Apple Slices

Ramirah figured that there ought to be a set of rules in life. A specific set of rules, you know–like the instructions you would see on a frozen pizza box, or the directions your teacher gave the class for a chemistry lab. And even those–those weren’t even specific enough for Ramirah. She wanted something definite, something fixed and polished like… like an apple. Yes, an apple. Everyone knew what to do with an apple. You wash it, you cut it, and you eat it. Apples are simple, apples are meant to be cut into four pieces, no six pieces, actually eight–

“Ugh,” Ramirah scowled. Because ugh, indeed. She found herself staring at a painting with no definite meaning, no direct answer, no set of rules that she could find. All she saw was apples. All she saw was a blob. Life was meant to be a flight of stairs, not an emptied water well with no way out or no way deeper. Take this for instance–school trips. As far as Ramirah could remember, school trips were led by a teacher, patrolled by parents–whom for whatever reason wanted to string along–and the leading teacher was meant to give precise instructions to the students. 

Her teacher, Ms. Madden did her job. 

The only mark she missed was not explaining what to do the minute you lay your eyes on an artwork. 

“I don’t, I just don’t…” Ramirah mumbled to herself, arms crossed as she tapped her foot impatiently. Her eyes narrowed, “what in the name of I don’t even know is this–”

There was a forceful grasp on her right shoulder, and Ramirah almost shrieked from the abrupt disturbance. Her eyes met with the brightest blue eyes she’s ever seen, and oh–oh, because it was Debbie. Debbie, short for Deborah. Debbie, with her bright blonde hair that fell in the curliest of curls. Debbie, with too many freckles and too many words. Debbie, in all her glory. 

“Ramirah–”

Ramirah barely knew Debbie, but what she did know was when Debbie started to speak, Debbie wouldn’t stop.

“–did you see that really weird modern-esque sculpture on the third floor? It reminds me of my sister when she’s constipated.”

Ramirah blinked. “Oh,” she replied, swallowing. Oh, because what else was she supposed to say to that? Was this a trend? Was there actually something specific that she had to say back? Goodness, was she going to be the laughing stock of her high school just because she wasn’t into trends? Oh lord.

“Right? So like I told Ms. Madden about it, but she honestly did not look very pleased–oh wow, it’s apples.”

“It’s apples.” Ramirah gulped. They were both observing the large painting in front of them, consisting of a basket of apples sitting on a wooden table. 

“They’re nice and juicy apples.”

“Oh god,” Ramirah coughed.

“You know, honestly… I vibe with this painting. Like, I get it. It’s like, apples. And the background is dark and ominous, so that obviously means that apples are bad for you, and that dentists are liars.”

Ramirah squinted her eyes, craning her head to look at Debbie. “I don’t think–”

“Then think,” Debbie stated. She placed her hands on the sides of Ramirah’s hair, focusing her attention on the painting. “Come on, I know you can see it.”

She really couldn’t. 

She heard Debbie sigh. “Darn, you can’t see it. Don’t worry, I’ll try to predict the meaning again. Alright. Okay. So I believe it’s a birthday gift for the artist’s pet horse–”

Ramirah swallowed. “There’s, um…”

“–however, this isn’t any ordinary pet horse. The pet horse is actually half human, and is actually the artist’s lover!”

“That’s not what the blurb…” Ramirah tried to say.

“Wait no, I’m completely off track. Let me start again. Okay. So the artist’s pet wasn’t a horse, but a dog. I’m sensing a Golden Retriever. Oh yeah. That’s definitely right, because like, if you look closer you can see the reflection of a Golden Retriever on the shine of the apples–wait no, that’s just me. I just miss my dog.”

“There’s a blurb,” Ramirah blurted, crossing her arms tighter. To be completely honest, Ramirah didn’t know which step came first; do you read the blurb, or do you analyze the painting? It was all just a mess.

Debbie chuckled. “Well of course there’s a blurb. But where’s the fun in that? You gotta be creative, Ramirah! You gotta think outside the box!”

Ramirah avoided Debbie’s intense gaze. “It’s… It’s just apples, it’s just about the artist’s nostalgic past growing apple trees in her parent’s farm, like… like honestly, it’s so–”

“Wait, I can’t hear you, you’re mumbling.” Debbie noted.

“It’s just apples,” Ramirah stated, slightly louder this time. “Apples.”

“Well, that was obvious.” Debbie pointed out. 

“Then why did you ask, why are you here, can you just leave me alone, let me stare at these apples in peace.” Ramirah muttered under her breath, quiet enough so that Debbie couldn’t hear her. “My god, just have a look at the apples and leave, is it that hard–”

“Golly gee!” Debbie exclaimed, startling Ramirah. She was staring at her phone. “It really is just about apples!”

Ramirah took a second to process Debbie’s words, before looking down at her crossed arms. “Yeah,” she breathed out, clenching her stomach. Yeah, because all she could say was yeah.

Debbie clicked her tongue. “Honestly, I think that it should’ve been oranges. Apples are kinda boring, don’t you think? They’re just red or green or whatever, and they don’t even have an exact shape. Oranges are like, circles. Ovals. Wait no, spheres!"

I don’t know either, Ramirah almost muttered. Her hand clenched the side of her shirt, nails digging into her palm through the fabric. This conversation was going nowhere. In fact, it wasn’t really a conversation at all–it was all Debbie, and it seemed that Debbie didn’t mind that. Ramirah supposed that she should’ve taken this as a blessing, because someone else was doing all the talking and she was doing her job as the listener. That was always her job, wasn’t it? The listener. The non-initiator. In this case, she was the apple and Debbie was the knife. Alright, that sounded violent and misplaced, but so was Ramirah’s sanity–

“Anyway, wanna come eat with me and my friends for lunch? You should.” Debbie asked, giving Ramirah a light smile. Ramirah didn’t find it in herself to smile back. To others, Debbie would be a beacon of light, a bundle of hope. A kind acquaintance. A friend.

A friend.

Only if it were that simple, however. 

“Um,” Ramirah began, licking her lips nervously. Her bottom lip stung. “Well, are you–”

She caught sight of Ms. Madden standing past Debbie’s shoulder. Her arms were crossed and she had her eyes glued to her phone. Normal, right? Nothing out of the ordinary. Then there it was. That flicker of time, that split-second moment where Ms. Madden’s eyes trailed over to Debbie. 

And for another split-second, she was looking at Ramirah. 

She felt a pull in her chest all the way down to her stomach. Her cheeks felt hot, her head stung, and her throat felt all clogged up. Ramirah cleared her throat, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. “Uh, thanks for asking, you know–but it’s alright.”

Debbie looked surprised. “Oh, are you sure?”

“Yes, of course I’m sure. Of course you asked that because you feel obligated to and you know what–”

“I’m sorry, you’re mumbling again.” Debbie chuckled, sounding somewhat awkward. 

“I’m fine, it’s fine, I’m fine.” Ramirah blurted. “I don’t wanna like, intrude on anything because it’s your friends, and they don’t really know me.”

“Well, you could always be introduced.” Debbie said.

“Yeah,” Ramirah squeezed her shirt tighter. “Yeah, you know what? I know you feel obligated and all… and Ms. Madden told you to do this and it’s honestly really uncalled for and–”

“Wait, wait,” Debbie interrupted, her eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Ms. Madden didn’t ask me to–”

“No, no, Debbie–Deborah–I don’t know if I’m even qualified to call you Debbie, it’s alright. I get it. You’re like a good student, everyone likes you, and you just feel obligated to not leave anyone out. But you know, for me, for me specifically–it’s fine, you know. It’s just fine.”

Debbie blinked at her. “Wait, Ramirah–”

Her stomach tightened. “Oh, god–please don’t feel offended by what I’m saying, I mean I mean what I say in the nicest way possible. I just want you to feel convenient and comfortable, and to know that there’s no need to do… this.”

“Ramirah, I don’t…”

“Don’t feel ashamed or offended or upset, I just know that–I know how this works, I know how it all works.” I don’t know how it works. “I know that I’m the student who needs to be hand-fed.” Oh my god what am I saying? “But Debbie,” Deborah. “I don’t need it.”

I don’t need it, Ramirah said. I don’t need it, because what she actually needed was too much for Debbie, too much for anyone.

Debbie stared at her, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. And Ramirah, as selfish as she was, couldn’t find it in herself to stare back. To look her in the eyes. To face her opponent. Her friend. Acquaintance. Ugh.

“Okay,” Debbie scoffed. “Alright. Sorry for asking.”

Ramirah’s chest twisted itself into a licorice roll. “No, no, you don’t need to apologize–”

“I’m just… gonna go,” Debbie gave her a smile, a wavering smile, before turning around and pacing away. Ramirah stood there, rooted to her spot. She didn’t move, couldn’t move. What step should she make? Which direction? Surely not the same one Debbie just took. God, oh god, why isn’t there a rulebook? What were you supposed to do first in situations like this?

Ramirah looked down at her shoes. Slowly, she turned her head towards the painting. The apples.

Debbie had been the one holding the knife. Ramirah, as always, was the apple.

But now, she was the one holding the knife. And she probably cut the apple all wrong too.