Chapter Text
Out in this desert we are testing bombs,
that's why we came here.
Sometimes I feel an underground river
forcing its way between deformed cliffs
an acute angle of understanding
moving itself like a locus of the sun
into this condemned scenery
What we've had to give up to get here --
whole LP collections, films we starred in
playing in the neighborhoods, bakery windows
full of dry, chocolate-filled Jewish cookies,
the language of love-letters, of suicide notes,
afternoons on the riverbank
pretending to be children
Coming out to this desert
we meant to change the fact of
driving among dull green succulents
walking at noon in the ghost town
surrounded by a silence
that sounds like the silence of the place
except that it came with us
and is familiar
and everything we were saying until now
was an effort to blot it out --
Coming out here we are up against it
Out here I feel more helpless
with you than without you
You mention the danger
and list the equipment
we talk of people caring for each other
in emergencies--laceration, thirst--
but you look at me like an emergency
Your dry heat feels like power
your eyes are stars of a different magnitude
they reflect lights that spell out: EXIT
when you get up and pace the floor
talking of the danger
as if it were not ourselves
as if we were testing anything else.
Trying to Talk with a Man - Adrienne Rich
Rebecka Grove had never known normalcy. The convention was always foreign to her, like when her dad would fiddle with the radio, and all she’d hear was static. Her friends, other plums, had this burning desire inside of them– to be a part of something, be a part of this function; to marry and worship and pray for children. She could never tell if they were being honest, though they would never let on either way. And so she pretended. She agonized over piety, her classes at the academy, she appropriately wished and wished for her presentation, to be married off to a Commander and never think of anything else again.
And then she met Agnes. And it was impossible to pretend.
Agnes was new, quiet at first, but gradually more friendly. She was quick witted, always smiled like she knew something you didn’t, and when she laughed she would throw her head back and clutch at her stomach, like it was hurting her. She was nimble, crawling under fence posts in her backyard, or else leaping straight over them, her skirts floating gracefully over sharp pricks in the wood. It was like she was untouchable– like nothing could ever hurt her. Worst of all, in Becka’s opinion, was the way she would look at you. Like you were the only other person in the world, like there was nothing else worth looking at.
Like she could see right through you.
They’d grown unexpectedly close; sitting together at lunch, poking each other with their elbows when someone said something irritating. And though she didn’t have the words for it at the time, she had the feeling, small and unseemly, belonging only to her. The sparks of something impatient, wild and unruly, waiting to fling itself over fences, skirts be damned. Until on an ordinary day, she became a woman. And of course everything had to change.
…
“So Becka… tell us how it feels.” Shunamite pokes around at her vegetables, her head tilted as she waits for Becka’s reply.
“How does…what feel?”
Shunamite scoffs, righting herself and clearing her throat, like it were obvious. “Being a green, of course.” The cafeteria rushes around them, aunts barking orders, girls idly chatting, and Becka tries to stifle her wince.
“It’s–great. It’s an honour that I was chosen.” She feels Agnes tense beside her, knife halfway through her carrot. A silence settles at the table, easily disturbed by Hulda. “So, do you have to start practicing the dances then?”
Becka huffs a laugh, “Yes, though I have a long way to go if I’m to be ready before the Ball.” At this Agnes interjects, “Of course you’ll be ready. You’ve always taken to that sort of thing. Better than I surely.”
A fork scraps on a ceramic tray, Shunamite hums lightly, “It’s a good thing you haven’t presented then, right Agnes? You shouldn’t talk about it like it’s a given thing, you know.”
She won’t quit, huh?
“Oh Shu, relax. She was only placating me. And she will present soon, God willing. All of you will.”
She feels the press of Agnes’ leg underneath the table, a silent thank-you. She relishes in the warmth of her, the buzz of her pulse as they touch. Agnes turns her head and offers a small smile, meant just for Becka, and she feels the racket of the cafeteria ebb away. The world narrows down to just them.
“Well, whatever.” Shunamite pushes around her mashed potatoes before speaking again. “Do they make you waltz with your little sister?”
…
The night of Agnes’ initiation is unforgiving. Becka spends most of it in knots, waiting for the car to come collect her and haul her over to the academy. The doorbell rings and she flinches, fastening her robes over her shoulders and tucking her skirts into place. There’s a mirror beside their front door, and when Becka steals a glance at it, she finds she isn’t able to recognize the woman staring back at her.
This is it. She thinks. Now we are both more than silly school girls. Or less, really. Now we are less than we were before. She twists the door handle, startled at the nearness of Aunt Gabbana, who is waiting close by. They share a terse nod, before Gabbana speaks.
“Come along, Rebecka.” She spins on her heel, marching toward the black Cadillac parked in the driveway. She pauses briefly, glancing over her shoulder.
“We’re making women tonight.”
Making. She thinks. As though we were not already.
Becka hurries after her, shutting her door behind her and clambering into the SUV.
…
Agnes is thrilled. It hurts Becka more than expected. She watches as Aunt Estee smiles down at Agnes, eyes brimming with emotion. The girls around her are still, observing closely, waiting for their cue. The water splashes as Agnes thrashes in Estee’s grip and Becka allows a small smile to creep onto her face. When she surfaces Becka can feel it, this shift in the air; Agnes looking down at her hands, flexing them, like trying on a new skin. The slow climb out of the water feels like an eternity, watching water drip off of Agnes' shift, watching her be reborn right in front of her, a trail of holy water in her wake.
Becka tries to fight the smile when Agnes looks at her, grin on her lips, eyes bright and hopeful, as though they were at the beginning of something, rather than the end. She wraps the robe around Agnes’ shoulders, squeezing tightly. The others crowd around them, crushing inward, clasping Agnes on the back, congratulating her.
Afterwards, Becka links their pinky fingers together, and tugs the both of them toward the bathroom.
…
Agnes stands in front of the mirror, toweling off her hair. It’s just the two of them, and distantly Becka thinks that they should hurry, that their guardians and drivers are probably waiting. But Agnes spins around, and they’re looking at each other now, and Becka can’t think of anything else.
“I thought I was gonna drown for a second there.” Agnes smiles, a crooked grin, and cocks one her eyebrows in jest. “You didn’t warn me it was gonna be like that.”
“I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.” Becka says, something soft pulling at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes flicker to Agnes’ mouth, still dewy from the water, and she fights the sudden urge to swipe the pad of her thumb along the seam of her lips.
She’s always fighting something.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Agnes is looking at her, opening her mouth and then closely shutting it, casting her gaze away and scratching her forearm.
“I, um. I thought you were mad at me.” It’s barely a whisper, soft in the quiet of the bathroom. Becka furrows her eyebrows, but before she can say something Agnes continues. “I thought that you were upset that I presented, that I was stealing your season.” And then she murmurs the last part, like she didn’t even mean to say it.
“I thought you didn’t want me to be a green.” The facet keeps dripping, the world continues on beyond these walls, but Becka is unaware, entirely focused on the inches between herself and Agnes, all the spaces they aren’t touching. Her next words escape her without thinking.
“I didn’t.” Agnes meets her gaze then, fixing her with a look, urging her to go on.
Becka steals herself. “I didn’t want this for either of us,” The both of them stand there for a moment, before she closes her eyes, willing herself to continue.
“I don’t want to get married,” She looks away, unable to reckon with it, even as the words tumble from her mouth. “I don’t want a…husband.”
Other sounds rush to fill the empty space between them, Becka looks down at her hands, closes and opens them, and tries to avoid looking at Agnes’ face.
“Aunt Lydia said we get to leave everything behind.” Agnes swallows. “Everything that happened before tonight.” She looks at Becka, then, like searching for an answer.
“Do you think that’s real?”
Becka’s eyes flick to Agnes’ lips, inches from her own, and when she speaks again she barely manages to hear her own voice over the sound of her pulse in her ears.
“What would you want to leave behind?” And now it’s undeniable, their noses bumping, Becka’s hands clenched tightly at her sides, watching rapt as Agnes’ gaze lowers to her mouth. On instinct Becka tilts her head up, watching the space between them disappear, listening to her breath quicken. Agnes inhales sharply, her eyelashes fluttering, as Becka’s breath fans her lips.
It’s barely a brush at first, as they hover on top of each other, just a gentle graze. It feels like electricity up Becka’s spine, a small gasp escaping her lips, like she couldn’t help it. Agnes knocks her forehead against Becka’s, her jaw clicking as she muffles her reaction to Becka’s gasp. They stay like that for a moment, heads bowed together, like in prayer, and Becka feels the reflex rise to her lips, and she almost says a verse, Psalm 143:6.
I stretch out my palms to you; I thirst for you like a parched land.
There’s a gentle sound as Agnes drops the towel in her hand, pushing her head against Becka’s, backing her up against the stall behind them. They fight it, for what it’s worth. Their noses brush, and their hands tremble at their sides, and Becka feels more alive than she’s ever felt, in these precious moments, where she takes something from the world. But she can’t help it, and her hand comes up to clutch at Agnes’ arm, and they come together like a forest fire.
Agnes crushes her mouth to Becka’s, clumsy and inexperienced, pressing her solidly against the frame of the stall. The world narrows to the two of them, the slide of their lips, the desperate way they pant into each other's mouths. Becka groans low in her throat, squeezing Agnes’ arm, her other hand coming up to cup her waist. They push and pull against each other, Agnes’ teeth snagging on Becka’s lower lip, hands coming up to clutch her jaw. There are people around, outside in the school, their drivers waiting in the front, but neither of them seem to care. Becka pulls away from their kiss, tilting her head back against the stall, chest heaving. She feels the pressure of Agnes against her, the length of her body, the heat of them, together, like they were never meant to be apart.
“Agnes.” It comes out of her mouth like a sacrament, like body and blood, spilling from her lips and running down her chin. In response, Agnes buries her head in the junction of Becka’s neck, nosing her pulse point, Becka shuddering as she feels the soft, hesitant press of Agnes’ lips against the underside of her jaw.
There’s a small sound, coming from outside the door, something like footsteps, or maybe voices. It’s hard for Becka to make out the noise with Agnes standing in her space, coaxing soft whimpers from her lips as she lightly drags the tip of her tongue along the tendons of her neck.
But suddenly the footsteps come closer, marching toward the bathroom, and they spring apart in alarm, wiping at their mouths and straightening their clothing. Becka watches as Agnes adjusts her pin, before reaching down and collecting the towel from the floor, awkwardly snatching it up, as though it too were an offender in their escapade.
Aunt Estee bursts through the door, head swiveling before she spots them, light seeping into the otherwise darkened washroom. She clears her throat, calling to them from the door.
“Girls, I do hope you are not lollygagging in here.” They glance at each other, blushing faintly, before Agnes answers.
“We’re sorry, Aunt Estee. We’re coming now.”
Create in me a clean heart, O God. Psalm 51:10