Avie No More

By JB Sweetser

When successful photographer, Nick Nyles, reaches a turning point in his life, he is compelled to confront his tumultuous relationship with his prep school best friend, Avie Moore.
Avie is a bewitching free spirit who bursts into his safe, average life one day and changes the way he sees the world. Fascinated by her exuberance and extraordinary love of life, Nick falls into an all-consuming friendship that both endangers and exhilarates him.
Now, realizing he must find a way to think of Avie no more or sacrifice his own happiness, Nick confronts his whirlwind past with Avie.
If you’ve ever been torn between the desire to live more intensely and the obligation to be responsible, this lyrical coming-of-age tale will keep you captivated.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JB Sweetser
• Release date: May 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781732318717

JB Sweetser

J.B. Sweetser developed a love of language and literature early in life while attending a private prep school in New Jersey (as June Pearson). While attending Lafayette College in Pennsylvania, June continued her literary interests by majoring in English and French literature and writing poetry and short stories. After receiving her MBA, she pursued a career in international marketing, living in Arizona, San Francisco, Honolulu, and Orange County, CA. She finally settled in Seattle with her husband, Tom, where she is now writing full time. Avie No More is her first novel.

Book preview

avie no more

a novel by j.b. sweetser

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2017 by J.B. Sweetser.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Cover design by Melissa Russell Design.

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Avie No More / J.B. Sweetser. — 1st ed.

ISBN 978-1-7323187-1-7

Chapters

1 Birds

2 Icarus

3 Uncle Wally

4 Nantucket

5 The Secret

6 Promises

7 The Woods

8 Caitlin

9 Graduation

10 Changes

11 Christmas

12 The Game

13 James Manning

14 Wild Vines

15 The Dive

16 Expectations

17 Moonlight Dancing

18 Quetzal

19 Recoil

20 Sailing

21 Flight

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Exuberance is beauty.

- William Blake

1

Birds

Today I’ll think of Avie no more.

The words reverberated in my mind as we rode on through the early Saturday afternoon. Outside, everything looked green and fresh. The sun filtered through half-naked boughs, creating patches of dancing light on the sidewalk. A child on a tricycle stopped to watch us pass, his wide eyes impressed by the limousine. I waved.

Did you want something, sir? asked the driver.

No, I was just thinking, that’s all. I lowered my hand as the child receded from sight. Thinking. Would I never be rid of her? Not even today?

As we passed the local park I could see several birds perched on a large elm. I smiled at how very much like another spring day it was, almost 20 years ago.

* * *

I was sitting on the steps of the Lower School, daydreaming as I unwrapped a box of 35mm film. Instinctively I breathed deeply, savoring for a moment the pungent smell of fresh silver halide emulsion before I loaded the film into my new Nikon F2 camera. I was at that bewildering age which bridges childhood with adolescence. Already my thoughts were filled with anticipation of leaving behind the children of the Lower School and joining the older students, those disturbing demi-adults of the Upper School. It seemed as though I would never get through the remaining two months that stood between me and the tantalizing world that beckoned from the far side of Elm Quadrangle.

Suddenly my leisure reverie was broken. I saw Avie.

She was bent over a tiny bird that had just fallen from the maze of branches belonging to the campus namesake, the giant elm tree that shaded much of Elm Quadrangle. The bird, shaken by the fall, took a few wobbly steps, paused, and then flew straight up, piercing the blue canvas of sky with its motion. As Avie stood up I knew at once that she, too, could fly – something in her whole being could be lifted out of this earthly muddle and soar far above.

She had a delicate, almost angelic look, as if she spent much of her time in a rarefied atmosphere. Her dress was of a flimsy white material, with one fresh daisy pushed neatly through a buttonhole. When she looked up her golden hair caught the sun and it glistened brilliantly against her skin. Sparking green shot from her eyes when she noticed me. So much like an apparition did she seem that I would not have been surprised to see her image slowly dissolve into the green expanse of lawn behind her.

I think it will be all right, she said, pointing at the sky towards the bird. It was just frightened. Then she turned abruptly and ran. I advanced the film quickly and tried to catch her in the viewfinder, but she was gone.

Even then she had a wondrous ability to bewitch. She dominated my thoughts for the next several days. I often thought I caught the scent of her daisy, but when I turned around there was no one there. Her sudden appearance puzzled me so much that I borrowed copies of the school yearbooks and poured over each group photograph, hoping to find someone who resembled the elusive girl by the elm.

But she was not there.

A week later, while taking a shortcut through the wooded side of campus to reach the Art Building, where I often used the darkroom during my study periods, I passed near the old Skansett Canal bank. There, sitting on a fallen tree at the edge of the canal, was Avie.

Oh, it’s you, she whispered quickly as she saw me. Come and sit down.

I was gawky at the time, too tall and thin for my age. I thought my face looked like a Halloween skeleton with brown eyes and not-long-enough brown hair. My father always teased me that I had good bone structure and that I would grow into my body in time and be as handsome as he was. I was surprised Avie spoke to me.

Hurry, and duck so they won’t see you, she said more urgently.

I ducked and sat next to her on the tree trunk.

I’m Avie, she told me simply. Avie Moore.

I’m Nick, I replied. Nick Niles.

I’m cutting class, she explained. That’s why I don’t want to be seen. They’re already beginning to suspect me. But I don’t care. They don’t understand me, those busybodies in administration. The headmaster has given me a warning; he thinks I have an attitude problem. An attitude problem, me! They think they can control everything with their narrow little minds!

Headmaster Boulton had been the arch-conservative administrator of Elm School for the past five years. He was in his late forties, with crisp Brooks Brothers suits and a perfectly groomed face. Impatient with requests for relaxing regulations, he grew more conservative daily as the surrounding environment grew more liberal. As other schools abandoned dress codes, Elm School’s became more rigid. The well-heeled parents, chief tuition payers, liked Mr. Boulton and his ways. He was very reassuring in the troubled days of protests and long hair.

What kind of a warning did he give you? I asked.

"Oh, he just wants me to get serious about school and stop skipping class. Just because I have to get out of those cramped little classrooms sometimes and breathe. He doesn’t see that I am serious, but in a different way. None of them will ever understand that, they’re so stuck."

The really important things to learn are right here in the woods, she continued. "Look at the trees. They grow wild, their branches grow out in all directions, without pattern. They are beautiful."

I thought she was beautiful.

If the headmaster ever got hold of the trees they would all grow straight up, without any variety or expression. They would all look the same. Or the birds, see how graceful they are, soaring in and out of the trees at will, flitting from branch to branch as they please. Bring them to the headmaster and they would all be put in a cage, with neat little cubbyholes to perch on. All of their enchantment would be lost.

I listened in awe. No one else in the Lower School had ever talked that way about the headmaster. I liked her immensely.

She grew silent as I watched her. Her hands were clasped around her knees, holding her skirt in place as she stared across the canal.

Her face was flushed, and long, dark eyelashes that seemed to sweep across her face set off her brilliant green eyes. I wanted to touch her, to make her notice me, but she seemed out of reach.

May I take your picture? I asked. She looked startled, but pleased.

Okay.

Don’t move. I grabbed my camera from around my neck and focused on her profile; it was backlit and would turn out as a silhouette. She smiled faintly. Click!

Now for the best part… I moved in for a side shot of her calf, the light was perfect.

What are you doing? she asked with more curiosity than surprise.

That’s my specialty – legs.

Legs? she burst into laughter. Your specialty is legs?

Shhh, they’ll hear you. I take pictures of legs, all kinds of legs – people legs, animal legs, chair legs, any legs. I like to compare them to things like trees…

My legs, like a tree! Hah. She kicked me playfully.

Well, sometimes I compare them to vegetables, like zucchini, or carrots. It’s amazing how similar some legs are to vegetables. It all depends on the light. Take your leg, for example, let’s see, I think I might compare it to a nice summer squash….

Oh, stop it! Avie giggled, pushing my camera away. You're teasing me. But I like you, Nick Niles; you’ve got an odd sense of humor. Let me see your pictures one of these days, I’d like to see my leg, even if it looks like a squash!

It’s a deal. But you have to promise to let me take your picture whenever I need a willing subject.

Okay. Avie suddenly grabbed my arm and her mood turned serious. Please take a picture of me - now, here, in the woods.

She sat quietly, her hair jostled by the light breeze, a stand of trees behind her, the river barely in the foreground. I took the picture.

Now that I know Avie so well, that day in the woods epitomized her own special nature. She was at home in the woods. To her they were full of a natural wildness, an existence insubordinate to man. The forest drew her into its core, invaded her being with rampant sensations unimaginable in the static, disciplined world of groomed lawns and paved pathways of Elm Quadrangle.

It was this world of fantastical imaginings, of gnomes and elves, of fauns and spirits that lured Avie to her campus retreat. She needed to leave the classroom world of rules and regulations and recharge on the unfettered freedom of nature, where animal instinct reigns supreme.

Had Avie looked more closely, she would have noticed that it was also a ruthless world, where survival came first, and pity and compassion had no say. But this dark side of the woods did not matter to Avie. She loved to watch the squirrels track down their acorns and scurry to deposit them in a spindly makeshift safe. Their constant furtive and darting eyes amused her. She watched the occasional groundhog pop out of his tunnel and, like a true detective, sniff out the clues leading to the squirrel’s recent deposit. But most of all she loved the birds. She would laugh as they flew from tree to tree, occasionally arguing with each other in a mad fluttering of wings and cacophonic shrieks. Avie would sit by the canal bank for hours and watch the birds soar in and out of the brush. The sparrows and bullfinches, the proud robin and the noisy blue jay, the warblers and the wrens – she loved them all.

Nick, she declared one day, it seems so unfair for the squirrels.

What is unfair? I asked.

They can’t fly, she said flatly, staring out over the canal. They can never fly.

2

Icarus

It was late afternoon and classes were over for the day. Most of the students had left except for the baseball team and those waiting for rides from their parents. I had just finished working in the school darkroom and was on my way to look for Avie by the canal when I heard her call.

I tried to walk around the ailing old Art Building without arousing the attention of the eccentric Mr. Pardee who was hurrying along the path behind me. Mr. Pardee was the aging Picasso of Elm Campus and sole Art Instructor. He was known for the unconventional, bizarre sculptures he exhibited off school grounds. However, he often worked on his unusual masterpieces in the private upper studio of the Art Building despite strict warnings from the headmaster to confine his use of the building to simple art lessons. I think the School Board would have dismissed him years ago had his father not left a generous annual donation in trust to the school, and the fact that he fulfilled his position as Art Instructor for a token salary of one dollar per year.

Nevertheless, his teaching methods and personal expression always remained a point of contention between the School Board and himself.

Avie liked Mr. Pardee and rarely missed an Art class. She had even seen some of his controversial sculptures in a local gallery. Among the various abstracts and deformed human shapes was one image that stood apart. It was unlike the others and it especially appealed to Avie. It was a soapstone rendering with very simple, clean lines of a young man – half child, half adult. The figure had a delicate set of wings attached to his back and was suspended in flight just below a luminescent globe of a sun. His stone expression was frozen in an eternal look of surprise and disbelief as he looked back over his shoulder and realized that the nearing sun had melted the fragile wax of his makeshift wings and soon he would plummet in a dizzying death fall to earth.

On a bronze plaque at its base was engraved the title Icarus.

Nick, hurry! Avie repeated excitedly. You won’t believe this!

Mr. Pardee was apparently intent on reaching the studio quickly for he rushed past me without even a glance. I was able to safely reach Avie just as she was preparing to climb up the tangled mass of ivy that covered the south wall of the Art Building.

What are you doing? I asked, wondering what trouble Avie was about to get into this time. She seemed to always be on the brink of disaster.

Shhh, she whispered. Look in his private studio. Climb up behind me.

I followed. We climbed up the vines, which formed a strong foothold, to the second story window and peered in.

The studio was lit with the scattered patterns of the late afternoon sun. There were half-finished statues and paintings everywhere, along with old brown boxes and work rags strewn haphazardly about. The room was an achievement in disarray and dust – the markings of the talent that worked there.

On a blanket in the middle of the wooden studio floor sat the headmaster. He was completely naked, exposing a rather hard, bony body. His back was toward us and he was contemplating his reflection in a piece of broken frame glass that lay propped up against a low wooden stool. As he gazed at himself a small crooked smile broke out across his face, it slowly widened until it became a glowering smirk that seemed to take over all his features. He looked happy with himself, completely, deliciously, happy.

I felt a twisting in my stomach as I gripped the ivy tighter, tighter until it cut the soft inner part of my palm. I looked over at Avie; she was stifling a laugh and contorting her mouth to hold it back, when suddenly the studio door flew open and in walked Mr. Pardee.

I’m sorry I’m late, Avery, he apologized nervously. Got stuck talking to a student.

I was going to start by myself, the headmaster replied sarcastically. Why the hell were you talking to a student for so long? Never mind. Just don’t do it again.

Or I’ll have to find myself another sculptor, someone younger than you, he added in a voice so cold I shuddered.

Mr. Pardee looked relieved that the discussion ended. He seemed very much afraid of the headmaster.

Well then, shall I get started? Mr. Pardee uncovered a large hunk of partially formed clay while the headmaster shifted into an obscene position and stood still. That’s very good, Avery, very good. Mr. Pardee then removed his own clothes and began to sculpt.

* * *

It was nearing the end of the school year and everyone was talking about plans for the summer. Many of the students were being sent to camp, others were travelling to Europe or the West Coast with their parents. I knew I had to see Avie over the summer break. Our parents lived quite a distance apart in different well-to-do suburbs and there was no connecting bus service. I had been afraid to ask Avie about her summer plans for fear that she would tell me that she would be travelling, which would leave my summer as barren and empty as the deserted campus. She never brought up the subject herself or mentioned anything about her family. It was hard to picture her with a mother and father and curfews, she seemed so thoroughly self-contained and past-less. I tried to imagine her in front of a fire with her family, but the image would not work. I could, however, picture her living alone in the woods with the birds and animals as her family.

But Avie did have a family. They came out for the Parents’ Picnic on the last day of class.

The Parents’ Picnic was a big day for the graduating eighth-graders, for it marked their last day in the Lower School. There was an excitement in the air as the students, boys in suit and tie, girls in best dresses, paraded their newly found adulthood before their surprised mothers and fathers.

The headmaster and faculty of the Lower and Upper Schools were on hand to reassure parents that their children were performing well and that they expected them to perform well in the coming school year. Long tables were set up with food. There were scattered blankets each holding little microcosms of families in their expensive clothes, smiling and greeting each other with studied politeness. You could see from their sad eyes that they were trying to feel good about themselves and proud of their children, but somehow all they could muster was envy. Envy of the other children, of the omnipresent youth which emphasized the departing of their own, of the unhindered excitement of the students, of the days when they, too, had looked forward to growing up, and of the other sets of parents who might be truly happy. Each and separately they envied one another, unaware that they too were objects of envy. The staff, the administrators and the children envied them. They were envied for their wealth and comfort, their attractiveness and their leisure, their wisdom and their freedom, and yes, by some, even for their youth.

My father had dutifully accompanied me to the picnic, as he had so often done while fulfilling the dual role of mother and father. I had no real memory of my mother; she had died while I was only three. Dad had always been as much family as I ever knew or wanted. His total devotion to me sometimes worried me. Outside of work he had few friends and spent most of