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Dealing with Sand

Faye Edgell turns out to be a very good cook. We decide, sitting in my cluttered kitchen, that the best way to bake "anti lemon cupcakes" is to somehow make them purple.

"You know, because the two are parallel on the color wheel," Faye says. "They're complementary."

"What's a purple flavor?"

"Grapes."

"Ew, no. A grape cupcake? No."

"Blackberries."

So, we spend a while making blackberry cupcakes. Faye attempts to teach me how to crack an egg with one hand. I fail, miserably, and end up picking shell out of the batter while she mixes beside me. It's then that I begin to see the appeal in cooking, not because I'm good at it, but because Faye treats it like a sort of art. Her hands whisk like a painter's paint, a writer's write. She moves about the kitchen as if she has lived here her entire life, almost dancing across the tiled floor. She is one with the space.

"Where did you learn to cook," I ask, because the fact someone my age can make more than a sandwich astounds me.

"I don't know, exactly," Faye replies, mashing blackberries with a fork. "I've just sort of picked it up. My grandma go me into cooking as a kid."

"Hm," I respond. I don't think I have ever been passionate about anything the way Faye is with cooking and reading and everything else. If someone were to ask what I do for fun, I wouldn't know how to reply. I sleep. I watch films. I spend a long time thinking about how useless I am. None of these things are fun.

We put the cupcakes into the oven and leave the kitchen in disarray, simply because I can't be bothered to clean and leaving Faye with the mess seems cruel. The smell of blackberries and vanilla fills the air as we talk. Then, we pull our desserts out and leave them to cool. Our day is spent lazily. At around 3, I take a nap in my bedroom while Faye plucks one of my father's books from a shelf and reads on my floor. When I wake at 4, she has finished a little over half of it and pulls me into a discussion about how the main character is an unreliable narrator. I am half listening.

"Its, like, the whole story is sort of told in her head. And she keeps spiraling about little things and ends up going insane. Oh, that was a spoiler. Sorry."

"I don't read, anyway," I reply, but I think I would like this book. It sounds like something I could relate too. Perhaps a film adaptation will be made.

We leave my room and frost our cupcakes with thick, blackberry buttercream. They come out rather pretty and I feel proud, even if it was mainly Faye who made them. Then, we sit on the couch and eat half a dozen cupcakes within 30 minutes.

"You're friends with Ruby Thompson, right?" she asks.

"Friends is a bit of a stretch. We're in the same friend group, though."

"I've seen her work," she says, taking a bite of her cupcake and getting frosting on her nose. "She's super talented."

"Her work?"

Faye nods slowly as she chews. "She's a photographer. Have you not seen the exhibit our school put up in the art hall?"

"Uh, no. I don't ever go through the art hall."

"Well, you should. It's incredible, really. I wish I was an artist." I think about Ruby for a moment, deciding that photography matches her well. She has this way of always remaining on the outskirts of a group as if documenting their behaviors. She's almost like me in that way, but more watchful. More artistic. Less sad.

After a bit, we put on The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I have seen this film just about a hundred times with Elio, but never once with anyone else. It feels almost like a different movie when sitting beside someone as cheerful as Faye. She tears up when Logan Lerman is alone at the dance and again when he has an episode towards the end. Usually, Elio makes me stop the movie just before Emma Watson goes off to college so the story has a happier ending. It's been ages since I've watched any further and I find myself beginning to cry as well.