—want to thank you for the portfolio you sent. Yes, I have to agree, this student has talent. I found her pen-and-ink drawings particularly breathtaking and I’ve taken the liberty of sharing them with my colleagues. All of us agree that Miss Gallagher shows great promise. I believe, based on this work of hers alone, she has an excellent chance of being accepted. Please ask her, if she decides to change her major, to submit an application and an updated portfolio. I’ll be more than happy to put in a good word for her . . .
Oh. My. God. That crazy woman submitted my eleventh-grade make-believe portfolio to her buddy at MassArt? Is she crazy? Senile?
Okay, I should be thrilled. But this is so not my plan! Why would I go to MassArt? So I can sleep on the sidewalk and beg for change while I wait for the world to appreciate my so-called talent?
Worse, if Dad suspects I’ve had any second thoughts about med school . . . well, Mom won’t be the only member of the family to end up on life support.
Still, what this means is: somebody other than Miss Pfeiffer thinks I have talent! Not in science. Not in math. Not in designing floral centerpieces or coordinating china. But talent in what I love to do best. This revelation alone should make me ecstatic.
It doesn’t. I can’t enjoy it, because of the two other thoughts knocking through my brain.
Schmule, for one. Who, I know, has no idea that Dad suspects he’s my brother.
And LeeLee, my best friend. No, my gay best friend.
How the hell am I supposed to deal with everything at once?
55
LeeLee, red-eyed, waits at my locker the next morning. Either she hasn’t been sleeping or she’s been crying. Crying because Tovah flew back to New York?
“Hi. Did you get my messages?”
I nod, my slippery fingers working the combination.
“So why didn’t you call me?”
32-16-33 . . . 32-16-33 . . . This sucker won’t open. I jerk on the lock, snapping a nail. Blood wells up in a crimson crescent. “Crap.”
“Shawna. Are you not speaking to me?”
I suck my injured thumb. And then—thinking that this is something Perfect Shawna wouldn’t do because it’s rude and immature, and Pathetic Shawna wouldn’t do because she’s too much of a wimp, and Evil Shawna wouldn’t do without one parting bitch-zinger—I walk away from her without a word.
So who is this new, nameless Shawna who can’t look her BFF in the face?
Whoever she is, she barely makes it through the morning. At lunch I spot LeeLee with Danielle and Melanie. My usual carton of yogurt, even unopened, suddenly turns my stomach. I toss it into the trash, slink back toward the door—
And a hand grabs the back of my jacket, which, yes, I’m still wearing.
“How long do you plan to keep this up?” LeeLee asks.
“What?”
“Not talking to me.”
“I’m talking to you now.”
“Shawna, what’s your problem?”
“I have no problem.” I hesitate, glance around, and then it falls out of my mouth. “Why don’t you ask Tovah what my problem is? I’m sure she’ll tell you all about it.”
LeeLee pushes me out of the cafeteria. “What’re you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about. I saw you, LeeLee. I saw you and—” Tovah, Tovah, Tovah. I can’t even say her name.
LeeLee draws back, her face blooming redder than the blood around my nail.
“When I went back to your room, I saw you two—together.” My neck prickles under the collar of my jacket. I can only imagine the parts I missed.
LeeLee stands there, at a loss for words. A door slams. I hear approaching chatter from the opposite end of the hall. I hoist my bookbag and rake my hair off my blazing neck. “See ya.”
I’m ten feet away by the time she calls, “Shawna, you’re my best friend. You don’t have to be jealous.”
I’m not jealous. I’m—
What? What?
There’s no word in the English language for what I am.
I walk faster. Best friend? Ha! Ask Susan Connolly what “best friends” means.
How can LeeLee imagine we can be any kind of friends? She’s gay. I’m straight. Can a straight person be friends with someone who’s gay?
Please. It doesn’t happen, at least not in this school. Jonas Dunn has no male friends at all. Guys either avoid him or rag on him, so he hangs out with the girls. It makes no difference how nice he is. Guys know if they hang out with him, they risk being called a “fag.” Most likely by Devon, or some other dumb-ass jock.
Rosemary Wong, with the yellow boots? Once she started buzzing her temples and wearing knit caps and men’s jackets, all her female friends drifted away. Now she hangs out with nobody in particular. I wonder if she prefers it that way.
Maybe this is why Mom and Fran moved to New York. Maybe people there are more tolerant or whatever.
I remember Susan’s and Paige’s funny looks when LeeLee and I hugged at the mall. A hug between friends, nothing else. Can we ever hug each other again without people wondering? If I’m not strong enough to lie and simply say “I don’t care,” how can I be strong enough to change the way I feel?
Or even know how I feel.
56
LeeLee either walks home from school now or takes a bus. In art, she mysteriously ends up at Rosemary Wong’s table, while Jonas and I wind up with an Arabic boy whose name I can never remember. He’s in trig with me, too. He never speaks, but he watches me all the time. And he’s desperately handsome in a scary kind of way. Ha. Just imagine Dad’s reaction if I ever bring this dude home.
LeeLee has officially abandoned our lunch table, too.
“Did you two have a fight?” Melanie asks.
I lick blueberry yogurt off my plastic spoon. “Not really.”
“What do you mean, not really? And why is she suddenly hanging out with them?” Mel points her vegan pita sandwich toward LeeLee, who’s sharing a pizza with Jonas and Rosemary.
“Maybe she’s working on a research project,” Danielle says optimistically.
Mel scoffs. “What research project?”
“Hell if I know. It sounds good, right?”
They look at me, awaiting explanation. I study my yogurt label. I’m staying out of this.
Devon deliberately bumps my chair. “Lovers’ spat?” he inquires loudly, nodding at LeeLee’s new table.
Those who hear this titter, except for Mel and Danielle. LeeLee flips him off without looking over.
“Must be serious,” Devon drawls. “Maybe you oughta kiss and make up?”
Being a mature and responsible adult, I ignore him even as Melanie and Danielle hammer him with insults. This is when I realize something else: if the Snow Ball had gone differently, if I’d had sex with Devon, I’d be in the same position—only he’d be calling me a slut now, instead of a lesbian.
Either way I’d lose. But I think “slut” I could live with.
57
“One—two—three!” Uncle Dieter shouts.
Both of us barrel hard against the back of Poppy’s wheelchair. Five inches of snow last night ended my miserable week, and nobody—meaning me—remembered to call the plowing service. Poor Poppy’s mummified expression never changes, but his swiveling eyes show he fully expects to be dropped on his head. Aunt Colleen flits uselessly. Nonny fans her face.
“This is ridiculous!” Dad explodes once the wheelchair thumps safely over the threshold.
“You’re the one who doesn’t seem to own a snow shovel,” Aunt Colleen sniffs.
“He needs to be in a home. This is just too difficult.”
I put an arm around Poppy and kiss his cheek, furious that Dad once again says this in front of him. Poppy smells exceptionally bad today. Not like diapers, or medicine, but a sick-old-man-who-can’t-bathe-himself-anymore smell. I pat his hand. His faded eyes gaze past me and his thin shoulders tremble. I hope that’s from the Parkinson’s, and not from terror at the idea o
f a nursing home, of all places.
Dad adds, more nicely, “You can’t take care of him anymore, Ma. Why can’t you just admit it? You’re killing yourself.”
This, naturally, throws Nonny into a royal Highland snit. She snarls something in Gaelic that probably starts with an F in English, and knocks back three glasses of whisky during dinner. When Uncle Dieter tries to lighten the mood with a goofy joke, Aunt Colleen bites his head off and calls him “juvenile.” Crestfallen, he stomps out and returns reeking of tobacco.
“Fine! Smoke!” Aunt Colleen huffs. “Won’t Shawna be thrilled when you drop dead on her, too?”
Which, of course, launches us onto the subject of Mom. Between dainty bites, Aunt Colleen batters Dad with questions: why is Mom’s estate still in probate? Why can’t Dad’s worthless lawyer, Mr. Weiss, speed up the process? How could Fran have imagined she’d end up with a single cent?
Then she starts on me. “Your father tells me you went over there for dinner?” I nod cautiously. “Well, what’re they like? Fran and her boys?” She says “boys” with the same sneer she used for “dinner.” As if they aren’t really boys, and no, we didn’t eat dinner—we drew pentagrams, sacrificed babies, and danced naked around a bonfire.
I take another bite and chew slowly . . .slo-owly . . .
Aunt Colleen smirks at my non-reply and brandishes her fork at Dad. “You see? So it begins.”
Dad slices into his roast, nearly cracking the plate. “Shawna went over there for a reason. I asked her to get some of Penny’s things back for me.”
“What things?” Uncle Dieter looks surprised that, yes, I’m such a stooge.
“Some jewelry. All the pictures she took. In fact”—Dad crosses his silverware precisely on his plate—”that’s the reason I wanted to get together with all of you.” Obviously it’s not for the pleasure of their company.
He pats his blazer and produces a paper. For one horrible moment I’m sure it’s the letter from Miss Pfeiffer. Not only does he open my mail—now he rifles through my purse?
I stare at the document, first with disbelief. Then with amazing satisfaction.
Child’s name: Samuel David Goodman.
Mother’s name: Sonia Anne Sorenson.
Father’s name:
No answer to that last one.
“His birthday,” Dad proclaims, “is December second. Eight and a half months after Penny left.”
Aunt Colleen snatches the birth certificate away. “How did you get this?”
“Why do you think I pay Weiss five hundred bucks an hour?”
Nonny stops shoveling sweet potatoes into Poppy’s mouth long enough to take a peek. “Mother of God. She didn’t know who the father was?”
“Of course she knew,” Dad says impatiently. “She deliberately left it blank.”
“Is that legal?”
“Yes, it’s legal. Not that it matters now,” he adds thoughtfully
Aunt Colleen slaps the table, a Gallagher trait. “Well. That bitch!”
Nobody speaks for a few seconds. Aside from the sound of Poppy’s fingers scraping the arm of the wheelchair, I can almost taste the silence.
“She used the name Goodman,” Uncle Dieter points out. “Is that legal?”
“Apparently so,” Dad says shortly.
Schmule’s name is Sam? And Mom gave him Fran’s last name, and then passed him off as Fran’s? How would any of us ever know that Sam was really Mom’s? Schmule was born in New York. Until Mom’s funeral, nobody but me had ever met him. Even Schmule might not know, since he shares the same last name as Fran.
“When Shawna showed me the boy’s baby pictures”—Dad, unexpectedly, sends me a startling smile—”I knew it immediately. He looks just like Shawna.”
“Well.” Aunt Colleen strokes my hand. I try not to recoil. “Aren’t you the little super sleuth? Maybe you should forget about medical school and join the CIA.”
Unconvinced, Nonny protests, “Ah, Johnny, I dunno. I know the two of ye had your ups and downs. But what would possess her to do something so desperate?”
“Desperate?” Dad’s fist rattles the china. “What’s ‘desperate’ about it, Ma? She left me for no reason. I supported her. I gave her a child. I gave her everything she ever wanted, and what did she do? She ran off with that, that person without saying goodbye to her own daughter!”
Lips pursed, Nonny prods me with an arthritic knuckle. “Shawnie, dear, perhaps you should step out for a wee bit, seein’ as how your father’s so upset—”
“I’m not upset!” Dad thunders. “I’m mad as hell! She knew I wanted a son, and she doesn’t tell me she’s pregnant? She takes off?”
“Maybe she didn’t know,” Uncle Dieter suggests.
“She could have told me when she found out. I would’ve taken her back.”
Chilled to the bone, I hear myself squeak, “Maybe she didn’t want to come back.”
Dad’s gray matter nearly erupts through his hair follicles. “What do you know about it?”
“Well . . . nothing. I mean, it was just an idea.” Carefully, I add, knowing I’m making things worse, “Maybe she thought if she told you about Schmule, you’d somehow make her come back. Maybe that’s why she kept him a secret.”
Dad views me with undisguised contempt. “Don’t be stupid, Shawna. She had no reason to leave in the first place.”
Don’t be stupid, Shawna, don’t be stupid. How many times have I heard those words? Why does he think I’m an idiot with no ideas of my own? Why does he dismiss everything I say? Always, always. Every single time.
A river of lava bubbles through my chest. “Maybe she did have a reason.” I jab the prongs of my fork into my palm to keep from chickening out. “Maybe she left because you treated her like shit! The way you treat everyone. Did you ever think of that?”
Mouths gape as I throw down my fork, fly out of my chair, and slam out of the house.
58
Snow falls, hard and relentless, melting into my face as I trek clumsily to the garage. Nonny’s black van with the custom wheelchair lift and Uncle Dieter’s Lexus block the end of the drive. This doesn’t stop me; I gun the motor, reel the car backward, and careen around the other cars, leaving snake trails in the lawn.
It’s true.
I have a brother.
Heading nowhere, I circle through ice and snow for a couple of miles, waiting for Evil Shawna to simmer back into her wormhole. Evil Shawna, who screamed at her dad in front of the whole family.
But I have a brother—a brother!—and his name is Schmule.
No. It’s Sam.
Nobody mentioned it, but Sam is Poppy’s first name. Poppy loved my mom. Mom loved him back, and always asked how he was doing. Poppy, if he could, would’ve kicked Aunt Colleen’s ass today.
I drop my forehead on the wheel, waiting for a light to change.
I have a brother . . . a brother!
Oh, God.
What’ll Dad do now?
A horn blasts behind me. Green light! I step on the gas, but, unfortunately, the pickup truck ahead of me moves slower than I expected.
“Shit!” I mash my foot down two seconds too late. Crunch.
The driver climbs out, a hefty guy who spews out a tirade of colorful words as I roll the window halfway down. I clutch the steering wheel, tears squirting down my face, blubbering, “Sorry! I’m sorry, I’m—”
He stops yelling and peers into my car. “Okay, chill out. Ain’t even a mark on mine, but your front end’s kinda mashed. You wanna come out and take a look?” I shake my head. “Well, you’re gonna tear up your tire, you try drivin’ on that. You hurt?” He thumps hard on my roof. “Hey, quit bawling. I ain’t gonna turn you in, even though it was, ya know—your fault.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, wiping my face as he stomps back to his truck
Miserably, I yank my car back into gear and cautiously inch forward. Something scrapes my front tire, I hope I can drive it, and, oh, what if I’d hit a vanload of kids? A
ninety-year-old lady? Or worse, a lawyer? Thank you, God. Thank you!
I putz along for a couple blocks, but the scraping grows louder. Terrified I’ll blow out the front tire, I notice the street sign for Coventry and creep into the turn.
I didn’t plan it, but now here I am. Will Fran be home? If so, what do I say? “I got into an accident and I can’t drive my car. Oh, and by the way, we know all about Schmule.” The secret weighs on my heart like a basket of dynamite.
My crunched bumper, smooshed against the tire, refuses to budge under my repeated tugs. Feet sopping, I slog up to Fran’s porch, wishing I’d remembered my cell, or at least my boots.
Arye answers my halfhearted knock. “Surprise.” Sheepishly I point to my car.
He squints toward the street. “Who’d you run over?”
“No one. I hit a truck. I don’t think I can make it home. Can you do something?”
“I don’t do cars. I’m from New York, remember? Just take it somewhere.”
“Take it where? It’s Sunday! Can’t you, like, push the bumper up or something? Just to get me back home?”
With a put-upon sigh, Arye fetches his coat, a clothesline, and a roll of duct tape. After a few grunts, kicks, and pulls, he drags the bumper up, and ropes and tapes it away from the tire.
“You rock,” I say sincerely, staring at my slushy shoes.
“What’s the truck look like?”
“It’s fine. The guy was nice about it, at least.”
“Lucky you. Quit bawling.”
I didn’t realize I was. “I’m upset, okay?”
“Yeah, and you look like crap.” He doesn’t look so hot either with half his hair hanging out of his ponytail. “You might as well come in and warm up.” Astonished at his generosity, I follow him in. “Mom and Schmule ran to the store. They’ll be back any sec.”
Schmule. My brother.
I sink into the sofa. Does Arye know? Are they all in on this together?
He hands me a cup of bottom-of-the-pot coffee. I hand it back. “I don’t drink coffee.”
“Well, it’s all I have. You want some water? Tap water,” he stresses, falling down beside me. “Not the fancy stuff in a bottle.”
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