?”
“...For a while, but I don’t think I can do that anymore.” He laughed, the timbre of his voice carrying across the courtyard on still air.
“It’s changed, hasn’t it? Almost like a shift in the wind. It was different before.” She couldn’t feel it before, not like this, but she hesitated to say it out loud. She sobered now, the pleasantry dropping from her face. Her voice trailed off.
“Almost, yeah.” He tilted his head up, and frowned. I shouldn’t have said it, I shouldn’t have gone there. “But it’s okay now, you’re not alone this time, and I’m not either.” A faint smile returned to his lips.
“Yes.” She responded with a smile of her own, and a flood of quiet relief. She raised her hand in a wave. “See you in class.” She kept her hand in the air, fingers spread in a half-wave as he walked down the pathway, still looking back at the doorway where she stood, and neither of them looked away until he finally turned around and became a speck in the distance, blending into the shadows.
the language of cities
Her first job was in an urban metropolis. The words made it sound deliciously glamorous. But in reality, it was a city like any other, draped in smog, and a thousand times more populated than the town she had grown up in or either of the isolated campuses at the schools where she had lived. Her job was to sit at the front desk and watch through the automated glass doors as hundreds, maybe even thousands of people walked by each day, all with better things to do than read. She didn’t blame them. It was a small public library, and the selection was even smaller than that of her high school. So she sat in her padded swivel chair and fidgeted with a pen, or a slip of paper, or whatever was at hand. Sometimes she helped with cataloguing and record-keeping, and sometimes (when she thought she could get away with it) she would pull a book out and sneak a chapter here and there when the supervisor wasn’t watching.
“Are you happy?”
She jumps in her seat, startled by the voice and by the question. It’s closing time, and everything is effused with a rosy glow in the red-orange light spilling through the windows, everything is casting long shadows into the distance.
“What?”
Her heartbeat speeds up almost instinctively, an animal response to predator.
“We’re closed, sir. If you’d like to return a book, please use the book drop outside.”
His features are flat and watery and vague-- she has a hard time recalling them afterwards-- and his voice is soft, rumbling, unassuming, distant rolling thunder during the calm before a storm (and a still moment afterwards comes the patter of rain, and then the roaring downpour).
“Are you happy here?”
He comes closer, leans over the pale oak desk-- his limbs shift, a subtle movement, and his lips are beside her ear, almost touching; she feels the movement of air as he says something but now she cannot remember the words. Her heart is pounding incessantly, a reassuring rhythm that threatens to drown out his near-silent whispers. Her own lips are mouthing a response, but it doesn’t seem that sound is coming out, nor that her objections are heard by anyone other than herself.
A sharp beep breaks the moment-- her phone is ringing.
“Please excuse me.” Her voice seems oddly loud and out of place now.
She fights the urge to jump out of her seat and sprint out of the lobby; she stands calmly and walks, one foot in front of the other, into the staff room. The moment the door closes, her legs collapse beneath her, and her fingers tremble as she pulls out her phone-- a text from Wil. She skims through the message quickly and presses call, needing to hear a familiar voice.
She remembered the faces of most of the patrons that came in-- there weren’t many. There was the long-haired college boy with the scarf, not many years younger than herself, who checked out towering stacks of books at a time. There was the elderly couple who always brought along a little girl, probably their granddaughter, and asked for help finding Nick Jr. DVDs. There was the salt-and-pepper-haired man who liked detective novels.
The people who wove in and out each day blended into one continuous entity, a relentless stream that flowed and rippled and crashed against the banks. And she stood still in the midst of it, a weather-worn rock in the current. And under the white froth on the water’s surface there was the clear liquid below, and then there was the darkness. And in the mud, in the darkness, there was a suction-- a gasping and whirling that threatened to pull her in if she didn’t keep treading water, if she didn’t keep her head above the surface.
He waves as if they are old friends the next time he walks in, as if he has any right to be here. She doesn’t notice him until he is much too close for her own comfort-- he has that way of remaining undetected until the last second.
“Have you thought about it?”
Her fingers are trembling again, her heart pounding its way out of her chest.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
This time, she meets his gaze for a second before turning away.
Sometimes she half-closed her eyes and listened to the hushed murmur of voices (a library is never really silent, for all the warning posters and all the hissing admonishments) and if she waited, it would be like the mornings when they gathered in the chapel, and the wave of their whispers would roll through the air and crash and wash up against the arching wooden walls and the rainbow-hued windows; except here the walls were whitewashed, stark cream and beige against the nubbly steel-grey carpet, and the windows were flat glass panels that stretched from floor to ceiling. Or voices carried over from the children’s section, and it would be like she was twelve again, and her sisters would be squabbling in the living room and she would stuff tissues in her ears and wish that she was anywhere but there (and now she wished she could go back and tell herself that she had her whole life to leave her family; that the worst fate in the world was not endless harrassment, but loneliness; that silence was not so golden). Or it would be like the common room late at night during finals week, and she would almost be able to feel the brush of fabric as she drifts to sleep against Wil’s shoulder or against his collarbone, a textbook still propped in her lap and his fingers tangled in her hair.
“Can I change my mind later?”
His face draws into a wide smile, patient, accommodating. “Maybe.”
Her fingers pluck at the clip of a ballpoint pen; she licks her lips. It seems as if there isn’t enough air in the room for the two of them.
“The top of the food chain, Em.” He chuckles, but the laugh sounds misplaced coming from his mouth. The nickname slides from his tongue like an insult.
“Don’t call me that.” She shoots an angry glance at him as she signs her name quickly, furtively, as if hurrying to finish before anyone can interrupt and talk reason into her.
The slow, easy grin again. “It doesn’t really matter, Delta Six.”
