An Emotion of Great Delight: Chapters 9–12

My silk head turned in sharp, erratic movements, my mind unable to settle.

Due to the nature of the art history course—and the interminable amount of time we spent staring at slides—our class was held in the only amphitheater on campus.

The teacher currently stood sentinel in the center, watching us closely as we worked.

I conjured a vague, distorted impression of my slightly younger self, marveled at her naivete. Last year I had no idea the extent of what was coming for me.

I ignored a few fleeting looks from my classmates, sat back in my seat.

I glanced again at my neighbor out of the corner of my eye, though not surreptitiously enough. He met my gaze, smiled.

Her name came to me all at once: Artemisia Gentileschi, one of the most critically acclaimed and simultaneously overlooked painters of the seventeenth century.

My relationship with Zahra had been strained for a while, but last September tensions between us reached their pinnacle, an achievement for which there seemed no obvious impetus.

My relationship with Zahra had been strained for a while, but last September tensions between us reached their pinnacle, an achievement for which there seemed no obvious impetus.

Still, I spent the last year of our friendship navigating a maze of passive aggression, parrying every day the thinly veiled insults she lobbed my way.

She’d not been so reprehensible a person to kick me while I was down; she had enough mercy, at least, to spare me such a blow so soon after my brother died.

I’d been so mired in grief I could hardly survive my parents’ nightly fights, could hardly survive the rigorous demands of my junior year.

The after-school pickup was always a logistical nightmare, but my mom had long ago found a way to manage it: she arrived half an hour early, and usually she brought a book.

I felt my chest constrict with panic and I fought it back, kept my face placid for her sake.

I stole a furtive glance at my mom, who was now tapping the steering wheel along to a Nelly song.

I was too tired to drum up the enthusiasm needed to strike up conversations with people who didn’t know the intimate details of my life.

It hit me suddenly, like a slap to the head. The answer was B. Dramatic tenebrism. A less intense chiaroscuro.

It was all in my head, I knew that even then, but it seemed to me that the world stopped in that moment, the din dimmed, the light changed, a camera lens focused.

Still, I had violent dreams about her. I screamed at her in my delirium, sobbed while she stood over me and stared, her face impassive.

I screamed at her in my delirium, sobbed while she stood over me and stared, her face impassive.

Something flickered in Zahra’s eyes, something akin to triumph, and my composure broke.

She shook her head, disgust marring the face that was once so familiar to me.

It was our shared loathing of spending summer afternoons listening to religious sermons that brought us all together.

She’d always said it like it was a joke, a charming turn of phrase, like it was normal to roll your eyes and say every other day, God, I hate you so much, to the person who was, ostensibly, your best friend.

I’d known about Zahra’s old pain; I knew she’d been used and discarded by other girls who’d feigned interest in her friendship only to get close to her brother.

When he’d denied it, looking aghast at the insinuation, I was dumbstruck.

To say that I was confused would’ve been a disservice to the maelstrom of thoughts suddenly kicked up in my head.

He was staring at me with barely suppressed mirth, like he was fighting a smile.

“Like, why are you always reading the newspaper? That seems unhealthy.”
I frowned at him. “I’m a masochist.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” But his attempt at penitence was belied by his smile.

Noah looked suddenly freaked out, so different from his lighthearted mien a moment ago, and I didn’t like that I’d put that look on his face.

But the wariness in his eyes said he wasn’t sure if he believed me.

He laughed so hard it attracted notice, passersby pausing to stare at the source of the unbridled sound.

Noah’s solemn tone—and his proceeding silence—made me aware, a beat too late, of the dark tension I’d just carried into the conversation.

I was still smiling long after he disappeared from sight.
I felt strangely buoyant, more like a real person than I’d felt in a long time.

Ali and I never discussed that moment, never even alluded to it.

My father was a connoisseur of all things—he had, in fact, given this mantle to himself. He loved to hear himself speak aloud the truths he’d decided were holy, and he felt strongly about all manner of diverse subjects: worthy hobbies, the best attributes, a precise work ethic, the exact ratio of water to espresso in an Americano.

A Honda Civic SI, bright blue, eighteen-inch rims. He’d modified it himself, put in a special exhaust, illegal blue lights, an insane sound system, a garish lip kit.

I watched as her confusion gave way to understanding, understanding quickly giving way to a fear so profound it sent renewed horror through my body.

I sagged to the ground, knees digging into the wet, gritty asphalt.