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<td align="LEFT"><b><font face="Georgia">Chaconne</font></b></td>
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<td align="RIGHT"><b><font face="Georgia"><a href="bios_m2z.shtml#Walters" title="click for author info">Sarah L. Walters </a></font></b></td>
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<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">They walk up quiet streets with rambling houses in various states
of disrepair. They go up different streets every time but it always
looks the same. Cynthia sees the church where he said, "Let's
go fuck in that church, right in the pews. I want god and pussy
at the same time. C'mon, let's do it. No, I'm serious." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">She sees the house, the house they all climbed up into, with the
glittering black tar paper and splintering boards. Kevin and Peter
climbed up into the unfinished add-on while the girls milled around
on the grass, smoking cigarettes. When Cynthia and Margot saw
someone coming they screeched and shrieked and the boys jumped
down and they all slid into a back street. Relieved and breathless,
Lucy fluttered her eyelashes and passed around the miniature airplane
bottles of whiskey and rum. "My dad never notices," she always
says. "He has no idea at all." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">When they get to the diner they crowd into a single booth, three
on one side and two on the other. Cynthia and Kevin pull out cigarettes
with various flourishes, each wondering who they will talk into
buying their next pack. They all order coffee, trooping up and
down the stairs to get it. Cynthia has her notebook out and is
recording different aspects of everybody’s daily conversations.
She is up to seven double-sided pages. Kevin is doodling in the
corner of the notebook, his other arm draped around her waist
where nobody can see it. Lucy and Margot are bitching about one
of the flute players. Lucy is saying, "I hate to say it, I really
do, but," she says, giggling, "she looks like a cow. A fat cow."
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"A sheep," corrects Margot. "A fucking sheep, fucking livestock
girl, that's her new name." They dissolve into giggles. Lucy is
red and puffy from laughing, trying to catch her breath. They
are all loud and harsh in their laughter. Margot is bending over
the table, shaking, almost crying; Peter's head is thrown back,
his eyes closed tight as he laughs. Kevin chants, "Livestock girl.
Livestock girl. Hi, livestock girl." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Shut up. People are looking at us," hisses Lucy, still laughing.
"People are <i>looking</i>." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">At Marrowstone, everything was different. At night, after second
rehearsal, Cynthia could walk up the winding gravel paths to the
bluffs. Before she even got there, she would hear quiet bursts
of conversation and muffled laughter mingling with the outside
sounds. Everything would hush as she approached, her feet crunching
over the stones. She would begin to make out dim figures sitting
on logs and rocks. As she became visible, she would be greeted
in low, warm tones. Somebody would pass around a cigarette, or
a bottle. Everybody would scoot over and make room for her in
the back rub chain. Sometimes two dark figures would slip off
to the beach together. She could sit next to him, her head on
his warm shoulder. Each night little clusters like this existed
all over the bluffs, overlooking the water, cigarette tips glowing
in the dark like tiny red stars. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">They are all ordering breakfast at once, loud and hyper. French
toast and pancakes and dutch babies. They are wondering if the
waitress smokes. If the waitress smokes, they can leave cigarettes
as a tip, because they are slightly short on cash <br>
. <br>
"I saw her smoking the other day," Peter insists. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"We've never seen her before, dude," counters Kevin. "I'd remember
those titties." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Shut the fuck up," says Lucy. "They all look the same to you
anyways, you fucking pervert." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">They have just finished placing their order when Lucy becomes
pale. Her eyes get big, like a cartoon, and suddenly, beyond their
comprehension, she is slipping under the table. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"My mother," she whispers. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Her mother," they echo. Cynthia hears footsteps behind her. At
the table they are boy and girl, boy and girl. They are all kicking
Lucy under the table. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Well!" says a voice. Cynthia turns around. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Hi," says Cynthia. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Hi, Mrs. Hammond," they all say. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"How are you?" Peter asks. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I'm good, thank you, sweetheart," says Lucy's mother. "I was
just, you know, in the neighborhood, and," <i>pausing dramatically</i> "I thought I would just check and see, you know, if Lucy was
here. Because she and I talked recently about the number of classes
she's been missing." Lucy's mother smiles brightly. She looks
just like Lucy; their mannerisms are identical. Right now Lucy's
mother beams with a false cheerfulness that they all know means:
danger. All at once they are talking. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"No, Lucy's not here, Mrs. Hammond." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"It's French class this period." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"She wanted to come, but she said she had to go to class." Peter
gives Lucy's mother a charming smile. They are still kicking Lucy
under the table. Lucy is giggling. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Well," says Lucy's mother, "you're right, she certainly isn't
here. Sure she's not in the bathroom, maybe?" </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"No, of course not. Class," Peter insists. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Well, then, I guess I'll be going. Have fun. Tell Lucy to go
to <i>class</i>." And she is sweeping out again, and as the door slams behind
her Lucy is rising up from under the table, grinning. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Go to class," they all echo to Lucy. "Go to <i>class</i>!" </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Later, Cynthia and Lucy are walking together through their neighborhood,
taking side streets towards the beach. Lucy is saying: "So, what
about Kevin? I know you like him." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Of course I like him, he's my best friend. But that's all." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Really?" asks Lucy teasingly. "You've never even thought about
it?" </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"No," shrugs Cynthia. "He doesn't like me like that anyways."
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I used to like him, but I don't anymore," Lucy announces. "He
was a boring lay." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Who do you like now?" Cynthia asks curiously. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I don't know. Nobody." They are sitting on somebody's front steps
swigging miniature bottles of rum. Lucy says, "I'm glad we met
him, though." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Me too. And God, he can play. We're doing a quartet together
next concert; I need to practice." They are walking through the
park, under the pine trees, through the playground. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I don't know," says Lucy, whispering excitedly, "I think, I mean,
don't you think, he's kind of fucked up or something?" </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I don't know, I guess so. Not anymore than the rest of us." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I think he is," Lucy decides. "I think there is something totally
weird in his family. Margot's fucked up, too." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Yeah, I guess you're right." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I don't know what from," continues Lucy. "Here, want some more?
I have whiskey and gin left." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Whiskey, I guess," Cynthia says, grimacing. "I can't fucking
drink gin anymore, remember that Neutrogena bottle full?" </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Oh, God, with the lemon extract. Fuck, that was nasty." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Yeah, I am definitely never drinking gin again." They are walking
along the water, looking out over Puget Sound. Ahead of them they
can see Alki Beach wrap itself around the sound and towards downtown.
Picnic benches and fire pits are scattered along the beach under
the low-hanging trees. As Cynthia gulps down the whiskey, raw
against her throat, her body feels far, far away. When she turns
her head, it swivels slowly, her vision tracing unsteadily behind
it. Her lips are swollen and sluggish. Driftwood lies on the beach,
the gray blue water churning, weak sunlight squeezing out of the
clouds. Seagulls screeching. Everything is so beautiful. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Lucy is asking, "Can I tell you something?" </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Of course, Cynthia thinks. Anything, of course. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"What I want to tell you is: I don't want to sound mean or anything.
And of course I love everybody. But, I feel like, you and I are,
like, so much closer, you know? I mean, I don't know. I don't
know how I would make it through this shit if it wasn't for you."
Lucy's head is close to Cynthia's, her breath sweet. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I know," gasps Cynthia. "Me neither. I could never have done
this shit. It's different with you. You understand shit. It's
like we're older than everybody." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Exactly," sighs Lucy happily, "it's like we're more mature, or
something." They're hugging on the beach, their voices slurring
together, leaning into each other as the wind pulls at their sleeves
and hair. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">When Cynthia gets home she practices for as long as she can. Her
room is ordered and calm as she plays scales, one after another.
Playing Bach, movement after movement, leaning into her cello,
each phrase delicate and fragile. The notes escaping like the
air bubbles that float from her mouth when she's under water,
holding her breath. The bubbles rushing to the surface. Dinner
is sort of difficult, swaying in her chair, teeth freshly brushed.
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"You stink," her mother tells her. "You've been smoking." After
dinner, she sits on the couch thumbing through quartet scores.
When everybody has gone to bed, she sneaks onto the back deck
with a bottle of white wine, to smoke cigarettes and write in
her notebook. Half drunk, she holds onto the railing and listens
to the city humming in the dark. When she gets back to her room
he calls her, and they whisper to each other long into the night.
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Where have you been? I called before." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"The deck. It's nice out." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I'm getting fat. That's why Lucy dumped me. Cuz I have bigger
tits then her." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"She says it's because you were a boring fuck." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Whatever. I wanted to dump her first." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Oh, okay." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I'm fat. I'm definitely getting fat." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"God, shut up about it." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I'm serious. I just got out of the bath and I'm just all pale
and chubby. Same color as the towel. Just laying here looking
at expanses of pale flesh." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"God, you mean you're <i>naked</i> on the phone with me?" </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Yeah, laying in bed. Maybe I'll masturbate." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Please, spare me." <br>
<br>
"Maybe you should get naked too." <br>
<br>
"I'm hungry. I want french fries." <br>
<br>
"Come over and we'll go get some." <br>
<br>
"My parents would kill me if I snuck out." <br>
<br>
"I want Jessica to sneak out and come over. And she could climb
on top of me and fuck me." <br>
<br>
"She can't - she's too busy fucking the entire football team."
<br>
<br>
"You're just jealous." <br>
<br>
"I have to go. I need to smoke." <br>
<br>
"Call me back." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">One time, it was so close. It was so close she still hums with
it, can <i>feel</i> it. He walked up to her outside, and said, "Dominic gave me some
acid, do you want some?" And no, she didn't really, but he'd never
done it before, and it didn't seem safe. "Give me half a hit."
And after awhile, all mellow ("This is real Deadhead stuff, is
what Dom said, real hippy love shit, man"), they walked to the
park together, him clutching at her hand when they got to the
crosswalks. <br>
<br>
They walked up to the top of the hill, with an idea of making
daisy chains. They twirled around on the hill. They sat down for
a while. He pulled his headphones out of his bag and said, "Here,
put these on." And she put them on, and he pushed play, and he
touched her hair as the song played. "and you/if you could return/don't
let it burn/don't let it fade," and he whispered, "Your hair is
like melting steel," as he touched her neck. "do you have to/do
you have to/do you have to let it linger," and then she kissed
him, for real, and they were just lying there together, staring
at each other, trying to decide, maybe, when Peter showed up,
worried about them on acid out there by themselves. <br>
<br>
"You guys okay?" Peter asked. "Oh," she said, "we're fine." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I'm back." <br>
<br>
"When I masturbate I think about you." <br>
<br>
"Hey, thanks for telling me, pervert!" <br>
<br>
"No problem. I do it when I'm taking a bath at night. I make it
a bubble bath and I think about you." <br>
<br>
"Well, don't." <br>
<br>
"Actually, I'm taking a bath right now." <br>
<br>
"No you're fucking not, I can tell when you are because you echo
in the bathroom. And you just said how you were naked in bed."
<br>
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Maybe I should, though. Then you could listen while I did it."
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"No way, you ass. I don't care what you jerk off about anyways."
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I bet you do." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"No, I really don't." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Okay, I never think about you. I think about Jessica." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Fucking shut up about Jessica for once. She doesn't even look
at you." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Yeah, she does. When you're not around." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I don't even get what you see in her, she's a total fucking airhead
bitch." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I told you that you cared." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Fuck you, whatever, I'm just saying." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Anyways, do you want to come over tomorrow? I have to practice,
but I could do that after." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I guess so. I'll have to ask my bitch mom. Will Margot be there?"
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"No, she has to go to Lucy's to work on their duet." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Well, why don't you go over there too, and Lucy will fuck you."
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"She won't fuck me, I came too fast the last time. Anyways, I
don't want to fuck Lucy. She made me hold her up against the fucking
wall. I thought my fucking legs were going to collapse." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Why do we always end up talking about sex?" </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Because you want to fuck me." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Whatever." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I have to go to bed. Tomorrow?" </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Fine." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2"><br>
The next day they meet inside the music room. Third period it's
always empty, and Caveman doesn't mind if they practice, even
though he always says, "Don't you guys have a class you should
be at?" They never answer him. Cynthia is lying on the floor,
legs pulled up, her knees close together and tilted to the left.
He is pacing, holding his violin low, in the peculiar way he has,
waving his bow around. His hair is falling into his eyes. <br>
<br>
"Play the Brahms," she says. <br>
<br>
"Wait," he answers, holding up his bow. "Hold on." His eyes are
squinched together, head tossing his hair out of his eyes, as
he loosely flicks the tip of his bow up and down like a metronome.
<br>
<br>
"Ahh," he says. "I almost have it. I almost have it. I can hear
it." <br>
<br>
"Well, for Christ's sakes, fucking play it then," she growls.
He plays with his eyes closed, clutching at the violin, pacing
and turning strangely in the cramped room. The light filters in
through the brown plastic windows. Her fingers tap a rhythm on
the carpeted floor. He paces to the door and back as she watches.
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2"><br>
At chamber, everybody is disorganized, milling around the music
room hysterically. Nobody can concentrate. The other cellists
are clowning and smirking at everybody. Cynthia is thinking, is
this even the same room? It doesn't seem the same, somehow. She
is thinking, I'm going to go over there today, and it doesn't
seem safe. It seems wild and forbidden and dangerous. She imagines
getting caught, getting in trouble. She can't imagine the part
before getting caught. She wishes she could imagine what they
would do, how he would touch her, and where. She gets stuck after
the part where they're kissing. Like at night, when she is falling
asleep, she closes her eyes and holds a pillow to her chest and
thinks about it, her body tingling in the darkness. But after
the kiss, she can never think how it might go. She can only think
of his hand on her arm, or tangled up in her hair, or thrown around
her shoulder casually, as if he didn't mean it. <br>
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">Outside, after fifth period, he says, "Fuck it, let's go now.
Why bother with being here, and nobody is home until seven." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Okay," she agrees, feeling something wild and strange growing
inside her. "What should we do?" she asks, her voice stilted and
unfamiliar. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I don't know, whatever. Hang out." As they walk to the bus stop
he grabs her hand, lightly, and squeezes once before dropping
it and turning to light a cigarette. "Did you tell anybody you
were coming over?" </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"No." <br>
<br>
"Good." <br>
<br>
"Why - ashamed of me?" she demands, hurt. <br>
<br>
"No, I just don't want to hear about it from all those bitches."
<br>
<br>
"Afraid Jessica might find out?" she taunts. <br>
<br>
"Fuck you," he says, suddenly angry. <br>
<br>
"You might as well admit it," she says. "You fucking asshole."
<br>
<br>
He stares ahead, doesn't answer. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2"><br>
His house is airy and bright, warm feeling. He shuts the door
behind her and turns the lock. She loves this house because it
looks so lived in and familiar, so full. He takes her hand and
pulls her into the kitchen. Remnants of breakfast are still spread
out on the table, like their owners just stepped away to get more
orange juice or answer the phone. He pushes her into the doorframe.
<br>
<br>
"Maybe we should fuck; maybe you should let me fuck you." He brushes
his hands over her chest, reaching down with one hand to touch
her hip. <br>
<br>
"No," she says, half hysterically. "No way." <br>
<br>
"Okay," he says reasonably, "give me a blow job, then. You could
do it right here. Nobody's home." Moving his hand up and down.
She laughs, embarrassed. Pushing him away. "Is that a yes?" he
asks, teasing a little. <br>
<br>
"No," she says, laughing again. "But maybe later." <br>
<br>
"Then let me do something," he says softly. "Please. Please, just
let me touch you." His eyes are bright, his body close against
hers. He steps forward, pressing his knee between her legs, grabbing
her waist, pulling his hands up her side. His fingers plucking
carefully at her bra. All at once, she wants it - well, not <i>it</i>, but something. To know she did it. To get it over with. <br>
<br>
"What are you going to do?" she asks. <br>
<br>
"You'll see. You'll like it." This as his hand slips into her
jeans. And she does like it, but not how she thought she would.
It's not like how it feels when she does it in her own bed, alone
and safe. She braces herself against the doorframe, clasping her
hands around his neck to keep her balance. She stares at the sleeve
of his tee shirt, his arms. He slides his other hand up under
her shirt and she leans into his shoulder, her head buried in
his neck. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"I don't want to kiss you," he says suddenly, pulling his hands
away. "I want to save that for a real girlfriend." She stares
up at him. "This would be too weird otherwise." She looks away
as he grabs her around the waist and picks her up, holds her tight.
"We're best friends, right?" he asks. She nods, mutely. He takes
her hand, pulls her into his bedroom, smiles down at her, shuts
the door. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"Let's take a walk." <br>
<br>
"Okay," he agrees. He steps in front of her as she is dressing
and buttons her shirt, smoothing down the collars. The air outside
is thick and hard to breathe but smells good, like rain. "You're
okay?" he asks, looking at her steadily. <br>
<br>
"Yes." <br>
<br>
"You seem different." <br>
<br>
"I am different." <br>
<br>
As they cross the street, he says, "There was some blood." <br>
<br>
"I know. I don't want to talk about it." <br>
<br>
"You didn't tell me." <br>
<br>
"No," she agrees. He looks at her closely. <br>
<br>
"I've never seen you this relaxed. You're usually so neurotic."
</font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">She laughs. "I do feel relaxed. Like getting rid of a coat I hated."
<br>
<br>
"Okay," he says, uncertainly. <br>
<br>
"You know," she starts, low, "you should just invite her out on
a date, if you like her so much." <br>
<br>
"She'd say no, so no point in asking." <br>
<br>
"I guess you're right." <br>
<br>
"It's raining," he says, surprised. <br>
<br>
"I like it," she counters, walking in front of him on the sidewalk,
spinning and twirling in the rain. <br>
<br>
"It reminds me of Bach," she says, softly, humming a phrase. "Listen.
Don't tell anyone. Don't tell Lucy. We know nothing's different,
but they wouldn't understand." <br>
<br>
"I won't," he promises. "We're still friends, right?" <br>
<br>
"Of course," she answers, and looks at him hard. "You know," she
says carefully, "one day you'll fall in love with somebody. And
then you'll know." He looks down. <br>
<br>
"Let's go back," he offers. "I want to show you something." </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2"><br>
They sit in his living room, wooden and sweet yellow in the afternoon.
They move all the furniture to the corners so they can stretch
out on the red and black fake-oriental rug. He fiddles with the
record player and the stereo. He says, "Did you ever really listen
to the Chaconne? I mean really listen? It's only eight notes,
eight bars. The whole thing." Bach pours out of the record player
as they lay together, her head next to his torso. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"D," he calls out. "C-sharp. D. B-flat. A!" Each measure punctuated
by his breathless voice. "D, again." His voice rising with excitement
as it pours through the room, the sounds of a single violin flooding
the house. "C- sharp!" His hand touches her head, brushing her
hair back from her forehead again and again. </font></p>
<p><font face="Georgia" size="2">"It's amazing, it's unbelievable. Seventeen minutes of eight notes!
Listen - B-flat, now." The living room is overflowing, filled
with violin and light. She lays there, his hand on her forehead,
and feels every note, every touch of his fingers in her hair.
Seventeen minutes. When it is over, she reaches up, without saying
anything, and plays it again. </font></td>
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<td align="LEFT" width="8"><font face="Georgia" size="2" color="#CCCCCC">..</font></td>
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