Weeping Underwater Looks a Lot Like Laughter Read Free Page B

affirmation. “We’ve got janitors here,” he said, chuckling to himself, clearly aiming to co-opt the actress. But she was squinting at the clock down the hallway, appearing less in the process of checking the time than decoding it. Soon enough the gesticulator dragged his way back into the auditorium. The actress turned to me, still squinting, rubbing her eyes, and waiting.
    “Where did you transfer from?” she asked.
    “St. Boniface. It’s in Davenport.”
    “What’s Davenport like?”
    “You don’t have to lock your doors,” I said, wishing I’d mentioned the nighttime riverboat tours, but feeling it was too late and I ought to balance the comment with something more critical. “Everyone says we need a flood wall. Apparently we’re the biggest city on the Mississippi without one.”
    “The floods only get serious every fifty years. What’s the point of living on the Mississippi when you can’t even see it?”
    “I’m glad to hear that,” I said, taking a seat next to her, just as casually as if we were both waiting for the bus downtown. “Actually, I’m really sick of people giving us so much trouble about it. I was just saying that because . . . well, you know.”
    “To beat me to the punch?”
    “I guess,” I said, shrugging, perhaps even blushing. “I’m George.”
    “I’m Emily,” she said, pushing herself against the seatback and out of her slump. Her gaze wandered to the pink paper-thin scar over my right eyebrow. Her eyes were no longer white and blind but soft hazel palettes—eager, intelligent eyes with big volcano centers. “You don’t meet too many teenagers named George.”
    “It was my grandpa’s name. He drank a lot of whiskey and crashed a lot of tractors. He died of liver failure a few years back.”
    The actress nodded along, rubbing her eyes again and taking my queer confession in stride. I had the feeling that she sensed my estrangement in the most exact way, understanding in a few words that I was a generally confident teenager suddenly friendless and questioning the purpose of his existence. Perhaps she sensed these things because I wanted her to sense them. But then I realized that she was only rubbing her eyes because she was smirking and didn’t know what to say. She was still smirking to herself when her mother arrived, nearly as frantic as the schoolboys in the first act of Into the Night . Mrs. Schell apologized for getting caught up at the hospital, then back-tracked by explaining that she wasn’t that sorry because she really had no choice in the matter. While her dainty black purse and matching pumps lent the impression of a cutthroat businesswoman much more than a doctor or nurse, she clearly acted like a nurse, wasting no time pressing her thumbs to Emily’s cheeks to better check the whites of her eyes.
    “Did you use the dropper?” she asked, her tone suggesting grave doubt.
    “They’re fine,” Emily said, struggling to her feet in spite of her mother’s pressing thumbs.
    “They’re not fine. They’re bloodred. I still don’t see why you can’t act blind like everyone else.”
    “I’m not the only one. Woody wore the contacts, too.”
    “Woody doesn’t even show up until the third act. Woody doesn’t even have a line.”
    “This is George from Davenport.”
    Mrs. Schell turned to me, forgoing the customary smile or handshake in exchange for a brazen visual survey that started at my scuffed boots and ended on the red curls bunched up over my ears. “Hello,” she finally said. “Hello,” I said back, then returned her visual survey, though with much greater tact. My first impression was that Mrs. Schell was untrustworthy, despite being matronly attractive, particularly in terms of her high cheekbones and a long swan neck. She was digging in her purse for a dropper when two dapper junior girls—I slightly recognized them from various B-track classes—turned the lobby corner and circled in, congratulating Emily and greeting her