a holiday of fate and figs [t. chalamet]

"interpretive dancing"

real life
december 12th, 2017
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     "Okay, so the first game we're gonna play is called party quirks. Does everyone know how to play?" Timothée asks us as he grabs a large deck of notecards and smiles. Luckily, I took a semester of acting in high school as a part of my art credit, so I didn't have to be the sole student who didn't know what the game was.

     "Awesome. So I need six of you up here now. I'll be the one guessing, so don't think you'll get lucky with that job. Come on up if you're up for the challenge."

     Next thing I know, Mason is pulling my arm up towards Timmy. I don't resist, but I feel especially nervous after what happened yesterday. I sigh as we stand in front of Timmy aside four other very enthusiastic students. I swallow hard as I look back at the notecards in his hands. Then I begin to notice how large his hands are, and how long his fingers were, and how nice hi—

     "Ansley," Mason whispers as he nudges me in the side with his elbow. I look at him and then at Timmy, whose face is amused. He holds out the deck of cards in my direction and I pull one from the top.

     Interpretive dancer.

     I nod once and give the card back to Timmy, who keeps it facedown as he places it back in the pile. He gives me a nice smile before turning his back on us to put the cards away. We all file ourselves into a line of sorts as we await our turn to arrive at Timothee's "party." The first person to go is Mason, who immediately tells Timmy—in a very passive aggressive way—that he is going to shut down this party if they didn't play "Rockstar" by Nickelback right now.

     Guests continue to enter until it comes to me. I gently knock on the invisible barrier that is Timmy's door, and await him to answer. He glides over to the door and answers, "Hey, welcome to the party!" he exclaims.

     "Why hello!" I smile back as I twirl through the doorway, flailing my arms around. I slide my way to Mason before making a butterfly motion with my arms, "How do you do, sir?"

     "I'd be better if this damn party had some casserole!"

     "I never was one for casserole, but everything sounds so amazing right now." I grin and pirouette around him, as he stomps his foot and crosses his arm. As I move around him, I notice Timmy coming our way. I stop moving and begin to do very exaggerated stretches once Timmy stops in front of Mason.

     "I'm sorry, but I couldn't help but to wonder if you were a white suburban mother?" Timmy asks Mason in the kindest voice, even placing his hand on Mason's arm as a form of assurance and care. I nearly forget what I am doing as I begin to daydream again.

     "And you," Timmy walks over to me, clearly amused by Mason's and my performance, "you have to be an interpretive dancer with all those moves and emotion."

     "I suppose you must be right." I finish my act with one final twirl and a bow before I head back to where I sit with Mason. Timothée ends the game shortly after that, and from there we talk about getting out of our comfort zones and some basic theatre talk.

     At the end of class, Mason and I are first to go and leave. Deciding to make another minuscule move, I turn my head back toward the stage and shout, "Have a nice rest of your day, Timothée!"

     Not expecting anything in return, I am almost out the door before I hear, "Same to you, Ansley!"

     "Holy hell he remembers my name." I squeal to Mason.

     "Well, you did say you were going to shit your pants upon meeting him yesterday. You don't make yourself easy to forget."

     "You're right. I'm just feeling extra good today."

     "So good that you'd be willing to go back into the theatre and grab my water bottle for me? I have to meet up with someone at two and I can't be late." Mason pleads, his puppy dog eyes in full effect.

     "Sure. But you owe me one!"

     I turn around and walk back into the building. As I head toward the classroom, I keep my head down so my scarf can warm it up. Right as I get to the door, it opens to reveal Timothée with a bag and Mason's water bottle in hand.

     "Oh, um, hi again." I say nervously, stepping away from the door so he could walk through.

     "Oh, hey, Ansley! What's up?" Timmy responds, completely chill and nonchalant. How is this my life right now?

     "I just needed to, uh, grab that water bottle in your hand. It's Mason's. He left it, that silly dude." I sputter as I look at him. It is hard to focus, but I don't want to be rude and look down at my feet as I speak to him.

"I was wondering who left it. Here you go," he shifts his arm around so that he can hand me the water bottle. I take it from him and smile sheepishly, red flooding my cheeks as they always do when I think about (or am near) Timothée.

"Thank you."

"Not a problem," he smiles as we both stand in the same place, the moment becoming a bit awkward. I clear my throat and begin to turn around to go when he speaks again, "Hey, I just wanted to tell you that you did really well today. It's normally hard for people to keep their composure during that game, but both you and Mason did well."

I grin when he says that and know I look like an idiot, so I don't turn around when I say, "Thank you." I know I'll regret not turning back around to see his face after complimenting me, but my pride can't take all the embarrassment today.

"You're welcome. Um, well, I'll see you tomorrow!"

"You, too," I start, before deciding (unnecessarily) to clarify my statement: "I mean, I'll see you tomorrow, too."

I can hear him chuckle as he walks in the opposite direction and I slap my forehead as soon as I'm far enough away from him.

"Why am I so stupid?"