Everything Must Go

by Jenny Fran Davis

  “Look,” Lael said. “There’s everybody.”

  “Not Daddy,” I said. “We should probably call him later and tell him we had fun.”

  We both laughed.

  “Should we go over?” I asked when Lael still wasn’t moving.

  “One more minute,” she said. “I’m surprised they don’t see us.”

  Nobody was looking in our direction; they were all preoccupied with setting out food.

  “Mum is probably one of the most frustrating people in the world,” Lael said finally. “She says terrible things sometimes, and it usually seems like she cares more about herself than she does about us.” She stopped uncertainly.

  “But?” I asked. “Are you going to say, ‘But she loves us’?”

  Lael gave me a look.

  “No,” she said. “I’m not going to say that. She does love us, and we both know it. But what I wanted to say is that you get one family—one given family, I mean.”

  “So we might as well try to be happy?”

  “Or, if not happy, at least we should try to be there,” Lael said. “Just show up for each other, you know?”

  “I agree,” I said. “Maybe Nell isn’t as bad as we think she is.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Lael said, “but I think we owe her more of a chance than we’ve given her.”

  “Look how mature we’re being,” I said.

  “It’s about time we grew up,” she said.

  I took her hand.

  “Shall we?”

  We walked over to where the group had assembled. As soon as Mum saw me, she ran over, almost tripping over her dress. She was barefoot—I wasn’t sure if she’d had on shoes to begin with. I fought against rolling my eyes, and accepted her hug. She smelled like she’d always smelled, but now I detected something muskier, like sweat.

  “You came,” she wailed, gripping me tighter. “Nell, look who’s here!”

  Nell straightened up and saluted me, a smile glimmering on her lips. I forced myself to smile and wave at her.

  I handed Mum the flowers, which she cooed over and arranged on the table. Lael set out the plates, and Mum called everyone over to get food. As I was spooning roasted potatoes onto my plate, I felt a slight tickle on my shin. Thinking it was a bug, I yelped and I yanked my leg away (I’d come a long way, but not, evidently, far enough).

  From below the table came a tiny giggle, almost inaudible. I peered underneath the table and found Victor still crouched, now with a devious grin on his face. I arranged my dress around my thighs and bent to face him. Under the table it was dark and shadowy, a good ten degrees cooler than it was outside of it.

  “Hi, Victor,” I said softly.

  He didn’t speak.

  “I guess we’re siblings now,” I continued.

  He let out a cackle.

  “How are your ears?” I asked. “Any more infections?”

  He cackled again, really getting into it. His hair looked longer; now it grazed the tops of his ears.

  “Hey, do you think we’ll ever have a conversation?”

  He shook his head, still grinning. I smiled in spite of myself.

  “Okay,” I said. “I guess we’ll check back in later.”

  He reached out with one tiny hand and touched my face, sliding his warm finger from my temple to my chin, then skittering across my nose. I forced myself not to smile. Victor was a serious kid; I didn’t think he’d appreciate one.

  When he was done, I got to my feet and wandered around, greeting a few relatives and Mum’s friends, all of whom politely didn’t mention the state of my dress, hair, or shoes. I managed to keep my potatoes down even when Nell grabbed Mum spontaneously and planted a huge kiss on her lips. And you know what? I didn’t even have to try. I hadn’t seen her and Daddy kiss in what felt like years. And now she and Nell were in love, never mind the amount of time that had passed since her divorce. Just let her be happy, I told myself. I hugged everyone good-bye, told Mum I’d call her about summer arrangements sometime soon, and took off.

  By the time I arrived back at Grand Central, it was almost seven. I quickly bought a ticket and boarded a train. It was full of people heading to the country for the weekend: people with suitcases and sunglasses, talking just a little bit too loudly. I called the Quare office from my cell phone in the Poughkeepsie station and waited quietly, sitting on a step, my small purse beside me, for someone to come retrieve me. It was so quiet and so warm, dusky now, but not quite dark. Ten minutes later Allison Longfield’s partner, Daniel, pulled up merrily and asked me a few questions about the ceremony; it didn’t seem important to tell him that I’d skipped it, so I left that part out.

  He parked the van by the office, and I climbed out. The air was fresh and summery even though the sun was pretty much gone. I put my palms up to the sky and walked across the field toward my A-frame. As I made my way toward the dining hall, though, faint yelling sounded in the distance.

  HEY, HEY! HO, HO! PATRIARCHY HAS GOT TO GO!

  HEY, HEY! HO, HO! PATRIARCHY HAS GOT TO GO!

  HEY, HEY! HO, HO! PATRIARCHY HAS GOT TO GO!

  I stopped short and looked up. A group of maybe twelve young women was proceeding down the soccer field, from the direction of the garden. The two in front were clearly the ringleaders: they carried an enormous glittering sign with the words WE SUPPORT FLORA painted on it in huge letters. They didn’t seem to notice me cowering by the road. One of them, in a navy-blue suit with enormous shoulder pads and yards of curly black hair piled in clips all over her head, carried a bullhorn, through which she chanted her group’s cheery slogan.

  HEY, HEY! HO, HO! PATRIARCHY HAS GOT TO GO!

  HEY, HEY! HO, HO! PATRIARCHY HAS GOT TO GO!

  As they got closer, I made out a few more faces: a severe-looking Asian girl with feathery hair and enormous hoop earrings; a reedy girl in a baseball cap; a willowy redhead in what looked to be a prairie wedding dress. One girl, tall with a beaky nose, was naked, I realized suddenly, save for navy nipple tassels and matching blue satin booty shorts. A huge camera swung from her neck, dangling between her exposed breasts. They marched toward me, shouting all the while. The leader—the eighties girl—signaled to her group to change its chant as they rounded the hall, and they effortlessly fell into this second one.

  ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR! RECLAMATION IS WHAT WE’RE HERE FOR!

  FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT! NO MORE VIOLENCE! NO MORE HATE!

  ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR! RECLAMATION IS WHAT WE’RE HERE FOR!

  FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT! NO MORE VIOLENCE! NO MORE HATE!

  On and on they went, keeping a slow march. And they were headed toward me again, their WE SUPPORT FLORA sign shimmering and swaying with the motion, their eyes fixed on some point above my head. I was so shocked that I stood stock-still, a tremor flashing through my entire body.

  I looked to my right, but what I saw next was more shocking still: all eight female students in my class, each harnessed in a sophisticated criss-cross of rope, dragging my vending machine across the field. All were on their hands and knees, and all strained and heaved. A group of Quare onlookers—from here I could make out Thomas watching nervously from the side; Gus, Gary, and Agnes trying to push it from the back; Peter and Solomon down at the girls’ level, coaching them as they strained against their ropes. A laugh bubbled up in my throat, but I swallowed it down.

  CLAIM OUR BODIES! CLAIM OUR RIGHT!

  OUR ART IS HOW WE FIGHT!

  CLAIM OUR BODIES! CLAIM OUR RIGHT!

  OUR ART IS HOW WE FIGHT!

  The vending machine progression was nearing the protestors now. Benna and Fern, the two hauling the most of the weight, were both drenched in sweat. The vending machine grunted forward, pulling up tufts of grass in its wake. The two camps, which had come within perhaps ten feet of each other, paused and sort of nodded in agreement. Suddenly the Asian girl, one of the leaders of the chanters, motioned for everyone to be quiet. Everyone fell silent.

  “THERE!” she shouted.
>
  But she wasn’t pointing at me. Instead it was to something behind me. I spun around.

  Elijah.

  We were almost face-to-face. It took my brain a few seconds to unscramble the image, piecing together a whole from the sum of its parts. Fluffy hair. Tiny round glasses. Flannel, even in late May. Cuffed jeans. He stared down at his Converse. He wore, as always, a slight smile.

  By this point, we were in the middle of the soccer field. I was surrounded: the Quares to my right, these protestors to the north, Elijah to the south. Everyone went dead silent. I spun back around to study the group of protestors. The lead girl, whom I instantly recognized as Wink DelDuca, founder and editor in chief of Nymphette magazine, stood panting before me, bullhorn slack in her hand. My gaze traveled from her fitted blazer to her high-waisted slacks. What appeared to be a monocle hung from her waistband, swaying gently in the breeze. And then behind her—India! Cora! Huddled at the back, as though not sure what they’d gotten themselves into. India gave me a shy wave and motioned to me that we’d talk later. I wagged my fingers at them.

  I turned to Wink.

  “Heather Duke?” I asked feebly, trying to make a joke.

  She just stared at me. “What?” She wasn’t annoyed, exactly, but the word came out shrilly.

  “From Heathers,” I explained. “The 1988 cult classic. You look just like Heather Duke.”

  She smiled.

  “Oh,” she said. “Of course.”

  There was a long pause. Everyone stared.

  “I’m Wink DelDuca,” she said.

  “Flora Goldwasser.”

  “Also known as Miss Tulip?”

  I shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  She cleared her throat.

  “Flora,” she said, “we’ve come here today to support you and your art.”

  Everyone, including me, swiveled to look at Elijah. He stared down at his shoes.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He looked up at me. My neck got hot.

  Click. My neck snapped over to the side, where the nearly nude beaky girl peered at us from behind her big black camera.

  Wink’s mouth opened. But before she could speak, I turned to the Quares.

  Benna and Fern, drenched in sweat and spent on the ground. Dean, clearly trying to contain herself, standing off to the side in pink rain boots. Lucy and Juna, their arms folded, looks of indignation on their faces.

  “Elijah,” I said, turning again to him, “I forgive you.”

  “Wait, did he assault—” this indignant squawk from Juna.

  “He didn’t,” I said. “But what he helped me realize is that I’m supertired of selling parts of myself in exchange for love from other people.” I fixed my gaze on him again. His face lacked expression, or maybe I just couldn’t read it. “I’m not really Miss Tulip, or at least I can’t be her all the time, and I’m never going to really, truly be Quare, either, no matter how good it makes me feel for people to see me that way. I ended up giving you what felt like everything. But it’s not. I have so much more. And there has to be some way we can meet in the middle, if we ever want to be friends.”

  His face broke out into a smile.

  “The middle,” he said. “I like that.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you in the middle,” I promised. And then, when he didn’t budge: “Elijah, please go now.”

  His face sagged.

  “I wish I could be the kind of guy who’s good at this,” he said.

  “Good at what?”

  “Sex. And stuff.” He looked around, suddenly aware that everyone on the field had their eyes trained on us.

  Dean’s email flashed into my mind: He can be such a freaking Sadboy. Elijah is really weird about all this emotional stuff.

  “No, Elijah,” I said. “You’re fine at sex. That’s not the issue here.” I paused. “Wait. Are you trying to win me back, or something? Were we even together?”

  He laughed. “I’ve realized that I’m in love with you,” he said. “I think I knew I was all along.”

  His face beamed out at me, shiny and expectant, the corners of his mouth upturned. And right then it turned my stomach. All of it: the cuffed pants, the small, round glasses, and most of all, the naked expectation. It was the way he was looking at me, the way he’d written letters apologizing for using me all so that he could have me back again—a me who wasn’t really even me at all.

  “I want you to leave,” I said.

  “What?” He didn’t believe me, and that’s why he was still smiling, his palms turned toward the dark sky and dipped down to me.

  “Leave,” I said.

  The smile dripped off his face. Click. Click. I wanted to rip the camera out of naked girl’s hands, but I forced myself to fix my gaze on Elijah, who had now shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “Okay,” he said finally. He started to walk away. Everyone on the field silently watched him, breathing in unison. As soon as he’d walked maybe twenty paces, my heart began to race.

  “Wait, Elijah!” I called out.

  He stopped in his tracks, and I jogged over to him.

  “I want to shake your hand,” I said. “No hard feelings. Really. I just—can’t right now. Maybe ever.”

  He reached out. I reached out. We shook hands slowly. His hand was chapped, but delicate, not too calloused. Slightly warm. The familiar tingles were there, but as soon as they’d washed over my body, they were gone. I released his hand. He nodded once and then turned and took off. I exhaled.

  Sinclaire sent up a tiny cheer that Juna quickly quelled by slapping one paw onto hers. She had staggered up to a kneeling position.

  “Wait just a minute,” Juna said. “What exactly happened between the two of you?”

  I shook my head. “It’s complicated.”

  Juna stared up at me in disbelief. “Really?” she asked.

  “Really,” I said. “Juna, thank you. I should have been thanking you all semester. You were a better person, and a better friend, to me than I was to you. You are way kinder and more patient than I ever gave you credit for, and your integrity is rare. But I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you’ve been so supportive of someone who doesn’t exist.”

  “What do you mean?” she demanded.

  “I mean, this past semester, I’ve become this weird, deep Quare celebrity. And before this semester, I was Miss Tulip, and she was all of your heroes.” I pointed at Wink and the people who’d come from Nymphette. “And I was really only Miss Tulip so I could be his muse.” I gestured at Elijah, who was slowly disappearing. “I feel happy with the vending machine project, but it doesn’t really get at everything I am. I don’t really feel that I have to sell everything I own.”

  I pulled Juna into an embrace. She was still roped to the machine, so I bent down to her level. We hugged for a good thirty seconds. “Aww,” someone—I couldn’t tell who—cooed.

  I reached down and untied my little white shoes. I stepped out of them and onto the grass. It was soft and warm from the sun, slipping between my toes. I wiggled them. In the distance, a bell sounded. The dinner bell—but dinner had happened hours ago. Everyone’s neck snapped to the side, wondering who would ring the dinner bell at such an hour.

  But I wasn’t wondering.

  I locked eyes with India, standing off to the side in olive skinny jeans and black wedges, then looked over at Cora, locking arms with her, holding on for dear life. It was hilarious to see them here, with rhubarb growing in the background and Benna and Fern sweating on the ground beside them. Immediately the three of us burst out laughing. I ran over to them, clutching at them both, all three of us falling over with hysterical laughter. It didn’t matter that everyone was watching. As soon as we could breathe again, I released my grip. The bell was still ringing gently.

  “I’ll be right back,” I told them. “I just have to do one thing.”

  Everyone looked around at each other, not sure what to do. Nobody moved.

  Except for me. I sprinted across the field, my
dress tight around my knees, and reached the dining hall, panting.

  And that’s when I saw him, right on the kitchen roof, sitting with his legs propped up on the gutter and holding his guitar. His head was bent down, but his face tilted up, catching the light. He was straining to play a chord. Not getting it right, and repositioning his fingers and singing it again. As I got closer, his voice snuck to me, catching in my ears: “Puff the Magic Dragon.” A box of Panda Poop was open next to him, and a few loose pieces of cereal had caught on the shingles.

  He helped me up silently, not even laughing when I almost lost my balance and went crashing down to the porch below. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, but he clamped down on my arm until I was seated next to him, trying to remain solemn.

  “Play it again, Sam,” I said once I had adjusted my legs.

  “Nice ref.”

  We smiled shyly at each other.

  “You’re here,” I said.

  “I’m here.”

  “Why?”

  He just smiled, still strumming softly.

  “What happened to the ceremony?” he asked, his eyes half closed.

  “I left.”

  “Well, what about your medal? Don’t you want to see your medal?”

  “I don’t care about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t want to go to that swanky ceremony and some swanky after-party.”

  “Why not? You love swank.”

  “I don’t care about my medal or Lena Dunham or champagne flutes.”

  “Okay. What do you care about?”

  “I don’t care about Becca or Elijah right now. They’re the same to me. Both hollow.”