On the edge of everything

Part 3

Sitting on my bed, leaning against the wall, I wait as the annoying beep blares through the room. I'm staring at the small screen of my phone, waiting for Lacey's bright red face to shine up at me. She's in Spain for the year, teaching English at a school in the small coastal town of Cádiz. Every day she emerges from her apartment, shared with two other English speakers teaching around the town, to the sight of the Atlantic Ocean, a mass that I have only seen once. She walks to Old Town along the ocean on the esplanade, teaches for only 6 hours, then spends much of her afternoon in cafés beside the beach. I often envy her life, far away in a foreign land, not weighed down by all the circumstances of Senior year.

I'm mumbling the words to Defying Gravity as the beeping finally ceases and I hear the muffled ocean waves. Lacey appears on the screen, just as freckled and dimpled as I last saw her but slightly redder from the sun.

"Hello?" I say. She isn't looking at the camera and seems to be talking to someone beyond the screen. She doesn't respond so I begin to hum the Jeopardy background music. Before I can get really into it, however, I see her red hair whip over her shoulder as she looks at the screen.

"Hello!" she says excitedly. She smiles larger than normal, revealing her cramped lower teeth that aren't nearly as perfect as her top ones.

"How's it going?" I ask, wanting to get through pleasantries quickly before I tell her the news.

Lacey leans her head towards her right shoulder. "Pretty good. School has been good and the weather is pretty decent for it being January and—OH MY GOODNESS!" Her face lights up. "Oh my goodness, oh my goodness. There is the cutest baby in the whole entire world walking on the street and oh my god you have to see her just wait one second—" I can see her struggling to change the camera to front-facing and I giggle, shaking my head at her ridiculousness. "Oh there she is oh my god I love her just look at her little boots and hat and scarf and OH MY GOD SHE IS WADDLING AFTER THE PIGEONS! Do you see that? Oh my god that may be just about the cutest thing that I have ever seen in the entire freaking world," she turns the camera back to her face. "Wow. I honestly swear that I am lactating. Is it obvious?"

I ignore the question. "Guess what," I say, face trying to hide my pride.

She raises her eyebrows, tilting her chin down towards the cappuccino I can see was just served to her. "Mila: you know how much I despise guessing. If you have something to say just fucking say it."

"Guess who is the lead in the spring musical." As I utter the first few words, she looks aggravated. Quickly, however, her arms spring up involuntarily.

"OH MY GOD!" Her arm hits a woman sitting at the adjacent table. "Oh Dios mío—lo siento mucho." She turns back to me and aggressively whispers, "Mila fucking Donau! How could you let me ramble on about baby fever and lactating? I am single and alone so babies are not important. You being the lead in the musical is the most important thing that may have happened ever! Ah!" She rapidly raises her hands again, this time, thankfully, not hitting another customer.

Suddenly she brings her arms in, as if consciously attempting to constrain the energy that is trying to escape her. She leans towards her laptop, making her face appear larger on my screen and she smiles. "I am so, so proud of you Mila." She looks straight at her camera, somehow making eye-contact with me five thousand miles away. "Are you excited?" She asks at almost a whisper.

"Oh my goodness, yes." I'm not lying, but along with all of that excitement comes a whole lot of fear.

Lacey has always been this chaotic and filled with excitement about just-about everything. My parents always say that she was their monkey girl-- never sitting still, always moving from one thing to the next. I don't know if it was me overcompensating for her lack of reserve, but I feel like I have held myself back to counteract her energy. There are so many photos of me as a child, just sitting on my parents' laps with a pen in hand and a piece of paper in front of me, attempting to mimic their cursive at the age of two. I was meticulous, focused on the task at hand. And I was quiet, very quiet.