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Child
This morning is as silent as the occasional murmur of a bird, as loud as the
smoothness of satin sheets, as sunny as the hot monsoon rain in India, and as
frigid as two leaves dropping to the ground, surreptitiously, quietly, daintily.
“Lovely day.” Tree gets out of bed and stretches. I admire his body and wonder
if he’s truly a god or if he’s just a mortal overwhelmed in my eye. I don’t
care. He’s beautiful. C’est tout.
“Come back,” I implore, cuddling up, drawing my knees to my chest, shaking my
hair.
He looks at me deploringly, but I know he’s just teasing. I smile seductively at
him. “Come here...” I say, smiling more. I get up, dragging the sheet along with
me. “Closer.”
He complies, walking towards me slowly. “Closer,” I murmur, when he’s an inch
away from my face. “Closer.” I kiss him and he encircles my waist with his arms,
slipping his hands under my sheet. I laugh as he gently nuzzles my ear. The
sheet drops on the floor and we fall back onto the bed.
“I’m taking you to the rink.” Tree says abruptly, coming in when I’m soaking in
his bathtub. I snap out of my rather sleepy-eyed haze, looking down at the water
almost self-consciously, almost as if I’m afraid the bubble bath isn’t covering
me completely.
“No you’re not.” I say, quietly.
“Yes, I am.” He looks at me serenely, perfectly serious. Then he sighs and
squats down beside me, taking my hand, weaving my fingers with his. “Velvet, you
know you have to someday.”
“No I don’t.” I’m thinking of that girl, the one with the beautiful black curls
and the enviable body. She twirls. She’s wearing that beautiful indigo costume,
the one that’s still stored somewhere deep down inside that trunk. She gears up
to perform the climax. It’s Nationals and she’s going to win. She knows she is.
Eventually just being good isn’t enough, you know. No, you have to know that
you’re going to win. And when she knew that at State, she won.
One, two, three and – spin, spin, spin, spin and then leap! But just as she’s
supposed to come down in a graceful sweep her legs give out and she slams.
“No,” I say, coldly. I slam the bathtub doors in his face and rinse myself off.
There, the tears, just a millisecond after their cue.
“Velvet,” Tree says, catching me as I come out in my dressing gown. “Velvet.
Come on.” He catches me and I suddenly relent. He kisses my neck. “You know you
want to skate again.”
I’m silent. Then I pull away from him and rummage through his drawers until I
find some of my clothes. I slip on some underwear. “Will you please hook this,”
I ask, letting my dressing gown drop. He hooks my bra, kissing my shoulders. I
grab one of his shirts and flatten the collar as I button it up, unbuttoning the
shirt cuffs. Then I pull on my jeans and turn around to face him, dragging a
brush through my hair.
“You’re beautiful.” He says, softly.
“Are you trying to seduce me now?” I ask, tightening my mouth. The sunlight
glares off his mirror, making me flinch. “So that I’ll skate? Is that why this
happened?”
(“You’re too emotional, Velvet.” That’s what Pam said.)
“Of course not,” He sounds shocked. He tries to hug me but I pull away.
“Go shower,” I say, disdainfully. “You’re naked.”
“I know that,” he says. I envy him for a moment that he’s so much at leisure
even when he’s naked in front of me. But then, he knows I love his body. I stare
at him pointedly for some time. He sighs and retreats into the bathroom.
I sink back onto his bed. When I close my eyes I can still feel him. I can still
feel my mind whirring with a million thoughts and I can feel the air, shifting
from cold to warm, back and forth, a pendulum. I sit up.
Exactly thirteen hours and twenty six minutes ago I hadn’t even ever kissed him.
I feel something hard as I move a little bit more into the bed. I fumble around,
then turn the huge heap of blankets over. There, sitting there so snugly. White
and silver. Shiny. Polished. And underneath... the costume. I stare at it for a
moment. Then I get up and run. Past the front door – slam! – away from his
cries: “Velvet! Velvet, please come back. We can talk about this!” I’m gone
already. My flip flops make annoying squeaks and when I reach the park I take
them off and run.
And soon I have reached the romantic hut in the Japanese Gardens and I am
sobbing and crying, I’m feeling hollow, I’m feeling desperately broken. I can
feel his lips on mine and his soft, tinkling touches. Sixteen years of longing
claimed.
But I know he’ll find me here, so I leave. I have no money. So I stay in the
park, alone on the grass.
I was always the child. A Bette Midler song. The spoiled, rich little kid who
had everything she could ever possibly want. And who was too talented to be
admired. My siblings patronised and cuddled me; my parents gave me far too many
things; my nannies loved me even though I was an agonisingly haughty little
girl; and people in general smiled at me and indulged me. I could be Little Miss
Perfect and I could also be That Little Monster.
I was always the little kid who sits on a star and rules the universe. I was a
brilliant little genius at school – top of my year and the teachers’ pet; a star
ballerina in the Nutcracker; the winner of numerous talent shows; an ice skater
who was so dedicated to winning the gold she never stopped, not even when it was
impossible; a pretty little pianist; a sweet little nightingale; a lovely
writer; a champion chess player.
I was ideal.
I didn’t have any friends, though. Adults and older people loved me and my peers
hated me. Except Tree. But then, he is three years older than me. Somehow we
always played together. And it was enough to have him as my friend, because I
didn’t know I could have more.
And as I grew older I grew from a cute pretty little thing to a stunningly
beautiful girl. The guys wanted me and some of the girls wanted me and a lot of
people hated me. I was perfect and yet so utterly imperfect. I would always be
like that, a perfection in a world full of imperfection, an imperfection in a
world of perfection. Like fractals.
I never was sure of myself being beautiful. I looked in the mirror and saw
someone who was growing too much side fat. I saw a rise in my stomach. I saw
horrible dumpling-like legs. Every time I looked in the mirror I saw a podgy
looking girl. And when it seemed like Tree was unattainable I thought it must be
because of how fat I was.
When I met Pamela Rosenbaum I thought I was finally becoming normal, getting
friends, that sort of thing. But Pam was also an outcast: she wanted so
desperately to be fashionable, pretty, popular, terrific, everything. She had
learnt to cover up the truths and her feelings under a camouflage (like a facial
mask) of superficiality. Sometimes she could be dreadfully insensitive, but she
was my friend. And somewhere in her I saw my own self, someone who was shadowed
by outside perceptions and pretentious ideas. So I spent hours poring over Cosmo
and Seventeen magazines with Pam, and we talked about the perfect, ideal,
wonderful people. We admired celebrities and went on crazy diets. We always
thought we were fat. Pam was slightly overweight, maybe, but not in the way that
it actually mattered. But when I looked at Pam I was frightened, scared: I never
wanted to become like her, with her big butt and her thick thighs and her huge
breasts. And I saw myself becoming like her, as I slowly started becoming more
womanly. This was around when I was eleven or twelve. Pam was a year older than
me and lorded it over me: and I constantly thought that was how I would be in a
year’s time.
Sweet things terrified me, and yet I longed for them desperately. But I don’t
think I ate a single sweet thing since the grapefruit diets the summer before
sixth grade and the party to celebrate my coming home from the clinic. M months
passed in a soporific haze sometimes – I heard Pam telling me, “I would give
anything to have your figure, Velvet, you have no idea what you’re talking
about,” “Who do you think you’re kidding, saying you’re fat?” “I think you
should see a doctor, Velvet, you’re getting way too thin…” – but I didn’t pay
attention. My parents were always away doing whatever it was affluent,
superficial people do. The housekeeper, Marion, who supposedly took care of me,
was too busy to notice much.
This changed dramatically the summer before I turned fourteen. In the past year
I had stopped eating any sort of meat, I mostly just ate salads if I ate at all,
and I had boxes stashed with calorie content lists. But then my parents
arbitrarily decided I needed a “governess,” or someone who was a more
sophisticated version of a nanny. Her name was Jeanette. She was shocked when
she realised how thin I was, and she completely freaked out. And then everyone
freaked out.
And then a clinic full of clinical smells and clinical clothes and clinical
analyses and clinical glasses. And food that made me feel sick. Food was alien,
and yet I wanted it so much. I was going through a minor stage of bulimia when
Jeanette turned me in. I stayed at the clinic for a couple of months but had to
keep going there for checkups for half a year more.
I did gain some weight back. I’ve always resented Jeanette, though. Eventually
she and I had such massive fights my parents were forced to fire her. I
threatened to move out and go live with Tree if they tried to get me a new
nanny, so they didn’t. I think I thought I had freedom then….
When I went to the clinic, I suddenly grew afraid of skating. The ice was like
an aphrodisiac to my fear…. and when it seemed so sly, so I haven’t skated
since, not at all. It just... it was all just pure competition. And even though
skating was my life and my passion, it no longer is. It was replaced by….
something. I’m not sure what. After the clinic, I grew into a solitary somewhat
sombre rather strange and distant person. I’d only talk openly to Tree, and I
even found it hard with him sometimes. When Keith moved to town he seemed like
such a nice guy to talk to and he didn’t know all those things about me so I
felt so much freer with him. For a time I thought I loved him more than I loved
Tree. We dated for a while but eventually decided we were better off as friends.
And now that Tree and I are finally lovers… I suppose you could say I’m happy.
But that girl wanted to try again after she came back from the clinic. I
remember her.
I stare up at the sky and the sky seems to stare at me. “Okay.” I say.
I get up.
I walk.
Walking is fun sometimes. I used to hate walking all alone. But now it feels
nice to be alone. I haven’t had solitude for a long time.
The rink is already glaring evilly at me. I walk inside. The side entrance, the
one I always used. Everything’s the same – it feels like déjà vu, some kind of
dreaded reconnoitre.
“I’m sorry, you can’t come in here,” A girl who could only be a few years older
than me comes and bars my way.
“I used to be a student here.” I say. I feel sad, and the cold blasts of air
coming from inside seem to be shouting, “Go away! Get lost! You don’t belong
here.”
“Well, I’m sorry, this is a private rink.”
“Can’t I stay and watch?” I plead.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t.” She sounds bored. She probably gets pleas like this
a million times every day.
I stalk away and back to the main entrance. The main desk still glares in all
its polished formality, sneering at me. I dazedly sign up for the public rink.
There’s no one here right now. But almost as if it’s some kind of weird twist of
fate, there are a pair of skates lying abandoned outside the rink. And they fit.
Pam would call it destiny. I would have scoffed if someone else had had it
happen to them. Bah humbug! That sort of thing only happens in stories.
My feet feel unnatural at first, especially without socks or anything. But then
I glide, and I twirl a little. I glide for a long time and I feel terrified. I
twirl faster, but I start to feel dizzy. I’m so out of practice. I need to work
on this so much more. And then, cynically, I decide to try the Nationals climax.
I always had it memorised. Spin, spin, spin, twirl, leap and... I fall with an
awful crash. But it’s not as bad as it was that time. I stay on the cold ice for
a moment, blinking icy tears away, and then I slowly get up.
I get off the ice and leave the skates where I found them. They lie dejected,
and I wonder if the owner is going to come back, looking for them desperately,
worrying frantically about how their parents will yell at them ever so much if
they don’t find them.
I slip on my shoes and walk outside. There’s a slight wind, giving relief from
the hot air circling around like a vulture. The trees sway almost rhythmically,
almost symmetrically. I think about how I used to be so bad at climbing trees. I
sigh and make my way back to Tree’s apartment.
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