By the Book

by Amanda Sellet

It was rare to find someone who truly valued the unique or original. Most people wanted to have what everyone else wanted, as if forming their own opinions was too mentally taxing.

“She’s a very quiet person. Whereas you’re more”—I circled a hand in the air, trying to conjure a better word than promiscuous. “Friendly.” “Friendly?” “Yes. You know, sociable. Free with your attentions.” He reached out to grasp me lightly by the elbow. Reluctantly, I turned to face him. “You think I should sew an A on my shirt?”

As we approached, Will was holding forth about American literature, dropping names and titles as if scattering seeds on virgin soil. From what I could tell, his tastes ran mostly to stories of neurotic white guys lamenting their self-inflicted tragedies while the women and people of color dealt with real problems somewhere off stage.

From damned if you do to damned if you don’t: the story of women’s lives.

“You said she had a condition?” Terry looked questioningly at me. “Ennui. It’s like boredom, except you think it makes you interesting.”

Despite my trepidation at the task ahead, I relished every crunch of leaves underfoot, the bursts of red still on the trees, watery golden sunlight softening the crispness of the air as it washed over my skin. It was a perfect fall afternoon, the sky so clear it felt like being cradled inside a giant blue marble. There should have been a name for days like this, but all the ones I could think of—halcyon days, salad days—referred to summer, which struck me as unfair. Who needed the obvious charms of June when you could have the burnished richness of autumn?

After Van left the stage, the spotlight winked out, plunging the theater into darkness. The twins said this was one of their favorite moments of any production: the dividing line between regular life and the heightened reality of the stage, when everyone held their breath, balanced on the knife-edge of anticipation.