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Chapter one
Chapter 1
Gertrude had seen the word “dour” as a child and developed a kinship with it that became the forward-facing broad shield of her personality. The word arrived in a dusty, green-velvet book with water-logged pages that smelled vaguely of mold and rot. She’d been eleven years old and the definition (“relentlessly severe, stern, or gloomy in manner or appearance”) seemed apt.
This, she had decided, is me.
And so entered a phase of her life that solidified it as an identifier.
It was a life of contrasts; bright, giggling girls with bouncing hair and chirping personalities clashing violently with the girl who seemed prematurely old. A stern-faced (sallow was another word she found and quite liked) thing with lank black hair, wearing limp, flat dresses over a skeletal frame. She was the type to wear sweaters in all manner of weather, and her complexion seemed to reflect a certain unwillingness to tan, color or blotch.
In 9th grade, Lizzie Tern called her “Tim Burton’s wet dream” and Gertrude considered filling her backpack with spiders, but she liked spiders, and it didn't seem fair to them.
It marked a moment in time; Gertrude’s personal vendetta. Her private war against a legion of extroverts in a society seemingly built by, and for, these loud, exclamatory people who cut in line, spoke over others, and altogether interrupted every perfectly good silence with their open-mouthed static.
Her mother said she was a Debbie Downer and suggested SSRIs, but Gertrude’s grades, mood, attitude and overall outlook remained much the same, drugs or no drugs.
A therapist called her “impenetrable” and she took that as a compliment. People who revealed everything to others had nothing worth holding onto.
Gertrude.
Never a “Trudy” and God forbid if you called her “Gertie”. Clutching her books full of gothic castles and moody seaside ruins, casting glares at everyone who got a little too talkative, a little too close.
It was only natural then, that her best friend be the polar opposite. Attracted to her dark moodiness like some sort of anti-moth, Ariana found Gertrude and simply decided that they were friends.
Gertrude had little choice in the matter.
If she were a black pen underlining words about death and rot in every dreary fiction book, Ariana was a neon pink highlighter drenching the pages to show off confessions of love, happiness, and joy. A black rose in the same vase as a jubilant yellow sunflower.
A “let’s do things” type of person.
A “call just to chat” sort of being.
A “oh, it’ll be fun" flavor of human.
Gertrude wondered if Ariana saw her as a challenge; a thing to be won over and dragged to the awesome, super-fun world of extroversion and group chats. To Ariana’s credit, she offered such things but never took offense to Gertrude’s refusals. She seemed to, if not understand, at least appreciate, her friend’s apprehension towards the human race. She took to calling her “my rainy day” which Gertrude quite liked but would never admit.They met in the last half of their junior year, Ariana bursting into her life with an unbearable sincerity, forcing weak smiles out of Gertrude until she had to accept this friendship, and, even worse, appreciate it.
Maybe it was being poor that bound them. Maybe they recognized each other’s dollar store pencils and off-brand lunches. And when they began walking home from school together, to the same run-down neighborhood, full of loud mufflers, liquor stores glinting with too-bright signs, broken streetlights and those awful, yellow-signed stores that sold everything out of a can or a box but nothing fresh, neither of them said much about it.
They were twenty-two now. Life had moved on in a thousand ways both microscopic and huge, yet their friendship remained. They took classes at the community college together; they were both part-time, both needing to work and take care of family on the side. They still walked to class together, Gertrude quiet and morose, Ariana chattery and happy.
The entry-level nightmare of service and retail jobs left them with mutual trauma; they would discuss their experiences at gas stations, department stores and restaurants in the same low tones of war veterans. The customers: awful! The pay: worse! The environment: "old guys would not stop hitting on me"/"the women's bathroom didn't have a door!"
They were both between jobs to start the school year, until Ariana found a job.
How could she not; her braids festooned with flowers, her overalls covered in various pins from various causes, her circular glasses making her wide brown eyes even larger and more curious. Her customer service voice could calm the most red-faced couponer, and her appreciation for chaos meant every job needed her.
“It’s perfect,” she said on one of their walks from class. “It’s a bookstore.”
“Congratulations.”
“I got you an interview!”
It was early October. The air was still warm but it was turning down summer’s intensity, which Gertrude appreciated. It made wearing long sleeves much more comfortable. “We’d work together?” A question, but also a request for reassurance. She could do it if Ariana was there. The gas station job had left her terrified of customer service.
“Even better,” Ariana said. “It’s closing shift. Inventory stuff. Not as many people. You can be as sad and antisocial as you want. All you’ll be doing is sweeping, fixing the shelves, setting up displays, stuff like that.”
Gertrude was touched. A job would help; her mother was on social security and they’d been scraping by with the student return money from Gertrude’s loans. She could even get a car, and drive out to that nice cemetery near the lake and properly brood. “Thank you,” she told her friend.
