Betty turned up the lights. She’d just watched Jacob’s video of our memorial for Ivan’s mom. “What can I say? It’s wonderful.”
Jacob’s lips curled up in a grin. I squeezed his left hand under the table. He’d finished editing the video a couple of days earlier, and he’d invited all of us—minus Betty—to a private screening at his place. Miranda laid out awesome snacks, like Walkers shortbread cookies and tortilla chips with homemade guacamole, which I didn’t get to try because Koula immediately double-dipped.
We’d watched the video three times in a row. It was fantastic. Through his editing, Jacob had managed to create an actual story. He’d added a moving sound track. Ivan loved it. Even though he was eulogizing his dead mom, he was tickled to see himself on Jacob’s enormous flat-screen TV. “I feel like a movie star.”
For YART, Jacob had cut out the fence climbing, the security guard, and the chase sequence. “Betty gets the Disney version,” he’d told us.
“Ivan, what was it like for you, being able to say goodbye to your mom in your own words?” Betty asked.
“It felt good. I mean, it was sad. But, I don’t know, it was also nice, being there with all my friends.”
“I think that’s the first time I’ve heard any of you refer to the others in the group as friends.” Betty smiled. “We are witnessing something beautiful here. Art truly can be a healing experience.”
Safely out of Betty’s line of vision, Koula caught my eye and pretended to vomit.
“You’ve proved that you’re more than capable of generating your own ideas, so you’re welcome to do something along these lines again if you want.”
We looked at each other; we hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“Or,” Betty continued, opening up her folder, “I have something fun. We can all draw ourselves as spirit animals—”
“No!” we collectively said.
Alonzo tentatively raised his hand. “I have an idea for another video.”
“Yes?”
“Remember that movement class I told you guys about?”
“Yeah, that you’re weirdly secretive about and that isn’t a dance class,” said Koula. “What kind of movement class is it? Bowel?”
Ivan snorted.
“I haven’t wanted to get specific because I assumed some people might poke fun.” Alonzo stared hard at Koula.
“We won’t poke fun,” Betty said, looking at the rest of us. “Right?”
We all nodded, including Koula.
“Okay.” Alonzo took a deep breath. “I’ve been studying the art of mime.”
Koula burst out laughing. “Har-har-har-har-har-har. Right.”
“I’m serious. A few years ago I came across the work of Marcel Marceau, the most famous mime ever. And I got hooked.” Alonzo’s face grew red as he tried to explain. “Marceau had a hard life. He was in the French Resistance. His dad was murdered in Auschwitz. But he didn’t let any of that break him. He pursued his passion. He could make people laugh one minute, cry the next, and all without saying a word.
“I know it sounds weird, but when I’m miming—it’s like I’ve never felt more like me. I can forget about all the noise in my head…I feel liberated.”
Koula snorted. Alonzo ignored her.
“I’m getting pretty good. And I’ve been trying to build up the courage to take it to the streets, to busk.” He turned to Jacob. “I was thinking we could film it. It would help me see what I’m doing well and what I need to work on. And if it’s not awful, maybe I can send a copy of the video to my family.”
“Sure thing,” said Jacob.
Koula crossed her arms over her chest, pouting. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. Douche bag.”
“Koula, don’t make me get the Jar,” said Betty.
“Sorry,” said Alonzo. “I figured you’d make fun of me.”
“I totally would have. And I totally still will!” Koula started pretending that she was trapped inside a box. Pretty soon we were all doing the same thing, and Betty made us all put a quarter in the Jar.
We gathered on the plaza outside the Vancouver Art Gallery a week later. Koula had painted Alonzo’s face to look like a Pierrot doll, complete with white pancake foundation, black eyeliner, and bright red lips. I’d sewn him a Marcel Marceau–like costume, a black-and-white striped T-shirt and black tights.
While Jacob and Alonzo set up, Ivan bought us lunch with the money we’d pooled. Koula and I sat on the gallery steps. She was sporting a new hairdo. Gone was her big eighties hair, except for a strip down the middle, which she’d dyed bright red and spiked up with gel. It looked oddly appropriate on Koula. She got a lot of looks from passersby, and sitting next to her I felt cool by association.
A handful of people stopped to watch when Alonzo began his performance. First he pretended he was in a slowly shrinking box and couldn’t get out. Jacob made him do it again and again so he could shoot it from different angles.
Next, Alonzo mimed that he was having a tug-of-war with an invisible opponent.
“He’s good,” I said. “If you’re into mime.”
“Which no one is,” Koula said. “Except maybe the French. But the French also like Jerry Lewis.”
“You’re still miffed that he didn’t tell you.”
“Of course I’m miffed. Alonzo and I are not supposed to have secrets. Not if we’re going to get married.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Sorry, what?”
“We’ve made a deal. If we’re both single or divorced or widowed when we’re seventy, we’re going to marry each other.”
“Oh. Interesting plan.” Koula jiggled her leg up and down. “How are you doing?”
She shrugged. “Okay. I go to meetings every day. Almost up to my stupid one-month chip again.” She bent over to tie her shoes and I got a close-up of her tattoo.
“Um. About your tattoo.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Not one but two spelling mistakes. I had a crazy night with a tattoo artist. We were both wasted. And spelling wasn’t his strong point.”
“Can you get it removed?”
“I’m saving up.”
We turned our attention back to Alonzo; he was pretending to walk up a down escalator.
Ivan returned, carrying bags of food from Five Guys. “Here you go.” He handed Koula and me each a burger and a big carton of fries.
Koula opened the wrapper and took a huge bite. She glanced over at me. “Tell me you’re going to eat that.”
I had not eaten ground beef in two years. Breeding ground for E. coli and all that.
But I was starving. And it smelled so good. I took a tentative bite. Then another. It was greasy, salty, and delicious.
Koula was only halfway through her burger by the time I’d finished mine. Which gave me ample time to pour a bunch of fries onto my burger wrapper before she dug her hand in and contaminated them all.