It was a standoff. Because if there was one thing my mother couldn’t tolerate, it was lateness of any kind, especially when it came to school, where every jiggle and jot on my record mattered. But the Cheerios gave me away. Even now, they were hissing and popping, the way they do when you’ve just poured milk on them.
“If you have time for breakfast, you have time to listen,” she said.
“But I have to brush my teeth and clean up, too!”
She wasn’t biting. “You and your sister used to be so close. And now you’re at each other’s throats. What’s going on?”
“Why don’t you ask her?” I said. But I knew it was useless, because, first of all, RG had already returned to Princeton, and second, because no matter what, in Mama’s eyes, RG could do no wrong.
“What happened to my pretty, happy, sweet girl?” Mama said. “I just don’t understand. All of a sudden, you’ve become someone I don’t even know.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your hair. The way you dress. Half the time, I don’t even know where you are, and the only friend you ever bring home is Justine.”
“What’s wrong with Justine?”
“Nothing, honey. I like Justine — and I like her mom, too. It’s you I’m concerned with. You’re wearing those ancient styles, for one thing. And you look like — well, I just don’t know what you look like anymore!”
“I like my new clothes,” I said.
“Do you really? Honey, have you seen yourself in the mirror this morning? Do you have any idea what you look like?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Actually, it was a big day for me, stylewise, because I was wearing something I hadn’t dared wear before: a bright-green pencil dress with bolero sleeves, which hugged my body perfectly and smelled like crisp tissue paper.
“I remember exactly the day your grandmother first wore that dress,” Mama said, a wistful look coming over her. “Oh, and how she pranced around in it like a teenager! She looked so much younger than she actually was that, do you know, my own boyfriends — not that I had very many of them — more often than not thought she was my older sister, and not my mother at all. She was so charming — well, they all just fell right in love with her is what they did. Especially since I was so serious all the time.”
“You’re still serious,” I said.
“She was secretive like you are, too,” Mama said a moment later as her voice faded to a whisper.
“I’m not secretive,” I said, my temper suddenly rising up. “I’m busy. With school. With studying. With after-school activities. I thought that’s what you wanted me to do.”
“Do you have a boyfriend you’re not telling me about?”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The most I’d done was gone out with a bunch of boys and girls together, usually for ice cream. Me, with a boyfriend? Like, who would I date? Justine’s lab partner, John the Weirdo? My cousin Scooter?
“You’re kidding me, right?” I finally said, my mouth sneaking into a smile. “How much caffeine have you had this morning?”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Then where are you every afternoon? Debate Team only meets twice a week.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Martha told me that Debate Team only meets twice a week.”
And just like that, I was busted. She’d find out about Ms. Anders’s art room and my dreams of becoming an artist — and then I’d be in for something I couldn’t even imagine, something approaching such total condemnation that I knew I couldn’t take it. I’d be a pariah, is what I’d be. Excommunicated from my own family.
The lie flew out of my mouth so fast I didn’t even know where it came from: “Mama, I didn’t even want to tell you.”
“Tell me what, young lady?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“What? Spit it out.”
“I’m going to be representing Western High in the Debate Team final rounds. In — in January. I’ve been going in for extra coaching.”
Mama took one good long look at me, and then her entire face relaxed into a grin. “Oh, honey!” she said. “I’m just so proud of you! I can’t wait to tell your father.”
Throwing her arms around me, she nearly choked me as I wolfed down the last of my Cheerios. For a moment, I wished we could just stay that way, locked together, just me and her, forever.
“You are so done for,” is what Justine said when, at lunch, I told her the whole story. “Not to mention that you’re stupid.”
“What am I going to do?”
“But at least you look amazing. Doesn’t she look amazing?” she asked Polly, who for some reason had a different lunch period than usual and was sitting with us — with me and Justine and the Latins, wearing her usual clean-cut goddess style of, in this case, her white jeans with a big white sweater on top. It was no use my continuing to be jealous of her anymore, either. Honestly, she was too nice to be jealous of, one of those girls who never ever said anything even slightly mean about anyone, even obviously horrible people like the assistant principal, Mr. Ward, who had a habit of slamming kids up against the lockers.
“She does,” Polly said. Then, turning to me: “You do. You look amazing.”
“You have to help me!” I begged.
“How am I going to help you?” Justine said. “Listen, dummy: You haven’t done anything wrong, remember? Other than that dumb lie, I mean. I can’t even believe she believed you the first time. Debate Team? I mean, even though it’s true that you talk all the time —”
“Thanks.”
“Earth to Ann: All you’re doing is drawing and painting, and you’re doing it right here at school. Under a teacher’s supervision. What can I do? Ask Ms. Anders. She’s nice. She’ll understand. Maybe she can help you.”
It wasn’t a bad idea. Ms. Anders always had time for me. She was only a few years out of art school herself, the young kind of teacher who always had more ideas for the classroom than she could use. Lately, she’d been helping me with my figure work. Still, the best she could do was soften the blow.
“I’m doomed,” I said. “There’s no way out. If my mother ever finds out that I’ve been lying to her . . .” Justine rolled her eyes, completely without sympathy. “In my house, you don’t lie. You just don’t. When I was little, I lied this one time and told her that I hadn’t eaten the last cookie, and when she found out I had, man, was she angry!” I winced, just thinking about it — how disappointed she’d looked, how small and wrong I’d felt. “There’s no way out,” I repeated. Then I had an idea. A flashbulb-going-off-in-my-brain idea. The best idea I’d ever had, ever. “Unless . . .”
“Forget it.”
“But you don’t even know what I was going to say!”
“Fine. What?”
“Unless I launch the blog.”
“What blog?”
“The fashion blog I’ve been thinking about doing.”
“Excuse me? You’re making, like, no sense.”
Once again, I explained that for months I’d been thinking about doing a fashion blog for teens. That I’d been poring through Mama Lee’s old Vogue magazines and studying the fashion drawings, and how, with one swoop of the pen, fashion illustrators captured a look with more dexterity and excitement than a camera could ever match.
“But I’m not a good writer,” I said.
“So you’ve told me.”
“That’s why you have to help me launch the blog!” I said as I began to see how I could unscramble the mess I’d made for myself. Justine would do the writing; I’d do the art. We’d launch over Christmas — and I’d tell Mama that I’d made up the lie about Debate Team so I could surprise her with something even better: an original blog. I could even argue that the blog could help me get into college. “I’ve already done a dozen sketches, or more. I just need someone to help me write it! If we do it together, it’ll go viral
. First just here at school. But then teens everywhere will read it. I even have a name for it,” I said, getting carried away with myself.
“Ann Has Gone Crazy?” Justine offered.
“So you’ll help me?”
“Sounds cool to me,” Polly said, getting up to go. “Later.”
“What’s your stupid idea for the stupid name of your stupid blog?” Justine said.
“Fashion High. And it would be all about the fashion trends right here. Right here at Western High.”
I was getting excited now, seeing my illustrated blog unscroll in my mind’s eye as perfectly as if it were a movie. I looked at Justine. Justine looked at me. “I’ll think about it,” she said.
It wasn’t until right before vacation began that Justine told me that she’d do it — she’d do the blog. That night, and for the first time in weeks, as I sat down for dinner I didn’t have a knot in my stomach. Justine said that the first post should be about Becka, which was just fine with me, as I’d been wanting to write about her fabulous style all along. At last, I thought, I’d be able to tell my mother the truth.
Mama was in a good mood, too. Apparently she’d managed to get a whole family of little kids into Head Start and had gotten home early. In general she didn’t put the kind of hours in that Daddy did. Even so, there were times when she got kind of crazed, and we’d have to order out pizza or Chinese. Tonight, though, she’d made my favorite: roast chicken with green peas and mashed potatoes. “Smells good,” Daddy said, giving me a little wink. Then Mama turned to me and said: “I have a little present I want to give you.”
I was confused. “An early Christmas present?”
“This has nothing to do with Christmas,” she said. And a minute later, she’d gotten up from the table, gone into the front hall closet, and returned with a shopping bag from Bloomingdale’s. “Go ahead,” she said, handing it to me. “Open it.”
Inside was, and I’m so not making this up, a two-piece women’s business suit — slacks and a jacket — made out of brown-and-white tweed.
“Mama?” I said.
“For Finals,” she said. “Debate Finals. When I saw it, I just couldn’t resist!”
“That’s a lovely outfit,” Daddy chimed in. “Classy.”
“It’ll never fit,” I said.
“It’s a size two. Petite.”
“I don’t know, Mama.”
“When I saw it — well, I couldn’t stop myself. The color is perfect for you. It has your name on it, darling. And for Finals, you want to look — I guess the word is ‘professional.’”
Fingering the expensive fabric, I prayed that it looked awful on me. “Go ahead, try it on,” Mama said.
“Now? ”
“After dinner.”
“I have homework.”
“Indulge me,” she said.
What could I do? After dinner, I went upstairs and tried the suit on. The lining was silk. The fabric was perfect. It fit me like a glove. It also made me look like an accountant, and I absolutely hated it.
“Look at you!” Mama said, bursting into my room before I had a chance to take it off and announce that it was too big for me. “You look like —” She was close to tears. “You look like a champion!”
“But, Mama!” I said.
“Just wait until your grandmother sees you in this! I can’t stand it! I’m going to call Mama right now and tell her myself.”
I found myself beginning to mouth the word “but” again and again, but as I heard her in the next room, talking to Mama Lee in a voice filled with happiness, I knew it was too late. I’d never be able to tell her the truth now!
The morning Aunt Libby and I arrived, Paris slid by our taxi windows in a gray-and-pearl-white mist. There was a frosting of snow on the ground, and even in the early morning, people were out strolling, carrying their morning baguettes, or walking their dogs. I felt that rush all over again — that rush of the whole world opening up to me, of endless possibility.
The only problem was that Arnaud was still in the mountains, skiing with his family. He’d written me an email saying that the minute he was back in town, he’d tell me. But in a way, the extra wait made things even more delicious, more glamorous, more intoxicating. I couldn’t wait to see the expression on his face when I told him that I wanted what he’d been wanting all along. . . .
The taxi pulled up at our hotel and two men wearing white gloves helped us out. Inside, it was beautiful, with views of the Tuileries and yellow silk curtains framing the windows. Libby and I shared a room with two double beds, each of them covered with thick white spreads that smelled like violets.
“Okay, I’m heading to dreamland,” Aunt Libby said. “Why don’t we both try to sleep a little?”
“Sounds good.”
As Libby settled in for her nap, I went to the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. As I texted Arnaud, my hands were practically shaking. “I’m here. And I can’t wait to see you!” I wrote (in French). It was six thirty, Paris time, so I knew I’d have to wait until later to hear back from him. As I unpacked, putting my things on the padded, silky hangers in the closet, my mind starting whirling around what I’d wear to meet Arnaud, what outfit would go best with the Hermès scarf Arnaud had bought for me on the rue Mouffetard. Just fingering it, as I took it out of my suitcase and placed it in the bureau drawer, made me feel like, just maybe, I could be a native Parisian. After all, I looked like one. I’d packed his raincoat, too — to give back to him, as I’d promised. I hated the idea of giving it up, though: It was my one sure reminder of our time together. On the other hand, every time I’d worn it, Meryl had gone into psychotherapist mode.
“You really want to wear that?”
“Obviously.”
“Why?”
“Because I do.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“What’s the problem? It’s only a raincoat, Meryl. Unless you need more information so you can write another article about me. I’ve even got a title for you. You can call it ‘The Daughter Doctor’s Daughter Has a Raincoat.’”
“I’m serious,” she said. “Why won’t you tell me where you got it at least? And don’t call me Meryl.”
“I have told you, Meryl,” I lied. “I bought it last summer in Paris. I forgot to pack a raincoat before I left. It was raining, and this old guy at a booth was selling it for, like, two Euros. It was better than getting soaked.”
She eyed me. “Even if that were the case,” she said, “why do you continue to wear it?”
“It’s no big deal. It’s a raincoat. Why do you care?”
“Because I already gave you a very beautiful and expensive raincoat, the same one you’d been obsessing over, and then you turned around and gave to Robin.”
“I know, Meryl. But she just kept begging for it. It was one of those girl things.”
I thought I’d won, but then, one horrible day in December when it was raining so hard that I came home soaked, Meryl said that she felt bad about how much we’d been fighting, and wanted to do something fun with me to make up. “How about a pedi?” she said. “Does that sound good?”
Actually, it did. But as soon as we’d relaxed into side-by-side pedicure chairs, our two sets of feet immersed in hot water and the two ladies scrubbing our calluses off, I could sense it coming — whatever it was.
“Honey,” she said, reaching over to take my hand.
“I hate when you use that therapy tone with me. What is it?”
“I need you to tell me. Who is he?”
“Earth to Meryl. Who is who?”
“Raincoat Boy.”
“M’excuser?”
“That thing,” she said, pointing to Arnaud’s raincoat, which I’d taken off and hung on the salon’s coatrack. “Who is he?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Mother.”
“I think I do, though. And whether or not you tell me anything, I need you to listen, and listen well. Because this is important. As important as —
well, as your entire future.”
“Oh God,” I groaned, realizing how expertly she’d set the trap. I mean, what could I say, sitting there surrounded by strangers at Nails of Utopia while a petite Vietnamese woman with beautiful black eyes scrubbed and buffed my feet as if her very life depended on it?
“You’re fifteen,” she started by saying.
“I’ll be sixteen in about two minutes.”
“You’re fifteen, and a sophomore in high school, and at your age, it’s natural — healthy, even — to have strong feelings about all sorts of things. After all, you’re in the midst of one of the most exciting and wonderful changes that anyone ever experiences.” Oh God, I thought — here we go again. The Adolescence Lecture. It was straight from the pages of her Daughter Doctor series. “But you’re not stupid, Becka, and you must be aware that teenage girls are also prone to making decisions about their lives, about who their friends are, about the kind of person they want to become, and especially about their bodies, that can potentially have lifelong consequences.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she cut me off. “I know what you’re thinking, Becka. I know exactly what you’re thinking and how you’re processing everything I’m saying. But if I, your mother, don’t say it, who will? I don’t know who Raincoat Boy is, and you may never tell me, but I do know that since you’ve come back from Paris you’ve changed — for the worse, I might add. You’re moody. You snap at me, at your brother, even at Lucy.”
“Yeah, right,” I said. “Anyhow, Lucy smells.”
“You close yourself in your room for hours at a time, just sitting there in front of your computer on Facebook, or texting.”
“Or doing homework, Meryl. How can I get my assignments, which, by the way, are posted online, if I don’t go online?”
“Or mooning over whoever this Raincoat Boy is.”
Trapped, cornered, with no way out. “You’re in therapy overdrive projection.” My using one of her own favorite words did it: Meryl winced. “What the hell is it you want from me?”
“I want my daughter back,” she said.
It was a draw. Meryl sighed — but a week later, I was in Paris, and nothing mattered anymore except Arnaud.
Tales From My Closet Page 13