by Amy McNamara
She looks at me in disbelief. “I was barely late today, but when I come in, they’re both up here like cops on a bust, Mr. High-n-Mighty digging through my stuff!”
She sweeps her arm wide around her room like an incredulous tour guide. Emma’s parents have rules, and they’re strict, but this is new. They have always made a big deal out of mutual trust and respect. But her room’s ransacked, dresser drawers out, the closet door open wide, and her stuff in piles on the floor. Probably because of the other night, because of me.
Emma shakes her head. “They’re all, We have faith in you. . . .” She sucks in a huge breath and yells, “Hypocrites!” She stomps her foot hard on the floor and I catch my reflection vibrating in the sticker-covered mirror on the wall behind her.
I bite my lip, not sure what to say. Sometimes it’s best to sit it out, let the storm pass.
Emma looks around her room like she might spot something that will make sense to her.
“Forgiveness is an act of love,” she says in the voice she reserves for imitating her mother. She uses air quotes, her hands like claws. “Healing’s a process. It’s such bullshit.”
She turns to me, her chin jutting out the way it used to when she and Patrick got into it. “All that holier-than-thou crap. They’re trying to guilt me. All they care about is how they look to their friends at church.”
I hover near her door while she drops to her knees and starts shoving things back in her drawers. The healing stuff has to be about Mamie, but I’m afraid to ask questions because things have never been this bad between us before.
“Mamie?” I choke out.
Emma stops what she’s doing, looks up at me, nodding, then deflates.
“Don’t—I can’t—”
“Why?” It comes out desperate, like a plea.
We stare at each other a minute, then I walk over to the cushion in her window. My usual perch. I drop down on it and pull my knees up tight to my chest, fight the urge to walk out of here before she says things that hurt.
Emma looks like she’s thinking.
I brace myself to hear she doesn’t need me anymore, she’s outgrown us, there are too many things I just don’t get.
She says nothing.
I try again.
“Why can you tell Alice and not me?”
“Because you still worship her.”
A wave of embarrassment hits me, hot shame, because it’s true. Emma doesn’t get it. She’s always been herself, charging forward, all the time, but I’m not like her. The only thing that ever really dented her confidence was the extra few months they made her wear her braces. I’m lucky if I can spot myself in the mirror. I used to joke with her that sometimes I forget what I look like, and it’s kind of true. But it’s not about looks. It’s bigger than that. I’m a blank. I need an example, someone to look up to, someone to tell me how to be. I’ve always needed to see how other people do it, check out the possible options before I can decide for myself. Mamie did that for me. She made no apologies for taking pictures, for loving what she did, for doing what she needed to do. She seemed like she had something essential figured out, and when I was around her I felt like I might figure it out too.
But then Patrick died and Mamie disappeared.
I hug my knees tighter, look up at Em. Her eyes are narrowed, accusing. We can’t have a Mamie gap between us. This is something I have to fix.
“I don’t! Not anymore, I promise! I did . . . before, you’re right, but that’s over, you can talk to me about her, you can tell me anything.”
She sits back on her heels and exhales. “My parents are talking to her. It’s obnoxious. She’s doing some stupid art project, something about Patrick. And they’re okay with it!” Before I can ask what kind of project, she adds, “Do you know the one thing that girl really, really needs to do?”
I shake my head.
Emma’s voice rises. “She needs to shut up about my brother and leave us alone! She has her stupid life. She should stay out of mine.”
She drops the clothes she’s holding and stands up, hands loose at her sides. She looks at me like nothing makes sense anymore. It’s this dazed face she wore a lot after Patrick died, emptied-out, like she’s been suspended or something, her spirit crushed by the whim of random absurdity. She sits heavily on her dove-gray puff of a bed, flops on her side, and pulls a pillow over her face.
Tears.
After that May when he died, she was like this a lot, sudden cloudburst, the sky torn open, an ocean of loss.
I don’t care if she hates me, I wrap myself around her on her bed.
“She took a year off, then started art school,” Em says after a bit, voice muffled.
Mamie went to art school. The information gives me a momentary thrill. I’m not in the art-kid group at Bly, but neither was she.
Emma lifts the pillow and turns her face to mine, eyes swollen. I stop thinking about Mamie.
“Patrick didn’t get to start anything. I can’t deal with how unfair that is. And she changed her name! Like now she’s just gonna be someone new. Must be nice to step away from the ugly parts of yourself so completely. My mom, God, Evie, you should have heard my mom, she was a regular Mother Teresa, all about forgiveness and love.”
I imagine talking to Mamie again, calling her maybe, asking if she could back off a little, for Em’s sake.
I picture the phone call, catching up, maybe we’d meet for lunch—God—Em’s right. I worship her.
There’s a light knock on the door.
“What.” Emma’s tone shifts, hard. She pushes the pillow away and sits up.
“Open up? My hands are full. I’m bringing tea,” her mom says through the door like it’s any old school night and we’re in here studying, all peaches.
I hop up and get the door for her.
“Thank you, honey.” She steps in, her white tray like a flag of surrender. She eyes the chalkboard on the floor and avoids looking at her daughter. There’s a plate with two slices of warm ginger cake and mugs of steaming chamomile tea with lemon. It smells so good, for a second I’m just relieved to be back over at Emma’s again, even in the middle of whatever this is. I could almost cry or hug Mrs. Sullivan. Instead, I clear a spot on Em’s makeup-cluttered desk for her to set the tray. After giving me a quick pat on the arm and a grateful smile, she slips out, closing the door softly behind her.
“Em.” I sit, tucking a leg under me on the end of her bed. “I think you have to tell your parents how you feel.”
She shakes her head. “I could hardly tell you.” She wipes her eyes with her sleeves. “I don’t get why everyone loves her so much. Besides, you know how they are. They can’t deal. They won’t. They’ll tell me to talk to God.”
I sigh because she’s probably right. My mom’s not a lot of things, but she’ll listen when I talk, and I’m allowed to feel bad. She’s soft, like rain. Not a problem-solver. More of a hand-wringer, only she never wants me to see that part. But I hear her sometimes crying quietly in the bath or wake up to find her asleep in weird places around the apartment, because some nights she has to wander until she can’t stay awake anymore.
“Em, I really am sorry about the other night.”
“I know you are,” she says, her voice starting to wobble again. “I’m sorry too. Things are just so . . . I don’t know, everything’s changing, and Mamie’s only thinking about herself. You know? This is totally another way for her to feel okay about what happened, what she did. Why does she get to feel okay?”
Emma blames Mamie for the accident. She’s never really clear on how she thinks it’s Mamie’s fault, but she does. She leans against her headboard and pulls a pillow to her chest. “Patrick was a great driver. There’s no way he rolled that car like that.”
My mom told me the police report said Patrick’s blood alcohol level was sky high. There is every way he could have rolled the car like that.
Em starts to cry again, her outrage spent, and in its place is a curled-up hurt person. I s
coot closer to her.
It makes me sick to imagine what it would be like to be Mamie and have to live with what happened, to face the Sullivans and all their loss.
But then I feel guilty. I’m thinking about Mamie again. Who cares how she feels? She’s hurting my friend, and it has to stop.
Sumo Sushi
WHEN I LEFT FOR SCHOOL ON Monday, Em was waiting in my foyer looking bright and fresh, the way the world does after a huge storm. On our way in I told her about Theo, that whole confusing day, right up to the almost-kiss, awkward hand squeeze. She eyed me, sly, and said, That’s my girl! like there’s hope for me, then grabbed my hands and danced me around on the sidewalk, cheering so loud at seven forty-five a.m. I thought one of the neighbors was going throw something out a window at us or call the cops.
In advisory when Dr. Holmes got to my two favorite topics, college applications and the Junior Spain trip, Emma distracted me with anagrams of Theo Gray along the edge of my planner. Hearty Go, Gather Yo, Get Hoary, Heat Orgy. We cracked up on that last one, which earned us a withering scowl from Dr. Holmes.
The whole time, Alice sat across from us looking smug and diplomatic, like she’d brokered a major peace deal, like they’d already debriefed on the Evie situation. Whatever. Jealousy’s crap. I came to the library happy anyway, ready to make a dent in my Investigation.
When Jack’s head pops over the edge of my carrel, his headphones grate against the edge of the wood. He drops a small paper animal onto my desk. I brush it aside and try not to look. He hasn’t made me one of these in a long time. They’re part origami, part pictures and glue. I have an impressive menagerie.
“All good with Em?” he says, forgetting to whisper. “You guys looked pretty cozy in advisory.”
The librarian clears his throat.
“Guess so,” I whisper back, tilting my head toward my work.
“What?” Jack nudges the Yoda-looking creature across my desktop with a nail-bitten fingertip. I keep my eyes on my screen. “No love for this little guy? Guess what he is.”
“Go away,” I hiss. “I’m actually getting work done.”
“A tarsier!” He ignores me. “Nocturnal. A carnivorous primate. Small enough to hold in your hand, yet he can jump up to fifteen feet. Awesome, right?”
Jack’s enthusiasm always gets me. I grin and pick up his weird paper creature. He’s scrawled “IHYB” on the back, something Em and I text each other.
I have your back.
I raise a brow in his direction and he nods at me, solemnly. It appears this tarsier’s a peace offering. I’m reading between the lines here, but I guess we’ll forget about the almost-kiss and not talk about Alice, and then we can go back to how we were. Jack’s folded the tarsier’s legs in such a way that when I flick his tail, he jumps.
“Luuunnncchhhh . . . ,” Jack zombie-whispers, waggling his arms over the side of my carrel, messing my hair, and flipping my laptop lid shut.
“Death if you just made me lose my Investigation,” I hiss. My laptop’s on its last leg. Jack smiles like a devil and grabs for my phone, but I’m faster.
I check it before I hide it away. No texts. After attendance in advisory, Em took a “mental health day,” which means she’s somewhere on the Lower East Side with Ryan, probably at his apartment. She promised she’d sneak a picture and send it, but there’s nothing yet.
“C’mon, let’s hustle.” Jack wiggles the edge of the carrel.
“Not hungry,” I say, even though I am. I have a peanut butter and graham cracker sandwich in my bag and not much cash.
Jack circles around behind me so close I can feel a heat-shaped version of him. He leans his head in, mouth to my ear.
“Come onnnnn,” he moans like the undead, which weirdly makes me shiver. “Eat with me. My treat.”
The librarian clears his throat again. “Mister Darling,” he says, crisp on the Mister.
Jack Darling. That’s seriously his name. People don’t make fun of it, though, because pretty much everyone has a Darling Mill blanket in their home. Darling Mill is part of New England history. It’s a regular destination for lower school field trips, busloads of kids heading up to see the old shuttle looms in action, their clacking rhythm, the vivid fibers spinning off the spools. My blanket was on my bed until I saw him with Alice. It’s on the floor of my closet now.
Jack wiggles the back of my chair. I blush. How does he have this effect on me? He used to be so round Emma called him Snack. I had no idea he’d turn out like this, supercute and luring me, hovering so close I can smell his laundry soap.
“No Alice?” I don’t even try to hide how happy it makes me.
“I’m Alice-less,” he says, picking up my braid and flipping the ends of my hair against my cheek.
This is the problem with Jack. He’s a terminal flirt. Even being with Alice doesn’t stop him from doing this with me.
The librarian shakes his head in our direction and pushes back from his desk with a certain resignation.
“Sorry!” I mouth, and quickly pack up.
We run down all three flights laughing, then dash past Ms. Vax near the office, who calls out, “Evie, come see me! We need to talk TeenART! Deadline’s approaching!”
We hop around Mandi, Ben, and Stella on the steps with their lunches and spill out onto the street.
“So . . . Theo Gray?”
And here’s the real reason for lunch. Disappointed, I ignore the question.
“Wait. Where are we going? I have forty minutes, then I have to meet with Dr. Holmes about my Investigation. He gave me a yellow light on my outline.”
“How are you already behind on this project, Eves?”
I shake my head. Shrug.
He looks at me like he’s my hero. “Tomorrow. After school. We’ll get together to work and eat the cookies you’ll bake me?”
I eye him. He’s trying so hard to make everything seem normal.
“Fine. Whatever,” I concede. If Jack comes over I’ll get more done, even counting the time it takes me to bake cookies. The gods are a moody bunch if my life can swing from no friends, no boys, back to this in a single day.
“You met at the Roebling House? Alice saw him leading a tour.”
He’s still going on about Theo. Hard not to smile. Jack’s jealous.
“Theo?” I act like I’m not sure who he’s talking about.
“Let’s hit Sumo,” he says, sounding kind of annoyed. “It’s closest.”
Jack slips his hand under my hair at the base of my neck and steers me left, around the corner and down the next block. This is an old habit. He says he likes to “drive” because I’m always wandering off to look at stuff—like I even do that. Em says he just wants to have his hand in my hair. I tilt my head back into the warmth of his palm.
We get our food and snag the last open table in the pen-like backyard Sumo Sushi calls a garden. Despite the delusional description, the concrete terrace is packed. This weird winter warmth has everyone confused. Jack unzips his hoodie and shoves up his sleeves, ready for serious eating. After stealing my pickled ginger, he stirs the full mound of wasabi into his soy sauce and digs in.
I crack my chopsticks apart and lift a piece of my roll. Asparagus, avocado, and cucumber. Same one every time. We focus on eating, but from the way Jack’s looking at me between bites, I’m pretty sure whatever he’s going to say is something I don’t want to hear. There’s a vibe coming off him that was there last night. Alarm. It kind of makes my heart sink. I’m afraid Jack knows something bad about Theo. I think I sensed it myself. Theo’s too good to be true.
Jack pulls a shrimp tail from his mouth.
“So. You and Gray.”
I pop another bite in my mouth, but the seaweed’s clammy in my throat. I chew fast, then down some water.
“Yeah?”
“Why were you with him?” Jack surveys the box for his next big bite.
I meet his question with a blank stare. Shrug. “Hanging out.”
Jack
pops two major pieces of broccoli tempura in his mouth and eyes me while he chews, both cheeks bulging. What is wrong with me that I even find this cute? Then, as if he’s reached some important gastric baseline and can now speak, he downs half his soda, wipes his mouth, and sits back. Locks me in with those green-brown eyes. They go pond or leaf depending on what he’s wearing. Today they’re dark algae.
I don’t blink.
“It’s just . . . I know that dude,” he says finally, tilting his chair back.
“So?”
He curls the paper sleeve from my chopsticks into a little snail. Tosses it at me. I let it hit the ground.
I pick up another piece of sushi and dip it, defiant, in his flavor-destroying, sinus-clearing wasabi-spiked soy sauce, but it falls in, splashing me instead.
Jack grins and pops it in his mouth. “Gray was on my dorm hall my first summer at SciTech,” he says, one eyelid shuddering shut at the super-seasoned roll.
“So he’s a science freak. You are too.”
Jack raises a finger and downs the rest of his soda. “Not the same. No one liked him.”
“Criminal.” I set my chopsticks down. “Besides. I can relate.” I want more than anything to be able to control this conversation, to steer it away from where Jack tells me something I don’t want to hear.
“Shut up. People like you.”
“Yeah, that’s why no one told me to come to the park after the Roebling House.” I cross my eyes at him.
“I told you!”
“Did not. I heard from Mandi. In passing.”
“Whatever, you heard. Anyway, dude’s a psycho, Eves.”
“You’re jealous!” I tease, trying to act like I feel anything other than panic that Jack’s about to ruin Theo for me, then happily head back to Alice himself.
“Not likely.” Jack scoffs.
A black hole swirls in my stomach.
“Your first summer at SciTech was ages ago. People change.”
“Eves, listen to me, will you? Theo Gray’s the guy they talk about after he charges in somewhere and shoots up the place. The one they all say was quiet.”
“Quiet?” My turn to scoff. “He was quiet? That’s what you’ve got on him? So what?”