Writing Sample:

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ONE

 

"Some things cannot be fixed. They can only be carried."

                                                                - Megan Devine

 

 

I have arrived at the threshold of a sea of strangers, with a plethora of variables I have zero control over. This is light years away from my homeostatic happy place. My nervous system is releasing a cocktail of hormones that could rival anything being concocted inside this bar, and I want nothing more than to reverse course. But today, my best friend, Zadie, got engaged.

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Without my knowing, a party was planned. An unscheduled call interrupted my research protocol, requesting my presence at said location—with only three hours and twenty-two minutes of warning. So here we are, attempting to emulate the flexibility of a young bamboo shoot and not the rigidity of a fifth-year immunology PhD candidate.  

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For the last fifteen years of my life, I have carefully crafted my routines to limit the danger of strangers to me and, more importantly, of me to them. It’s worked quite well for all of us. But now, from my place on the sidewalk, peering both through and at the tinted glass of the so-called poshest martini lounge in Toronto, I am reminded that some of us, are not only the stranger, but also a tad strange.

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Juxtaposing my reflection on the crowd inside, I claim both these titles. Stranger—to all the people inside who keel over in laughter, imbibing beverages from questionably cleaned receptacles—and strange.

 

Within the safety of my regular work routine—the number five street car, a jaunt across Cumberland Park, and a stair climb to the fifth floor laboratory of the Donnelly Centre for Biomolecular Research—I rarely encounter either of these “s” words. But the woman reflected at me—a splotch of taupe and coral with a potted house plant and an oversized tote containing the equivalent of a disaster relief kit—she is very much strange. No need for niceties here.

 

On the other side of the glass, stylish looking people with smart phones and smart watches and smart shoes don’t seem to care about any of my “s” concerns. No, they don’t even notice me yet.

 

I take in my ensemble and wince. I should have blocked additional time to change. Worn a pair of my mother’s artsy heels. Or anything other than pineapple yellow Birkenstocks. But it’s too late for that now. Here we are, ten minutes late and the Astrid Noble with fluffy fringed bangs and zero smart accessories will have to do. 

 

I’ve always been a bit of a speckled egg, but so has Zadie. Never in the past has this been much of an issue. I say much, because if I’m honest, we both know speckled eggs are an anomaly, (usually related to a stressful disturbance to the bird during the calcification process), and although rare, they are rarely appreciated for their faulty creation.

In a generation that celebrates the peacocks of the crowd, I should embrace these quirks, and normally I do. But tonight, as I bob and weave to find the one person who is far from a stranger, and finally locate her through the glass, I realize Zadie Nazanin is a speckled egg no longer.

 

The acid in my stomach churns at the sight of my childhood friend’s uncharacteristic façade. Her trademark streak of blue hair is gone, black tresses slicked within an efficient ballerina bun. Her usual jewel-toned palate is traded for a white mini-dress and black blazer, camouflaging her within a monochromatic colour-code I was not privy to. Rather than slurping a fluorescent Bellini through a cocktail straw, she is sipping some clear concoction like a Bond girl. And with French-manicured nails. What is this bland nonsense?!

 

My own nails haven’t seen polish in years, nor a nail file, nor anything beyond sterilized clippers, but if they could have colour, it would match my ever-blooming coral Anthuriam. But clear lacquer with fake cuticles?

I’m staring, but because of the tinted glass and the hub-bub of shiny crow-like servers shuttling trays of martinis to the strangers, I’m invisible. Perhaps I should rethink this. I could jet back to my apartment, swap shoes, change out of this stress stained blouse—more appropriate for high tea with my mother than my best-friend’s engagement party—and try again. But what do I own in black or white? A lab coat? I flatten my bangs as I think.

I’m already on the tardy side. Then there is this rather sprite potted plant that only adds more stipple to my ensemble.

 

I glance between Helix (a lovely juvenile specimen of the pachira aquatic species) and the strangers. Luda, my lab mate, was kind enough to break from our procedural prep to research the ideal gift for a newly engaged couple. Wealth, unity, and longevity, all braided together in one portable specimen? Done! I procured said plant—which I promptly named Helix—from the only passable florist en route to my destination.

 

I could leave Helix outside in the alley two buildings back. Give him to Zadie and Brad afterward. Yes, this is a logical plan to reduce my odd quota. From what I can glean, none of the strangers brought gifts—certainly not dwarf trees—so a coral blouse, dated bangs and pineapple Birks will be enough speckle for today. I explain to Helix that I will return for him after the party, but from behind his palm-like leaves, someone appears to be waving in our direction.  

 

A quick glance over my shoulder confirms this greeting is indeed for me, as everyone else outside struts with great purpose and little interest to the martini lounge. Now Zadie is singing my name in chorus with the strangers, with such gusto that even the shatter-proof glass can’t contain the noise. Helix, still cradled within my arms, will have to accompany me. Perhaps he will prompt small talk, which, due to my stranger rationing, I fully claim as a lagging skill. 

 

With a full-tooth performance smile—the one perfected at skating competitions as a child to earn top artistic marks—I latch my hand around the unnecessarily tall door handle. I’d rather not blame my inability to open said door on my petite stature, nor my 2020 onward exercise fast, but they may be factors. I wedge Helix into the crook of my damp armpit and grasp the handle with both hands.

 

 Just as the door cooperates, the ceramic pot disagrees with the lack of friction in my blouse. I reposition Helix, then without warning, the edge of the door thrusts into my bent frame, smack into my forehead.

 

“Oya!” My hand reflexes up as Helix smashes onto the only part of this establishment with any colour—a movie-star red entrance carpet.   

 

“Astrid?”

 

“Idiot!” I say, without checking my social nicety card or confirming who smashed a door into my cranium.

 

“Sorry?” There is a glide to the idiot’s “r” that is familiar. It’s lower than I remember, but most certainly of the Oceanic ex-pat variety.

 

I squint up at the bearded man in front of me, who is as towering as I remember, but broader and with a perpetual dimple on his left cheek, still visible through this new man-growth. So not a stranger! “Connor?” With the sound of his name from my mouth, my brain retrieves a buried high school file from my long-term memory.

 

A swarm of ill-equipped servers swoop in to dispose of Helix and his zebra-striped ceramic pot with bare hands and cocktail napkins. I should remind them of proper sharp disposal protocols, but Connor is smirking at me, eyebrow raised, taking in all my pit-stained, hair-skewed, tote-laden glory. I straighten myself, angle away from poor Helix and ask with all the calm I can muster what he’s doing here?

 

He holds my gaze for a second longer than is comfortable, his smile brazen enough now to attract the attention of a skating judge or two. “For Zadie and Brad?”

 

I nod. Nod a second time. Force out my sixteen-year-old smile now, the one Zadie and I practiced on hockey boys before our first and only double date with him and Brad. I nod one more time, adjusting my dress strap, and pulling my tote in front of me before words, blessed words, finally arrive. “Of course. Yes. Love-struck Zay-Bra. Our very own Brangelina, but cuter, and of course way more likely to stick together this time. I mean forever this time.

 

Because, well, that’s why we’re here, and why I have…had this zebra plant, I mean zebra pot.”

 

I whisper an apology to the crow-servers, who collectively embody a murderous glare at the mess I’ve made. I scatter my gaze between Connor and the strangers inside as I search for something small—but distracting enough from the plant debacle—to say. Then the theme of the event hits me.

 

“Oh my goodness, the black and white dress code. If I had known, I could’ve borrowed my mother’s safari leggings.” I smack my forehead with the heel of my hand, bullseye on the spot from the door’s sucker punch. I see stars. And not the pretty track lighting stars from the lounge, but the misfiring-electrical-pulses-from-my-occipital-lobe kind.

 

“Easy there.” Connor takes hold of my elbow in an entirely chivalrous attempt to prevent me from stepping on the crows and their soiled napkins. “Here. Let me get you some ice.”

 

“It’s fine. I have an instant cold pack.” I open my tote in search of my first-aid kit (because you never know when the need to save a life might present itself).

 

“But we are in a bar, with loads of ready-made ice.”  

 

I am not usually one to play damsel in distress, but with the repetitive boom of a stand-up bass, dimmed lighting, and approaching tables of strangers, I will let Connor’s misguided “r’s” shuttle me toward a cup of cold cubes. Plus, Zadie is lunge-bouncing toward me in rhythm with Nina Simone’s “Sinnerman”, and now the room is spinning much like the cinematography from The Thomas Crown Affair. This is not a good sign.   

 

“Astrid! What took you so long?” Zadie’s voice is as ever boisterous, but her eyes can’t seem to focus on mine, or maybe it’s my head not stabilizing with her. “Were you pre-drinking at the lab?” she yells through an octave of pitches. 

 

“Of course not.”

 

“I know.” She winks with great effort. “Martinis are on the house for the wedding party!”

 

“I must have missed that detail,” I yell back as she tugs me toward the bar. In reality, I appear to have missed many details about this evening during our conversation. The bubbly bits are still there, mainly Brad’s proposal through the window of her office building alongside the window-washers. Given his prom-posal was a message on our math class window, it honestly seemed a touch uninspired, but no need to point out this detail.

 

To be honest, between bling shots and tonight’s soiree details, she didn’t give me a squeak of space to say much of anything. And it’s not that I wouldn’t have. I’m elated for her, really. I knew this was a high probability outcome, given their tabloid-worthy romance, but if I’m honest, it all seems too soon. Ever since Zadie’s dad passed away in high school, she has been a tad flighty about the idea of forever. Combined with my own parents’ divorce, I thought we had affectively decided to hold off on happily-ever-afters. Hadn’t we committed to living together with a brood of foster cats once finished our post-secondary pursuits? Was there not a period where she would teach me the ways of Sex in the City?

 

I’ll admit my PhD has taken a few unexpected turns, and neither of us could have predicted I’d develop an affinity for mice over cats, but I haven’t even reached “Kiss in the City,” let alone the more questionable bits that, according to our conservative mothers, really should be saved for post-matrimony. But now? Zadie is very much ready for her post-matrimony and I don’t even know if a martini’s contents will lead to poor choices based on higher than average blood alcohol absorption ratios.

 

“Looks like our best man has you taken care of.” Zadie releases me, sliding a pointer finger down my arm with a rather presumptuous look toward Connor. I turn to see a blissful glass filled to the brim with ice in his right hand and one of those dastardly clear beverages in his left. “You remember Connor, right?” Zadie hollers into my ear, likely killing a few inner ear hair cells along the way. 

 

“How could I ever forget Connor Wilkes?” Or, as he self-proclaimed, Connor Will-keel—as in keel over and pretend to die every time I walked into a room for the entire final year of my high school experience?

 

“He found this place for the engagement party,” Zadie says.

 

Connor must notice my blank stare as I take in the apothecary inspired black shelves of liquor, velvet curtained walls and high top tables. It’s an attractive establishment … for vampires, but far from quintessential Zadie with her artist’s heart for colour, nor Brad, with his need for 360-degree baseball highlights. Connor hands me the ice and drink and signals for me to look out the front window. Directly across the street is a brightly lit sign for Burger King.

 

I turn to Zadie, glance over at Brad, who is smacking some stranger on the back in that cordial male bonding way, and then back to Connor.

 

The memory file from high school returns. I pan the walls of the lounge, and it’s as if thirteen years and a lot of black paint has been turpentined away. “Remember Waffle Wing?” Connor says.

 

“How could I forget?” The walls had been buttercream, the benches covered with red vinyl instead of black velvet, and chicken cartoons decorated the walls where tincture bottles now stand.

 

“We sat right over there.” Connor signals to a table near the front window. “And remember when…”

 

His voice becomes a mumble of animated sounds as I choke down an involuntary gulp of air attempting to catapult up from my diaphragm. (Fun Fact: While some people have a more predictable stress response, such as a racing heartbeat or sweaty palms, my body provides me with the debilitating quirk of singultus, more commonly known as hiccups).

 

Connor continues with his recount, grabbing hold of his neck, his mouth wide like a cat attempting to swallow a sparrow—or more accurately, a chicken wing.

 

My bag is open, hand reaching in for an emergency EpiPen, before normal instincts would recognize this as a bad replay of my past. Hagoop.

 

I try to swallow the next hiccup with nauseating consequences. It takes a whoop-load of rational internal self-talk to pull out a cherry gloss instead of an adrenaline shot. I purse my lips against the myoclonic jerks to apply unnecessary moisture. I search the broody lounge, a swirl of faces coming with it.

 

Zadie’s wide eyes flash over me. I see a hallway of mirrors that must lead to what was once a bathroom. I use hand gestures that only Zadie would understand: points, thumbs jabbing, a final jazz hand finger explosion. Then I run, just like Nina Simone’s song. Just like that day in high school, when I was reminded of how dangerous I truly could be.   

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