Wednesday (part 3)

Open House was hardly a new experience for me; I've done three of them so far. But in some ways it was utterly new, because for the first time, I, Arie Chang, was naked in school. Naked in Open House. And boy, did people stare. I was just glad that none of the parents could see my scars.

We musicians were the opening act, so we had to be seated and ready on our metal chairs under the gaudy yellow-white neon lights before Dr. Zelvetti went up on the little stage that had been erected underneath one of the basketball hoops. I swear, they need to change the chairs out here, get us some plastic ones. My pussy lips are going to freeze and fall off! To our right, closer towards the wall, were risers for the choir to stand on, but when they weren't singing, they sat in chairs behind us. Stupid Brandon. He had a bunch of people to hide behind while he sat, whereas I was at the tip of the semi-circle, displayed in profile in all my nude glory. Yeah. What glory. If I were pretty like Sajel, or had boobs like Shannon Salvolestra, who was standing at the back next to Steven Proust and the two sophomores... But nope. The week I have to be on display is the week everyone sees what a dumb body I have.

Then it was time to play, and I had other things to worry about.

First off we did the Pachelbel Canon, which I'm sure you've heard of. We play that every year, as many times as we can. I wonder if there's some Guinness World Record for number of times an orchestra manages to play it, because all my friends who play in other orchestras say that they play it a lot too. Too often, as far as I'm concerned. Yeah, it's nice, but not after fifty times a year.

The Mozart song, Ave Verum, is not very difficult to play or sing. But it's harder than it looks. It's like playing Mary Had A Little Lamb on the piano: anybody can do it, but how many can do it well? How many can make art out of it? It's so simple that the slightest error or deviation sticks out like a sore thumb. And this Ave Verum is just the same. In retrospect, I'm a little surprised they let us do it. High school students aren't known for their precision. But people applauded, and that was what mattered.

And then we were done and it was Brandon and Meredith and Derek's turn.

I don't normally pay attention to the doings of the choristers. It's boring, you know? Especially when you're depressed. I'm sure it sounds nice, but I have no idea what's going on, so they can do whatever they want. If you've never tried to listen to classical music casually, it's hard to do. You have to study it, as opposed to popular music, which is just right there for you. Classical music, I think, you can't really understand and enjoy unless you've played it. I've never sung in choirs. So it was just noise to me.

I actually listened, though, this time.

Their first song was by Igor Stravinsky, an Ave Maria—not the usual Bach one you hear (and I've played). This was really different. Most classical music tends to stick with thirds and fifths and sixths—chords named for the number of spaces between the notes, assuming the first note is 'one'. Like, you go to a piano, you press one white key (doesn't really matter which) and then press another one several spaces to the right (you always count upward), so that there's three unpressed white keys between—that's called a fifth. Likewise, if there's only one unpressed white key between them, that's a third. Those are the most frequent chords you hear—especially both together, which is called a triad because there's three notes being played.

Stravinsky had none of that. Instead, there were sevenths—yeah, five unpressed white keys between. Try playing the One, Three, Five and Seven at the same time—that's the sort of noise Stravinsky was making.

(Me? Oh, no, I'm not like a composer or anything. You just pick this sort of thing up if you've been playing music for long enough. I have ten years of experience, I'm bound to know something by now.)

And the Palestrina was even nicer. It was slow, it was luxurious, and absolutely gorgeous. And I can't explain to you how it sounds, you're just gonna have to learn to read music. Or find a copy of the song somewhere. It's called Sicut Cervus, and the composer's name is Giovanni Palestrina. Tell him Arie Chang sent you.

Then, after the parents applauded, Dr. Zelvetti took the stage. She said basically what you'd expect: This is a great school, but it's made better by your contributions; your children and their talents are what make this place great; we're cool, we kick ass, blah blah blah. Then she introduced some of the students standing at the far wall of the gym. All of them represented important student organizations. Steve Proust, Shannon Salvolestra and several others were here on behalf of the athletics department (applause); Candace Bernholtz, the sophomore girl participant, was the ASB secretary (applause), and her Program Buddy, John Warfield, represented the Society of Technology (applause); Claire Redecker and Roland Smits were here to showcase the art department (applause); and so on and so forth. All of these people would be available for conversation in the Tegman Room, also known as the cafeteria; it was simply the largest enclosed space the school had, and the presence of plumbing didn't hurt when catering to large numbers of people.

"Oh, before we go," Dr. Zelvetti said. "One more thing. You may have noticed that several of our students have no clothes on. This was not an organizational oversight." Polite laughter. "Instead, there's one more program that will be represented at the Tegman Room: The Program.

"I'm sure you've all heard of it. In the eleven years since its inception, it has spread to over a hundred schools around the country. Most recently, Westport High started a version of it three years ago, though it took them two of those three to really get it to work. We've decided to follow their example.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Naked In School program has been instituted at Mount Hill High. The first eight participants are going through it as we speak, and we're lucky to have six of them here tonight. You've met Mr. Proust, Ms. Salvolestra, Ms. Bernholtz, Mr. Warfield; and involved in our music department are juniors Arie Chang and Brandon Chambers." The other participants had all stepped forward as their names were called—not that they needed to; their lack of clothing drew eyes as surely as light draws moths—and Brandon and I, exchanging startled glances, stood in our places when Dr. Zelvetti gestured for us to do so. "These young adults will also be in the Tegman Room, representing The Program." There was polite applause mixed with generalized murmurs.

Brandon and I just exchanged glances; Brandon and Meredith and Derek and I. Nobody had told us this was coming. What exactly were we going to say? And naked! Naked in school! I had scars on my arms! Other kids were one thing, but the parents— And my parents! Fuck, how was I going to hide those things from them!

"The decision to implement The Program here was not taken lightly," Dr. Zelvetti was saying. "Westport has had a rough track record, including several participants hospitalized for assault or nervous breakdown. Even if, this year, The Program succeeds spectacularly there, they will still only be hitting two for four. Nonetheless, The Program has succeeded spectacularly there, which I believe mitigates some of its earlier crises. I have met personally with a number of The Program's strongest proponents at Westport; they are all mature, well-adjusted, intelligent, cheerful... And completely comfortable with their bodies.

"But, as Mr. Chambers reminded us only today—Brandon, stand up again." Brandon did, blood simultaneously rushing to and from his face. I didn't know you could pale and blush at the same time!... "Brandon reminded us what The Program really is. It's a crash course in coping with human sexuality. The theory our children learn from Sexual Education in sixth grade, seventh grade, eighth grade, is very different from its actual application. It's one thing to know how a penis works, what a clitoris does, and quite another to be confronted with the actual organ. Mr. Chambers, just to name one example, has had to learn, over the past three days, to be comfortable with his body. And every other student has also had to learn to be comfortable with his body. Because it's there, it can't be ignored... And shouldn't be.

"I believe in The Program," Dr. Zelvetti said. "I believe in its fundamental message—that our bodies and our sexuality should be cherished and embraced. That is what The Program is about, ladies and gentlemen. And to hear the truth of that, you need only to speak to these participants—or to myself, for I too am a representative of The Program. And proud to be one."

And then, with no fuss or fanfare, she took off her clothes.

Dr. Zelvetti's pubic hair was salted with white; her skin was the color of coffee. She had breasts like pillows, capped with prominent, chocolate-colored nipples. She was a large, heavy woman, but she carried herself with grace. In her curves, the svelte lines of her body, the fullness of her breasts and buttocks and hips, we saw the mother goddess, the nurturing female who birthed us, bathed us, watched us grow, let us go—the eternal mother, watching over us in benign complacence, arms and bosoms always ready to receive us home.

As soon as the assembly ended (the orchestra and choir packing up and heading back to the music building), I caught Dr. Zelvetti's attention. Brandon, clearly having picked up my mood, backed me up. He was muttering to himself in abject shock: "She referenced me! Jesus fucking Christ, she referenced me! In front of the parents!"

"Ah, you two," Dr. Zelvetti said, clearly unperturbed by her lack of clothes, by the variety of looks the parents gave her. "I need you to circulate for about half an hour. You don't have to stay 'til ten, 'cause I forgot to tell you that I'd need you, but—"

"Dr. Zelvetti," I said, "I can't."

"Why on earth not," Dr. Zelvetti said.

"My parents are here."

"Her scars," Brandon said. "They don't know about 'em."

Dr. Zelvetti's eyes focused on me, and I squirmed. Suddenly I wished Derek were there. Brandon was solid, but I bet you he had other people on his mind.

"You haven't told them about your condition," Dr. Zelvetti asked.

I shook my head.

"You said you would. When I asked you to, it wasn't a three-weeks-from-now thing, Arie, it was—"

"I haven't been home all day, Dr. Zelvetti," I said. "I've been here. We had rehearsal until five and then Mr. Gunderson and Mrs. Bickson took some of us out to dinner."

Dr. Zelvetti regarded me, implacable and unmovable. "Then," she said, "maybe this is the time to tell them."

"I can't!" I said. "Not here! There's billions of people here!"

"So take them outside to the quad, there'll be no one there." The cafeteria was one side of the quad.

I sighed. Easier said than done. What are these marks, Arie? Oh, they're just some scars I inflicted on myself because I'm fucked up. Riiight.

Dr. Zelvetti sighed, and suddenly all the ire was gone from her face, and there was only compassion, tired compassion, in her voice. "Look, you. I'm not doing this to be mean. I'm doing this because I care. I care, Arie, why do you think I let you make that deal in the first place? I don't like to see you suffer. Sure, maybe you got problems, but there's a nice girl under them, fighting to get out. Look at the friends you made in the past half-week. Steven, Shannon, Brandon... There's hardly anyone I'd recommend above them. And you did it even buried under all that stuff you gotta deal with."

Brandon, behind my right shoulder, was throwing waves of startled shock. I just felt wary.

"So, who put all that stuff on you? It's your parents, Arie, that's the truth of it. They don't see who you really are. And you gotta show them. It'll be a long, hard road, child, no question of that, but you're ready for it now. You got all the friends you'll need; you got all the confidence you'll need. And you got no clothes to hide behind, either. It's the perfect time to be honest with them. All you need to do is do it.

"You're in there for half an hour. If you can think of a way to avoid your parents, I give it to you. I'm not going to make you confront them or anything. And no, maybe this isn't the best place to do it. But you know in your heart, you, that you're only delaying the inevitable."

She turned away, her attention already in the hands of someone else, and I sighed. Yeah. I did know. Brandon gave me a concerned look, but I said, "Give me a minute," and he nodded and stood away for a time.

My mind reeled. Tell them? No, oh hell no. But I have to. Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes, no. Yes no yes no yes no yes no. Gahh! Banging my head against a wall probably wouldn't shut up the argument, but maybe I could at least put myself into a coma.

In the end, though, it wasn't me who decided it. It was Trina. The sight of Trina, flitting away with her friends. That long, lauded hair of hers floating on the air like mist. The bird-trill of her laughter, the bounce in her step. The secret, unbearable knowledge of what she was hiding.

We depressed people—we're not so good at loving ourselves. Depression is born of a root feeling of inadequacy: I'm not good enough, I'm not worthy. But we make up for it with the strength with which we love others. For one, it's what Brandon calls the 'shoelace cycle, ' after the analogy he uses to describe it. (There's probably a real psychological name for it, but none of us know it.) You've got someone who can't tie her own shoelaces, she can only tie other people's. So she figures, "I'll tie someone else's shoelaces, in the hopes that they'll tie mine." And so she does. Sometimes it even works.

But for two, it's a response to those feelings of worthlessness. We see ourselves as worthless, but maybe we can find some value in someone else's eyes. And, besides—if we can't love somebody, if we can't help somebody, if we can't make their lives somehow better... What worth do we have at all?

So, in the end, it wasn't really concern for myself that swayed my heart. It was compassion. It was concern for my sister. My sister the bitch; my sister the callous. My sister, the suffering. Trina.

I guess Brandon understood the look on my face. "You're going to do it."

"I have to," I said.

He smiled at me, and squeezed my hand.

"But not here," I said. "Not now."

I wasn't sure if he'd approve of that or not. I'm still not sure if he did. But he at least accepted it. "So, then, you need a way to hide from your parents for half an hour. Or at least hide your arms from them."

"And they'll be looking for me, you can bet," I said.

Brandon was appraising me candidly. "You know, they're not that visible."

I snorted. "Yeah right." Every second of the day, I can feel them. I'm honestly surprised no one else had ever noticed before: in my mind, they burn through the clothing I hide them with.

"Meredith, Derek," Brandon called, and put the question to them. Derek was judiciously optimistic, but Meredith shook her head. "Maybe, but I wouldn't bet on it. I'm sorry."

I sighed. "I'm fucked."

"Can't you just—" Derek was having a brainstorm; his face was animated, and he pointed with one hand and bounced up and down on his heels. "Look how Meredith's standing." She had her hands clasped behind her. "Can't you just stand like that?"

Looking over at her, I imitated the stance. I could feel the skin of my forearms, rough from the row of scars, against the tops of my ass cheeks. Derek immediately rushed around to inspect the view from the back.

"Well, you can't see a thing from the front..." Brandon said.

"And not a whole lot from the back either," Derek said. "If someone else asks, you can say you, I dunno, you got into an accident as a child or something. And if your parents ask..." He trailed off into thought.

"Will they?" Meredith asked. "Arie, you talked about—I dunno, their vision of you or something. If they don't see your scars with their own eyes... And they won't. And they probably won't pay attention to your back either. So. With your scars hidden, will they even notice?"