by Maria Padian
“You know…I saw you walk in that door and thought you looked taller!” Nonna said.
“Can you believe it?” Mrs. Pelletier gushed. “She’s grown an inch and gained five pounds since the fall! Pretty soon my little girl is going to be taller than me! They grow up so fast. Where does the time go?”
A little twitch at the corner of Diane’s mouth was my first indication that she’d finally had it with her mother. I think the five pounds did it. As opposed to me—I gain or lose five pounds any given weekend depending on how much chocolate I can get my hands on—Diane keeps tight control on her eating.
“Ready to go outside and blast?” I offered. Clearly relieved, Diane nodded. We headed out, with Merrill close behind.
The night air was perfectly cold. Perfect, because it was cold enough to keep the snow powdery, but not so cold that your fingers ached or your toes grew numb. Merrill dashed ahead of us toward Mr. Beady and Michael, toting the paper bag with blankie and the T-shirt. Diane and I followed, awkwardly silent. Suddenly she stopped.
“Do you know what this is?” she asked, looking all around.
“What?” I said.
“Angel snow,” she said. “Look.”
About a dozen feet away from us glittered smooth, untrammeled snow the kids had missed. Upon its surface the moon reflected crystals, diamonds, and bright points of light. When we were little girls, we would go out at night in search of such snow. We’d stand at the edge of a patch, arms outspread, and fall back flat. Then, with legs and arms madly brushing up and down, we’d make Diane and Brett angels. The trick was getting up without sticking your hand through a wing or your boot through a gown.
I held my arms out, sideways, and grinned at her.
“Do it!” I cried, falling back. Diane giggled, and within seconds the two of us were on our backs in the snow. I could feel icy crystals on my neck and snow in my hair. We flapped our arms and legs in horizontal jumping jacks, creating long choir-robe sleeves and flowing dresses. When we’d flapped enough, we lay still. It was oddly peaceful. The commotion from the party seemed miles away, and Mr. Beady appeared to have taken a break from the bazooka blasting. We stared silently together at the winter stars overhead.
“I’m sorry about my mom,” I heard Diane say. “She’s hard to take these days.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” I said to the moon overhead. “She probably can’t help it.”
“It sure beats the way she was right after Dad moved out,” Diane continued. “She was a mess. If she wasn’t crying, she was yelling. Finally she got her doctor to prescribe something. But it’s made her…almost too happy, you know?”
“Maniacally happy?” I suggested.
“Exactly.” Diane laughed. “You always come up with just the right word, Brett.”
There was a pause as we both absorbed the effect of this compliment.
“Actually, I don’t,” I finally said.
“What do you mean?”
I took a deep breath.
“I didn’t have the right words when your Dad moved out. I blew you off even though Kit told me what had happened. That was bad.”
“Yeah, it was,” Diane said quietly.
“I was mad that you didn’t tell me about the cheerleading, you know?”
Silence.
“I was also mad when I saw you with Jeanne Anne. You know, that day after we made the phone call?”
“The day you hit her,” Diane added.
“It was like—she wrecked my life, and there you were talking to her. About me.”
“We were talking about Bob,” Diane said. “We were talking about the whole thing at the water fountain.”
“And me,” I added.
“Of course,” Diane replied. “But we weren’t being mean.”
“Maybe you weren’t, but she can’t help herself,” I said.
Diane sighed. “Okay, sometimes she’s mean. But she’s also really funny, you know? You never cut her any slack.”
“All right…you know…I don’t want to talk about Jeanne Anne. It gets my adrenaline going. I’m sorry I brought it up.”
We didn’t speak for a few minutes.
“You know why I didn’t tell you about the cheerleading?” Diane whispered.
“Why?”
“I knew it would make you mad.”
“No, it made me mad when I thought you were keeping secrets from me. You could have told me.”
“Brett…please.” Diane had a give-me-a-break tone in her voice. “You hate cheerleading and you are a very opinionated person and you would have made me feel terrible for trying out. And you know what? I wanted to try out. I’m glad I made it. It’s loads of fun, and if I were still your friend, I wouldn’t have even tried.”
Still your friend. Those words hung in the air. Like icicles suspended from a branch. Diane had said it so matter-of-factly.
“So…we’re not friends anymore?” Even I could tell how pathetic the question sounded.
“Well, what do you think?” Diane replied. “I mean, no offense, but I’ve moved on.”
“Moved on. Like, with Bob?”
“No, not just with Bob. With everything. With different interests, different people. I mean, I think we’ve outgrown each other, don’t you?”
I couldn’t believe her words. I couldn’t believe how utterly clueless I had been. Here I was, assuming that whatever had gone wrong between Diane and me could be fixed. A few apologies and we’d be right back where we’d started. Right?
Not right.
It occurred to me that Diane had to have learned this somewhere. Unfortunately, I put my thoughts to words.
“Is that what your dad told your mom?” I said. “That he’d outgrown her? That he’d moved on?”
Big mouth. Brett McCarthy: Violent, Suspended, Practically Friendless, Biggest Big Mouth in the Eighth Grade. Not that I was wrong, mind you. But I didn’t need to say it.
Diane stood up. She made two big boot prints in the middle of her angel.
“And you think Jeanne Anne’s mean?” she said quietly. “You don’t know anything—anything—about my family. Or me.”
I scrambled up from the snow, trashing my angel as well. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s like I told you. I’m not good with words. I use the wrong ones all the time. Do you know, I made a papier-mâché mouth for this party tonight? That’s what I want to blast from the bazooka: my big mouth.”
Diane was listening to me with her arms folded across her chest. Not very promising body language.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t think I care. I’m outta here.” She turned and began retracing our footprints back to the house. I decided to make one last try.
“You’re wrong!” I said. “I do know you. Better than Jeanne Anne. Better than Darcy. Or Bob, even. And you’re not like them, Diane.”
She interrupted her retreat to the house and turned to face me.
“What you don’t seem to get,” she finally said, “is that I’m not like you.”
sur•re•al
By midnight only the Emergency Contacts remained: Aunt Lorena and Uncle Jack (with Michael, of course) and Mr. Beady. They helped Mom and Dad deal with the post-party wreckage. Brownies mashed into the carpet. Crushed paper cups sticking out of the snow. Junk littered across the lawn from the blastings.
Until the last guest had left, Nonna remained in her armchair by the window, regally receiving gifts and greetings and watching from the comfort of her warm house. Now, party over, she finally got up.
“Eileen, don’t even think of cleaning,” Mom said. She was on her knees under the kitchen table, picking up spent birthday candles.
The highlight of the evening had been the brownie lighting. More than a hundred people, packed elbow to elbow inside the overheated house, or outside, encircling the bonfire dishes, held paper plates with little flickering lights and sang to Nonna. As one, we’d each blown out our candle and made a wish, and for a second there was ab
solute quiet. No one spoke as all our silent wishes floated up to the stars. Then everybody cheered.
“No, no,” Nonna said to Mom. “This girl knows her limits. But I do want Brett to help me outside. Just for a minute.”
This, it turns out, was no small task. It took a lot of layers to get Nonna warm enough to leave the house, especially at night.
“You look like the Michelin Man,” I commented as I zipped her parka. In addition to a turtleneck, sweater, and fleece vest, she wore long johns, sweats, and Mom’s ski pants.
“Why, thank you,” she said. “Grab that bag.” She pointed to a canvas tote near her armchair.
“Remind me what we’re doing?” I asked.
“Last blasts,” she said.
I had forgotten all about my gift. Diane was on my mind. After our “conversation,” she’d returned to the Gnome Home, pulled her mother aside, and whispered into her ear. Mrs. Pelletier had looked confused, but within minutes she had said goodbye to Nonna, packed Merrill and Diane into the car, and driven off.
I had seen this all from outside, standing alongside the trampled snow angels and watching it play out behind the picture window. It was surreal.
Surreal: having the intense irrational reality of a dream. Like when Jeanne Anne placed that call to Bob. Like watching an ambulance pull up your driveway. You have this uncontrollable desire to turn back time, rewind, return to normal.
I felt regret, no doubt about it. But another part of me felt…relief. The truth was out: Diane Pelletier was not my best friend. Hadn’t been for a while, only the Queen of Denial had been too obtuse to realize it. Our friendship had been redefining itself since…I don’t know…the beginning of junior high? So while it seemed like some single event—a prank phone call, a divorce, a sick grandmother—had pushed us apart, it was a lot more complicated and more gradual than that.
And here’s the really surprising part: It was okay. It was sad, but in the world of Big Bad Redefining Things, this was manageable. Diane was right: I wasn’t like her. And while that didn’t matter when we were very little girls, it did now. Especially because our differences had to do with people. She chose Jeanne Anne and the Darcy crowd. I chose Michael and Kit and the Fifth Period gang. We were worlds apart.
Michael was shaking a can of Aqua Net and Mr. Beady was waiting patiently as Nonna and I approached.
“Eileen, I do believe if you hit the ground, you’ll bounce,” he said.
“That’s always been a personal goal of mine,” Nonna declared, “but perhaps we can put it off for another evening. Right now, Beady, I want to see what you’ve got for me.”
Mr. Beady cleared his throat dramatically and reached into a deep inner pocket of his winter coat. He pulled out a paperback book. Opening it to a page he had folded, he began to read.
“‘What do they think has happened, the old fools, / To make them like this?’” he began. He did not get one word further. Nonna clapped her hands over her eyes and shook her head.
“No, not Philip Larkin!” she cried. “No no no Beady, he’s all wrong!”
“Once I might have disagreed with you, but not anymore,” Mr. Beady declared. “Eileen, I have finally come to your way of thinking about Philip Larkin, and tonight, as a special gift to you, I am going blast my copy of his collected works.”
“Do you have any idea what they are talking about?” Michael muttered to me.
“Sort of,” I replied. “I’ll tell you later.”
“So, now, Philip Larkin, to borrow from the words of Eileen’s favorite poet, Dylan Thomas, I bid you to go not gentle but loudly into this good night!” Mr. Beady proclaimed. He stuffed the book down the PVC pipe, squirted some hair spray into the base, and pressed the ignition key. Poof! The collected works shot from the pipe, and with a soft swoosh the sheets of glowing, singed papers floated back down to earth. Nonna beat her heavily mittened hands together hard.
“Beady, it takes a great man to admit he’s wrong,” Nonna said.
“Then I must be very great, because I am often wrong,” he replied, putting his arm around Nonna’s shoulders. “Except about you. Happy birthday, my dear, dear friend.” Nonna rested her head on Mr. Beady’s shoulder.
“Okay, who’s next?” Michael asked abruptly. “I think Brett still hasn’t gone.” I reached into Nonna’s tote and pulled out my papier-mâché mess. Leaves of red paint flaked off, dotting the snow.
“Well, if you use your imaginations, you can see that this is a mouth,” I explained.
“We don’t have that much imagination,” Michael said.
“Shut up,” I said. “Okay…this is a mouth. And as you all probably know, my big mouth has gotten me in a lot of trouble lately. More lately than you even realize. I think it’s something I need to get rid of.” I handed the mouth to Mr. Beady, who accepted it solemnly.
“Go on, Mr. Beady. Blast it,” I said. Mr. Beady stuffed, sprayed, and ignited, and my big mouth shot over the woods like a falling star. Nonna squeezed my shoulders and planted a soft kiss on my cold cheek.
“Michael’s already gone, so that leaves just me,” Nonna said.
“Why are you blasting? It’s your birthday!” I said.
“This is my gift to myself,” Nonna replied. She reached into the tote and pulled out a medium-sized Nalgene bottle.
“You’re getting rid of a water bottle?” Michael asked.
“No, it’s just a receptacle,” Nonna explained. “There’s something inside. But even though I need to lose it, I couldn’t bear to burn it in the bazooka, so I put it in this Nalgene. They’re practically indestructible, you know.”
“So what is it?” I asked.
“A secret,” she said. This caught me up short.
“Seriously. What are you blasting?” It never occurred to me that she wouldn’t answer.
“I’m not going to tell you, Brett,” she said firmly. “It’s private. Please respect that.” She handed the Nalgene to Mr. Beady.
Mr. Beady solemnly held the bottle over the mouth of the pipe for a moment before letting it slide down. I could see a white envelope stuffed inside.
“Three, two, one, fire!” Mr. Beady cried, and the Nalgene exploded from the pipe. The three of them whistled and clapped.
“And now, ladies—actually, lady—and gentlemen,” Nonna declared, “I am long overdue for my beauty sleep. Thank you very, very much for all your blasting efforts at this wonderful party.” She took my arm, and we headed slowly back to the Gnome Home. We didn’t speak. I think she was too tired to talk. I simply couldn’t.
I waited. I waited until the last brownie pan was scrubbed, dried, and put back in the cabinets, the last crushed candle scraped from the carpet. I waited until the taillights of Aunt Lorena and Uncle Jack’s car had disappeared down the dark driveway. Until Mr. Beady had dragged the bazooka into the garage and pulled the door shut. I waited as Mom and Dad got Nonna settled down for the night, turned off the Gnome Home kitchen lights, and walked with me across the snowy, glistening lawn to our house.
I waited for them to stop talking quietly in their bedroom, for the light beneath the crack of their door to go out. I waited for Dad’s heavy, rhythmic breathing, signaling sleep. Then I crept down the stairs, slipped into my boots and parka, and grabbed a flashlight.
There was a lot of stuff scattered in the snow—blasted bits of paper and cloth—but I knew the object I sought would be intact. Nalgenes can take a beating.
It had traveled far, halfway to the woods. It stuck upright in the snow and didn’t even look singed. The top unscrewed easily, and I pulled out the envelope.
It contained a single photograph, one I knew well. Nonna usually kept it on her fridge. It had been taken this past August, from our boat, the Dolly Llama. Nonna had clicked the photo as the Dolly, piloted by Mr. Beady, buzzed across the water toward Spruce Island. Mom, Dad, and I were on the shore, watching their approach. It was a brilliant summer weekend, one of those bright Maine weekends when every color burns intensely. Like th
e colors in the cap I’d knitted.
The resulting picture contained the island, the lighthouse tower in the background, and in one small corner the three of us, waving. The things Nonna would have to give up.
I don’t know how long I sat there, in the snow, holding the picture and the Nalgene and rocking back and forth, back and forth, feeling sadder than I ever thought I could possibly feel. And thinking, I’m never going to get up. I’m going to sit here and it’s always and forever going to be night and cold.
But after a while I realized my face was wet and swollen. And I was freezing. So of course I went inside. I brought the Nalgene and picture with me. And I put them inside my closet, on the floor, behind boxes of old shoes.
ir•ra•tion•al
Here’s the thing about lunch in junior high: It’s the Inferno.
What might appear innocently enough as a friendly cafeteria filled with tables is actually Hell, all set out like a giant banquet. Instead of growing boys and girls intent on filling their bellies with wholesome things, we’re obsessing about the social order. Choose your dining companions and take your place in the world. It’s as simple—and as awful—as that.
Since Suspension #2, I hadn’t eaten in the cafeteria. First there were the No-Hare lunch dates. Then, with the introduction of the lighthouse project, the whole Special Challenges class started eating a “working lunch” together in the classroom. Nonna, accompanied by Mr. Beady (he had become her designated driver at that point), joined us on her nonsick days. I don’t have to tell you how popular I got with the Fifth Period crowd when my grandmother started showing up with Super-Sized Raspberry Chunk Brownies.
One cold afternoon in January Mrs. Augmentino was absent and the “working lunch” canceled. So for the first time in months I found myself standing with a loaded tray in a noisy cafeteria, wondering where to sit.
I scanned the room for Kit. She usually ate with Girl Jocks, although she often floated to other tables. She played sax for the jazz ensemble, so sometimes she found herself seated at the Band Table. Occasionally she even joined Diane in Cheerleader World. She called those her “hungry days” and explained that she could pick up whole, uneaten sandwiches from Darcy and Co. “Those girls just don’t eat!” she’d say in amazement. But I knew it wasn’t really about food.