by Megan Crane
“Why?” Raine asked her. “Aren’t all department stores the same?”
Verena glared at her. “Take that back,” she demanded.
“I don’t really shop that much,” Raine said with a shrug.
“We are going to Macy’s first,” Verena said, her tone brooking no argument. “Follow me please, ladies.”
As we set off on our march across the crowded mall, I watched Norah eye Raine up and down, from her very San Francisco-y sandals to her floor-length skirt, tank top, and no less than seventy-six strands of beads. Her gaze lingered on Raine’s artfully tousled hair. Norah, meanwhile, looked beautifully pulled-together in a V-neck, black T-shirt and khaki shorts. The hot weather hadn’t affected her slick, pulled-back ponytail in the slightest. She looked cool and imposing from her diamond-studded ears to her sensible black Merrells.
Verena had dressed for the occasion in a vintage yellow gown with a gigantic bow, and high-heeled stiletto sandals. Despite the fact that she was wearing footwear that would have crippled me to stand still in, she was setting the pace with her long strides.
Everyone seemed so . . . extremely themselves. I glanced at myself in a glossy storefront as we passed and noticed that I didn’t look like much of anything. I was wearing the same comfortable cutoffs I always wore, and a white T-shirt. I’d piled my hair on top of my head with an elastic, and I had a light sweatshirt tied around my waist in case I got cold in the air-conditioning. I felt as if I could blend into any of the groups passing us without comment. No one would even notice. It was only when I was holding a cello that I burst out and became noticeable, I thought, consoling myself.
I paid more attention to the here and now when Raine peeled off into one of the small, expensive-looking boutiques along the way.
“Call me on my cell!” she cried, disappearing into the pounding techno music.
Norah, moments later, stopped walking outside Banana Republic.
“This is more my speed,” she told me. “I’ll catch up with you after I find what I need.”
“Whatever,” Verena said when Norah strode away. She linked her arm through mine. “It’s better this way. I was having visions of them throwing down in the Marc Jacobs section.”
I understood without having to ask that it would be unacceptable to ask who this Marc person was, so I just remained silent.
“I guess it’s for the best that they wanted to do their own thing,” I said as we stood on the Macy’s escalator headed for the women’s section. “I don’t know what I want anyway, and having them stand around would just be a recipe for disaster.”
The truth was, I couldn’t help thinking about what Lucas had said. That they didn’t care about me. That what they cared about was fighting with each other. No matter how hard I tried, I kept coming up against the unpleasant worry that he was right.
And I didn’t want him to be right. Because that meant he must love me enough to know me, and my family, so well. Which was unbearable, because I was about three seconds away from collapsing in on myself from the guilt of what had happened with Matt. Almost happened with Matt.
The worst part was, I kept expecting Matt to do something crazy. Show up at my house. Call. I wasn’t sure. I felt that at any moment he could burst forth and destroy the whole life I’d built. Or simply tell Lucas what I’d done and reveal that I’d destroyed it myself.
“What’s going on?” Verena asked, peering at me. “You look like you’re about to cry.”
“No,” I lied. “I’m not. I’m fine.”
But she was frowning at me as we stepped from the escalator.
“I know that face, ” she said, sucking in her breath. She looked horrified. And then she actually lifted up her hand and pointed at me. “Matt Cheney!” she cried, the way people might have cried witch in days of yore.
“What are you doing?” I tried to swat her hand down.
“You forget that I am the world’s leading expert on how miserable you get about him,” Verena hissed, still pointing. “I told you to stay away from him. Why don’t you listen to me?”
“I’m listening to you!” I looked around wildly. “Everyone in the entire King of Prussia Mall is listening to you!”
“What about Lucas?” Verena demanded. “Did you stop for one second and think about him?”
“The day I went over to my mom’s house, and Matt was there . . . ” I couldn’t bear to go on, but I didn’t think I could stand the way she was looking at me, either. “There was this moment.”
“A moment,” she echoed. Disapproving Puritans in The Scarlet Letter were less stern. She crossed her arms over her chest.
“It was like . . . ” I blew out a breath. “He almost kissed me.”
“Define almost,” she snapped.
“We almost kissed,” I snapped right back. “Almost, but then we didn’t. We didn’t actually touch.”
“Did you slap him upside his head?” Verena asked angrily. “Maybe using the hand with the diamond ring?”
“I pushed him away,” I said, sounding affronted, although I knew better. I had been saving myself more than stopping him.
“But you’ve been holding on to it ever since, haven’t you,” Verena said, her voice colder with every syllable. “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe you would throw away everything you have like this.”
“I think you’re overreacting.”
“Really?” She shook her head. “I know where this ends already.” She threw up her hands. Literally. “I can’t watch you do this again, Courtney. I refuse.”
And then she turned on her heel and walked away from me.
I made Verena’s excuses to my sisters when they turned up. I claimed she’d had an allergy attack, which, given her feelings about Matt Cheney, wasn’t far from the truth.
“Maybe she decided to go put on something more appropriate,” Norah said with a sniff. “This is a suburban mall, not a burlesque show.”
“Those of us who aren’t happy looking like Soccer Mom Clones,” Raine drawled, all kinds of patronizing, “express ourselves through our clothes.”
Norah let her eyes travel from the top of Raine’s head to her Birkenstocks.
“Let me guess,” she murmured. “You’re expressing your affinity for Les Misérables? Or is it the orthopedic shoes that define you?”
As Raine bared her teeth at Norah, I tuned them out and looked for something to wear. Without Verena, I worried I’d be lost, but it turned out I didn’t have to worry. I knew the dress the moment I saw it, and I was even more sure the moment I slipped it on in the dressing room. It was a dark copper color, almost gold, that fit me like a column of fire and made my skin and hair come alive. Even with my hair twisted up on the back of my head in a scrunchie, I was struck dumb by my reflection.
I padded out of the dressing room in my bare feet to the larger, loungelike area, where my sisters sat waiting for me on the farthest possible opposite edges of the same couch. I could see no visible marks on either of them, so assumed they’d kept themselves to verbal sniping. Unlike some of their more memorable skirmishes.
I stopped thinking about their troubled history because I could see myself in the big mirror at the end of the room. I was all gold and flame.
Noticeable, as me. No cello involved.
I liked it. More than liked it.
Norah, a Banana Republic bag in hand because no store’s inventory would dream of defying her when she needed something, nodded. She had a curious look on her face.
“You should wear that color more often,” she said. “It does wonders for your skin. You look great.”
“Thank you,” I said. I instructed myself not to immediately wonder how my skin looked with every other hue in the color spectrum. I told myself—sternly—that she had not meant that the way it sounded.
Then I looked at Raine, who was eyeing me in a way I found familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it.
“That’s quite a dress,” she said when she saw I was looking at her.
“She looks wonderful,” Norah said, glaring at Raine. “Doesn’t she?”
But Raine was wearing the strangest expression then, and I had a picture-perfect memory of that yoga studio in Berkeley, and the look on Raine’s face when she’d nodded hello to the odious Bronwen. It was that same look. The look I knew meant she didn’t like Bronwen at all.
But that couldn’t be right.
Bronwen was nasty and who knew what a long strange war she and Raine had been in. For all I knew, Bronwen was one of the housemates in that house in addition to being messy with Matt. That relationship was far more complicated than I could imagine, I was sure.
And anyway, I wasn’t Bronwen. I was Raine’s sister. Her favorite sister.
But that wasn’t how she was looking at me.
“I’m so glad I got to see this,” she told me, her voice soft and easy.
I found I couldn’t believe it. She cocked her head to the side like she was some kind of sparrow.
“I had no idea how pretty you were.”
“You have to drop whatever you’re doing and come down here right now,” Verena commanded me over the phone. “I’m regretting making this phone call even as I’m doing it.”
It was noticeably loud and chaotic where she was, as I imagined it would be anywhere out and about in Philadelphia on a Friday night, and she was shouting over the background noise into her cell phone. In our apartment, by way of contrast, the AC was keeping everything cool, Law & Order was on television, Lucas was barricaded in his office, and everything was peaceful and good. Loud and chaotic was unappealing in the extreme.
“I thought we were in a fight,” I said. “That was the impression I got when you disappeared in the King of Prussia Mall. Call me crazy.”
“I decided, totally at the last minute, to come down to this new ‘fusion’ open mike night thing,” Verena told me, much as if I hadn’t spoken. “I read about it online this afternoon and I thought, what the hell? Why not try some fusion?”
“And then I definitely thought we were in a fight with the not talking for days,” I continued. Because we could both have our own private conversation. “And I don’t know what you mean by fusion, anyway.”
“In this case, it means you get the stage for five minutes and you can do whatever you want on it,” she said, surprising me by responding directly to me. “I saw some kid with bongos, and no, I’m afraid I’m not kidding. It’s seriously open mike. Spoken word followed by bongos followed by the comedy stylings of yours truly.”
“So I guess we’re not in a fight then.” I waited. She was silent. “And now I’m confused again.”
“We’re not in a fight,” she said finally, but I could hear her teeth grit as she said it. “You’re my best friend no matter what you do, Courtney. Even if it’s masochistic, suicidal, and plain fucking stupid, that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
“Um, thanks. I love you, too.”
“I don’t care if you love me right now,” she snapped. “What I am trying to tell you is that when I signed up for my spot, guess who’s name was already down for a 10:20 slot?”
“Someone famous?” I queried. “Ooh, was it someone really famous? Like David Letterman?”
I could actually feel the force of Verena’s glare from across the span of Center City, Philadelphia.
“David Letterman?” she demanded. “Why would David Letterman be doing a five-minute open mike fusion event with an opening bongo act?”
“To keep his stand-up skills fresh?” I asked. My knowledge of stand-up comedy was limited to a romance novel I’d read once in junior high, that depressing Billy Crystal movie, and Verena’s attempts, which usually involved her twisting things that she talked about anyway into “bits” that, unsurprisingly I felt, made people laugh.
“Um, no,” Verena said after a moment. “David Letterman is not performing at The Lodge at 10:20 on a random Saturday night.” She heaved a long-suffering sigh. “But, and may I someday forgive myself for this, Matt Cheney is.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Wait, where are you going?”
Lucas squinted up at me from the huge flat-screen monitor of one of his computers. He looked exhausted. But that was to be expected, as he’d been living in his office pretty much around the clock for going on weeks now.
And of course, everything was weird between us. Reason enough to hide in an office if you had one.
“Verena needs moral support,” I told him, the lie out and sitting there in the middle of the office floor before I could do anything to stop it.
I hadn’t planned to say that, I didn’t think. I didn’t know why I had. But once it had been said, I didn’t see how I could take it back. If I now said, Oh, and Matt Cheney is also performing, as a big coincidence, he would know I was lying. That I had lied. That, more to the point, I thought there was something to lie about.
“Is she doing a new routine?” Lucas asked. “I liked her old one. I thought that whole part about the anorexic girls with pets who outweigh them was hilarious. She should keep that.”
Now that I was actively lying, instead of simply not sharing information, I didn’t know what to do. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and hoped he wouldn’t notice that I’d felt the need to put on a significant amount of mascara to go sit and support Verena.
“I like all her routines,” I said, more to the space in the floor where my lie was still squatting than to him.
Lucas looked at me, and I could actually feel his attention sharpen, like he’d been distracted before but was just that moment realizing the full and obvious sketchiness of my behavior.
Then from behind him, the incoming e-mail alert beeped, and he blinked.
“Have fun,” he said, his attention already shifting from me. “Laugh for me.”
Because, of course, he trusted me.
A fact that caused shame to burn through me, though it didn’t keep me from leaving.
When I arrived at the bar, in a mildly rundown section of West Philly, it was far more crowded than I’d expected it to be, given the neighborhood. Apparently, fusion was hip. I paid a small cover and then let my eyes adjust to the dim interior light inside. There was a comic onstage, bombing, if the high level of chatter from the rest of the place was anything to go by.
A closer look showed me that the comic onstage was, in fact, the very bald, very intense, and very short man who had offered me unsolicited moral support at the previous open mike event.
“Love,” he ranted into the microphone, “is a sick old dog on a hot summer’s day. You know it’s true, people!”
The mike picked up some reverb when he screamed that last part, which definitely got him some attention. None of it positive. Verena had explained to me that sometimes, when the crowd was already lost, she antagonized them just to make sure they remembered her name. It was better than nothing, she felt.
Yet somehow, I didn’t think that’s what he was doing. Or anyway, not on purpose.
I applauded loudly for the small, angry man when he stormed off the stage, and never mind that I was largely on my own.
Knowing that the performers often hung out around the bar while they waited for their slot, and not wanting to run into Matt Cheney, at least not before I heard him play, I snuck around the side and found a small table almost behind a column. I could see the stage and the bar, but only someone looking for me would be able to spot me there. I felt sly. When the waitress came by, I ordered two beers and waited.
“Hey,” Verena said about ten minutes later, slipping into the seat next to me. She looked stiff and cold—i.e., pissed at me—but she picked up the beer I’d ordered for her and took a pull. “How long have you been here?”
“Not long,” I said. I frowned at her. “Is it weird that when Lucas asked where I was going, I told him you needed moral support? And I didn’t mention Matt Cheney at all?”
Verena blew out a breath. She flicked me a cold look
from beneath the extravagant false eyelashes she was sporting for the evening.
“Do you really want me to answer that?” she asked testily.
“No.” I sighed. “I already know what you think.”
“I wish I knew what you were thinking,” she retorted. “Lying to that sweet man of yours. And for what?” She waved her hand at the stage. “This nonsense? I almost wish you were fucking him in some motel room. At least that would be more honest.”
“God, Verena,” I muttered. My mind shied away from the word and the associated images. Not because I was a prude. But because thinking about fucking Matt Cheney could lead nowhere good.
“I said it would be more honest and I meant it,” she snapped. “You wafting around like Ophelia is maddening. Let me remind you, Matt Cheney is not Hamlet. Not by a long shot.”
“I get it,” I said, meaning, please shut up. “You’re the one who called me, remember?”
“Let me share with you what I hope happens here,” she continued, unbothered by the fact I was scowling at her. “Didn’t you say he was a bouncer now? I’m hoping he crashes and burns up there, so you can get that romantic idea of him right out of your head.”
“It could happen,” I agreed, but I doubted it.
I had always loved Matt’s music. His scratchy voice and his acoustic guitar had been beyond beautiful to me. Even if he hadn’t played in a long time, I imagined I would still feel that thrill inside that I associated with really, truly being moved by the music. I didn’t think I’d enjoyed his music because I’d been so young and so in love with him, either. While those things might have affected other areas of my judgment, I was pretty sure they hadn’t affected my hearing.
I had precious memories of that airless room up under the eaves in his grandfather’s house. I would sit on the bed with my feet dangling free, and Matt would sit in his chair with his guitar and pluck melodies out of thin air. When I thought of his songs, I thought less of the finished ones he wrote and more of his intent look of concentration as he bent over the wooden neck of his guitar and messed around with small, haunting, little tunes. I’d felt suspended in the middle of something magical. It was hard, even all these years later, to shake the spell.