I never asked her. Why didn’t I ask her? One of the worst parts about someone dying is thinking back to all those times you didn’t ask the right questions, all those times you stupidly assumed you’d have all the time in the world. And this too: how all that time feels like not much time at all. What’s left feels like something manufactured. The overexposed ghosts of memories.
In “The Waste Land,” my mother had underlined the first sentence and marked it with two exuberant asterisks: “April is the cruellest month.”
Why is April the cruellest month? I’m not sure. Lately, they all seem cruel in their own way. It’s September now: sharp pencils. A new year and not a new year at all. Both too early and too late for resolutions and fresh starts.
My mother’s books are packed up in cardboard boxes and getting moldy in a self-storage unit in Chicago, their paper smell turned damp and dusty. I don’t let myself think about that or about how all matter disintegrates. About how all that highlighting was a waste.
“It’s a four-hundred-thirty-four-line poem. So that’s what, like, four hundred thirty-four tweets?” Mrs. Pollack gets a laugh. She’s young—maybe late twenties—and attractive: leopard-print leggings, leather peep-toe wedges, a silk tank top that shows off her freckled shoulders. She’s better dressed than I am. One of those teachers who the kids have all tacitly agreed to root for, maybe even to admire, since her life doesn’t seem so far out of our reach. She’s something recognizable.
On my first day, she introduced me to the class but didn’t make me stand up and say something about myself, like the rest of my teachers had done. Considerate of Mrs. Pollack to spare me that indignity.
“So, guys, ‘The Waste Land’ is hard. Really, really hard. Like, college-level hard, but I think you’re up for it. Are you up for it?”
She gets a few halfhearted yeses. I don’t say anything. No need to let my nerd flag fly just yet.
“Nuh-uh. You can do better than that. Are you up for it?” Now she gets full-on cheers, which impresses me. I thought the kids here only got excited about clothes and Us Weekly and expensive trips to pad their college applications. Maybe I’ve written them off too quickly. “Okay, here’s how we’re going to do this. You’re going to partner up into teams of two, and over the next two months, on a weekly basis, you are going tackle this poem together.” Oh no. No. No. No. You know the only thing worse than being the new kid in school? Being the new kid who needs to find a partner. Crap.
My eyes bounce around the room. Theo and Ashby are in the front, and it’s a given that Theo will not help a stepsister out. The two blondes who made fun of me earlier are sitting to my right. Turns out their names are Crystal (blond) and Gem (blonder), which would be hilarious if they weren’t nasty. Look left. The girl next to me wears cool big black Warby Parker frames and ripped jeans and looks like the kind of person who would have been my friend back home. But before I can think of a way to ask her to team up, she’s already turned to the person next to her and done the whole let’s be partners thing without exchanging a word.
Suddenly, the whole room is paired up. I look around, try not to seem too desperate, though there is a pleading in my eyes. Will I have to raise my hand and tell Mrs. Pollack that I don’t have a partner? Please, God, no. Just as I bend my arm, ready to raise it in defeat, someone taps my shoulder from behind with a pen. I breathe a sigh of relief and turn. I don’t care who it is. Beggars and all that.
No. Way.
The Batman.
My stomach does an embarrassing squeeze. He gives me a little nod, like Theo’s guy nod, but this time, there’s no mistaking it: he’s clearly asking me to be his partner. His blue eyes are piercing, almost violating, like he isn’t just looking at me but inside me too. Measuring something. Seeing if I’m worth his time. I blink, look down, nod back, give him the slightest smile as a thanks. I turn forward again and use all of my willpower not to put my hands against my cheeks to cool them down.
I spend the rest of class wondering why the Batman picked me. Maybe I look smart? And if I look smart, does that mean I look dorky? I mentally scan my outfit: plaid button-down, Gap jeans cuffed up, my old beat-up Vans. My Chicago uniform, minus the heavy jacket. Nothing too telling there, especially now that I’m scrunchie-free. My first instinct is that, for whatever reason, he’s just doing a good deed. I must have looked pathetic, wildly scanning the room for a willing face, especially after he saw me getting bitched out by Gem earlier and embarrassing myself on the first day of school. Even Ken Abernathy, who according to SN has a farting problem, found a partner immediately.
When the bell rings and we’re all packing up our laptops—of course I’m the only one here without a fancy, slim computer—the Batman stops at my desk, stares me down again with those killer eyes. Am I just imagining that they have a sociopathic hint to them? He can’t be that mean. Picking me was actually a nice thing to do. I don’t remember taking the time to befriend a new kid back home. Hot and nice. That. Is. So. Not. Good.
I realize just in time that I need to stop staring and speak up.
“So do you want to exchange numbers or something?” I ask, and hate the nervous lilt in my voice that makes me sound way too much like the girls who gather around him at lunchtime. It’s just that I haven’t really spoken much in weeks. Scarlett and I mostly text. My dad has been so busy looking for a new job and spending time with his new wife that we’ve barely seen each other. He’s not my favorite person right now anyway. I don’t like this new version of him, distracted and married to a stranger, forcing me into an unrecognizable life without a say in the matter.
And that’s it. The sum total of people left in my world.
“Nah. I’ll just do the assignment and put both of our names on it.” This guy doesn’t wait for my okay. He just nods again, like I’ve said yes. Like he asked and I answered a question.
Right. Maybe not so nice after all.
“But—” But what? I was looking forward to being your partner? I like your serial killer eyes? Or worst of all: Please? I don’t finish speaking. Just look back down at my leather book bag, which I thought was cool until I got here and realized everyone else’s was a fancy French brand that you hear about in rap songs.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get an A.”
Then the Batman walks out so fast that it’s almost like I imagined him there. Some perverse version of a superhero. And I am left alone to gather up my stuff, wondering how long it will be till someone talks to me again.
Me: It will get better, right? Eventually, it will get better.
Scarlett: I’m sorry I’m not the type to lower our discourse to emoji use since you totally deserve a smiley face right now. Yes, it will get better.
Me: Ha. It’s just. Whatever. Sorry to keep whining.
Scarlett: That’s what I’m here for. BTW, that email you forwarded? My guess: TOTALLY A SECRET ADMIRER.
Me: You’ve read too many books. I’m being set up. And stop YELLING AT ME.
Scarlett: No way. I didn’t say he was a vampire. I said he was a secret admirer. Most def.
Me: Wanna take bets?
Scarlett: You should just know by now that I’m always right. It’s my one magic power.
Me: What’s mine?
Scarlett: TBD.
Me: Thanks a lot.
Scarlett: Kidding. You are strong. That’s your power, girl.
Me: My arms are v. toned from stress-eating ALL the cookies. Hand to mouth. Repeat 323 times. Hard-core workout.
Scarlett: Seriously, for a second, J? Just because you’re strong doesn’t mean you shouldn’t ask for help sometimes. Remember that. I’m here, ALWAYS, but you might want to take up that offer from someone local.
Me: Whatever. Ugh. Thanks, Dr. Phil. I miss you!
Scarlett: Miss you too! Go write back to SN. NOW. NOW. NOW. Now tell me the truth? Anyone at your school unusually pale?
To: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
From: Jessie A. Holmes (jesster567@gmail.
com)
Subject: Conjuring my spirit guide
Okay, I call mercy. You’re right. This place is a war zone, and I could use some help. So I’m going against my gut here and just hoping I can trust you. Are you still game for just a few questions? (And if this is Deena, you win. You got me.)
To: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])
From: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
Subject: at your service, m’lady
now you got me curious about this Deena chick. why is she out to get you? the offer still stands.
To: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
From: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])
Subject: I’m virtually curtsying.
The Deena story isn’t particularly interesting. Stupid high school girl stuff. Speaking of which: you said that there was a short list of people I should befriend? Not to sound too desperate, but some guidance would be appreciated on that front.
What’s up with WV Giving Day and what will happen to my toes if I leave them exposed?
Do those weird lunch cards come preloaded with $$ or what?
To: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])
From: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
Subject: toes chop suey
start with Adrianna Sanchez. she’s shy, so she won’t approach you first. But she’s cool and smart and secretly funny once you get to know her. I don’t know why, but I feel like you two could be good friends.
community service day with Habitat for Humanity. it involves hammers, hence closed-toe shoes. your Vans should be fine. they’re cool, by the way.
nope, not preloaded. machine outside the caf takes only tens and twenties and credit cards.
Huh. Maybe this SN guy knows me better than I thought. Adrianna Sanchez is the girl with the oversized Warby Parker glasses who sits next to me in English class. The one who reminds me of my friends back home. I blush a little at his Vans compliment. I’m such a sucker.
To: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
From: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])
Subject: The One Percent
Credit cards? For real? Is everyone here rich?
To: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])
From: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
Subject: come for a ride on my G4.
honestly? we have a couple scholarship kids, but this place costs mad bank, as i’m sure you know. it is what it is.
Spelled out in black-and-white: Reason #4,657 why I don’t fit in here. My dad’s not a film marketing mogul, whatever the hell that is; he’s a pharmacist. Back home we were far from poor. We were what I knew as normal. But no one had their own credit cards. I shopped at Target or Goodwill with saved-up cash, and we wouldn’t just buy a five-dollar coffee without first doing the unfortunate math and realizing that the drink cost almost an hour’s worth of after-school pay.
My parents were never much interested in money or clothes or any of the fancy-pants crap that’s ubiquitous here. I wasn’t the kind of kid who asked for designer stuff—it was never really my style, and even if it had been, I’m pretty sure my mom would have given me a lecture. Not just because we couldn’t afford more than the occasional splurge, but because my mother considered name brands and decorative stuff wasteful. Silly stuff for silly people. She was much more interested in using whatever money she and my dad saved to travel to interesting places or to donate to good causes. Experience over things, she used to say, and then talk about some social science study she had read that definitively proved money doesn’t buy happiness. I wish I could say I always agreed with her—I remember one fight we had over a two-hundred-dollar dress for the eighth-grade dance—but now I’m proud of how I was raised, even if it means I’m even more of a stranger in a strange land at this school.
Suddenly, my gratitude toward the Batman turns to fury. How dare he hijack my grade? Unlike the rest of the loaded kids here, I’m hoping to get a scholarship to college. I can’t just trust his promise of an A. And what if Mrs. Pollack found out we didn’t work together? When I enrolled, I had to sign an honor pledge. Technically, this could be counted as cheating and go on my permanent record.
Tomorrow I will have to gather the courage to talk to the Batman and tell him that we need to work together or I’ll have to ask Mrs. Pollack for a new partner. I hate that I have five hours of homework and still need to find time to get a part-time job. I hate that Scarlett is not here. I hate Theo, who just came home and, though I was sitting right there in the living room, didn’t even have the courtesy to say, “Hey, how was your day?” I even hate my dad, who, I decided after my mom died, is easier to love than to pity, for bringing me here, for leaving me to fend for myself. Even he is nowhere to be found.
My mom used to get mad when I used the word “hate.” She thought it was an ungrateful, overly entitled word, and no doubt she’d be furious at me for using it in reference to my dad. But then again, she’s gone, and he’s married to someone else now. Pretty sure none of the old rules still apply.
To: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
From: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])
Subject: And now an understatement
Hey, Spirit Guide. Not to sound unappreciative or anything, but can I just say: YOUR SCHOOL SUCKS.
To: Jessie A. Holmes ([email protected])
From: Somebody Nobody ([email protected])
Subject: tell me something I don’t know.
preaching to the choir. now please stop yelling. you’re giving me a headache.
CHAPTER 5
“Home, sweet home,” Dad said the first time we walked into his new wife’s house, and he spread his hands wide, as if to say Not too shabby, right? If our house in Chicago was low-ceilinged and squat and tough, what I thought of fondly as a wrestler of a house, this one is the prom king: tall and shiny-toothed and the effortless winner of everything. White couches. White walls. White bookshelves. It’s bad enough she’s paying my tuition. Now I’m terrified to add stain damage to my running tab.
No, not quite home, sweet home. It feels weird to complain about living in something out of MTV Cribs, and yet, I miss our house, which Dad sold to the Patels the first day we put it on the market. Aisha is now sleeping in my old room, which has been stripped of my vintage movie posters, and collage of book covers, and pictures of Scar and me making silly faces. Here, I’m tucked away in one of the many extra guest rooms, all of which are decorated so as to keep you from overstaying your welcome. I now sleep on an antique-style daybed—the sort of thing fit for a 1950s pinup girl to show off her garters, and not so much meant for, you know, actual sleeping. The en suite bathroom is equipped with monogrammed Tuscan soaps that look too expensive to touch, much less use. And the walls are decorated with the kind of abstract art that looks like the handiwork of a third grader. My only addition to the room, besides Bessie, my childhood stuffed cow, is a tiny photo of my mother and me from when I was about eight or nine. My entire body is wrapped around her thigh, like I’m a baby monkey, even though I was already too old for that sort of thing. She’s looking down at me. There’s love and amusement in her eyes, adoration and fear in mine. I still remember the moment it was taken. I was afraid of a new babysitter, convinced, for some reason, that if my mom walked out the door, she’d never come back.
“Don’t you love it?” my dad asked of the house, after he had carried my life in two duffel bags up the sweeping staircase to “my room.” He was so happy and excited, like a kid who had done good and wanted a treat, that I couldn’t let him down. He had turned helpless when my mom got sick. One day she was healthy, the captain of both of our lives, the one who organized everything, and then suddenly she was not. The diagnosis: stage four ovarian cancer. She became too weak to walk across the room, much less navigate the intricacies of the day-to-day: meals, rides, keeping us stocked in toilet paper.
Sapped and exhausted, my dad lost both w
eight and hair, as if it were him, not her, who was having the chemo and radiation. As if he were her mirror image. Or conjoined twin. One of them unable to function without the other. It had been just over two years (747 days, I count them), and I couldn’t help but notice that only recently had he started to put back on the weight, to look more solid. Again, finally, a man, the dad, not the child. For months afterward, my dad would ask me questions that made clear he had no idea how our daily lives actually worked: Where do we keep the dustpan? What’s the name of your principal? How often do you get checkups?
My dad worked full-time, and when he wasn’t working, he was busy negotiating with the insurance companies, dealing with the mountains of doctors’ bills that kept coming and coming, so cruel after the fact. Instead of bothering him, I borrowed his tired credit card. Set up auto-ship for paper towels and toilet paper, kept a grocery list, bought us granola bars and instant oatmeal in bulk. Because I hadn’t yet gotten my driver’s license that first year, I ordered bras online. Tampons too. Asked the Internet all the questions I would have asked my mother. A sad virtual substitute.
We made do. Both of us did. And for a while there, we were so busy holding things together, I almost forgot how things used to be. How all three of us used to be conjoined. When I was little, I’d climb into bed between my parents so we could make our daily Jessie sandwich. We were a happy unit; three seemed a good, balanced number. Each of us had our defined roles. My dad worked and made us laugh. My mom worked too, but part-time, and so she was point person, the family soother and the glue. My only job was to be their kid, to be their good egg, to bask in their constant stream of attention.
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