11.7

I realized at about November that I would have to learn to coexist with EnriqueRosalyn if I was going to continue without blowing up much longer. So I
"Hey, Rosalyn?"
"What's up?"
"I don't know--you wanna hang out on Sunday with a bunch of people? I know about this art exhibit the art department is doing and I thought--"
"You what now? You want to hang out with people? Catherine, are you ill?"
"No, I'm fine! I just don't want to go alone!"
Ros withered me a bit with her glare.
"And! I think it would be a great opportunity for me to get to know Enrique if he's going to hang around for much longer."
Rosalyn didn't swallow my lie, but she took the truth like the proverbial fish: hooklinesinker.
"Oh! That's great! I'll ask him if he's free on Sunday, and then where is this place? I bet we can get there by foot, right?"
She ran around the room trying to figure out where she was for a minute and then turned abruptly and grabbed me in a hug.
"Thanks, Cath, for trying. I know dealing with me is weird for you sometimes."
She had sad in her voice, so I just held onto her. There wasn't anything else to do.





It became a thing. I didn't really mean for it to become a thing. I don't like things. They're so loud. But Ros told Enrique who invited his friends, and pretty soon everybody and his cousin was going. I guess. Sometimes hyperbole is better than five. Five. It's the number of toes most people are born with. It's the number most commonly in the middle of a scale of interest. It's the number most people would choose as their favorite number if they weren't so afraid of conforming (so they all choose seven instead). It's the farthest I could count before preschool. Five is the number of ways I can lay in my bed: up, down, back, forth, and diagonal. Any diagonal is the same diagonal, just different in reference. Five is the number of people who showed up to watch me get to know Enrique. Four is the people who were not me. Three is the number of people who knew Enrique. Two is the number of people who knew my name. One is me. I prefer the last, but I'll take my chances with five.
We all showed up at roughly the same time in front of the exhibit hall that had too much facade and not enough sidewalk, so it felt like it was falling down on the pedestrians. There, we introduced each other. It was Enrique and Rosalyn and Erica and Marco. And me. Wait? The Guy Who Peaks In Class? Marco?

"So, what is this exhibit?"
"I think it's student work."
I decided since he sat in front of me, I would try to fall behind him to see if I recognized the back of his head.
"Student work? That's awesome."
"Is that sarcasm?"
"No, genuine pleasure."
The back of his head was very nondescript. Maybe if I get on his right side the way the GuyWSIClass is on my left and I'll be able to tell then.
"Do you know any art majors?"
"I guess on accident?"
Laughter.
"What? Accident? How does that work?"
Sadly, the right side of the back of his head was as nondescript as the left side (I guess I fooled myself of a vain hope, really. How does one man's back of his head look different from another back of a man's head? Hint: it doesn't). I guess there is a certain admirable virtue in having a normally shaped head. And in any case there wasn't anything he could do about it.
"So what floor is this exhibit?"
"Catherine?" This was Ros.
"What? Floor? Third."
She laughed. "You've walked us to the fourth."
I have always been glad of the relative opacity of humanity, because if I could have seen inside me I don't suppose I would have been surprised to see my stomach turn over.
We walked back down the flight of stairs and entered onto the exhibit.

Everyone had a lovely time, I think.

The exhibit was not exactly live nudes, because they weren't exactly nude exactly, and at least a few of them looked old enough to be dead already. I didn't know before, but apparently there is a market for flesh-toned underwear for saggy old people in schools of art.
Once everyone stopped laughing and poking me in the side, we kind of dissipated (more than walked, we rolled like a breaking wave) out into the exhibits. I stepped confidently forward and approached the first installment. It was an old man whose beard looked shaved with a pocketknife and whose chest looked like it could be carded for wool. I asked him
"Do you guys get to talk? Or do the art students pay you to not to?"
He grunted and pulled his tinfoil horse's head tighter around his head until all I could see was his gnarled, poorly shaven chin.
A voice from behind me. "Let's attempt to unravel the meaning of this most incredibly wise and learned art student's ill-begotten creation."
I turned around. It was the Marco prospective of Guy Who Talks In Class. What was he doing, talking to me? What if--no, not right, but if I can't--stop. Stop thinking. Maybe you'll figure out if he's GuyClassTalk nonsense. Maybe you'll overcome your crippling normality and have some actual conversation with a human being other than Ros for once. Ok. I'll give it a shot.
"To answer your question: I think, but am not sure, that it is a horse," I replied.
"Too simple! No art major worth his salt will be so foolish. Try again."
"Ok, the tinfoil head and boots make me think perhaps he's a space horse. But again, overdone. I've seen at least twelve space horses in the last week and a half. So played out." Marco chuckled. "So that must mean it is symbolic. His shave has to be a part of the art. Surrounded by metal, and yet unable to find a razor blade to shave. It represents the desperation of a broken man to find the use in life."
"I like it, but I think you're wrong."
"So, Sir Showoff. What is it, then?"
"Laziness. The artist forgot this was today and made this in his house from his kitchen goods on the way out the door. I predict a C or B-."
"Reasonable."
Was he actually Guy Who Speaks In Class? That's just the sort of intelligent nonsense that makes the professor giddy with joy. I determined to find out through subterfuge. I have always liked stories about cunning people who are cunning and figure things out through . . . through cunness? That sounds so wrong and so right, like Peanut Butter Ice Cream. Things just don't get better than that.
He turned to me. "Next specimen?"
"Indeed." I set my course for the woman wearing christmas tinsel and a string of lights. "Meaning: Christmas isn't just for December. They can be celebrated a month early, in lieu of Thanksgiving. And if you are too poor, Aunt Greta will make a great tree."
"And in the German tradition, burn her when you're done."
The exhibit glared at us violently. We decided to leave.
We drifted to the next (a man lathered in [what appeared to be] toothpaste).
Marco began. "The woeful state of this man's dental hygiene has caused him to overreact, trying to clean his teeth with his whole body. When he finished brushing his teeth, he started brushing his gums, then his cheeks, and the cleaning spread to his whole body. Now, he's much the worse for wear and his gingivitis still won't clear up."
"Do you like Debussy?"
"You mean Debussy."
"That's what I said."
"No, you said--it doesn't matter. He's alright. Why?"
"Just wondering. Have an opinion on Tchaikovsky?"
"Doesn't everyone?"
I laughed.
"What are you driving at?" he asked.
"A brick wall, apparently. Do you see the woman covered in sprinkles?"
"Is it alright if I don't?"
"I'll allow it."
I realized at that moment that I had no idea what I was doing. I was talking to a boy I didn't know just to determine whether or not he was the who I knew. I thought it was the right choice, but I thought wrong. I thought wrong. I thought wrong. This guy doesn't know me. This guy doesn't matter. Where was Ros?
I turned to go.
He turned to stay. To the wall, very pointedly, he said "I know I'm weird in class. I figure you guys won't talk because you have nothing to say. So just point out that cellos sound mournful and he'll blow up he's so excited."
We just stood there with our backs to each other for a long moment before I quickly walked away, past the man in the feather boa and the woman in the eviscerated wetsuit and the woman wearing surgical gloves sewn into a seeming shirt.
I found Ros, then, sitting on a bench with Enrique. I motioned her away, and she stood to join me.
"He knows," I said, "he knows that I'm in Listening to Music and I know that he is and we know that we know and things are terrible. I meant to hide, not to be discovered."
"Calm down. What did he say to you?"
"He said that cellos sound mournful and he talks in class and he acknowledged that I was in his class and I can't watch him from the background now that he knows my name and he might as well have stabbed my secret identity with a secret knife because I sure can't"
Ros interrupted. "Calm down. So what?"
"So? Can't you see the far-reaching enormity of the situation?"
She smiled just a touch. "I can see you're freaking out, and he's calm. I think, and this is my professional opinion, that you need to stop hyperventilating and start thinking. If he was going to kill you and eat your skin, he would have done it by now. Everything else is gravy, so sit back and enjoy the ride."
I melted a bit. Rosalyn never really got me, and I don't suppose I ever really got her. But we knew what the other didn't have, and we gave it freely. Right now, that was calm. So I sucked up all of Ros' calm that I could feel (sucked it up with a tiny little straw [through which no human should ever drink, like a coffee stirrer]) and exhaled.
Things would be good. Things would be quite good.

So at the end of the day, I learned a few things: One: that Marco/the Guy Who Speaks In Class is a pretty cool guy, two: that I am really bad at meeting people, three: if you ever go to an art exhibit, check the content for family friendliness first, and four: Rosalyn and Enrique are still trying to decide which label to use for their relationship.
I stuck with Ros the rest of the day, hardly paid attention, and just drank in her energy (she bounces out of chairs like she's owned them her whole life) (she is willing to yell with anybody about anything) (she is fluent in child-ese, like a ten-year old in a twenty-year old body). I avoided Marco and Enrique and Erica, met an art student with beads in her braids, and decided I didn't want to ever own flesh-toned underwear.
I loathe using the modifier "terrifying" to describe the day, but if the shoe fits, then tie up the laces and go jogging.
Maybe next weekend.