English, only the language is so dense and poetic that I can decipher only sections of it. There’s something about somebody’s hand and a drawn sword dripping in blood, and a description of women who aren’t really women. A hideous sight. I catch that. And how their moods and breath are foul.
Ambrosia closes her eyes and explains, sounding a little blissed-out as she does. “Those are the words of the ancient Greek playwright Aeschylus. Lived 525 BC to 456 BC. Considered the father of tragedy. In my opinion, he’s the father of it all—tragedy, comedy, truth, falsehood. Nobody, then or since, has expressed it better.”
So that’s what this invitation is about. Greek theater. Our Western Civ project, schoolwork worth 25 percent of our grade. I feel disappointed—and yes, a cringe of humiliation—for thinking that Ambrosia could have any other possible reason for inviting me. Raymond was right after all, and speaking of Raymond …
“If we’re working on our school project, why isn’t Raymond here, too?” I ask.
Ambrosia’s eyes open—thwop—like two black, spring-loaded umbrellas. She gives me her own look of disappointment. Her voice turns breathy, thick with concern. “Meg, my dear Meg. Always hanging out with the same person. It’s so limiting to your personal growth.”
I leap to my best friend’s defense, the defense of our friendship. “Raymond is…”
She interrupts before I can figure out what exactly I was going to say. “Your loyalty is very commendable. Touching in its way. I value loyalty, too. But the two of you are very different. Day and night.”
“Well, yeah,” I admit. “But we’re alike in the ways that count.”
“Trust me. You’re too close to see it.”
“See what?”
“How you’re changing. Surely you’ve noticed some of that. I certainly have. You’re feeling things so much more deeply. The pains of your life, the love that doesn’t ever get returned. This unfairness shakes your soul. Crying all the time now, aren’t you? Your lows are so much lower. Ever since your hormones kicked in and you got your period and the blood…”
Alix snorts at that, a few cracker crumbs exploding into the air. Stephanie, on the window seat, sits straighter and leans slightly forward, looking very interested, way too interested in my personal problems. I can’t believe that Ambrosia is talking about my hormones, my period, my soul, and my crying. But how do I stop her? I’m so flabbergasted that I’m not even capable of hearing full sentences right now. I take in only isolated phrases. “Full potential … late bloomer … finally had enough … waking up.”
By then she’s come full circle back to the subject of Raymond, and how different we are. “He is exactly whom you see, nothing buried inside, nothing to coax out and discover, nothing stuffed down and left to ferment. Within you, on the other hand, there are layers waiting to be revealed.”
There’s a big vase of white flowers on her desk, roses. A petal drops. She picks it up, eats it. “In you, Meg, there are untapped complexities. You know that. In this way you’re more like Alix, as deep as the ocean.”
Alix starts a little when she hears her name come up. She’s trying to look indifferent to the comment, but her eyes dart and her gaze drops to her hands. I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed or flattered, maybe both. Probably nobody ever called her deep before. “Well, we might be alike a little,” she says. “Meg hates everyone, too.”
“But I don’t really hate … not Raymond, not—” I protest.
Ambrosia stops me with a traffic-cop motion, the palm of her right hand held in my direction. She then swings her full attention to Stephanie. “Meg is also like you. Intense, passionate, eager, and willing to put aside mundane individualistic concerns for a greater purpose.”
Stephanie scoots to the edge of the window seat in disagreement. “Like me? Not at all. No offense, Meg, and I’m sure you have lots of passion tucked somewhere inside your quiet little self. But other than that one weird outburst in Western Civ, I’ve never seen you stand up for anything. I don’t have a clue what you care about. Do you even know?”
“That,” Ambrosia says with a wistful sigh, “is the crux of our problem. We see the surface and assume that’s the core. That may be true for most people, but not for us in this room. We have to dig before the others can see our true natures and understand the depth and breadth of what we share.