Flat-Out Celeste

  She missed Julie right now. Although Julie would be sorely disappointed in her if she knew the truth about Celeste’s isolation. Her whole family would, but if Julie still lived near here, Celeste would not be able to trick her into believing everything was fine. Shielding them all from the truth was the only option, so she would continue smiling and bantering happily about her days when they asked.

  Yes, she spoke to people at school, but that was virtually a requirement. She wasn’t mute. The opposite, in fact. She talked too much, and evidently not in the right ways or about the right things. Dallas had just been very nice to her, but one independent classmate who hadn’t been bored to tears by her philosophy analytics did not count. She deleted Dallas’ text, but did not feel any sense of satisfaction. If Celeste had pink hair and a hyper masculine boyfriend named Troy, she, too, might enjoy the social aspects of high school. As it was, she did not. And so she made sure that she interacted as little as possible with her peers.

  High school, she had determined, would be a wash. Constructing an environment in which she would move virtually undetected had been easier than she would have imagined, and it wasn’t as though she had to fend off inquiries for social interaction at every turn. This Dallas bit was an exception.

  It was a most strange experience, she thought, to move among crowds of students as she did, and yet not have any real friends.

  But whether or not Celeste wanted friends was beside the point. It was best, she had learned, not to set herself up for failure.

  Thank goodness that she had Matt. Matt, while not outwardly gallant and heroic, loved her with a ferocity and protectiveness that was quiet and subtle. Matt’s wiring didn’t make it easy for him to lavish affection with words or physical displays. And yet, what he gave her was more than enough. Having him still live nearby and often at the house eased the pain of his moving out. Which of course he had to do. Once he’d finished his undergraduate work, it made sense. She couldn’t expect him to live across the hall from her for his entire life. It’s not as though it was acceptable to have her brother move into the dorm room across from hers when she went to college next year. But she wouldn’t need him then because she would finally be out of high school and in a mature educational environment. Where, exactly, she would end up was still undecided. But there were options.

  She turned on her iPad. Reading more about colleges would be comforting now. She couldn’t get enough of the course catalog, so she read about classes for a bit and then did a more general search to see what else she could learn about this legendary school. Celeste gasped when a webpage popped up.

  “Oh no. No. No. No.” She glared down at the words on the page. Campus life.

  Details about parties, and campus events, and lifelong bonds stared back at her. She hurriedly clicked on links to other schools. Greek systems, drinking games… something dreadful sounding called “Springfest” that featured a full day of on-campus bands and student festivities! This was not right.

  Celeste read on.

  “I had three roommates my first year, and we’re still the best of friends during our senior year” was one testimonial.

  “Ugh, my freshman roomie sucked. Totally uptight and awful. Ruined my year. The school wouldn’t let me change rooms” was another.

  Oh dear God, what a perfectly terrifying thought: she would have a roommate next year. A stranger. Or a number of roommate strangers. Probably with actual social talents as well as intellectual abilities. And Celeste would likely be the “uptight” and “awful” roommate that got written about on campus review sites.

  Panic set in. The plan had been to shield herself during high school and then soar off to college, where life would be fulfilling. Suddenly it became clear to Celeste how utterly stupid a plan this was. College was going to be worse than high school. She would be trapped on campus in repeated and forced social situations. Ones in which she would be expected to function appropriately. This was a tremendous problem.

  She sat rigidly on the concrete floor and tapped her head against the painted-brick wall. What was she going to do? Her personality certainly hadn’t won over crowds during high school, so there was no reason to think interpersonal relations would magically improve when at college. Why hadn’t she thought of this until now? For a smart girl, she had done something incredibly stupid.

  It felt as though the costume room was closing in on her, and she would be lost forever under a mountain of pirate hats, poodle skirts, and goblin masks. Celeste stared at a hideous grass skirt. It might just do to run off to an as-yet-undiscovered island. She would wear coconuts and spear fish and never be required to deal with human beings again. She would have a new title: Celeste Watkins, intellectual deserted-island goddess. However, one must have internet access, and a deserted island might not provide that. Not to mention that she had no means with which to locate an as-yet-undiscovered island. Such an exploration would presumably require a boat and an expert degree of nautical mapping skills, neither of which she had.

  Then she had a thought: Who says that she couldn’t just create a new identity? She still had time this year. There was no reason that she had to show up at college next fall with the same old stilted and stunted personality she currently had.

  A personal reinvention would simply have to take place, and the clock was ticking.

  HOT ENOUGH FOR YOU?

  “ARE YOU SURE that you want to do this?” Celeste’s mother, Erin, pulled into the parking lot on Saturday morning and looked at her daughter. “Hot yoga is not for everyone.” She tucked her short hair behind her ear, and Celeste had a full view of her mother’s skeptical expression. While Celeste did prefer her mother’s relatively new, closely cropped style to the long hair that she’d had for years, it did have its downside: there was no opportunity for flyaway hairs to obscure her face and hide her feelings.

  “Hot yoga does not need to be for everyone. But it will be for me. I feel sure that I can become a yoga enthusiast.”

  “An enthusiast? I just thought you wanted to try a class with me. I guess we’ll see if you like it.” Erin gave Celeste a solid nod and smiled. “Let’s do it.”

  “Yes. Let’s do it,” Celeste repeated more robotically than she cared to. Contractions were not easy these days. “We shall have a mother-daughter bonding experience.”

  “And we’ve got more coming up. Your father took you to Yale last weekend, so I get to take you to Princeton and U Penn in December. I’m looking forward to watching all of these schools battle it out for your acceptance.”

  They headed through the sharp October wind and into the warmth of the building. “I do believe that I am well prepared, yes? I have this yoga mat, a skidless towel that all of the online yoga sites say is quite the trend, and I spent the past few days hydrating sufficiently so that my body will not suffer when I sweat. Of course, I also have this decorative water bottle. My outfit is similar to yours, and I think that it is essential that I look the part as I delve into this new area of interest.”

  “I told you that they have mats at the studio that you can use, sweetheart.”

  “Erin!” Celeste shrieked. “What in the world would possess you to think that I would consider using a communal mat? I could catch some sort of repulsive fungal infection or worse! Hardly the way to launch my new identity.”

  “A new identity? What are you talking about?”

  Celeste fidgeted with her gear. “It is nothing.”

  Erin eyed her daughter. “You don’t need a new identity. And I believe they clean the mats thoroughly, but I’m glad you like the one we got you. And, for God’s sake, would you please call me ‘Mom’? It’s unnerving when you use my first name.”

  Celeste shrugged as they entered the yoga room. She gasped. “Oh dear, it is quite warm in here.”

  “It is called hot yoga for a reason. But I’ve found it to be quite invigorating. I think you might like this experience.”

  Celeste followed her mother to a spot in the large room and mimicked how
her mother set up her things. “Thank you for purchasing all of these lovely starter materials for my new adventure. I know the capri pants were expensive, but I read that low-quality ones can become see-through when saturated with one’s sweat, and that would be humiliating. I believe that is a reasonable concern given that I am already sweating, and I have not yet begun any poses.”

  Erin lay back on her mat and closed her eyes. “That’s normal. We get here twenty minutes early to adjust to the heat and let our bodies and minds prepare for class.”

  After swooping her long hair onto the top of her head and tying it into a puffy knot of curls, Celeste also spread out on her mat and shut her eyes. Despite worrying that—given how she was already drenched in sweat—performing actual yoga work might be problematic, she did her best to envision success. This class would put her in touch with an untapped side of herself, and she would be ignited with a new fire. Her mother might be dismissive of the entire notion of a new identity, but Celeste was not. Her determination to no longer be on the social-pariah end of the spectrum once she entered college was strong. So she would be strong. And she would be a yogist. Was “yogist” even a word? No, of course it wasn’t. The hundred-and-five-degree temperature was affecting her in a most basic way. Celeste did not forget words. She was becoming a yogi. Or a yogini, which was a word that she thought to be beautiful and romantic. She inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying to convince herself that she was one with the oppressive heat.

  Celeste the yogini had a wonderful sound to it. She envisioned herself organizing a yoga club while at college and the eagerness of students to sign up, a crowd around her as she answered questions about times, gave advice for first-timers, and assured everyone that they would all do very well. Leading yoga would propel her to social acceptance, she was sure.

  But twenty minutes into the official start of the class, Celeste’s hopes for a yogini lifestyle were diminishing. Hot yoga was despicable. Truly. It was difficult to know if her vision was blurred from the sweat that poured tirelessly into her eyes or from the dizziness that had overtaken her, but in either case, she was undeniably miserable. And hot. Oh Lord, it was hot. She understood from her reading that she was supposed to keep her pose steady and firm, her mind clear and content, and that perfection would come from deep relaxation into this process, but that was becoming increasingly difficult. And, if she recalled correctly, the goal was to reach for what was called the infinite.” At this point, infinite sweat was the only success she’d achieved.

  A glance in the mirror reflected that Celeste was shaking and not exactly demonstrating perfect pose. She peeked to see how her mother was doing. It didn’t appear that Erin was anything but deeply involved in reaching for the sky and probably breathing in some sort of soothing, healing manner while the earth aligned around her or whatnot. This standing triangle pose, or “Trikanasana” pose as the instructor called it, was straining her body. And the name sounded horrifyingly reminiscent of one of the many bacteria she was probably being exposed to in this sweat lodge.

  Celeste refocused. This was a poor attitude that she was entertaining, and she would allow herself to experience this opportunity to the fullest and find her true calling, and yoga really was the perfect calling for her… if it weren’t for the never-ending, excruciating, stifling heat.

  In an effort to combat the uncomfortable temperature, she would simply think about cold things, and those thoughts would trick her body into believing that her skin may not, in fact, dissolve at any moment. Air conditioning, shade, the Bering Sea, industrial freezers, snowmen, salted-caramel ice cream, the nose on the neighbor’s ever-snorting bulldog, the wind atop Mt. Everest… Celeste would give anything to be clinging to the side of a Himalayan mountain right now, frostbite and potentially lost limbs be damned. And since her ambitions of becoming a yoga devotee were quickly evaporating, extreme mountain climber was a more likely new goal.

  Celeste rolled onto her side, unable to tolerate hanging her head upside down for one minute longer. Total collapse was the only option right now.

  “There’s nothing wrong with taking a break,” Erin whispered from her mat. “It’s very smart to listen to your body. And this is only your first class.”

  And her last. Celeste let her eyes close as she lay incapacitated. When the lights dimmed for the last section of the class, she sighed with both relief and discouragement. Yoga was a failure. She was a failure.

  No, she scolded herself. No. I will not be defeated by an inability to perform acrobatics in a room that simulates a South American jungle experience. I will not give up on reinventing myself, because reinvention is my out. Or my way in.

  Facing this hot misery head-on was the only option. So she did just that.

  After dropping her mother at their house, Celeste backed seamlessly into a parallel-parking spot on Mass Ave. in Somerville. “Spatial relations skills aren’t for the meek,” she stated assuredly. “And I am not meek.”

  Granted, she felt a tad meek after that rather demanding yoga class; but this was her new life and she would simply view the more difficult parts as divine challenges. The sweat had dried—mostly—from her skin, and she had to admit that although she had perhaps completed only a small fraction of the actual yoga poses, she had at least not up and died during class. That had to be considered an achievement. Part one of her yogini day was over. Now to find her new people.

  A quick internet search had helped her locate the perfect post-yoga spot, a natural-foods cafe ten minutes outside of Harvard Square. Deciding it was a good move to present her new self properly, she carried her rolled-up yoga mat via the shoulder strap as well as her canvas tote bag. The yoga mat/tube caught on the doorjamb as she stepped inside the cafe, and while it may have taken two attempts before she was able to cross the threshold without ricocheting off the tube, she did make it in. Celeste was a bit taken aback at the shop’s interior, given that she was not familiar with sitting on bean bags or inhaling musky incense in nearly unlit rooms. But this cafe, from what she ascertained online, was an appropriate place for upcoming yogini like her to socialize. And there were, she saw with delight, girls around her age, all wearing loose-fitting pants and tops and lolling about on floor cushions while awful music drifted through the room.

  It was rather dark, so it took a few minutes for Celeste to locate a free bean bag, but she did and dropped clumsily into it, trying to control the grunt that erupted when she landed with a thud.

  A woman in a long, patterned skirt approached her with a menu. Celeste was sure that the waitress’ skirt was actually a wall tapestry that had been tied around her waist, and she made a mental note to locate and purchase such a tapestry skirt for herself. Also, long necklaces made with wood beads. “Welcome to The Harvester. Let me know when you’re ready to order.”

  “The Harvester,” Celeste felt, sounded a tad too much like the title of a horror movie that was set on a farm and less like a sexy yoga cafe, but that was okay. “Thank you so much. I’m delighted to be here, as I feel compelled to replenish both my body and soul after the draining hot yoga session I partook of this morning.”

  Tapestry lady shrugged. “Fabulous.”

  The menu was somewhat concerning, as Celeste was not familiar with drinks concocted of kale, wheat germ, and amino acids, and such, but she was open to new experiences. She placed her smoothie order with the waitress and smiled as she sat back in her lumpy bean bag chair. Although she had doubts about her choice, a drink dominated by sunflower-seed puree and elderberries, she assumed that the guava-tomato juice base would probably cover up any funny tastes. Maybe.

  This would be her new (or first) hang-out spot. How exciting!

  A thumping sound came from the next table, where a group of three college-age women in fashionable exercise outfits and numerous jingling bracelets were drinking brightly colored fruit shakes. One had clapped her hands on the table and gasped. “You cannot possibly be serious!” she was saying. In an alarming move, the girl turned in Celeste’
s direction. “Tell her.”

  Celeste looked around. “Me?” It was too soon for interaction such as this. She did not even have her beverage yet.

  “Yes,” the young woman said. “You look like you know what you’re doing. Tell my friend that waxing is essential, or she’s never going to hold onto, much less keep, a man.”

  “Oh. Yes. Yes, indeed.” Celeste did not recognize her own voice. “Waxing is absolutely essential.” Despite not knowing what waxing was, she felt it important to agree. “Totally.”

  “See? This chick knows what she’s talking about. Legs, eyebrows, chin, the whole thing. Gone.”

  “The whole thing,” Celeste agreed. “Very important. Wax. Everywhere.”

  “Brazilian, right? Tell her she’s got to get a Brazilian if she’s got any kind of self-esteem.”

  The girls at the table looked to Celeste for confirmation, so she nodded vigorously and ran a hand through her big curls. This was quite confusing. The girls did not seem like the earth-mother yoga types Celeste had been expecting to find at this place, but she would just roll with the crowd and take lessons in how one should act. “Oh, completely, yes. A Brazilian is a must.”

  Celeste was not sure what a Brazilian was, but she would have to get whatever this was. Where did one purchase a Brazilian? A South American specialty store? “I get them all the time. The more expensive, the better.”

  “Exactly!” the girl nearly shouted.

  “If you insist,” one of her friends said. “I suppose it’ll make me less worried when I’m in Greece next month wearing that thong bikini.”