Belinda's Rings Read Online Free
like, but itâs different than what I actually look like. You know when you see yourself on video or in a picture and you think, Ew, is that really what I look like? I sometimes use Mumâs bathroom mirror because it has two panels on the sides that are medicine cabinets, and if you open the panels so that they sort of face each other, you can see yourself from a whole bunch of different angles. And if you face the panels in just the right way, you can reflect your reflection, so that what youâre seeing isnât backwards anymore, but the way that people looking at you see you. It comes in handy when Iâm not sure if my hair looks funny. It might look great from straight on, but then when I see it from the reflection of the reflection, I realize itâs totally lopsided. Or there could be a lumpy patch at the back. The first time I figured out how I could look at my hair from the back, I noticed that I seriously needed to dye my hair again, because the bun at the back looked like an orange flower stuck onto the dark brown parts smoothed against my scalp. I couldnât believe Iâd been walking around like that.
Sometimes I open the mirror panels and as Iâm opening them and looking at myself I catch this angle of my face that Iâve never seen before, and I think, Whoa, who is that in the mirror? I once used Wileyâs video camera to make a video of myself, where I pointed the camera at myself and slowly rotated it all the way around my head, 360 degrees. I tried to do it so you couldnât tell my hand was holding the camera and then passing it to my other hand behind my head. But it turned out looking all shaky. After I filmed it I couldnât even watch the whole thing, it was so stupid. At the start you could hear me breathing through my mouth all wheezy, like an old man, âcause the microphone had been pointed at my mouth.
II
WHEN THE CABIN DIMMED for the movie, Belinda flicked on her overhead light. The man sitting next to her had been taking more unsubtle peeks at her magazine, clearly hoping Belinda would notice. He removed his headphones, and she readied herself for him to inquire about the article she was perusing. The picture was certainly dazzling â an aerial view of the Bythorn Star crop circle in Cambridgeshire. Its outer circle framed a kaleidoscope of iconography: four rings unfurling into a star, contained in a pentagram, and encircled by flower petals. The article discussed how five elongated hearts could also be traced within the form. The cosmological language of symmetry made manifest.
But the man said nothing. His hands curled into fists in his lap. Belinda could tell he was simply brimming with curiosity. She couldnât pay attention to her reading, knowing he was on the verge of speaking to her.
Hel-lo, she said in a friendly voice, a voice she usually reserved for small children and cute animals.
The man looked startled. Hullo, he mumbled, and gave a little nod.
Are you from England? she asked.
Em, no. He cleared his throat and sat up straight in his seat. Just visiting, he said.
Yes, me too, she said. Well â sort of. I mean â I was born there, but havenât been back. For a while. She smiled, and silently thanked herself for having brushed her teeth and powdered her nose after the meal.
He responded with what Belinda guessed was a smile back: a barely perceptible tightening at the corners of his lips.
Iâm Belinda, she continued. She held out her hand.
Bartleby, he said, giving her hand a curt squeeze.
Bartleby! she cried, too loud. That sounds very British.
Yes, well, he said, smoothing the front of his shirt. My parents are British.
Oh, mine too! she said.
Really, he humoured her. Ahem.
Itâs not the purpose of my visit, though, Belinda said, slowly turning the pages of her magazine like cars on a Ferris wheel, so that Bartleby could plainly see each one passing. When he didnât respond, Belinda tilted
Sometimes I open the mirror panels and as Iâm opening them and looking at myself I catch this angle of my face that Iâve never seen before, and I think, Whoa, who is that in the mirror? I once used Wileyâs video camera to make a video of myself, where I pointed the camera at myself and slowly rotated it all the way around my head, 360 degrees. I tried to do it so you couldnât tell my hand was holding the camera and then passing it to my other hand behind my head. But it turned out looking all shaky. After I filmed it I couldnât even watch the whole thing, it was so stupid. At the start you could hear me breathing through my mouth all wheezy, like an old man, âcause the microphone had been pointed at my mouth.
II
WHEN THE CABIN DIMMED for the movie, Belinda flicked on her overhead light. The man sitting next to her had been taking more unsubtle peeks at her magazine, clearly hoping Belinda would notice. He removed his headphones, and she readied herself for him to inquire about the article she was perusing. The picture was certainly dazzling â an aerial view of the Bythorn Star crop circle in Cambridgeshire. Its outer circle framed a kaleidoscope of iconography: four rings unfurling into a star, contained in a pentagram, and encircled by flower petals. The article discussed how five elongated hearts could also be traced within the form. The cosmological language of symmetry made manifest.
But the man said nothing. His hands curled into fists in his lap. Belinda could tell he was simply brimming with curiosity. She couldnât pay attention to her reading, knowing he was on the verge of speaking to her.
Hel-lo, she said in a friendly voice, a voice she usually reserved for small children and cute animals.
The man looked startled. Hullo, he mumbled, and gave a little nod.
Are you from England? she asked.
Em, no. He cleared his throat and sat up straight in his seat. Just visiting, he said.
Yes, me too, she said. Well â sort of. I mean â I was born there, but havenât been back. For a while. She smiled, and silently thanked herself for having brushed her teeth and powdered her nose after the meal.
He responded with what Belinda guessed was a smile back: a barely perceptible tightening at the corners of his lips.
Iâm Belinda, she continued. She held out her hand.
Bartleby, he said, giving her hand a curt squeeze.
Bartleby! she cried, too loud. That sounds very British.
Yes, well, he said, smoothing the front of his shirt. My parents are British.
Oh, mine too! she said.
Really, he humoured her. Ahem.
Itâs not the purpose of my visit, though, Belinda said, slowly turning the pages of her magazine like cars on a Ferris wheel, so that Bartleby could plainly see each one passing. When he didnât respond, Belinda tilted
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