Apples
Lola Garvie / V Mag at UVA
Sure, she’s pretty, but she’s evil too. It’s unclear which characteristic was more attractive. Did I want her to love or hate me? Would I prefer the scrape of her nails or her lips across my cheek? I only knew I wanted something from her.
Mary Ellis. At first, I tried to be placid in her presence, hoping she’d sail on to rougher seas. She sought out obstacles, things to conquer. I tried to stay out of the way, but I always ended up underfoot.
Mary Ellis. Names have power. I know that. In my youth, I was Georgia. That name was too soft, too pretty. Georgia doesn’t have skinned knees and awkward eyes. Georgia speaks in a sweet Southern drawl. Georgia is marmalade and cherry blossoms and picnics on lush lawns. Georgia is cold honey on a warm summer day. I’m not Georgia. I’m George.
I kept it a secret for a while, whispering my new name to myself. But it slipped out. It was sweet on the tongue but sweeter in the air. But sometimes, I wonder if I should’ve kept quiet.
“You must be George’s dad.” Ms. Whyburn’s extended hand remained unshaken as my father fractured. You could hear his heart break, a sharp snap resonating through the classroom. I see his face, frozen in the realization that I am no longer his perfect daughter, whenever I blink. I’ve never been happier.
Life as Georgia was like viewing myself through a kaleidoscope. I wasn’t a person. I was shifting colors and shapes. Whenever I tried to get a better angle, things twisted and tumbled. Hearing “George” for the first time, knowing that they were addressing me, clarified the haze. For the first time, I saw a complete, unified person when I looked in the mirror. I know my meek, freckled face isn’t what’s expected when someone calls my name. But the confusion and disconnect that interaction elicits is somehow right. I’m not what you expect from a “George.” Yet it fits.
Mary Ellis called me Georgie.
She kissed me once, in the stupor of an unusually cold July. We were perched on her roof, not close enough to touch but close enough to feel the electricity crackling between us. I was afraid I’d spark and catch fire.
“What are you thinking about, Georgie?”
“Nothing. Just the weather.” If she’d asked me whether it was snowy or sunny, I don’t think I could’ve answered.
“You love me, don’t you?” She always spoke in fragments, jumping between thoughts like nothing was worth lingering on.
“How am I supposed to respond to that?” I asked like she’d answer.
She laughed. It was bright and sharp and crystalline. “You’re funny.”
Then she kissed me. I’m sure she’s only thought about it in passing since, but sometimes, I wake up with the scent of sandalwood in my nose and the feeling of that raspberry sweater brushing my shoulder. I lie back down and pretend I’m imagining someone else. After all, am I sure that it was her? Her eyes were the wrong color, weren’t they? And her hair was too wavy, wasn’t it? I attempt self-delusion until I’m too tired to continue. Freud would adore me.
I hadn’t realized how long I’d anticipated that moment until it passed. I’m sure I amused her. She wasn’t quite cruel enough to laugh, but her eyes sparkled viciously.
“Nice weather, right?” she said.
She descended the roof as the sun set, her laugh floating into the atmosphere. But I was stuck in a trance wondering why. Why then? There’d been so many other opportunities. Walks and parties and moments on her couch. She’d known about my affection forever. Perhaps she’d planted the seeds and allowed my infatuation to grow, to consume me like an angry vine. The kiss was just another part of her plan. In the moment, I didn’t understand why she chose the roof. Now I know why: I couldn’t escape.
I don’t think I can explain how things ended; I’m not sure if they did. I followed her hopelessly, not out of devotion but out of compulsion. One moment, we were something. The next, we were strangers. I overheard her with her friends, the ones I wasn’t allowed to talk to.
“Georgie?” She laughed, that sound I’d bottle in an instant. “Who’s that?”
She certainly knew I was there. But I was happy to know that even if I was a joke, at least she found me funny.
With Mary Ellis, I lived with an apple on my head. She'd placed it there, oh so gently, brushing hair out of my eyes and murmuring that she wouldn’t dare hurt me. I passed my scrapes and scars off as mistakes while the apple remained nestled in my curls, untouched.She’d smile sheepishly, choking on a laugh as I wiped away blood. Eventually, I realized she wasn’t aiming for the apple at all.