true blue
You've never done me wrong
Except for that one time that we don't talk about
Because it doesn't matter anymore
Who won the fight?
I don't know, we're not keeping score
And it feels good to be known so well
I can't hide from you like I hide from myself
I remember who I am when I'm with you
Your love is tough, your love is tried and true blue
Lily used to keep a diary when she was a kid. The truth is, after all these years, it's still not complete. The girl holds the leather notebook to her face and catches its scent, inhaling history, she can almost remember those days, those simple, infamous, childish feelings that she now remembers with the intensity she used to feel. Then, her problems became hills and mountains, which started from a simple grain of sand. The girl knows that in a while she will feel the same way. But, right now, Lily is not comforted by this fact, because, however small they may seem, they are still problems. At the end of the day, she feels the same dissatisfaction, the same sense of discomfort creeping into her bones, and she thinks - she never stops thinking - her head throbbing with sensations so intense that they leave her as tired as they do exposed.
And, above all, she dreams. The night hides and unravels all her desires, one by one. Lily wakes up agitated and confused. A ringing in her ears as she tries to remember. It's difficult, because her head is busy hiding all these things in the hidden recesses of her mind.
So Lily grabs a pen from her desk and writes.
I don't know how I'm supposed to feel. I don't know how to stop doing it.
...
Lily plops down on the worktop, her cheeks pressed against the cold stone. Birds whistle in the garden.
"Your sister might come next week," her mother announces, reaching for a saucepan on the shelf. Mafalda wipes her hands on a cloth and takes the utensil, she thanks her with a smile. "For the wedding preparations."
"Ah, so she is really getting married," Lily replies, raising her head slightly, quietly. "She didn't write, or call."
Petunia had always been a bit of a self-contained girl, as far as Lily was concerned. Though when they were children, putting aside all those conflicts and resentments that had grown up over the years, like all sisters, they were close. Her sister used to tell her secrets, but, one day, not overnight, Lily supposed, she stopped. They were no longer children, after all. Sisters aren't best friends, they're just that, a strange mix of home, conformity, but nothing more. A lighthouse flashing, constantly, to guide ships to port, the ships avoiding it, and turning the other way, grateful for the warning that saves them from sinking into the depths of the ocean. But it is also waves breaking on the rocks and wearing them down, and the smell of incense in winter. It is love and hate, calm and imbalance, understanding and torment.
Lily tries to focus more on the positive parts. But Petunia has stopped doing that.
"You know what Petunia's like, dear," sighs her mother, the wrinkles in her eyelids stretching. "Be nice to her."
"Cosa certa, Mama."
Mafalda begins chopping up the food, boiling it afterwards. The sound of metal clanking, and oil crackling in the pan.
"Is Mary coming for lunch?" her mother asks, her back turned.
Well.
Lily begins to breathe rapidly, her breath coming in short gasps. Anxiety gnaws at her insides. The girl wants to throw all these things away, but for some reason, she can't do it.
"I don't know" - she stands up, heading for the courtyard, feeling a pressure in the back of her throat, and suddenly, it's hard to breathe.
Air rushes into her lungs as she leaves the house. She inhales deeply and then sits down against the wall of the facade. She closes her eyes, trying to calm her racing, uneven heartbeat. Oh, she's feeling sick.
Lily is pretty sure that being in the same room with Mary will kill her.
Lily doesn't know why she's sweating so much, doesn't understand why the anxiety is making her nauseous, turning her stomach. The girl had started the summer avoiding Mary out of spite and rejection, and now she was doing it for very different reasons. She doesn't understand why.
...
"Are you coming to the beach at Spiagga Sulzano? They seem to have found something," Lily's father comments at lunch, addressing the dark haired girl.
Lily looks slightly away from her plate, which she has been concentrating on throughout the meal, somewhat very interested.
"Oh, thank you, that would be nice," smiles Mary, gratefully.
Lily has an idea, a brilliant one, in her opinion. She can't keep avoiding Mary, hiding in her room, or coming into the house when she goes out into the yard, and vice versa. The girl is sick of feeling uncomfortable since that night in the dance hall. Sick of feeling disgusted.
"Can I go?"- she raises her voice, looking up.
The best way to overcome problems is to face them head on, or so she tries to convince herself. Spending time with Mary is the solution to tolerate her.
"As long as you stay quiet," laughs her father, raising a glass of wine to his lips. Oh, that's not.
"Oh, but she doesn't usually talk much, so it won't be a problem," Mary looks up at her, a flash of amusement in her pupils, her eyes, full of hue and intensity, boring into her.
Lily doesn't know how she's able to return her gaze without vomiting, but she does, too angry to think of anything else. Lily's blood boils under her skin, her face turning a reddish colour just as her hair.
"Well, maybe it's just that I don't talk to you," the girl replies, with malice, resentment, and then something more.
Lily curses the days when she thought Mary could be her friend, when her smile made her feel like company. The ones when she even started to like her, no matter how much she denied it.
They're never going to be friends, aren't they?
There is something in Mary's gaze, a golden glow that fades, and then she looks away from her. Lily sighs contentedly, though her stomach manifests itself again in a squirm. A second later, Mary rises from her chair, as does her father. The collar of her button-down shirt reveals the cross pendant, reflecting in the sunlight. Lily feels a little guilty now, because Mary doesn't know, at all, how much that conversation meant to her, that day at the fountain, when Lily could really see her for the first time, and also herself, her roots, history and everything that makes her her. Her commonalities, and most importantly, she avoided feeling lonely with something Lily never imagined would bring her so much comfort.
Is it possible to like someone as a person but at the same time not be able to stand them?
...
The drive is quiet. Lily watches the seagulls perch on the rocks. There is a sea breeze, slightly salty, and the girl breathes, squinting and leaning against the window glass. The sea, crystal clear, dazzles in the distance. Her father is giving directions to Mary in the front seat, who listens attentively, marvelling at the view.
"It's an unspoilt beach," he says, turning to Mary.
When they arrive, there is already a group of her father's friends waiting at the shore. He goes to greet them, and they show him something incredible. A statue, emerald, corroded by the salt of the sea but still recognisable, is perched on the sand. It is Aphrodite, Lily is quite sure. Her delicate features and long, curly hair are perfectly carved. Her right arm is held away from her body, a few centimetres from the statue.
"What do you think? The waves have brought her," smiles her father openly, turning to them.
Mary's face lights up, completely shocked. Lily narrows her eyes, watching her. The girl crouches down in front of the statue and gently traces the outline of Aphrodite's face with her fingertip, placing it on her lips.
"She's beautiful," she whispers.
"She's very sensual," her father folds his arms, nodding his head. "Probably from the period after Year one, since she's naked."
Her elongated neck stretches out and her collarbone is wide, as is her chest. Her curves sink into the sand. Lily has never seen anything so beautiful in her entire life.
"Oh, yeah, she is" - Mary smiles.
One of the men calls her father and he goes to meet them. Lily is left alone with Mary, in front of the statue of the goddess. The waves crash against the shore and an awkward silence envelops them. Lily has the feeling her heart will beat out of her chest if she doesn't say something, luckily Mary stands up and faces her, a small crooked smile on her face.
"Hey, is it possible that I did something, honey," she asks in a small, soft tone of voice, and, from one second to the next, Lily forgets that she hates her. "It's just, well, I don't know, but you seem to be avoiding me. And at lunch, I didn't think it would affect you that much. It was a joke, you know. You're my only girl friend here, and you've been so nice to me."
So she does like her.
Lily doesn't know what to say, so she doesn't say nothing at all. A few seconds pass, and the girl bends down, takes the statue's arm and holds it out to Mary, with a small smile.
"Truce?"
Mary laughs, grabbing Aphrodite's hand with her own and shaking it in acceptance.
"Truce" - her lips curl, and Lily feels her heart flip."So, we're good then?"
Lily thinks for a long moment - did she really have a reason to be angry with her after all? But she also can't tell her that her very presence makes her sick, makes her feel disoriented and scared, makes the pit of her stomach ache and her pulse quicken. Because that's not being good, although it doesn't make any logical sense either. So the girl just nods, swallowing her pride, her heart, envy, and all those feelings she can't put a name to.
"Mary, it's okay," she assures her, her voice cracking a little.
Something in Mary's expression changes. All that poise, confidence, and all the things that define her dissipate. And, now, it's just her.
"You've never called me by my name," she exhales, raising her eyebrows slightly. A beat.
"No?" Lily lets go of the statue's arm and, puzzled, looks at Mary. "Oh, I don't think you did either."
"No, that's right" there is silence, a long, drawn-out silence that overwhelms them. The girls stare at each other, Lily's lips slightly parted, her breathing ragged. Mary lets out a slightly forced laugh. "Why do you think that is?"
The thing is, Lily doesn't know. They continue to stare at each other, and, suddenly Lily stops trembling, stops wanting to look away.
She finds herself unable to notice anything but Mary.
And now, after a long time of uncertainty and rejection, of feeling strange in her own skin, the girl can find nothing else in this world to match the calm and happiness that comes from watching her, as if she were a work of art. A marble sculpture, a creation carved for enjoyment, for devotion. Aphrodite on the sand, at her feet.
"Would you girls like to take a bath before coming back?" both Mary and Lily turn at the same time, breaking the spell they have been under, to look at Lily's father, who is trotting down the beach towards them.
...
The sunset over the rosy sky hides the sun, and both girls plunge into the churning sea, screaming, splashing and laughing. Lily forgets all that has gone before, plunges into the depths, diving, and comes to the surface, meeting Mary, who drags her back under the waves. Minutes, or perhaps hours, pass. In these moments, the concept of time ceases to be necessary. Mary is swimming away, breaststroke swimming, so Lily shouts, as loud as she wants, just because she can.
"Mary!"
It's so easy now, Mary just screams back.
"Lily!"
Later, they lie on the sand. Mary's body stretching simply beside her, her green bikini, soaked with water and sand. The cross glistening in the salt. The curls of her brown hair under the last of the sun's rays, her cheeks rosy and her chest heaving up and down. Lily allows herself to look, and only look for a good while, granting herself this and nothing else.
...
The next day is a stormy one. The sky darkens and rain floods the courtyard, drenching the tops of the peach trees. Lily watches through the window as Anchise collects several baskets of fruit before giving in to the weather and riding home, limping on his bicycle, being swept away by the summer storm. Lily's father sits on the sofa, lighting his pipe, a bundle of smoke billowing from his mouth. Her mother sits beside him, Lily's head in her lap, braiding her hair lovingly. The girl looks up slightly as her mother slowly stops stroking her head. She is resting, with a book torn at the spine. Lily has a suspicion.
"Is that the book that was upstairs?," she asks, turning to her mother.
Lily remembers that note, handwritten, inside the old pages of the book, burned into her mind. The girl hadn't actually read the title, but she remembered what the book looked like. Her mother nods.
"An old poem from the sixteenth century, by Marguerite of Navarre's Heptaméron," she informs her, turning one of the pages gently, as if she were going to tear them.
"What's it about, Mama?"
There is a spark of curiosity in her eyes, and her mother notices it.
"A knight and a princess are deeply in love, but because of their friendship, they are not fully aware of it," she explains, stroking Lily's reddish hair again, and Lily closes her eyes, relaxed. "Because of this, the knight doesn't know how to bring it up, or deal with it. So he asks the princess, is it better to speak or to die?"
Rain lashes the roof, and there is a faint rustling sound. An exhalation of smoke drifts through the room, almost silently. Lily stirs a little in her mother's lap, trying to control the intensity of her breathing as much as possible, quieting it. And suddenly it's very hot. The sound of a long flash of lightning breaks the silence and Lily swallows, still thinking about the story of the knight and the princess.
"I would never have the courage to ask such a question," the girl admits, because that is an ever-growing truth, occupying her breast, there is no room for lies.
And Lily has always been very good at keeping things quiet. She's so good at it.