Rachel Glaser - Paulina & Fran

While everyone gave their condolences to Eileen’s family, Paulina sat with Apollo in the grass, dreaming up her funeral speech for Fran. She could imagine her older self standing before a small group of insignificants, noting Fran’s hair, her dancing, imitating her lisp, but then Paulina’s tone would change, retelling how Fran foolishly sold their friendship for a boy, and the crowd would cry. Then Paulina would sit back down next to Julian and politely wait until they were alone to have sex together, in honor of Fran, or maybe to spite her. Julian would propose to her after, and probably he’d be proposing to her all the time. She’d wave him off for his own good, because no man could ever make her happy for very long, she reasoned.

Fran searched her studio for the Whitney fellowship paperwork. The big room was empty of everyone except Fran, Gretchen, and a short antisocial girl named Marie, who painted in a photorealistic way her classmates publically dismissed but secretly admired.

“Eileen is gone forever,” Gretchen said glumly.

“I know, it’s crazy. Remember her freshman year? She used to hang out in her pajamas playing the guitar.”

Gretchen wiped away tears. Fran spoke to Julian in her mind. It really was only a kiss, she insisted to herself. She watched Gretchen examine her paintings from the semester, which hung off thumbtacks on the wall. Gretchen offered no encouragement, not even a hmm of acknowledgment. Were they that bad? Gretchen wordlessly glided from one painting to the next as if they were in a gallery and the artist was as far away and unknown as a bright spot in the sky. Triumphantly, Fran found the fellowship application.

“Are you going to Eileen’s party?” Fran asked finally, breaking the silence.

“It’s not a party,” Gretchen said firmly, “it’s a celebration of life.”

“Do you think Paulina will be there?” Fran asked.

“Everyone will be there.”

Sampson’s office was decorated with paintings by alumni, some of them semifamous painters who occasionally took the train up to critique student work. These guest crits were often more insulting than class crits. One woman told Fran that painting wasn’t her medium.

Fran surveyed the paper clutter and pictures, Sampson’s framed degrees on the wall, wondering if she would make it as far as him, or if she’d make it further.

“Fran, good to see you,” Sampson said. His gaze fell on the form in her lap, covered with her careful handwriting. He smiled sadly behind his desk. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear. It was due weeks ago. I stopped by your studio but you were never there.” Fran was stricken. “I even sent you an e-mail. I ended up asking Allison to apply instead. She was thrilled. It didn’t seem you were too interested.”

Fran burst into tears.

“Oh, Fran, you’ll be okay. There are other fellowships out there.” Sampson paused. “Maybe not as prestigious as this one, of course.”

“I’m just sad about Eileen.”

“A tragedy,” said Sampson. “I just saw her work in the gallery. There’s someone who could have made it.”

Fran wiped her tears away. Where would she live? How would she make money?

“It’s hard to be your age. There’s maybe too much freedom. Or too much pressure. .” He studied her.

She felt she had to say something, anything, but nothing came out. Sampson tapped a pen against the table. He had a wife and kids, but it was known he’d slept with Gilbert & George in the seventies. He smiled at Fran. “I really enjoyed that trip to Norway we took last year. That was something special.”

Fran nodded.

“It was a joy to see you and that other girl, that bossy one. The sight of you two always gave Nils and me a kick. You were wearing those matching striped — what were they?”

“Tunics.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” He laughed. Paulina had bought them a pair of striped tunics for twenty kroner at an Oslo market. It was too cold to wear them outdoors, but they’d done it anyway. “I’d be happy to write you a letter of rec,” Sampson said. “You can use it for jobs or grad school or anything you want.”

They’d made such a great pair that trip. Fran hadn’t worried about school, or art, or her future. When she made Paulina laugh, she’d felt a golden light upon her. The light had formed a layer she thought to herself. The layer had been a kind of shield. She’d lost some kind of shield! And Julian’s shield!

Fran tried to smile as she stood up and shook Sampson’s hand. Perhaps painting wasn’t her medium. The school had helped her see that. She had paid them to tell her. Fran walked outside into the cool spring air. She could feel the wet lines of her tears. Nothing was shielding her.

Arriving drunk to Eileen’s party, Fran sensed Paulina, then saw her across the room with her back turned. The textiles girls looked radiant from mourning. A few people danced to loud music. “This is lame,” Gretchen said, grabbing Fran’s arm. “Eileen would want people to dance. Fran, you should dance. You love dancing.”

“I don’t feel like dancing. I’m not a machine. I can’t just dance.” She looked pointlessly for Julian. Julian never went to parties, or even to Artist Ball or the good lectures, but still Fran stared at the door, wishing for him. Sometimes she went into the cafeteria thinking she’d see him, but she never did. The cafeteria was always packed with freshmen and sophomores who didn’t know her, having their own experience of the school without her.

“Did you figure out what you’re going to do after graduation?” Gretchen asked. Fran ran her fingers over the straps of her jumper. “Do you wanna live together in Brooklyn?” Gretchen asked. “You never said. It could be cool. I’ve been e-mailing people about apartments.” Fran watched Paulina argue with Sadie. Allison was wilting against the wall. Sadie was holding hands with a boy Fran had never seen. “Jeez, you’re like a zombie tonight,” Gretchen said.

Everyone from their year was at the party. There was even a little pack of grad students who had probably been Eileen’s TAs. No one felt right about dancing, but the music kept calling them to dance. “You don’t need to decide now,” Gretchen said, “but I just want to tell you that I’m definitely moving to New York, and as of now I don’t have a roommate. I might rent an apartment starting June first, but maybe July first. August seems too late. I want to get on with the next part of my life. You know?”

Fran murmured in agreement. She watched as Paulina pantomimed something to a crowd. She must be making fun of someone, thought Fran. “Don’t look now,” Gretchen said and Fran turned to look. Julian stood self-consciously in the doorway. Fran’s heart leapt. She missed his body, what it felt like to waste the whole day together. Julian was wearing black jeans and a Film Department T-shirt that read REEL LIFE. His thoughts briefly seemed visible as he looked everyone over.

“Dance with me,” Fran whispered to Gretchen, then threw herself onto the dance floor. Gretchen watched her go. For a few supernatural moments, Fran was alone on the floor and captivating. Paulina was infuriated with inspiration. She threw her purse over her shoulder and walked her red leather boots onto the dance floor.

Julian stood silently while everyone else cheered them on. Paulina shook her breasts violently at Fran. Fran danced desperately low to the ground, as was supposed to be attractive. Paulina knew that the better dancer would win Julian. She sped up her moves. Her arms whipped the air. Her sight blurred.

Fran took a risk and started dancing slow. She let the beats pile up around her. Did she look good? She found herself praying to Eileen for help, but that was ridiculous, she knew — Eileen had just gotten there, she couldn’t do anything yet. Paulina was vibrating in front of her. Fran spun away in a few wide, sensual movements. She felt a cramp dig into her side, but kept dancing.