“It’s just up here,” Fig says, leading me around the corner. The last thing I expect to see is Sebastian hanging nearly upside down from what looks like a rock climbing harness. He’s hooked to a rope looped over a pole that sticks straight out from a big brick building. All of the other poles along the building are hung with banners advertising New Lending Rates and Zero Interest Financing. Sebastian is yelling at whoever is holding the other end of his rope, telling him to keep still. I can’t see who it is because of the wall of people, but whoever it is, they’re laughing like crazy and letting Sebastian flop up and down like a fish on a hook. His dreadlocks are flying in a million different directions, making him look like a wild mop.
I can’t believe no one has come and kicked them out or arrested them or something. Then I see a sign they have tacked up on a sandwich board in front of them on the sidewalk. It advertises Art Attack and has the website. Below that is a city permit that apparently gives them the right to hang upside down from a rope fifteen feet in the air. Two policemen are even standing astride their mountain bikes and watching the show.
“And now,” Sebastian announces, “I will eat soup upside down.” A girl hands a carton of soup and a spoon up to him.
When she turns, I see it’s Sarah. She sees us (or more likely sees Fig’s hair) and waves. We both wave back. I watch, amazed, as Sebastian manages to eat almost the whole container of soup without spilling any.
“I can’t even manage that right side up,” Fig says to me. The fake nose bounces up and down on her face as she talks.
“Ta-da!” Sebastian yells, holding the container upside down to prove that it’s empty.
Everyone claps. Fig puts her thumb and finger in her mouth and gives a shrill whistle. I aim my camera up at him and zoom in as much as I can, trying to get just his face. He’s spinning a little, so I have to time it just right. It’s still uncomfortable using my camera again, but I can feel something begin to glow inside of me. It’s just a tiny ember like the first spark of a campfire, but it feels good. Sebastian goes on to eat an ice cream cone and to attempt to break the world record for blowing a bubble gum bubble. I watch as he puts no fewer than ten pieces of gum in his mouth and chews. He seems well on his way toward some kind of record, but an overly aggressive blow sends his huge wad of gum shooting out of his mouth and toward the crowd, where it narrowly misses hitting a man in a dark blue business suit. The man just raises an eyebrow and smiles a little. I can see Sebastian wince, but clearly he’s a pro, because he recovers quickly, yelling “Ta-da!” again.
“Is he the cutest or what?” Fig asks. She quickly looks at me. “Do not tell him I said that.”
I make a gesture as if locking my lips.
Sebastian is being lowered down to the sidewalk. He manages to hit feet first, which in my book is at least as amazing a trick as any of the others. He talks with the man in the business suit for a moment.
“That’s his dad,” Fig says. Now that I’m looking for it, I can see the resemblance. Same nose. Same jawline, but that’s where the similarities end. Sebastian is all hippie-boho with his dreads and baggy cargo shorts, while his father is a buttoned-up power-suit guy. Sebastian nods at something his father says, and then turns to the crowd still assembled.
“Thank you, everyone. Remember all of your donations are appreciated.” He gestures toward the same fedora I saw on the sidewalk at the MoMA. The hat is filled almost all the way to the brim. He unhooks from the rope, which starts disappearing up and over the pole and drops to the ground.
I stand on my tiptoes, hoping to see Cooper holding the other end of the rope. But the guy coiling the rope is short, stocky, blond, and definitely not Cooper. I’m surprised at how disappointed I feel. I glance at Fig, who is smiling at me like she can read my mind. I scowl at her. She makes the same locking motion over her lips, but then starts laughing. She tucks her new glasses into her pocket and motions for me to follow her, over to where Sebastian is talking to a group of people standing around him.
“I call it artistic eating,” he says, waving his hand behind him toward where he was hanging.
As he waves, the sleeve of his shirt rides up, exposing his forearm and a series of round scars that look nearly as ugly as mine. I realize I’m reaching for my own scar as I watch. I quickly drop my hand to my side and tilt my head to make sure my cheek is concealed.
“It’s all about taking the ordinary and making it extraordinary,” Sebastian says. He winks at Fig, making me think she had something to do with his speech. He unbuckles his harness, pausing to thank people as they drop bills and coins into the hat. Then he steps out of the harness and stows it in a duffle bag. He waves at someone walking back into the building, and I turn and see Sebastian’s father disappear inside.
“He came,” Fig says to Sebastian.
He nods and shrugs, but I can tell he’s really happy. “Stranger things have happened,” he says.
Stocky Blond Guy comes over with the rope slung over his shoulder. “Dude, that was awesome. Any time you want me to help, dude, I’m there.”
“Thanks for pitching in,” Sebastian pauses and makes a face. “Dude.” Blond guy doesn’t seem to notice the sarcasm in Sebastian’s voice.
“Dude, where do you want this?” he asks, lifting the rope.
Sebastian points to the duffle. “Just don’t crush the—” The blond guy heaves the rope onto the bag. The crunching noise the rope makes when it hits whatever is inside the bag makes Sebastian wince.
“What, dude?” he asks, turning back around.
“Nothing,” Sebastian says. “Thanks again.” He endures a high five, which he takes almost as well as all the “dudes.”
“Give me a shout next time you need some help,” the blond guy says, walking away. Sebastian turns toward us with a look of apology on his face. Just before the guy steps off the curb, he turns back toward us. “Later, dudes!” he yells.
Sebastian shakes his head. “Jacob knows at least eleven common ways to use the word dude in a sentence.”
“A few uncommon ways too,” Sarah says. “You should have seen Mr. Simmons’s face every time Jacob called him dude.”
Fig starts laughing. “Mr. Simmons is the man in the suit,” she says to me. “Sebastian’s dad.”
“You mean the dude in the suit,” Sarah says.
“So,” Sebastian says, bending over the duffle bag. “You dudes want to get something to eat?”
“Didn’t you just eat?” Fig asks.
“I’m hungry,” I say, surprising myself. Sebastian grins and offers me a fist bump. I find myself smiling back.
Fig shrugs. “Lunch it is,” she says. “So, what’s in the bag?” she asks, gesturing to the duffle.
Sebastian frowns. “What was in the bag is the question.” He pulls it open and steps aside so we can see. Inside are dozens of boxes of sugar cubes. Most of them are crushed.
A policeman cycles over and stops in front of us. “You guys need to clear out.” He gestures at the sign, which I can read now that I’m closer. The permit’s only until four o’clock.
“Sure thing, dude,” Sebastian says, earning him a frown. “I mean, sir.”
“What’s your next stunt?” the policeman asks.
“I’m going to build a bed out of sugar cubes and sleep on it in the middle of Times Square,” he says.
“That I have to see,” the policeman says. He waits while we gather all of Sebastian’s stuff, including an extra container of soup, a cantaloupe, and a Super Soaker water gun.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
“Don’t ask,” Sarah says, seeing my face. “It involves pudding.” She shakes her head. “Totally nasty.” Sebastian returns the sandwich board to the store on the corner where he must have borrowed it. He returns, smiling.
“Guy gave me twenty bucks,” he says. “Said it was the best advertising he’s ever had.”
“Maybe they’ll sponsor you,” Fig says. “You could go pro.”
“I want to k
eep my amateur status,” Sebastian says.
“Why? In case they make eating an Olympic sport?” Fig asks. “Speaking of food . . .”
“Let’s get pizza,” Sarah says. She digs in her pocket. “I have money,” she says, pulling out a ten-dollar bill. I reach into my back pocket for what I have left of the money my dad gave me.
“Seventeen,” I say.
“That’s more than enough,” Fig says. She looks at Sebastian. “Okay, maybe just enough.”
We start walking, Fig and Sebastian in front and Sarah and me in back. Sarah starts asking me questions, one right after the other. What kind of music do I listen to? What was it like living in Maine? What’s my family like? How did it feel to meet my grandmother for the first time?
“Weird,” I say, answering the last question.
Sarah sighs. “Our grandmother’s pretty weird too,” Sarah says. “She thinks she’s Marilyn Monroe.” I glance over at her, not sure if she’s joking. She smirks at me. “Well, at least she does when she’s off her meds.”
I’m not sure how to react, but Sarah keeps talking, telling me about all kinds of things, like how last fall Sebastian carved seventeen jack o’ lanterns in four minutes and how Fig got a bunch of artists to do ice sculptures in Central Park at Christmas. “Fig can convince anyone to do just about anything,” Sarah says.
“But I always use my power for good and not evil,” Fig says from in front of us. I remember Sebastian’s comment about her bat ears.
“Just wait,” Sarah says. “She’ll have you doing something soon enough.”
I think of having to dress as a giant cannoli in only four days and nod.
“Where’s Cooper?” I ask. I try to make my voice casual, and I guess it works because Sarah just shrugs. “Around,” she says. “Working maybe or—” She stops talking.
At first, I think it’s because we’re in front of the pizza place, but then I see her frown a little as if considering whether to tell me something more. “He’s probably working,” she says, clearly deciding not to share more information.
I hold the door while everyone walks inside, then follow them in. As we walk to the table, everyone starts giving their pizza topping choices. “Pineapple,” I say. I half listen to what everyone else wants as we sit down, because the other half of me is thinking about Sarah’s face, wondering if everyone has something to hide. I think about Fig and her secrets and her inability to actually keep any. And then about my sister and her secrets, and me and mine. And I wonder what would happen if we simply decided not to keep everything secret any longer. Just like that.
The streetlights are all on by the time I get back to my grandmother’s. I slide the key into the lock, but the door is pulled out of my hand before I have a chance to open it.
“Where have you been?” my grandmother demands. Her arms are folded, but her eyes seem more worried than angry.
“I left you a note,” I say, sidestepping the question. She raises an eyebrow at me as if to say that she knows I’m sidestepping, but she’s letting it go this time. I follow her inside.
“I thought we’d have dinner together,” she says.
“Oh,” I say, surprised. It’s my turn to raise my eyebrow, but she’s already turned away from me and is walking toward the kitchen. This is the first time she’s shown much interest in spending any time with me at all. She directs me to set the table, which I do, but I obviously do it wrong, because when she comes in, she moves the glass from above the fork to above where the spoon and knife are resting.
“Your mother used to always get that wrong too,” she says. She speaks softly, almost as if she’s talking to herself instead of to me.
She holds her hands in front of her and makes the okay sign with both of them. “The drink goes on the right.” She lifts her hand slightly. “See how my right hand makes a letter d?”
I nod.
“D for drink,” she says.
“And your left hand?” I ask.
“B for bread,” she says, making me feel like I’m in the middle of a Sesame Street episode. “You put the bread plate here.”
“What about B for beverage?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Also like your mother.” She heads back into the kitchen, leaving me to marvel at this tiny discovery. My mother’s life before she met my father was always off-limits. Other than a couple of tattered novels filled with margin notes, I have no idea what she was like when she was younger.
We eat dinner, which is actually really good. Vegetable soup and salad with pears and pecans. I try to follow her lead as we eat, but she keeps frowning over at me. All the scrutiny and all the frowning are making me so nervous that I’m barely able to get the soup to my mouth without dribbling all over the place. I should tell Sebastian that his new trick should be eating soup with my grandmother. I’d like to see him do that without spilling any.
Veronica instructs me to hold my fork in my left hand and slice the pear with my knife in my right. “Don’t keep switching hands,” she says, demonstrating. She lifts her fork to her mouth with her left hand. “Switching is so American. So provincial.” I want to say that we actually are in America and that where I grew up in Maine is about as provincial as it gets, but I keep my mouth shut.
During the course of the meal, Veronica instructs me on how to butter my bread (not in my hand and not directly from the butter dish). I’ll have to remember to tell my father that he’s been eating his toast all wrong for years. Thinking about him makes my stomach hurt.
I try to think of something to distract myself. “What is this fork for?” I ask, pointing to the one lying sideways above my plate.
“Dessert,” she says.
“What’s for dessert?” I ask.
“Pie,” she says. Well, that sounds promising. I love pie. Love probably isn’t a strong enough word for my feelings about pie. Rachel used to make up sayings about it. Preoccupied with pie. Passionate for pie. Possessed by pie. Proclivity for pie. I even have a shirt with I ? on the front of it.
“If you’ll help clear, I’ll get dessert,” Veronica says. I manage to clear the table without breaking anything. She brings the pie to the table along with two plates and a silver pie server. The pie looks a little strange.
“Did you make this?” I ask.
“A friend did,” Veronica says, passing me a piece. I wait until she has a slice in front of her and has taken a bite. You always wait. At least I know that much. I take a bite, and then look at my pie. It not only looks strange, it tastes strange. I look up at Veronica, who is also staring at her plate.
“What kind of pie is this again?” I ask.
“Raw chocolate pie,” Veronica says. She looks at me. “It’s made with avocados.”
And I can’t be sure, but I think I hear laughter in her voice somewhere. I try to fix a polite look on my face, but apparently, I don’t succeed.
“It’s awful,” my grandmother says.
I nod. It is completely awful. Then she smiles over at me and I’m grinning back. And it’s like a miracle.
But then, blink, it’s gone, like a light being switched off. We both look at the slightly greenish pie on the table between us. Veronica gets up and takes the remainder of the pie into the kitchen. I hear the water and then the sound of the garbage disposal. I stare at the remains of the pie on my plate. I wish Rachel were here for this momentous occasion. She would pretend to be shocked that I found a pie I didn’t like. Then we’d take turns figuring out new names for the pie. Peculiar pie. Puce pie. Putrid pie. Possibly poisonous pie.
I’m smiling just thinking about her, and then I remember that because of what I did, Rachel won’t ever smile again. I have to close my eyes and remind myself that I’m not allowed to cry.
Pitiful. Pestilent. Pathetic. Poison.
Chapter Seven
For my birthday last year, we had lemon meringue pie. I also received three gifts. The first was a camera, a nice one. When I first announced I wanted to learn photography, they said I had
to start on my dad’s old Nikon because I had to understand photography before I could take good photos. The camera they gave me for my birthday was my first digital one. I dropped the batteries in, slid in the memory card, and turned it on. I aimed it across the table at Rachel with the usual “smile,” but what I got was a scrunched-up nose and a tongue sticking out at me.
Rachel gave me an empty locket. “You have to figure out what to put in it,” she said, winking at me.
The third present was a box of cards from my mother. Each one had a question on it. I pulled one out at random.
“If you could change one thing in your life, what would it be?” I asked.
“I’d like to have more hair,” my father said, running his hand over the rapidly expanding bald spot at the back of his head. My mother kissed him on the spot after he said it, making him smile and me and Rachel groan.
“Ew,” Rachel said. “Keep it PG. There are minors present.”
“I wouldn’t change anything,” my mother said, looking at all of us. “Not one thing.”
I turned to Rachel. “World peace?” she replied.
“Lame,” I said. “It has to be something personal. Something just about you.”
“Does it say that on the card?” she asked, trying to pull it away from me. I held it away from her so she couldn’t get it. “Okay,” she said. “I wish I were more like you.”
“Fine,” I said. “If you aren’t going to take this seriously, you can’t play.” Popular, beautiful Rachel, who everyone loved, wanted to be like me. Not likely.
“Okay, smarty, what about you?” Rachel asked. She took a bite of my birthday pie and looked at me.
I could think of about seventeen things I’d like to have different in my life. I think I said something lame like I wanted better hair or I wanted to be taller. If someone asked me that question now, I’d only have one answer. I’d change the rest of that whole night. From the moment we headed out into the darkness to go to her friend’s house right through to the next morning.
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