I brought it into my bedroom, threw it into a drawer, and asked myself what it was I really wanted to know. Later that night, when I held it in my hands, I realized how much I did not want it to be Lavi’s. But I didn’t want it to belong to Daryl, either, because not only did I want to believe in him, I needed to.
I could not stop thinking about him. I felt shaken and stupid and gloriously happy. I found myself searching the hall for his beat up brown leather jacket. I sat in Mr. West’s class, trying not to make it obvious that my eyes were glued to the big white clock on the wall. Somehow, I thought if I stared hard enough, I could make the light blue minute hand move faster. I knew which days I needed to pack up quickly and when I could take my time because I had memorized his schedule and knew exactly which corner he would be turning and when. It happened rarely, but if I miscalculated and missed—which happened rarely—I felt this sinking feeling in my stomach.
I was frightened by the fact that I was so consumed, so I tried not to think about it. I created lists in my head of things I needed to do. I daydreamed about running away from home and alphabetized all the reasons I hated my mother. But no matter what I did, eventually my thoughts would drift to him and I’d experience a breathless, floaty feeling, as if I had just spent the day blowing up balloons. As punishment, I pinched the tip of my pinky finger, hard.
I started to see Lavi in a different light, too. Now, instead of just being my friend, she was his sister. She had the potential to provide me with insights that no one else could. I tried to be inconspicuous because I didn’t want her to see right through me. I didn’t want her to see that all I wanted was him.
The red paint incident burned inside me because all it did was remind me that I had no idea who he really was or what he was capable of. Worst of all was the possibility that my mother was right about him. I said nothing to either of them after my discovery. I wasn’t sure what to think, so I decided to keep it to myself.
One afternoon, Lavi and I were enjoying our french fry ritual, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from the front door and was trying my best to act like I was paying attention to the conversation.
“What do you think about reincarnation?” Lavi asked as she grabbed a carton of milk out of the refrigerator. She poured two heaping teaspoonfuls of reddish powder into her glass. She loved strawberry milk, and I watched as it turned from white to bubble gum pink.
“What?” I thought I heard someone at the door, but it was coming from the next unit over.
“Reincarnation. Do you ever think about it? You know, who you might have been before you were you?”
Lavi always surprised me. It never occurred to me to imagine who I might have been before, especially since I was not even sure about who I was now. “Who do you think you were before?” I asked.
She stirred her milk with such intensity that a small funnel formed in the center.
“Don’t laugh, okay?”
I shook my head and grabbed another french fry.
“I think I was a bird before.”
“A bird?” Were those footsteps or was that just the pounding of my heart in my ears?
“Sometimes when I watch them fly, I totally know what it feels like. I even dream about it. I know it sounds crazy but it’s almost like I’ve done it somewhere before. You know, two strong flaps and then just glide.” She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. She looked so peaceful, her curls skimming the tops of her shoulders, her hands poised at her thighs, as if she really could soar into the air.
And then he walked in.
He had that same detached look he always had. He turned to me and, almost automatically, my lashes came down slowly over my eyes and my head tilted slightly to the left. I couldn’t help myself and, thankfully, Lavi didn’t notice.
“Hey,” he said.
I thought I saw a hint of a smile, or maybe it was a snicker. He grabbed his things, went upstairs, and slammed his door closed like he had done hundreds of times before. But for me, this time was different. I felt something I couldn’t describe, which made the feeling of breathlessness so intense, I started feeling dizzy.
“I think I know. What I was. Before.”
But she wasn’t listening. She was busy making another glass of strawberry milk. So I pinched the tip of my pinky really hard until it turned blood red. When the dizziness finally disappeared, I decided I needed some help.
There was no one else to ask.
As hard as it was to admit, my mother was the expert. We were unloading groceries and she was distracted, trying to fit the food into our very small refrigerator.
“Whoever designed this thing forgot that people actually eat.” She stuffed a head of lettuce into the produce drawer, which was already almost filled to capacity.
“Do you remember your first crush?”
She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, trying to wrangle the drawer closed. “What?”
“Your first crush. Do you remember what it was like?”
She gave up on the drawer and turned to look at me. “Second grade. Bobby Warner. He had green eyes.”
She went back to what she was doing and gave the drawer a hard shove.
“How did you know? I mean what did it feel like?”
She stood up and tried to adjust the refrigerator door, which was flung open so wide it looked contorted. She was after the landlord to fix the hinge because any time we opened it too far, it would hang down like a broken wing. “Know what? What are you asking me?”
“About the guy? You know, how did you know if he liked you back?”
That was the heart of the matter. I was pining away during the day and dreaming of him at night and still had no idea what he felt toward me. It had gotten so serious that when he was around, I felt like I couldn’t speak. For the first time in my life, I got a glimpse into what it felt like to be Franny. I didn’t understand the feelings I was having and I couldn’t really talk to Lavi about it, but I had to talk to someone. So as much as it killed me, I chose my mother.
She was fumbling in a cabinet drawer, looking for something. “Got it.” She pulled out a roll of duct tape. “Now what was it you were asking me? How do I know about men?”
She unrolled a piece of tape and, as it detached from the rest of the roll, it made a high-pitched ripping sound. “I just know. I get a sense. Know what I mean?”
“I guess,” I answered.
She turned to me. “You do? You know what I mean? Do you get a sense, too?”
I was thrown by the plea in her voice. Like she was inviting me in. I could say that I knew and then maybe things would change between us. I thought about it for a second. “No, Mom. I don’t really know what you mean.”
“Oh.” She shrugged and went back to taping the refrigerator door.
That was it. I could tell she was done with me.
“Is that what it was like with my father? You got a sense?” I knew I was breaking the rules. I knew he was a subject never to be discussed, but I was past caring.
She slipped the roll of duct tape back into the cabinet drawer. “Your father. He was different. And no, I didn’t get a sense. That was pretty much the problem.”
She turned back to what she was doing and I understood that we were now definitely done with our discussion. There was nothing left for me to do so I went back to unloading groceries. I was responsible for putting away the pantry items. I pulled out a can of soup and a bag of rolls, but there was something heavy at the bottom of the bag that I had to reach down deep to get. A can of SpaghettiO’s. I hated SpaghettiO’s because they tasted like tin, but Franny loved them. She was amazed that they could make letters out of pasta and they were her favorite.
I could feel the anger welling up inside me, pushing everything else aside. It rose into my cheeks and made my hands shake. “What’s this?” I asked. I held up the can as though it was the key piece of evidence in a murder trial.
“Hmm?” She mumbled from behind the refrigerator door.
“This! What
is this?” I shouted, this time waving it in the air.
She peeked from behind to see what I was holding. “Oh, that. Don’t you like those, Matilda? I could have sworn that you did.”
I tried to slow the rage building inside of me so I wouldn’t be tempted to throw the can at her head. I took a hard, deep breath and tried to release the thought from my mind. I didn’t believe her for a second; there was no way she no longer remembered that this was my sister’s favorite thing to eat and not mine.
“No, Mom. I hate these.”
“You do? Really? Don’t worry about it. I’ll bring it to work. I’m sure Margaret can take it home for her grandkids.” She turned back to the refrigerator to finish what she started.
I turned back to the pantry and let my shoulders droop. All I could think about at that moment was Franny, and I found myself suddenly alphabetizing the cans, losing myself in whether corn should go before kidney beans, focusing hard so that she wouldn’t see my shoulders start to shake as I began to cry. Later, I snuck back downstairs, opened the pantry door, and found the can of SpaghettiO’s where I had left them, right beside the peas. I took it upstairs and put it in the same drawer that held the pretty lavender paper. After that, every time I opened the drawer, it rolled back and forth, hitting one side and then the next.
Reminding me.
That night, I woke with a start. The digital clock read 3:00. I should’ve been fast asleep. I should have been home with my sister and grandmother, but since that was no longer my reality, I gave up trying to predict what was going to happen next. I can’t explain what pulled me to the window, but when I looked out, our porch light was on and I could see him standing there, staring up at me. We locked eyes and he coiled his finger back and forth, motioning for me to come.
Since she caught us together that one time on the porch, sneaking around had become more difficult. The second floor was carpeted and I knew where to step to avoid the creaks, but it took some time to get down the stairs. I supported my upper body by lifting myself up on the handrails and making sure that my feet barely touched the steps. I didn’t want to risk searching for a jacket, so I went out in what I was wearing: a green short-sleeved t-shirt and old gray sweatpants with a rip at the knee. Far from the glamorous lavender silk robe my mother wore at night.
He was waiting for me, leaning against the divider with a bundle under his arm. I felt that nauseating airy feeling again. A spot at the tip of my stomach clenched and I thought I might explode from excitement.
“C’mon.”
I followed. “Where are we going?”
“Just c’mon.”
It was dark, but I ignored my fears and blindly followed him. I was too interested in finding out where he was taking me to worry about anything else. For weeks, I was plotting runins with him and hanging out with Lavi when I knew he would be around, but nothing had drawn his attention until tonight. For a second, I wondered if I was dreaming, but the chill in the air and the goose bumps running up and down my arms made me certain that I was no longer under the covers.
“Here.”
If I was expecting some sweet romantic lovers’ spot, I was sorely disappointed. The edge of the townhouse complex abutted a twolane highway where the occasional tractortrailer passed. He pointed to a spot on the ground and motioned for me to sit. It was cold and damp and I could feel the wetness seeping into the seat of my sweatpants. He unrolled the bundle from under his arm.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Jeans.” He walked over to the middle of the road and laid them down. Then he came back and sat beside me.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
We sat in the quiet. A street lamp across from us gave off the only light on the road. I could hear the sound of a truck in the distance and I could see two yellow headlights, like cat eyes, coming toward us. As it got closer, it got louder, and I realized I had stopped breathing.
The truck came barreling down, its headlights lighting a path and casting shadows onto the lump of fabric on the road, which almost looked as though it was alive. I watched as the wheels smashed down onto the ground, crushing the pants with their force, and then spit exhaust into our faces as it passed. The pants lay contorted, the legs spread into an unnatural position, helplessly awaiting the next assault, abandoned. Another truck came along a few minutes later, but this time I turned my head. After that, it was quiet and I kept my eyes turned away.
“You cold?” he asked.
I hadn’t realized I was shivering.
“Here.” He unzipped the worn brown leather jacket I had stared at all through detention weeks before. He tossed it into my lap and I slipped my arms into the sleeves. It still held the warmth of his body. I brought my knees up to my chest and tried to take an inconspicuous deep breath. He smelled like cinnamon. . . .
“So what was up with that story you gave West? About you and me in the elevator.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Just looked like you needed someone to help you out, I guess.”
He picked a stick up off the ground and used his fingernail to crack the bark. “So you think I did it.”
A truck rumbled in the distance. Like thunder.
“Didn’t you?”
He’d torn the stick down to soft wood and was rubbing it slowly with his thumb. “Does it matter?”
He got up and walked to the middle of the road to examine the jeans, then came back and sat beside me. “One more.”
I saw the headlights approaching, but now I knew when to turn to avoid the most brutal moment. When I turned this time, so did he. The truck zoomed by and the world shook and the air between us shivered. In that moment, I thought I saw something. Or maybe I felt it. Prickly, electrical sparks ran up and down my arms and then, as quickly as it came, it was gone.
He stood up and retrieved the jeans from the road. “We should get going.”
We walked back in silence. When I got to the porch, I slipped off the jacket and handed it to him. “Thanks.”
He nodded.
“I’ll see ya.”
He nodded again.
I snuck back inside and quietly made my way up the stairs. I thought about getting into bed, but I was so wound up I knew I wouldn’t be able to lie still so I walked over to the window. He was still standing there, looking up at me. He held the jeans and his jacket close to his chest. I focused really hard on his lips, because I could see that they were moving but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I watched carefully and then suddenly I understood. I nodded my head and held my hand up to the window, his silent words ringing in my ears.
“I didn’t do it.”
I tossed and turned most of the night. When I woke, I decided it was time to have a talk with Lavi so I invited her over after school. We were sitting on my bed, our notebooks by our sides. Wicked West had assigned a poem that neither of us understood. I quickly lost interest and was staring at Lavi’s ponytail which was resting on the page she was writing. She brushed it aside like it was debris.
“How are you going to answer question two? List three symbols and why they are used?” she asked.
“I don’t care.” I put the pen cap in my mouth and bit down on a familiar dent. She looked up to see if I was serious. “Lavi, it’s a poem. You can pick any line and argue that it’s symbolic of something. The assignment is stupid and West is an ass.”
“You mean a fat ass.” She looked back down at her notebook but not before I saw her smile.
I slid across the bed until I was sitting at the edge. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to return.” I stood up and walked to my desk. I opened the bottom drawer and pushed aside the can of SpaghettiO’s to find what I was looking for.
“Here.”
She was reading the poem and chewing on her lower lip.
“I think this belongs to you.” I handed her the thermos with the little black footprints on the side that still had some red paint splattered on the lid.
&nb
sp; “I was wondering where I’d left that.”
And that was it. That was all she had to say.
I stood in front of her, arms crossed like a mother waiting for her naughty child’s confession.
“Is that all?” I asked.
Her eyes sparkled and reminded me of ginger ale. “Yep.” She went back to reading the book.
“Lavi, are you going to tell me or what?”
“It’s none of your business.”
For a brief moment, I was hurt, but then I felt insulted. “What’s that supposed to mean?” My voice came out louder than I had intended.
“Which part did you not understand?” She closed the book and brought it up to her chest and I wondered if this was some kind of joke. One eyebrow was raised and her lips were pursed tight, as though she was sucking on something sour. For a second, I didn’t recognize her. Then her face softened and she was the old Lavi again.
When she spoke, her voice cracked. “When were you going to tell me about your thing with my brother?”
I knew it wasn’t possible, but suddenly it felt like the temperature in the room had risen by ten degrees. I walked to the window, trying to think of how to answer.
“Forget it,” she said, obviously frustrated.
“Lavi, there is nothing to tell.”
One of the things I liked best about my room was the way the sunlight warmed it in the afternoon. Now it cast a triangular wedge of brightness onto her head, making her hair twinkle as though it was sprinkled with glitter.
“Daryl and I are just friends.” I sat in a chair, breathed out a heavy sigh, and hoped it made me look more irritated than guilty.
“Has my brother told you anything about Daddy?” she asked.
I shook my head. The way she said it made her sound like a little girl.
“Daryl’s the problem. He’s why my mom and dad aren’t together. He always gets in the way.”
I stared at her in disbelief. “So when you wrote that nasty thing about West and painted the entire hallway in red, did you know Daryl would be blamed or were you just hoping?”
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