Asking A Lot
I still remember the brittle look on Mum’s face when she said it. Of her many expressions, this one meant ‘you’re not going to like this, but I have a right to my opinion.’
“You ask a lot of Phoebe, you know…”
I didn’t understand. Phoebe had come over to my place to catch up, the both of us back in town on semester break. Yes, I’d chosen the DVD we watched…because it was my turn. But it wasn’t a movie for a particularly niche audience, or anything. Not like my usual preferences. This one had Will Ferrell in it, for God’s sake! How much more mainstream could you get? And yes, occasionally I’d tapped Phoebe’s arm and said, “Pay attention to this part, it’s brilliant!” But Phoebe did that to me sometimes too, when she convinced me to watch her favourite shows. One of the characters in the movie I’d picked was an English professor, who said things like “dramatic irony, it’ll fuck you every time.” Maybe that was the problem?
But really, I just didn’t know what Mum was getting at. This wasn’t like those times when Phoebs and I were kids, and she’d arrive halfway through my endless rewatchings of The Sound of Music. That year I wore out the VHS tape. I probably was a bit annoying, back then.
“Just watch to the end of this scene, at least,” I used to beg her. “It’s almost at the happy bit! Fraulein Maria ran away, and the kids are so sad. Look at poor Gretl! But any second now, Maria’s going to come back…”
Julie Andrews’ voice trilled promisingly in from offscreen, as I knew it would. The von Trapp children ran to meet her. They were not even family, and yet she threw her arms around Louisa with abandon, wild love. I could not stare at the screen hard enough, desperate to drink in every detail again and again and again.
“Oh my God, I know what happens!” Phoebe would sigh. “I’ve seen it.”
At times when Mum frowned like that, I wanted to reply that, actually, Phoebe asked a lot of me. For instance, she asked me to climb up on tall, frightening horses, and make an attempt at learning to ride. She asked me to wander farmland, trusting her for navigation. She asked me to learn new card games, and do so quickly, even though my brain spooked and bolted at a maze of numerical rules. She asked me to get on with her rowdy siblings. And not mind when it seemed as though they were all making fun of me.
Of course, I never actually said any of that to Mum. It wouldn’t have made sense to her. The things that Phoebe asked of me were reasonable, clearly. Whereas the things I asked of her were not. Even though all I actually asked of Phoebe was for her to hang out with me. And thankfully, I didn’t have to ask. That’s just what friends do, right?
The difference seemed to be that the things Phoebe liked were useful—useful for actually being in the world. The things I liked were places to hide. Stories, mostly. And what I could never get right, it seemed, was liking things in proportion. It was okay to like things. Good, even. But you were supposed to like lots of things, and like them with…maybe 30% intensity each, max. It helped if they were things that looked good on a CV, once you were old enough to have one.
My first year of university, a few months before that night Phoebe and I met up back in town, I discovered Baudelaire’s poem ‘Get Drunk.’ And there it was! Explanation, justification! Not that I was anything close to an alcoholic. But I knew what the poet meant, in my gut. I copied the verses out by hand and tacked them to my wall. I would recite the words to myself, alone in my room, acting significantly drunker than I’d ever been in reality.
So that you may not be the martyred slaves of Time, get drunk; get drunk, and never pause for rest! With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose!
Or with movies, I guess. Stories, generally? Predictable, four-act, reliably-structured love?
Anyway, when Mum made that comment about me ‘asking a lot’, the underlying message was clear: I needed to be more like Phoebe, and less like myself. I’d probably always known Mum thought that, deep down. But I didn’t realise how intentional her plans had been for another couple of years. Until my 21st birthday.
It was July, and my family were throwing a party. I was being celebrated. Of course, before I could be celebrated, I needed to be made presentable. Mum sent me back into the bathroom three times before my eye makeup was bold enough. (I’ve never really got the hang of all that: makeup, et cetera.)
The local hall had been decked out in fairy-lights. There was chatter, and dancing – and then, of course, the obligatory speeches. Mum thanked everyone for coming. But Phoebe’s speech was the main event. If there could be a ‘maid of honour’ for 21st birthdays, she would have been mine. Obviously. Who else?
She looked so perfect up there, holding the microphone. Seated off to one side, I basked in the glow of her praise, and the other guests’ responsive laughter. Phoebe had always had a talent for public speaking, a way of relating to people. Whatever she told my guests tonight, they would believe. And she was telling them that I was funny. And fun.
“But gosh, I so clearly remember the very first day I met Samara! Our teacher Mrs. Norton brought her in and introduced her to the class. I sat up extra straight and smiled, and did my best to look welcoming. But then Mrs. Norton sat her at a desk on the other side of the room! I was so worried! How was I going to get to know the girl I’d been explicitly instructed to ‘take under my wing’? Our mums would be so disappointed!”
What made the moment worse was the complete lack of reaction. That is, from anyone but me.
I had known that Mum had always thought Phoebe was ‘a nice girl,’ long before I’d ever met her. I had known that, when I started at my new school, Mum had hoped we would be friends. I hadn’t known she’d actually arranged it. I’d thought that I had made friends with Phoebe, myself.
But if anyone else hadn’t known my Mum had needed to orchestrate me a best friend, no one else actually seemed surprised. No one’s smile flickered. Except mine, just for a moment. And then, it came back again.
That was the night I discovered I could hide even when there wasn’t a story to escape to. I could actually vanish while smiling and making small talk. It was going to be a necessary skill, going forward.
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About the Author
Cate Scanlan (she/her) is a self-identified neurodivergent writer from Aotearoa New Zealand. She has had work published in several New Zealand-based publications, and reviews for literary journals.