Work Text:
For the 1998-1999 school year, The Souls were scattered amongst the different homeroom classes. They were reunited daily in the advanced English class, where they were studying King Lear. The class’s final project was to put on a performance of famous Shakespearean soliloquies and monologues for the rest of Epiphany Middle School.
Noah could, and would, tell you that fact: A soliloquy is different from a monologue because fact: A soliloquy is directed at the audience. So if Ethan had written a soliloquy that day it would have gone something like this.
Ethan’s Soliloquy
It started with Nadia Diamondstein. Nadia, as you may remember, has hair that catches the sunlight like a halo. I had been staring at that halo for years now, and still had not told Nadia how it made my heart stop.
Then one Saturday evening, as we left Sillingtom House, Nadia asked me, “Do you ever plan on telling me why you stare at my hair?”
It was a shocking question. Up until that point, I had not thought that Nadia noticed me noticing her hair.
I said, “No,” felt that was a little too brusque, added “not really,” and then “sorry.”
Nadia said, “That is all right. I just wanted you to know that I am not waiting for you. I was not not waiting for you until now, but I am done. Do you understand?”
I said, “Sure.” What I understood was that I had missed my chance with Nadia. What I did not understand was why this did not bother me as much as I expected it to.
I asked Noah. I didn’t mean to ask him, but he let me know that he had overheard Nadia’s conversation with me, and he wanted to know how I was feeling. When I told him that it did not bother me as much as I expected it to, he said “Hmm” and then “Hmm” in a different tone.
Then he said, “Fact: You are not in love with Nadia Diamondstein. You are, or rather were, in love with the idea of Nadia Diamondstein.”
“Then who am I in love with?” I asked, before I could stop myself. I had gotten out of the habit of stopping myself with The Souls.
“That, I do not know,” said Noah, which surprised me, because Noah thinks he knows everything. It also meant that Noah thought I was in love with someone . That was something I did not know about myself, and it shook me a little bit.
I began studying the young women in my life one by one. I imagined being in love would feel like being on a stage in the moment before an audience starts to applaud. Like something necessary has come to fruition and something new is beginning, all at the same time.
But none of the young women in my life made me feel like I was on stage at all, much less as the curtain was coming down.
In fact, there was—and is—only one person in my life who makes me feel that way. His name is Julian Singh.
I didn’t believe then that I was in love with Julian. It was 1999 in upstate New York, and I liked girls. At the time, I may have heard the word “bisexual”, but not kindly. So I did what I had always done. I was silent. And I watched halos.
I watched the halo that shone on Julian’s dark hair in spotlights. I watched the halo his fingers made when holding a calligraphy pen, and the halo of smudges in his fingers when the pen leaked. I watched the halos he sketched in the air when he was performing magic, making subtle misdirections.
I won’t pretend to say I always saw Julian, but I discovered that I always wanted to see him, both literally and figuratively.
As the days began growing longer, I found excuses to stay longer at Sillington House. Sometimes I would stay so late that Julian’s father would invite me to stay for dinner. I would call my mother to let her know, and she would always ask “Aren’t you inconveniencing the Singhs?” Julian and his father would assure me I was not.
Julian’s father would drive me home afterwards. Julian and I would sit in the back seat while his father played chauffeur. I would think about holding Julian’s hand, and I would slip back toward silence. I did not know what I was waiting for, but like Nadia before me, I was not not waiting.
It was Julian who paved the way forward, because Julian is braver than I am. One evening at Sillington House, Julian said, “A magician often needs an assistant. A magician’s assistant also knows the secret of the trick, and is often doing the real work while the magician distracts the audience. A magician’s assistant makes it possible for the magician to perform magic that he cannot by himself. The assistant opens up new possibilities.”
“Are you looking for an assistant?” I asked. I already knew he was asking me, but I did not know what exactly he was asking. “You should ask Nadia; she’s gorgeous, and she’s got a flair for the dramatic.”
Julian smiled. Someone else might have called it his “gotcha” smile; I knew better. I knew it was the smile of a magician who is about to bring the audience joy and wonder.
“Not Nadia,” he said. “I apologize, I have been imprecise. While a magician’s assistant opens up new possibilities, I am not looking for an assistant. I am looking for a partner.”
I did not know what to say. So I said, “I am not a magician.”
Julian grinned. “Ethan,” he said, “it is a metaphor.”
“Oh,” I said stupidly. “Then I’ll think about it.”
That evening, after I called my mother, after I had dinner with Julian and his father, we rode together in the back of Julian’s father’s car. It was no more than a five minute drive from Sillington House to my parents’ farm. I sat, and thought about holding Julian’s hand, and I knew that he would let me. So I did.
And it felt like the moment in between. The play has ended, but the actors have not yet returned from their roles to bow as themselves. The audience has not quite been granted permission to applaud. That was the moment I knew I was in love with Julian Singh.