Halfway through our yogurts, Saff and I decide we’re ready to watch our next Mom video. So after Vanessa heads home to work on a paper, Fletch agrees to drive us out to the Johnsons’ place. We message Micah to give him a heads up, and he meets us at the door. Micah and Fletch loiter, perhaps wanting to ensure that our truce is holding.
“Sure, you can watch with us, thanks for asking,” I say dryly, and they both look embarrassed, but truthfully I don’t mind having them here as a buffer. We all wedge together on the couch, with the boys on either side like crusts of bread.
The camera fumbles around. It focuses on a shabby pink piggy bank. “I remember that,” I say, pointing at the screen. “Remember how we used to share it? Weren’t we saving up for something special?”
“Yeah. I think we wanted one of those mini play kitchens for our room.”
Mom’s voice interrupts us. “So money’s a strange thing. Sometimes it saves people. Sometimes it ruins them. Do you know that lottery winners are no happier after they win than they were before?”
“Oh my god. Did she win the lottery?” I grab onto Saff’s arm. “Are we gonna be rich?”
“Chill, Cayenne. I think that was just an example.”
“Rats.” I snap my finger, disappointed.
“It’s because of how complicated money can be—how it can insert itself into the cracks and crevices of a relationship and push people further apart—that I haven’t given you any yet. I wanted to wait until you were both mature enough to handle it.”
I shriek. “She left us money!” I attempt to stand up and do the happy dance, but my ankle does not cooperate. “Oh this is perfect timing. I need a new car—”
Saff pauses the video and stands up too. “If we have money, we can’t spend it. We need to save it for college or grad school or maybe even a first home.”
“How old are you, forty?” We’re nearly nose to nose.
“Wait,” says Fletch. “Don’t start arguing yet. You don’t even know if it’s enough money to spend time worrying about.”
“What I do know is that I’m not letting Cayenne waste our safety net.” Saff’s close enough that I can smell her bubble gum.
“It wouldn’t be a waste!” I say, resisting an urge to shove her backwards. “How exactly am I supposed to get around without a car? What, you’re gonna drive me everywhere for the next three years until I can save up for one?”
Fletch eases the computer screen closed, and Micah edges in between us. He smells clean, like soap and antiperspirant. “Let’s wait on this one,” Micah says. “Seems like your mom’s right. You need to be in a better place before you’re ready to co-manage money.”
Fletch steps behind Saff and wraps his arms around her in a bear hug. “You can try again in a few days. Just sleep on it.”
✱✱✱
I message Axel on the drive home. Mom left us money.
Seriously? How much? He adds googly-eyed emojis.
Don’t know. Micah made us stop watching the video. We were arguing. Growling emoji.
Does she have it stashed somewhere? Or in an account?
Knowing her, there will be a treasure hunt with clues. It’s probably buried in Alicia’s backyard in a tin box. I’ll find out when we finish the video. I glance at Saff and Fletch in the front seat. Saff’s resting her head on his shoulder while he drives.
This is great news, Cay. Just think of all we can do with a chunk of cash. He adds images of gold and stacks of dollar bills.
We?
Of course. We could get our own place, or start a business. Something cool like that. Smiley emoji.
Maybe. My own frozen yogurt shop. Or something.
Wait. Rewind. Why were you surprised when I said “we”? I’m offended. He adds a crying heart. We’re a unit. We’ve been a couple since forever.
I seem to remember him telling me that he wanted to be independent, but whatever. Sorry. I’m pissing people off right and left. It’s becoming my specialty.
I forgive you.
I’m just overwhelmed. Probably gonna save the money anyway. That’s what Saff wants. She’s the RESPONSIBLE one.
Phsh. Being responsible is overrated. Speaking of which, I have some new ideas for our Pinnacle Peak jump, for when you’re able to use your foot again.
The last thing I want to do is jump off another cliff, but I’m not sure how to tell Axel that. Well, I have some new ideas for activities that don’t involve putting weight on my foot . . . That should redirect his train of thought.
Staring at a screen while I’m in the backseat is giving me a nauseating headache, so I put the phone away.
Chapter 29
Saff ignores me all through dinner. Maybe I should listen to Micah and Fletch. I don’t care about the money if it’s going to drive a bigger wedge between us. I should forfeit. Just let her do whatever she wants. Needless to say, I find this infuriating.
Every single person we know would say Saff’s more responsible than me. But aren’t there different ways to be responsible? Aren’t there different ways to get the most out of life? Just because I do things my own way doesn’t mean my priorities are all wrong.
I remember what Micah told me: I don’t think it matters what your plan is . . . But you gotta have a plan.
I’m sitting at my laptop stewing about this when inspiration hits. Moments later I’m looking at the home page for Coast Community College.
Just because I didn’t apply to any universities doesn’t mean I don’t want to go to college. I could knock out some classes at a junior college and then transfer somewhere else. When I close my eyes and think about my future, I always envision myself doing something supremely cool like physical therapy or psychology. Obviously those jobs require graduate school on top of a basic college education. Sure, swirling yogurt in a shop would be fun, but in the long run I know I need more than that.
I scan the courses. Names like Physics 101, Intro to Greek History, and Principles of Retailing make me want to pull off my toenails one by one. I consider Hip Hop A: The Fundamentals. Can you really get college credit for that?
I scan the culinary courses. Basics of Tuscan Cooking, The Essentials of Pan Sauces, Chowdah!, Pretty Pastries, Cooking with Herbs and Spices . . . Huh. That might be fun, actually. Maybe I can start out with a non-academic class, just to get my feet wet.
Cooking with Herbs and Spices meets Wednesday evenings during the summer semester. That sounds like something Mom would’ve liked, what with her whole spice obsession. Maybe.
I think I’m starting to see what Micah meant about making plans. They don’t have to confine me or define me. I’m not limiting myself to a certain path, I’m just opening up possibilities.
And I know I don’t need a surprise inheritance to do that. Plus the money from Mom doesn’t feel real. It’s like Monopoly money. My visions of a car were just make believe, like fantasizing about moving into a mansion or marrying a millionaire. I can manage fine without all that.
Saff’s right. Though I won’t admit it unless pressed.
✱✱✱
I can’t sleep. I’ve counted sheep, sucked in meditative breaths, and visualized myself on a beach. Normally I’d read a journal entry, but I’ve gone through them all. So I grab a stack of half-page sticky notes and try to compose my own entry. I’m not sure I’ll ever let anyone read it. But I figure I’ll keep it in my room, in case I eventually want to stick it into the journal.
Little-known facts about me —Cayenne
I believe chocolate should be a vegetable, and Hot Cheetos a fruit.
I am a secret toenail biter. (Yes, I can reach.)
Sometimes it’s hard for me to show people how I really feel. I communicate my feelings in my own secret language. My jokes are my hugs, my jabs are my kisses.
I pretend I’m responding to Mom’s entry. The idea of responding directly to Saffron feels too exposing or something. A visual pops into my head: me standing post-shower, totally naked and trying to cover myself with the jou
rnal and my hands. But why? Why can’t I let Saff see who I am? Why is it safe to write to my dead mother but not to my sister? It’s not like she hasn’t earned my trust. All our lives, Saff’s been my rock.
I pick up my pen and add one last bullet point.
There is no one in this world I love more than Saffron Silk.
Chapter 30
“I’ve been thinking . . .” Saff dumps three cups of frozen berries into the blender.
“Ooh. Don’t do that. It causes all kinds of problems.” I hand her a carton of low-fat milk. Our recipe calls for juice, but we always like creamy smoothies as our after-school snack.
Saffron turns to me as she pours the milk in. “Listen, I’m not sure I want the money Mom left us.”
I’m stunned. I’ve been meaning to apologize to her, but maybe she’s beating me to it. New car, here I come! I’m considering breaking out the happy dance when Saff goes on, “Instead of this money making me excited, it just makes me sad.”
I think for a moment. The idea of the money does give me a hard-to-define feeling deep in my gut, one that’s not particularly pleasant. But how can money be a bad thing?
“I’d rather have her, you know? The money, however much it is, doesn’t make up for losing her.” Saff peels a banana and dumps it in, then starts the blender, and the whirring blurs out anything else she might be saying. After the frozen berries are sufficiently smashed, she turns it off.
“So I kind of don’t want it.” She pours the deep purple liquid into glasses.
“You could donate your share to me,” I suggest.
“Shut up.” Saff rolls her eyes and pointedly sets one of the smoothie glasses out of my reach while sipping her own. “I think we just need to press pause on this whole thing. Maybe we’re not ready. If we just keep the money where Mom left it—in investments or savings accounts or whatever—it’ll keep growing, and that will give us time to think. Let’s hold off on deciding anything for, say, five years.”
I grab the smoothie. “Personally, I think we’re as ready as we’ll ever be, but I guess there’s no hurry. We’ve been living without this money for fourteen years. I’m okay with waiting until we’re in a better place to hash this out.” I really am. Something shifted in me overnight. “And if we can’t agree on a joint purchase in five years, we can just split it down the middle.”
My phone buzzes on the table, and I peek at the number, but I don’t recognize it. “Telemarketer,” I pronounce, choosing not to pick up. A minute later, “voicemail” previews on my screen.
Just as I go to listen to the message, Saff’s phone rings. She checks the screen. “It must be telemarketer afternoon.”
“Let me see.”
Saff holds up her phone and the same number previews on the screen.
“Uh-oh. Maybe there’s an emergency. Pick it up.”
Saff puts her phone to her ear. “Too late. It just went to voicemail.”
I listen to my message. “Hi Cayenne, this is Natalie, the genetic counselor with Nola Health Group. I’m calling you to set up an appointment for you to come in so that I can review your BRCA test results.”
The message for Saff is identical, down to the inflection in the way Natalie says her name. I pull Saff over to the kitchen table. “Let’s call her back. Put her on speaker.”
Saff dials, and we sit, knee to knee, listening to the shrill ring. “Genetics at Nola Health Group, this is Natalie.”
“Uh, hi, Natalie. This is Saffron Silk and my sister Cayenne. We have you on speaker phone, and we’re just calling you back.”
“Oh hi ladies.” Her voice is lightly gravelly, as though years of sharing bad genetic news has scraped up her vocal cords. “Let’s set up a time for you to come in for an appointment.”
“Any chance you can just tell us over the phone?” I press. “Save us the gas money?”
Momentary pause. “I’m afraid our protocol is to go over the results in person.”
We set up appointments for Thursday afternoon, and hang up the phone. “This can’t be good news,” I tell Saff, and my own throat is gravelly. “She’d have told us if we were negative. Shit.”
“We don’t know for sure, Cay,” Saff says. I decide the graveled throat phenomenon is contagious. Because she’s got it too. “We have to wait and see.”
✱✱✱
Waiting for our genetic appointments makes my body heavy and sluggish. The night before our appointments, I craft my next journal entry response.
Here’s the thing—you don’t know me.
Maybe no one knows me.
If nobody gets close, then I can’t be hurt. Then I can’t lose anyone.
I’ve taken great pains to lower expectations. If I don’t try then I don’t have to hope. There’s no pressure, no one being let down if I stumble. If nobody expects anything from me, and if I don’t expect anything of myself, then there is no disappointment.
Maybe, Mom, I was this brilliant, fragile little china teacup. And maybe when you died, I cracked. Tiny spidery cracks etched along my teacup sides. And maybe the only way to survive—to hold onto any usefulness—was to mend myself with thick clumpy clay, sealing the cracks shut. Not so brilliant and shiny anymore, but a helluva lot more resilient.
I don’t care to be that brilliant fragile little china teacup anymore, Mom. I’m sorry to disappoint you. I am no longer the little girl you knew. Frankly, I’m not sure I want to be.
Tomorrow I find out whether we have this broken gene, whether I’m likely to die young like my mother, or whether I could live to be old enough to wrinkle. I try to picture myself shriveled up like a prune, with lines that fan out from my eyes and crease the corners of my mouth.
I fail. I cannot imagine myself old.
I know in my heart that an early death is lurking in my cells. I just hope the Silk Curse spares Saffron. Please.
✱✱✱
My appointment is first. Saff sits in the waiting room with Ryan/Dad, who decided to come along for moral support. Natalie’s office feels even smaller and more confining than last time.
“Let’s cut to the chase here,” I say to Natalie as soon as I sit down. “I appreciate the small talk and I’m sure you’re a nice enough person, but I already know what you’re going to say.”
Natalie rests a stack of papers on her lap. “I’m afraid you’re positive for the BRCA 1 gene mutation.”
Shit. I knew it.
She rushes to add, “But I’m here to reassure you that there are many options.”
Natalie probably talks to me for another half hour, but I can’t retain anything she’s saying. “With this gene mutation, about fifty-seven to eighty-four percent of women develop breast cancer by age seventy. Risk of ovarian cancer is up to fifty-four percent. And remember, ovarian cancer is often difficult to detect. Also, the family history of cancer can either increase or decrease this risk.” I’m nodding and listening, but I feel underwater. All her words slur together in my waterlogged brain, and I can’t wait to leave. Weirdly enough, my brain exits the room long before my body does. I send all my mental energy to Saffron, and hope her results are negative.
Back in the waiting room, Saff looks at me expectantly. I go to high-five her and joke, “I’m in the club.”
Saff’s face crumbles. She stands up slowly and follows Natalie to the exam room. She looks like she’s walking down death row. Ryan/Dad picks at his fingernails. The corner of his thumb is starting to bleed but he keeps picking.
Saffron stays in the room forever, probably asking a million questions about her results. With every minute, my heart sinks further. When she steps out, her cheeks are streaked with tears, and she’s turning interesting shades of pink and purple.
I’m beyond pissed. Of course we both have it. We’re the random coins, flipped simultaneously, and both landing on our heads.
I hate this curse! Poor Saff. She’s silent-crying all over herself. “It’s okay, Saff,” I tell her. “We have lots of options. We’re young. We don’t even
have to think about this for a couple years, remember? Not until we’re twenty.”
Maybe the stale Genetics closet has waterlogged her brain too, because except for her gaspy-crying breaths, she stays quiet all the way home.
When Ryan/Dad pulls up to the curb, he leaves the car running. We all sit there, wasting gas and polluting the environment, until he finally turns the key to settle the engine.
“The Serenity Prayer. You ever hear of it?” he asks. His cologne is too strong. I shouldn’t have chosen the front passenger seat. Saff is sitting in the back, her head pressed against the window, and her body curled up like she’s trying to fold herself in half.
“What is with your strange habit of throwing out non sequiturs?” I’m not in the mood for Ryan/Dad to get philosophical with us.
Ryan/Dad seems unfazed, which irritates me even more. “They say the Serenity Prayer at the end of twelve-step meetings. It’s about having the grace to accept the things we can’t change, and the courage to change the things we can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
“Wow, thanks for the fortune cookie.”
He taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “It’s just—those words helped me through the hardest times in my life. I watched your mother die—I watched the cancer suck the life out of her, no matter how hard she fought. I don’t ever want to”—his voice breaks and he shifts in the front seat, turning slightly away—“to watch either of you go through that.”
“I don’t think it’s up to you,” I snap at him, too angry to care that he’s clearly in pain. “You can’t control the Silk Curse. No one can.”
Hearing my words out loud makes them feel real. For most of my life I’ve assumed that I’ll die young, that it’s inevitable. I think taking risks made me feel like I could decide how I live and when I die, like I could pull the puppet strings. As if I could dictate the course of my own life. As if that could somehow protect me from losing someone else. Which makes no sense. It’s like quarterbacks wearing their lucky undies before a big game.
How to Live on the Edge Page 17