She Has The Right Style, For Me
General Reviews
In what fantasy did I see her first? Walking back from class, I was drawn to the forming crowd. I heard her before I saw her. Emblematic of our relationship. On a small platform atop a hill, with her curled hair and red blouse, she tried to convert the whole student body to her way of thinking. The crowd heckled her, telling her to go back to Moscow, but she was steadfast and sure in her beliefs. I may not have agreed, but her passion struck me. Her looks, too, but mainly the surety. Facing a sea of WASPs, she stood her ground.
A few days later, I was at the back of my creative writing class, by the window, as usual. The professor decided to read a passage from someone's work to the class. I could tell by how Katie was biting her red nails, she was sitting a few rows ahead, that she desperately wanted the professor to read her work. However, to my surprise, the professor began to speak my words! My face flushed and I quickly buried my head in a book. In my heart, I was flattered, but I was young then. I didn't know how to handle appreciation.
On a warm night, nearly summer, I was drinking alone; a private celebration. I sat on the patio of my favourite bar, when I saw her walking down the street. She was in her workwear, coming off a shift. When she saw me, she stopped and crossed the street, avoiding. I watched her act like she didn't see me. I was in a top mood, so I shouted out. Once I convinced her to cross the street and talk to me, I told her why I was celebrating. I'd sold my first story. She was impressed and stayed for a drink.
One night, at a student ball, we danced together.
Near the end of the War, I was at the bar celebrating leave with my mates. After the horrors we'd faced, I thought it was appropriate to get off-my-face drunk. I must've fallen asleep at the bar, because when I opened my eyes, like a mirage, she was there. Out of nothing, Katie was before me like I had never left. Her hair was different, and there was a deeper maturity in her eyes, but I could still see that headstrong girl from our college years.
I don't remember the rest of the night. All I know is that I woke up alone in her bed. She'd made me a full breakfast, but the sight of the food sent a wave of nausea through me. I felt awkward. Had I done something in the night? Had I made an ass of myself? Trying to outrun my hangover anxiety, I decided it was best if I just left. I could tell she didn't want me to go, but my anxiety would not let me stay. I loved her face; I loved the way she laughed. Before I left, she wedged her business card into my hand. She stumbled over her words as she described her job at the radio station.
I continued writing through the War. I even had a book published. Sold approximately two copies, but it was still flattering to think that a publisher found my words worthwhile.
Katie had me over for dinner a few nights later. You can imagine my surprise when she handed me a copy of my own novel. She said she'd read it multiple times.
While we drank, she gave me her thoughts on my novel. I told her not to take it easy on me, and she finally let out her true feelings. She was as passionate about my prose as she was the Communist party. I'd never found someone as attractive as I found her then. We kissed. I'm not sure if it was then or all those years ago on the campus lawn.
We were in love. Still, I struggled to assimilate her into my friend group. Whenever we got together, her staunch politics would divide the room — Katie versus everybody. Things became even more complicated when my friend chose to use his connections to have my book optioned by a major Hollywood studio.
She almost didn't come with me. We had one of those fights that are about one thing but are actually about another thing. You know the ones? It almost ended us. It did end us, for a while. Until she called me one night and told me she needed a friend to talk to. I tried to play her off, but, well, she started crying and I started to feel guilty. And I love her. I always have. What was I supposed to do? I went over.
We talked it out. She said something that I'll never forget. She said, "I know I'm attractive, sort of. But, I'm not attractive in the right way, am I? I mean, I don't have the right style for you, do I? Be my friend." I was so perplexed by these words. Not only was she the most attractive girl I'd ever met, but she was so unsure of herself. How could she be so sure of how the world should work, when she can't even correctly assess her own feelings? She has the right style for me. Always has. She has her own style. She's her own person. And that's all I ever wanted her to be.
The move to Los Angeles helped bring us closer together. New York was too full of conflict, of miscommunications. The warm sun and sandy beaches were like a restart, for us. We didn't argue for at least six months.
They gave me a small office on the Columbia lot. J.J., my friend with the connections, I told you about him. Well, we would work together most days in that cramped little office trying our best to turn my forgettable novel into a movie that people would want to see.
It was around this time that she became pregnant and we started getting spied on. We knew McCarthy was keeping a close eye on Hollywood, but we never expected to find microphones at a dinner party. This invasion of privacy sent Katie off the edge. You know how she gets. She was furious and I started spending more time on the lot.
J.J. and I had to find a way to tell our story while working around the censors. It took lots of hard hours but we made it work. Well, we at least made it satisfactory enough to get it made. I was drinking maybe more than I should have.
One night, when I left my office, I ran into an old girlfriend of mine. It was surreal to see her again. We talked for a while; went for a drink. She said she was moving back to New York. I stayed for maybe longer than I should have. She kissed me.
I was lost in my emotions. Pulled in two separate directions. "Be my friend." I went back to her. Despite our different styles, I still love the way we are.
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