Say the Word

by Jeannine Garsee

  “I’m not sure,” I hedge. “Nine, I think?”

  “When’s his birthday?”

  “Why?”

  “When—is—his—birthday—Shawna?”

  “I don’t know! What difference does it make?”

  “Christ. Just find out his birth date. You’re so chummy with them now, it shouldn’t be that difficult.” Dad whips the photographs out of range as I reach swiftly across the table. “No, I’ll hold on to these.”

  “Da-ad!”

  “Jack, you don’t think . . .?” Julie sends me an odd glance. “Well, wouldn’t Penny have told you?”

  “No,” he says gruffly. “It’d be just like her not to tell me.”

  Okay, my mind at this moment isn’t precisely a steel trap. Now it dawns on me what he’s trying to say. “Dad, you are so off base. Fran is Schmule’s mom.”

  Dad smacks the album. “Then why are his baby pictures identical to yours?”

  “It can’t be him. Schmule’s hair is brown.” Then I look at Dad’s curly dark hair and realize how stupid that sounds.

  “I was blond as a baby,” Julie says unhelpfully. “Mine turned darker later.”

  Dad fixes his attention solely on me. “Find out his date of birth. It’s a long shot, but—” He shoves the photo albums aside. “We need to find out.”

  Wait, wait. If by some miracle Schmule belonged to Mom, and presumably to Dad, wouldn’t Schmule know? He calls Fran “Mom.” He called my mom Penny.

  Defeated, I jump up. “I’m going out. I’m taking Charles for a walk.”

  “Don’t forget,” Dad warns as I flounce off for the leash. “And get those rings back, too.”

  How can I forget? He’s already been hounding me, like, every five minutes.

  I never should’ve let him suck me into this drama.

  But can it be true? Is Schmule my brother?

  45

  “So . . .” Paige Berry’s artificially tanned arm snakes past my face as she places a hand against my locker. “Is it true?”

  Shouldering her aside, I spin the wheel of my lock. “What?”

  She leans close, the spiral ends of her hair bobbing in my face. “Are you really gay?”

  If this were a movie, my character would haul off and punch her in the mouth. Good-bye, perfect porcelain veneers! But this isn’t a movie and I’ve never hit anyone in my life. And Pathetic Shawna is in such a state of shock, she can only stand there, openmouthed.

  Susan sidles up. Her apologetic expression strikes me as genuine. “Paige, stop it.”

  “If you are gay,” Paige continues, “why don’t you admit it? Why go chasing after guys if you don’t even like them? It’s, like, no big deal anymore, right? Being gay?” she clarifies, in case I didn’t get it the first time.

  “I’m not—” My throat closes up. I can’t even say the word.

  Susan tugs Paige’s arm. “I said quit it, Paige.”

  Paige gleams as Susan pulls her back. “Fine. But keep away from Devon, or you know what? The whole school’s gonna hear about you, if they haven’t already. Got it?”

  Paige and Devon? Of course. How absolutely predictable.

  Evil Shawna springs to life, battering her pathetic twin into a quivering mass. “Hear what? Hear how that limp-dick moron couldn’t get it up?” I smile at their shocked expressions, never mind I just spit out one of the biggest lies of my life.

  LeeLee barges in before Paige can go for my throat. “Excu-use me,” she sings, elbowing the rats out of her way. “Don’t you two sluts have someplace else to be? Somebody’s backseat? The vomitorium, perhaps?”

  “You think you’re so funny,” Paige says with a bitter edge of ice. She whirls on her heel. “Keep laughing, bitches.”

  She stalks off. Susan lags back uncertainly, and meets my hard gaze as if she has something important to say. Then she, too, sashays off down the hall.

  LeeLee puckers her lips in my locker door mirror, adding another layer of scarlet gloss. “So, how’d your dinner go Friday night?” I hesitate too long. Her eyes meet mine in the glass. “Well?”

  “I found some pictures of Schmule when he was a baby. I thought it was me. We look exactly alike.”

  “So?”

  “So Dad thinks my mom pulled a fast one on him. He thinks Schmule’s my brother.”

  “Shut UP!”

  “Swear to God.”

  “And the father is—?”

  “I think Dad thinks it’s him.”

  LeeLee says something in Spanish that’s beyond my comprehension. Then, “And she passed him off as Fran’s? How’d she think she’d get away with it?”

  I slam my locker and jam the lock into place. “She did get away with it for, like, ten damn years. So now Dad wants me to find out when Schmule’s birthday is so he can figure out a time line, I guess.”

  “Are you gonna do it?”

  “Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you want to know if you had a brother or not?”

  Without answering directly, she warns, “You better think about this, chica. I mean, all hell will break loose.”

  “I know,” I whimper.

  “Maybe you should stay out of it. Tell your old man to hire a lawyer if he’s so worried.”

  “But if he is my brother, I have to know.”

  “Why? Do you have any idea how lucky you are being an only child? No competition. No responsibilities. Look, if you want one so much,” she teases, “why don’t you take one of mine off my hands?”

  “No, you try being an only child and having a father who’s, like, obsessed with every detail of your life. Don’t you think he has the right to know if he has a son?” I rage on when she doesn’t answer, “Don’t I have the right? I’ve always wanted a brother or a sister. Why wouldn’t she tell me? Why pretend all these years?”

  My mom once said after she ran off with Fran: As ugly as it is, Shawna, sometimes you have to do the right thing. And sometimes people get hurt. Did she think the “right” thing included hiding my brother? Lying to me?

  No wonder Dad’s obsessed with this infertility business. My parents waited ten years for me to be born, and I turned out to be a girl. If they’d had another baby—the son Dad wanted, and expected—would it have made any difference in their lives, or in mine? Would Dad be a happier person in general?

  Would he be any happier with me?

  46

  The Friday before winter break I find another note on my science table. When I toss it in the trash without opening it, Devon whispers, “Change your mind about guys yet, Gallagher?”

  I whisper back, “Not if they’re all like you.”

  “She doesn’t even deny it,” Devon says to the atmosphere.

  “Shut up,” Melanie snarls from her own table.

  Danielle drawls, “You’re such a loser, Connolly.”

  Twohig’s timely grand entrance prevents a full-blown riot. But my day is ruined. I simmer through every class, knowing, intellectually, I shouldn’t let his idiocy get to me. But it’s hard. Nobody has bothered to bring up my mom for a very long time. What if Devon starts telling people he “knows” I’m gay? Worse, what if people believe him?

  What kills me is this: if Devon wants to spread gay rumors around, aren’t there enough gay kids at Wade Prep for him to abuse? Like Jonas Dunn, from art, not that I’d ever wish that on Jonas. And what about Rosemary Wong, also in my art class, with her shaved temples and men’s yellow rubber rain boots? If Devon’s dying to gay-bash, why not bash the real gays?

  Why bash anyone? How can he be so fucking ignorant?

  In art, Miss Pfeiffer proudly announces a new project: “Your Life as a Collage: a Visual Autobiography.” We can choose our own medium and we have till the end of next semester. All projects will be displayed in the annual art show in May.

  Great. As much as I love art, I don’t want to spend the rest of my senior year drudging over some juvenile collage. How about a papier-mâché bust of myself with a sword through my head?

  “I’
m doing charcoal,” LeeLee announces, peering into her bookbag.

  “Charcoal’s depressing,” Jonas argues, doodling hearts on his sketchpad. “I need color. Anyway, it smudges.”

  “Life smudges.” Miss Pfeiffer’s tiny wrinkled hands sweep the air for emphasis. Omigod, leave it to Jonas to throw Miss Pfeiffer into an artsy roll. “Art is all about challenge, people. I want you to challenge your audience, to make them see things in a new way. To make them think! But I also want you to challenge yourselves by—OpheliaVelez! What do you think you’re doing?”

  LeeLee, fumbling with her cell under the table, nearly tumbles out of her chair. Luckily the bell rings. She scrambles out ahead of me. “Guess who just texted me?”

  I don’t have to guess. “Tovah.”

  “Yep. She and her dads are coming to town over winter break”—she doesn’t even stumble over the word “dads”—“and she wants to get together. They’re staying with Fran through the New Year. Didn’t you know?”

  When, I wonder, did “Frankfurter” become Fran? “Well. Whoopdi-do.”

  She follows me outside, across the cold, slippery parking lot. “What’s with you today?”

  “Um, I’m in a crappy mood?”

  “You’ve been in a crappy mood, like, forever.”

  “Tell me about it.” I knock ice off my car door with my foot, and we climb into the cold leather seats. “My day sucked. Devon’s back on his ‘Shawna’s a lesbian’ kick.”

  “Shawna, trust me. Nobody—cares.”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “Please, this is so third grade. You act like being called a lesbian’s the most god-awful thing in the world. It’s not, okay? So stop playing into that maricon’s hands and ignore him already. God, you slay me sometimes.”

  I’m too hurt, too furious, to respond. If she weren’t already in my car, I’d tell her to walk home. I peel the car out of the lot, seething over the fact that LeeLee, my best friend, cannot comprehend my misery.

  Not only is she clueless. It’s like she doesn’t even care.

  47

  Fran calls me the first day of winter break—luckily, on my cell phone—to invite me over, as promised. Yes, she mentions that Tovah will be there. “You remember Tovah, don’t you?”

  As if I could forget. “Yes.”

  “Anyway, she asked me to invite your friend Lia.”

  “LeeLee,” I correct her. I wait, half expecting her to bring up those photos. Has she missed them yet? But Fran only adds that she hopes I can make it. And to be sure to pass the invitation on to LeeLee, which I do.

  “Dinner next Sunday, at two,” I tell her on the phone. Maybe this time I’ll remember to ask about Mom’s rings.

  “What’re you gonna wear?” LeeLee asks anxiously. “Should I dress up?”

  “Why, you gonna be cruising for guys? Hey, Arye’s free as far as I know,” I add wickedly.

  “Nah, he’s cute, but too short. And not exactly my type.”

  “So what is your type?” LeeLee dates less than I do. She’s picky as hell.

  LeeLee sighs. “Good question. I’ll get back to you on that.”

  48

  No further word from Dad about Schmule. He doesn’t even ask if I found out his birthday. This strikes me as strange, after he made such a stink.

  On one hand I’m tempted to bring up the subject myself.

  On the other hand I’m happy for the reprieve.

  Because I don’t like to procrastinate, I spend the week before Christmas working on my so-called “visual autobiography.” I’ve decided to make a mosaic collage of pencil drawings, all scenes from my life, past and present. Fran’s photo albums have totally inspired me, plus I’m taking a lot more with own digital camera.

  “Can I get one of you?” I ask Dad after I explain my project.

  Dad waggles a finger after I snap the picture. “Don’t be posting pictures of your family all over the Internet, now.”

  Post them where? He knows I don’t have a MySpace page. And I don’t dare keep a blog.

  By Christmas morning I have dozens of new pictures, mostly of Charles, my favorite subject. But also my house, the front of my school, my church, and my favorite places around the city. When Aunt Colleen, Uncle Dieter, and Nanny and Poppy stop by to open gifts—I get a laptop from Dad!—I snap a few of them, too. Poppy refuses to open his eyes, and drools into his necktie, but I don’t care. He’s still my Poppy.

  But something is missing from my collection. Arye and Schmule? Funny how I feel they should be part of this, too. Even if Schmule doesn’t turn out to be my brother. And Arye, thank God, isn’t related to me at all.

  I use my project as an excuse to get those loose pictures back from Dad. Dad frowns. “You don’t need any pictures of Fran’s kids in your project.”

  “This is my project, right?” I say as patiently as possible. “I think it should be up to me to decide which pictures to use.” He folds his arms, perturbed, as I cleverly add, “Anyway, those are Fran’s pictures. They don’t even belong to us.”

  The significance of my words isn’t lost on him. He digs them up and reluctantly hands them over.

  He doesn’t say a word about Schmule and neither do I.

  49

  Sunday afternoon, the day before New Year’s Eve, I dress in a brown pleated skirt and brown sweater, and fluff out my long hair with a handful of mousse.

  “Where are you off to?” Dad asks, materializing out of nowhere.

  I don’t want to tell him I’m having dinner with Fran. All he’ll do is harp about that jewelry. “I’m meeting LeeLee,” I say, which is true. “We’re just going to hang out.” Also true. “Oh, and I’m taking Charles.” For Schmule, of course.

  “Got your phone?” he asks absently. Yes, I have my phone. Yes, he always asks me. “Drive carefully, and don’t stay out too late.”

  Charles and I swing by to pick up LeeLee. Fran’s house, when we get there, is flooded with people. Most are strangers, but I recognize a few people from Mom’s funeral. Fran introduces us as, “Shawna, Penny’s daughter, and her friend Lia.”

  LeeLee doesn’t correct her. In fact, she looks pleased.

  Schmule, thrilled, drags Charles away from me. “Oh, he’s awesome! Look at those funny fat feet!” Charles, equally thrilled, slobbers Schmule’s face. “Can I play with him in my room?”

  “Okay. But be careful when you put him down, because he’s really old, right, and he has a delicate back, and—”

  “I’ll be careful!”

  LeeLee, overdressed in a very low-cut, maroon velvet dress, receives her own share of attention. Particularly from Arye, who, after he says hi, tries hard not to gawk at her stupendous cleavage. Since she rarely wears anything besides pants and sweatshirts, I wonder if LeeLee dressed up for him after all.

  Tovah glides over, shining in layers of colorful, mismatched patterns, chopsticks poking out of the mind-boggling mass of curls piled on top of her head. On anyone else this might induce shrieks of horror. On Tovah, it’s perfect.

  “Hi, guys!” she greets us.

  “Hi,” LeeLee and I say at the same time. Whatever possessed me to choose brown on brown? I feel like a nun next to Tovah. Next to LeeLee, too.

  Tovah hugs me first, then LeeLee. “I’m so glad to see you two! You know, Lia and I have been talking for ages,” she tells me. “I honestly never thought we’d get to see each other again.” She appraises LeeLee with glowing eyes. “What a gorgeous dress, Lia! You look nice, too,” she adds belatedly to me.

  I narrow my eyes. “Lia?”

  LeeLee’s smile spreads, engulfing her face. “Short for Ophelia. Isn’t ‘LeeLee’ kind of juvenile? I might give it up.”

  Suddenly I’m cranky, and irritated, and—yes, I admit it!—ragingly jealous of this beautiful, radiant stranger who calls my best friend by a new name, who makes her smile in a new way. My head begins to throb directly above my right ear.

  “We have so-o much to catch up on,” Tovah insists, pulli
ng LeeLee, aka Lia, away by her wrist. “Listen, I just have to tell you this . . .” LeeLee, enraptured, never glances back as she allows Tovah to whisk her away.

  I forgot about Arye till he says, “Man, she’s a trip.” When I don’t respond, he adds, “You hungry? We’re not eating for a while, but there’s munchies and stuff.”

  I stare longingly at the hall door that just swung shut behind my best friend.

  I’ve been deserted.

  “Knock, knock.” Arye waves a hand in front of my face. “Uh, you can go with them, you know.”

  I don’t recall being invited.

  “Actually, I kind of have a headache . . .” I follow him to the kitchen, where he hands me some Tylenol. I down the pills, take a breath, and haul my camera out of my purse. No point in wasting an opportunity. “Do you mind if I take a picture of you? For a school project?”

  He stares suspiciously. “You want a picture of me for your school project?”

  “God, I’m not gonna cut off your head and paste it on a porn star. I just want some pictures of you and Schmule.” And your mom, too, if she’ll let me.

  I still sense distrust, but he leads the way to his room, where Schmule has buried his nose in a book, and Charles snores on a pillow.

  I peer over Schmule’s bony shoulder. Botanical poisons? “So who’re you planning to murder?” Evil Shawna hopes it’s Tovah.

  “Nobody,” Schmule says, scribbling down scientific names. “I might write a murder mystery, though.”

  “A murder mystery? Aren’t you, like, nine?”

  “Ten. I just had a birthday.”

  I’m stunned by this timely revelation. “Really? When?”

  “On the second,” Schmule answers, oblivious to my delight. “I got two new video games and, yuck, some underwear, and double yuck, some crummy pajamas.”

  I study him as discreetly as possible. He has freckles on his nose. Dad and I don’t have freckles, and neither did Mom. But Fran does. He could very well be Fran’s.