10

We spent almost a half an hour sprawled out on the grass in the garden, looking up at the sky. At first we didn’t say anything to each other; we just watched the leaves fall from the trees and listened to the tiny waves the wind stirred in the pond. I could smell her perfume every time a breeze blew past, and stole glances at her when she wasn’t paying attention.

               “Are you going to be a captain for the rest of your life?” Ondine asked, after what must have been at least ten minutes.

               “As long as I can,” I answered. “Why do you ask?”

               “I don’t know. I mean, I can only be a ballerina for so long,” she replied. “Eventually my bones will ache and my skin will sag and the world will no longer call me beautiful.”

               My eyes widened at her statement. I turned my head to look at her. She was staring at the sky, and her eyes were cloudy, but she was not crying. “I’ll always think you’re beautiful, Ondine,” I told her. She looked at me and I saw her expression falter a bit.  She didn’t smile, and I wondered if I’d made it worse. “I’m sorry,” I said softly.

               “No.” She shook her head and looked back up at the sky. “It hurts to know people care because then I can’t say no one cares. I have no reason to be sad.” She laughed a bit, but I could tell it was in pain.

               “What about the other girls?” I asked. “Are they your friends?”

               “Not really,” she said. “I mean, we don’t hate each other, but we’re not close. It’s too competitive there. If we were friends, there would be too much drama. Too much backstabbing, and bitchiness, and shit. We’re adults. We should be past this.” She threw up her slender arms and let them rest on her face.

               I smiled at her. “Well at least you acknowledge that it’s stupid.”

               “If only that fixed it,” she grumbled, rolling over on her side, facing away from me.

               “Hey,” I prodded, shifting onto my side. “Where are you going?”

               “What?” She rolled back over and faced me. “Nowhere. I’m not a freaking hot dog. I can stop myself from rolling when I want to.” I laughed at her, and she finally laughed, too.  All of the weight from our conversation that had occurred only moments ago seemed to lift off of our shoulders the more we laughed together. Eventually, we ran out of breath, and our laughter died down. She looked at me soberly.

               “We just laughed for two minutes about the word hot dog,” she muttered with a smug grin.

               “No, we were laughing about you being a hot dog,” I corrected her, “which is inaccurate. Hot dogs are made of pig pluck and other disgusting things. I don’t think I could live with myself if I even put you anywhere remotely near the tier that hot dogs are on. You’re more of a tiramisu.”

               “Holy shit, Adam,” she said breathlessly. “You’re making my mouth water. Do you know how long it’s been since I had something that rich?”

               “What do you usually eat?” I asked with a scoff.

               “I don’t know. Pasta, but never with the good flour. It’s always whole wheat,” she answered. “Oh, and never sauce. Always sautéed vegetables or pesto.”

               “Well, props to you,” I said. “If I had to eat like that for any longer than two days, I’d give up on life.”

               She laughed. “It’s not that it’s bad,” she explained, turning back over onto her back. “It’s just… We never have any of those foods that you could eat for days and get so fat and hate yourself for it, but keep eating it anyway.” I saw her face fall into a smirk.

               “Why don’t you eat it on the weekends?” I suggested.

               “It just makes the food here even less satisfying,” she retorted.

               “That’s a lame excuse, Ondine.”

               “I don’t care.” She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. I sat up as well and watched her look around the garden and down at her feet, in front of her, and then rested her forehead on her knees, hiding her face.

               “Are you going to stay here for the rest of the day?” I asked.

               “I don’t know,” she said. Her voice was muffled and distant. “I don’t want to pay bus fare to get back.”

               “So you’re staying?”

               “Yes!” She lifted her head and looked to me. “But can’t you stay?”

               “I have to go home eventually,” I told her with a grin.

               “Boo.”

               I stood up and offered her my hand. She grabbed it reluctantly and pulled herself up,  then crossed her arms and began to walk out of the garden. I smiled at when she wasn’t looking and trailed after her as she walked me back to the bus stop.