Flat-Out Celeste (7 page)

Celeste-

One of your teachers… I can’t remember his name… something fishy sounding… I mean, not that he’s a fishy-sounding person in terms of his behavior or character, but his actual name has something to do with fish. Do you know a Mr. Bass? Or Mr. Filet? No, that can’t be right. Anyway, this teacher of yours went to Barton and must think you’d be a good match. But in any case, he talked to the dean about you, so we’ve been told to woo you. (BTW, our dean’s name is, I swear on my life, Mr. Dean! So he’s Dean Dean!) But I gather my wooing is not working all that well… Let’s see… You’d love the west coast. Do you like farm-to-table restaurants? San Diego has a lot of those. I like this place called Blue Ribbon Rustic Kitchen in Hillcrest. They make a burrata that will BOWL. YOU. OVER. And we have deep blue harbors where you can go and watch boats or take a cheesy tourist boat ride (but it’s fun to do once). Symphony, opera, theaters? No? How about sandcastle lessons? Seriously, I’m not making that up. Look it up on Yelp. I’m not very good with sandcastles because the patience required to position EVERY SINGLE STUPID GRAIN OF SAND is a bit much for me. Oh, so also, there’s Point Loma, Sunset Cliffs National Park, anything in La Jolla… Speaking of La Jolla, there’s the Salk Institute. You know, if you’re into genetics, or microbiology, or diseases, or plants. Or the genetic microbiology of plant diseases. I’m pretty sure they do everything there. I think you can take a tour of the architecture, although I suppose that’s not exciting unless you’re one for architecture, as I am. Barton, by the way, has a fabulous architecture program. That’s what I’m majoring in, in case I haven’t mentioned that. Do you know what you want to major in? I could get you some more information on whatever programs you like.

I’m home in three weeks. Mr. Fritz would be on cloud nine if you agreed to come to the next event. It’s Wednesday, the night before Thanksgiving. Of course, I don’t have the date in front of me, as might not surprise you by now. You’ll like him. He drinks Bloody Marys with extra olives and wears a watch on each wrist. (No, I don’t know why, and I’m scared to ask; but it’s nevertheless super intriguing and funny.)

-Justin

Celeste-

I have to apologize for saying “on cloud nine.” That was a cliché and I hate clichés. There’s no excuse. Ugh. Make no bones about it, you can rake me over the coals for that and tell me that the Barton ship has sailed, so I should go jump in a lake.

-Justin

The giggle that burst from her lips surprised her. And, even more, the rush of happiness when another email immediately popped up in her inbox.

Celeste-

Okay, one more thing. I have to show this to somebody, and my roommate’s out. I just made myself a cup of coffee, and I have this mini milk-frother thing that, well, froths milk obviously, so I put that on top of the coffee and then I drizzle chocolate syrup over it. I make one in the morning and then one usually late at night if I’m studying. Okay, but so I just made this one and I stirred it up a little with these wooden sticks I have (they’re not really sticks as in branches, but just super skinny, possibly anorexic, popsicle sticks that are sold as stirrers), and so the chocolate smeared, and look! Do you see what I see? I just drizzled away randomly. Swear. I didn’t try to make this happen.

Also, another out-of-nowhere question: Do you like sushi? San Diego has excellent sushi. I’m sure Boston does, too, but California sushi is so much better. (I may lose my Massachusetts residency for saying that. Don’t tell anyone. Go, Red Sox!)

-Justin

She felt quite sure that the last thing this boy needed was caffeine, but below Justin’s email, he’d attached a photo; an overhead view of his coffee creation.

Celeste smiled. There was, undeniably, a chocolate owl looking back at her. She opened the photo and enlarged it. A snowy owl, she decided. It was really quite the creation, accident or not. Out of curiosity, she rotated the picture once by ninety degrees.

Justin-

There is much to address here, so I will use a numbered list in order not to miss any points.

1. 1.
   I very much like the coffee owl. I believe there are baristi who specialize in intentionally creating extraordinary designs in the foam of cappuccinos and such, and you have managed to do so without even trying. I think that is rather fantastic. You may find it interesting to learn that if you turn the owl on its side, your frothy image is no longer an owl, but becomes what I imagine Puck from A Midsummer Night’s Dream to look like. But I feel convinced that this owl’s name is Clive. It suits him, do you not agree?
   
2. 2.
   Food. You have a strong interest in culinary explorations, I gather. I, too, enjoy the gastronomical world. My mother attempts a wide array of dishes, some with greater flavor success than others. I do not eat out often and have never tried sushi. I do hope that my mother does not attempt to serve sushi at home. I have visions of food poisoning passing before my eyes. As for farm-to-table restaurants, they sound lovely. My father grows tomatoes in the summer, but I have doubts that serving those in a salad constitutes true farm-to-table eating?
   
3. 3.
   I have not had burrata, but Google tells me that this is a fresh mozzarella ball of sorts, filled with what is essentially mozzarella cream. It sounds rich and heavenly, and I should very much like to try it.
   
4. 4.
   I cannot imagine that the Camptown shrimp dish’s flavor was in any way altered because I was not there; however, I will trust that you felt that something was missing. Perhaps a new chef? A recipe tweak?
   
5. 5.
   I, too, have a distaste for clichés, so that is something that we have in common.
   
6. 6.
   Beverage notes: While I have never had a bloody Mary myself, even virgin style, I hear they are very good, particularly when made with fresh horseradish. Mr. Fritz clearly has a love for the spicy and piquant, does he not?
   
7. 7.
   I am hesitant to firmly RSVP to this next Barton gathering, even though Mr. Fritz will be in attendance, as it is the night before the Thanksgiving holiday. I will see what arrangements can be made.
   

Celeste paused in her writing.

To be direct with you, group social events often do not work out well for me. I find them difficult. In fact, most social events are seemingly impossible for me to navigate in a way that does not alienate others. I hope you understand.

1. 8.
   San Diego sounds to be a very appealing city, and a touristy boat ride and sandcastle building are attractive lures.
   
2. 9.
   Architecture must be a challenging and dynamic major. I am undecided what to major in right now, although some specialty in literature holds appeal for me.
   

Best wishes,

Celeste

Celeste-

I understand about group events. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I’ll make sure that you get an invitation just in case you change your mind. Okay? Maybe we could get together while I’m in town, and then it wouldn’t be a big group situation. Would you like that better?

I really enjoy emailing with you. Is that weird to say? I hope not.

-Justin

Words usually came easily to Celeste, but right now she had none. She sat for a few moments, trying to decide how she felt and how to respond. This was unfamiliar territory for her.

She walked from her room and to the kitchen. Although she had teased Matt the other day about wanting to take her out for hot chocolate, a cup of rich hot cocoa seemed in order today. Although it hadn’t snowed yet, it was certainly gloomy and cold enough out to set the mood for the upcoming winter. She heated milk on the stove and took sugar and dark unsweetened cocoa from the cabinet. It took a few minutes for the milk to come to a near boil, and as she whisked in the chocolate and sugar, a thought occurred to her. She abandoned the hot pot and scooped spoonfuls of sugar onto the counter until a solid circle of shimmering crystals formed. Then with the back of the spoon, she carefully swooped lines through the sugar.

Celeste took her cell from her back pocket and snapped a picture, which she then emailed to Justin.

Justin-

It’s perhaps rudimentary, but here’s my snowy owl for you.

-Celeste

The whoosh of the email echoed in the quiet kitchen, and Celeste noticed—with no small amount of shock—that her message contained two contractions.

“How odd,” she said to the sugar owl. “How very, very odd.”

DON’T FLINCH

CELESTE BELTED OUT the final la
la la’s of the song as best she could, trying to keep her voice steady and clear. Auditioning for a band was nerve-wracking enough, so the expressionless stares from the three college boys in front of her were not helping. She replaced the microphone back on the stand and took an awkward bow.

It was hard, she was learning, to move easily in a skintight catsuit, but she had felt it appropriate to dress the part. Or what she guessed the part would look like. The costume selection from the school’s drama department offered a finite selection from which to choose. She would return it, of course, since Celeste was not a thief, but she did feel slightly guilty about taking it without asking. The flyer that she’d taken from the rocker in Harvard Square didn’t spell out too many details on song or fashion choices, and she didn’t know much about “skate punk” music, so it had been up to her to package herself. The girl at the salon this morning had been all too enthusiastic about coloring Celeste’s hair neon red, and even though she promised that it would wash out soon enough, Celeste was not yet comfortable with the red spiral curls that kept falling into her eyes. Now that the backing track was off, the room was eerily silent.

The lead guitarist of Flinch Noggins rubbed his lips together for a moment and shook some lint from his flannel shirt. “Huh. What did you say the name of that song was again?”

“The song is titled ‘The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.’ It was originally performed by The Band, but was made most famous by the talented Joan Baez,” she answered energetically. “You may have heard some of the Baez style in my performance, but I did try to put my own character into it.” She brushed her hair from her face and waited for a reaction. “I thought it smart to showcase my abilities in a song that conveyed strong political and emotional themes because many bands are driven by raw passions. It is a song about the Civil War. When the southern states were experiencing defeat. We have all experienced defeat and suffering, have we not?” In fact, Celeste knew that she was experiencing both right at that moment because not only was it clear that she was not about to be the next member of Flinch Noggins, but this catsuit had embedded itself between her butt cheeks in a truly uncomfortable manner. “I did not realize that the term ‘garage band’ was so literal and that bands do, in fact, rehearse their performances in actual garages. How… inspiring.” She glanced at the trash bins and the workbench p
iled with tools.

The drummer hit his sticks together and tapped his combat boots on the concrete floor of the garage. “Here’s the thing, Cecile…”

“Celeste,” she corrected him. “Celeste Watkins.”

“Okay, right, right. You’ve got a smokin’ look. I mean, you’re, like, seriously hot. But we’re hardcore, man, and that was all Joni Mitchell and stuff.”

She sighed. “Joan Baez. I do not know any of the popular skate punk songs, but I am a diligent worker and assure you that I could pick up your style very quickly.”

The guitarist shook his head. “It wasn’t even good Joni Mitchell, dude.”

“Joan Baez!” she said with frustration. But it didn’t matter. She walked stiffly to the dusty table by the door to gather her things. “Would one of you gentlemen mind lifting my bag for me? I have concerns about attempting to bend over in this outfit, lest I tear the seams. Or break a rib.”

All three band members shot out of their seats and rushed to her side. The bass player reached her first and gently put her bag over her shoulder. “You don’t seem like much of a skater chick. You know, with the weird song and the talking and all. You don’t really fit in here.”

“I just thought… maybe I could.” She took a few perilous steps forward on her spiked-heel vinyl boots. “I do want to thank you for allowing me this opportunity. Goodbye. I wish the Flinch Noggins great success. I am sure you will find a suitable lead singer in no time. I am terrifically sorry for having wasted your time today. This was indeed an egregious error on my part.”

Celeste hobbled out of the garage and made her way to the car. She fumbled with her keys in the cold November air. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving, yet she was not feeling very thankful right now.

“Hey, Celeste! Wait up!” The drummer bounded over and leaned against the car. “You all right?”

“Did I leave something behind?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. You looked kinda bummed back there.”

“I am just fine. I must apologize again. I should not have come.”

“Nah, don’t say that. You did your own thing. I admire that. I’m sorry this didn’t work out. I’m Zeke, by the way. I don’t know if we even told you our names.” The drummer finished securing his long hair into an elastic and held out a hand. She put hers into his and met his look. His brown eyes were friendly, and she found this disarming, especially since the band was clearly unhappy with her performance. “Don’t be discouraged,” he said.