“So this is the place of power,” Luce told me.
It was spring, a little over two years ago, during our freshman year of high school. We arrived at Logan’s house and headed to the basement game room where a group of us were celebrating midterms.
“It’s just a house,” I replied, ashamed of his mocking contempt, disguised as scientific interest in the lifestyle of my rich friends. I was already worried that I might get infected.
– Just a house? – Luce snorted. “It’s like we’re in a designer’s catalog.”
Logan’s house always seemed somehow abandoned. It was huge, the air was overly conditioned, and the furniture looked like it had just been unpacked. The entire time I was there, I never saw anyone in the pool, except maybe a vacuum cleaner crawling along the bottom. Logan’s parents were in the house, but they remained practically invisible. I only noticed traces of his presence: a glass on the kitchen counter; a sweater thrown over the back of a chair; Forgotten glasses in a magazine. Instead of owners, the house was inhabited by people hired to take care of it. They walked around, trying not to attract our attention.
This was Luce’s first time attending such a meeting. She had not previously been invited, and when she asked to come with me, I always avoided it, claiming that those meetings were very boring. In fact, the problem was that, although she was interested in my friends, at the same time she couldn’t stand them and they couldn’t stand her. So the idea of bringing them together to satisfy Luce’s curiosity was, to put it mildly, not very exciting to me.
When we arrived everyone was already there. The group gathered was small: Ruth, Marian, Keith, Logan, and I, natives of St. Francis School, who had studied there since the first grade. Luce sat on the couch next to Ruth and Marian, who were clearly not happy with her appearance.
They were talking about the English teacher, Miss Slater, who taught at our school for the first year. She managed to outsmart us: at first she posed as one of their own, young and fashionable, with that slightly mature punk rock look, and then, out of nowhere, she got bad grades during the semester.
“In general, all new teachers are ruthless,” Ruth pointed out, looking at Luce.
This was clearly a dig at his father, Mr. Herrera’s history teacher.
If Marian in our group was a kind of ruddy muse of the Renaissance, then Ruth was a brutalist. Hard, but quite beautiful, the epitome of pure minimalism. Not everyone loved her, but everyone respected her.
“You might not be as smart as you think,” Luce said with a shrug and grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the table.
Logan and Keith, sitting at the other end of the couch, turned to us in unison, surprised by Luce’s brazen response.
“Ruthless, like her father,” Keith said.
Keith was Logan’s best friend and the embodiment of paradox. This passionate athlete and star of the rowing team surprised us with his decision to participate in the school production of Macbeth. He successfully passed the audition and received the main role.
Having spoken, Keith leaned back against the pillows and continued reading the text on his paper, holding the crumpled and folded sheets in front of him.
While Ruth silently seethed with rage, Logan stood up, grabbed two bottles of soda from the mini fridge, and handed them to Luce and me without waiting for us to ask. Luce looked surprised. She always expected only bad things from people.
“Don’t listen to Ruth,” Logan told him. – You just need to “try it”.
“Like chopped liver,” Keith added.
“Like Marmite,” Marian interjected.
“Bitter melon,” I continued.
“I like all this food,” Ruth frowned. – In any case, the first two products are accurate. I have never tried bitter melon. “She turned to Logan. – I thought you were for me.
“I try to be a good host,” Logan said. He sat across from Keith, where the tattered copy of Macbeth lay on the pillow, and took the book into his hands. “So,” he said theatrically, “tell me, are you ready to learn this role?”
Even Ruth laughed. And Keith and Logan started rehearsing one of the scenes. The latter dedicated himself to reading for Lady Macbeth.
“I just can’t believe you’re in a theater production,” Marian told Keith. – This one is so cute.
Keith shrugged.
— I love cinema and I have always dreamed of acting in a movie. And the theater is almost cinema.
– Do you want to call Macbeth dear? – Logan asked.
“Looks like someone got a little carried away,” Ruth said. – Maybe you should sign up to be an artist too, huh, Logan?
“Dad will definitely go crazy then,” he replied. – Yes, and there is no time.
“Curse your father and may your moons perish,” Keith corrected.
“Keith found the time,” Marian said.
“I have many moons,” Keith agreed.
“Keith doesn’t have a father like mine,” Logan objected.
“May my father be well,” Keith interjected.
—What, acting in the theater doesn’t correspond to your image? – Lucia asked.
“Of course not,” Logan replied. “I once mentioned that I would like to start drawing in college and he bluntly said it was a waste of time.
The room fell silent. We all knew Logan’s parents and their high expectations of him.
“It’s not a waste of time at all, if you like it,” Luce broke the silence.
“Tell him,” Logan murmured.
“Maybe Macbeth really should be nice,” Keith interjected. – What if this is how I play this role?
“I know we’re supposed to love Shakespeare, but to be honest, I don’t understand the half of it,” I said.
“Me too,” Marian supported me.
“We need to feel the meaning of the words,” Keith said. — This play is about people who hide their true intentions and are willing to betray each other for political gain.
“We wouldn’t have guessed it without you,” Ruth replied with a smile.
“Seriously, some of the lines really resonate with me,” Keith said. – Listen: “We must / Wash our title in torrents of adulation, / Hide our hearts under the guise of faces / And pretend.” If that doesn’t describe everyone at St. Francis School, I don’t know what does.
“Are you saying we’re all fake?” – I asked.
“I mean, you’re all playing Shakespeare,” Keith replied, “you just don’t realize it.”
– So we are all actors? – I continued. — We hide our faces behind masks. We only say what is expected of us. We pretend that everything is fine.
“We play the roles our parents chose for us,” Logan said.
Our eyes met and a silent understanding emerged between us.
Everyone around us believed that sooner or later we would definitely become a couple. And, probably, looking at us from the outside, one would think so. But even though Logan and I played along because we both didn’t like ruining other people’s hopes, I knew that I wasn’t really attracted to him as a girl and I didn’t like him. Of course, I imagined us together; It was impossible not to imagine when everyone around me believed so much in our love. But, finding myself alone with Logan, I saw in him, as in a mirror, all my worst features: a skillfully constructed image, a false smile and an unnatural joy that evaporated as soon as those around me left. I never had the chance to meet the real Logan because he was always hiding, like me. I wonder what role he would choose if he could. Which one would he choose?
-And what do we play, a tragedy or a comedy? – Logan asked.
– You’re laughing? – Keith replied.
– No.
– Here is your answer.
The fun immediately disappeared somewhere. We sat in silence, not knowing what to say.
— Are you now friends with the kids from the theater group? – Marian broke the silence.
“Not really,” Keith replied. “Everyone treats me with slight suspicion.” But he was chatting with Adam. He turned out to be a pretty funny guy.
“Ugh, Adam,” Ruth said. – He’s still an imposter.
“I didn’t know he was in the play too,” I said.
“He doesn’t play,” Keith explained. — They convinced him to accept a promotion. Well, there are signs, posters, all kinds of things. That’s why he sometimes comes to rehearsals.
“I think it’s disgusting,” Ruth said.
“Sometimes there is too much,” Marian added.
“He’s always saying the names of various acquaintances of his parents,” Logan interjected. “You’d think he’s the only one who has connections.”
“And how it stinks at teachers,” Ruth moaned. – It disgusts me.
At the time I barely knew Adam and his mention didn’t provoke as strong a reaction in me as it did in others, but I understood what they were talking about. He tried so desperately to be visible that it was difficult to look at him.
“Uh-huh,” Keith said unusually quietly.
“But everyone at school is throwing out names,” Luce spoke up suddenly. “And everyone fawns over the teachers.” You just don’t like the fact that Adam is better than you at it. — Silence reigned in the room. “I think Adam is funny,” Luce continued. “At least he doesn’t repeat anything to anyone and he’s not boring to be around, which I can’t say about most people at our school.”
I blinked, taken aback by Luce’s outburst. Marian and Ruth also seemed surprised. Trying to figure out how to dispel the oppressive atmosphere, I suddenly noticed that Logan was looking at Luce guiltily. Did he really feel embarrassed?
– Well, lets play? — I tried to change the subject.
– Yes. — Keith slammed the book shut. – Right now, or something like that.
Ruth seemed about to say something to Luce, but changed her mind.
There was already a large bowl full of pens and scraps of paper on the coffee table. I passed it to Keith and he passed it to everyone else in a circle. Catching Luce’s gaze, I looked at her expressively, as if asking why the hell she had arranged all this. In response, she simply shrugged.
“Everyone knows the rules,” Keith said. — Write down on a piece of paper the worst thing you have done this month. Don’t hide anything.
That’s how we played. Everyone wrote down their worst action and threw the paper into the jar. Then everyone, in turns, took out the sheets of paper, whoever had one, and took them home. This was the only opportunity to let off steam, forget for a moment about the perfection that is required of us in everyday life and, at the same time, practice trust. A way to unite each other with their evil deeds.
I thought Luce would roll her eyes when she heard this idea, like always, but she grabbed the piece of paper and started writing. I followed her example. When everyone was done, we took out a sheet of paper.
I put the paper in my pocket without reading it, as the rules required, and continued the conversation, but all the while I felt the weight of another’s secret. It was a comfort of sorts: confirmation that he wasn’t the only one trying to be perfect and failing over and over again. I didn’t know this was my last party at Logan’s house.
I unfolded the sheet on the way home. Normally she could easily guess the author from his handwriting or from his own confession, but this time she doubted it. The handwriting looked like Keith’s, but it could have been Logan’s. I reread the note, wondering what it meant:
“I was afraid to be honest about who I am.”
