“Are we going to paint our nails first?” she asks.
“Remember last year when we painted each nail a different color?”
“Yeah, I don’t like that anymore,” she says.
I feel my face go hot.
“Yeah, me neither,” I lie. I still want each toe a different color. Now I’ll do this only in the wintertime, when my toes are safe from ridicule.
I sit on the floor of her room and line up all the bottles of nail polish, starting with the lightest color, Ballet Pink, and ending with the richest shade, Frankly, Scarlett. After we finish painting our toes, we’ll put on our flip-flops and let the polish dry while we pick out my songs. Then we’ll make peanut butter and jelly with the crusts off, or maybe there is free pizza. Charlotte will go and work on her thesis paper while I watch a movie and make us snacks and think more about the Mr. Wistler assignment. Sure, I know I don’t have to keep writing to win the iPod, but I feel like I need to, so I brought my composition book with me. Maybe this is part of my word obsession.
Charlotte changed from her bathrobe into a floaty white shirt and skirt. Her hair is pulled back with a navy-blue headband. She looks like a face-soap model. I make a mental note to peek in her bathroom later when she’s working and write down her brand of soap.
We set up our polish stations on two different stools and get to work. She is so nice and lets me paint her toes first. Then she just casually says, “Tell me something about you I don’t know.”
I think about just blurting out the first thing on my brain.
I got a card from my mother.
I picture the words hanging in the air, swinging a little.
Charlotte thinks my mother is dead. She doesn’t know I’m a twin, or supposed to be. We could leave this lie alone, though I would like to tell her, to confess, to have a confidante who might pinch me when I show signs of crazy. Tell me to concentrate on normal thoughts like accessories and casseroles.
As I dip the brush into the nail polish, I decide to let my mother remain dead. I know Charlotte would be a good friend about the whole subject, but I can’t risk that she would look at me the sad way people do before they say good-bye.
“I smoked a bunch of cigarettes this year,” I lie. “And I am close to having my first French kiss.” I don’t tell her about the bet with Lisa yet. She should be impressed I came up with this on my own.
“And being kissed back, I suppose,” Charlotte says, completing my imaginary sentence. For the moment, I just shrug my shoulders. The image of someone’s lips on mine flashes before me, though I can’t see the face to go with the other set of lips.
“What else don’t I know about you?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
My brother’s name is Simon. I’m the one who is here, alive to even tell lies. My mother is not dead, just unreachable. My father drinks. I have two diaries. I talk to a plant. I’m afraid of doing a Family Tree Project and am trying to figure out how I can skip seventh grade.
“I’m so glad it’s summer,” Charlotte says. “It’s nice to come home to your same, comfy bed. The one I have at school is gross.”
“I guess so.”
“I can never get my laundry to smell the same as when my mother does it.”
I don’t have any memory of my mother washing my clothes, but my dad does a decent job. I have always washed the light-colored clothes while dad washes the dark. It isn’t much fun unless Dad decides it is a good day to have a sock fight. A sock fight is when you ball up two socks together and throw them at your opponent.
I’ve given each of Charlotte’s toes a glossy coat of Frankly, Scarlett. It’s not the best job I’ve ever done. My hand was a bit shaky, feeling Charlotte’s puzzled face all over me.
“Please don’t tell my father about the smoking. He will have a cow.” This wasn’t a lie. It was the truth. Dad likes to imagine me safe and under glass, away from smoke and boys. If he knew what kids talked about on the bus, I would have my own private chauffeur to school, that is certain.
“I won’t tell a soul,” she says, placing a finger on the bottle of Ballet Pink polish. “What we say is in the vault of secrets.”
As often happens with my brain, I picture an actual vault of secrets. It is wide and gray, and there is a cute security guard next to it who happens to look exactly like Jimmy Leighton. He spins the giant golden lock on the door. The guard tosses an envelope carrying a secret inside the vault. He closes the door quickly before any secrets can escape. As he puts his back to the door, you can hear the sound of hands knocking on the other side, the secrets begging to come out.
This is what I am. A vault of secrets. They flutter inside my chest like caged birds, wanting to take flight but afraid to fly.
Chapter 16
The whole day that I had planned put on wings and flew out the window as soon as Charlotte said Casserole Man was coming over. I think I read in a magazine that women will “throw over” their friends if there is a man in their life. Now I know it is true. I feel thrown.
I peek out Charlotte’s bedroom window and see her embrace him on the front walk. He is so tall I bet he will fill a doorway. He has sandy hair and a bushy mustache to match. And he is wearing cowboy boots with an intricate embroidered design. Who does he think he is, wearing boots in the summertime?
They hug and kiss. It’s hard to tell if she is getting kissed back at this angle. I wait in the bedroom until I hear the squeak of the screen door. I count to ten before entering the living room in case there is more kissing to be done. But no, that is not happening, because Finn is sitting on the couch and I’m sure it would be awkward to make out in front of your own brother.
“That’s my younger brother, Finn,” Charlotte says.
“I didn’t even know you had a brother,” Casserole Man says.
“Well, he’s only around because my mother isn’t here,” Charlotte says. Finn gives her a look.
“This is Sarah, the friend I told you about.” Now I know something is different about her. She is being so formal.
Christopher extends his hand, too, so I take it. He shakes it firm and sure.
“She wants to have her first kiss this summer,” Charlotte adds. My face grows hot and prickly, my mouth dry. Where is the vault security guard now? On a coffee break? She is telling her brother and her boyfriend things about me as if I’m not here.
I don’t mean to look at Finn, but I do. He winks at me, which makes my face go redder. It probably matches Frankly, Scarlett.
“So, what are we going to do today?” Casserole Man asks.
Charlotte asks if we wouldn’t all like to take a walk around the block first. Well, this is going to do nothing for my freshly painted toes, which I had to do by myself, thank you very little! I’m feeling less girlie already, and I guess it shows in my shoulders because Christopher shakes one of them and says, “Hey, why do you stand on the stump in your yard?”
All three of them look at me like I’m a museum exhibit and there is a card at my feet reading: Girl Who Stands on Stump.
If a tornado struck Garland right now, I wouldn’t mind. It could pick me up and set me down in a new place where I don’t know anyone. I could start fresh, just be known as Tornado Girl.
I don’t like the fact that Casserole Man knows something about me. And then Charlotte and Christopher are holding hands, and it’s clear to me I will be trailing behind them. I wish we didn’t make King Ranch casserole so good. He does not deserve it.
“Do you know Charlotte is planning to get a PhD?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
And he responds, “Yes, I do know that.”
“So she’s smart. Smarter than most. What are you studying?” I put the emphasis on you with double italics.
“Business.”
“And that’s how you got the big job at Wilson’s Western Wear?”
Finn laughs.
“Shut up, Finn, and go read your girlfriend, the dictionary!” Charlotte shouts, but he keeps right on laugh
ing. I hope he doesn’t stop, it sounds that nice.
Then she informs me they’ll be right back after their walk. Alone. Fine by me. Go walk with a fake, casserole-eating cowboy, for all I care. They are outside before you can say “boo.”
“Why’d she call the dictionary your girlfriend?” I ask Finn.
“Because I love words,” he says. “I’m sure she means it that way, anyway.”
“Oh, cool.” I don’t want him to think I think this is a bad thing.
“A lot of people don’t think so, but, hey, I got a scholarship to college because of it, and she is jealous.”
“Really?” I didn’t know reading a book could lead to a college education.
“Nerd alert!” he says. “You’re looking at a bona fide spelling bee champion. I have the flash cards to prove it.”
Well, that is something. All I can say to this is one lousy “Wow.”
“Yep. Now I’m in my junior year at college as a linguistics and etymology major. Do you know what that is?”
“My father is a professor, so it’s a safe bet I know a lot of things,” I tell him, which is true. I am familiar with all the -ologys a person can learn about.
He looks at me, cocking his head to the side, then says, “Good to know. Good to know. Well, that’s why she makes fun of my degree sometimes. You know how sisters can be.”
“No, not really.”
“Then you’re lucky,” Finn says.
“I’ve never met anyone else who liked to read the dictionary,” I tell him.
“Oh, so you are one of us, eh? There aren’t many of us, I can tell you,” he says. “Turn back now before it’s too late.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Do you still deliver pizza?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
And this is the end of our conversation because here come the lovebirds again. As he goes by, Christopher rubs my head. Does he think I’m a pet? He tells me that Charlotte forgot her purse. What a person needs a purse for on a walk, I have no idea. My dislike for him is growing, but I will try to make my face look pleasant anyway and make small talk.
“So what’s the story about you and casseroles anyway? That’s funeral food,” I say.
Christopher’s expression is one I imagine he has when he can’t solve a math problem. He doesn’t look like a brainiac to me.
“Yes, Sarah helped me with some recipes yesterday. In fact,” she says, tugging me toward the kitchen, “I need to talk to her about something recipe-related.”
She drags me to the dining room.
“The fact that I made him a casserole was a secret,” she says, taking a brush from her purse, running it through the snarls in my hair. I hate to brush it myself. “I should have told you before. I’m trying to impress him.”
“Telling people I stand on a tree stump and wanted a first kiss was also a secret,” I say, which makes her laugh.
I tell her, “Well, you definitely picked the right nail color. He should be impressed with that. But I think he doesn’t realize you are so smart.”
“How can you tell?” she asks.
It’s obvious to me, but I tell her what she should look for and ask, “How many questions has he asked you today?”
She considers my question. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
If she only had the benefit of my father’s wisdom. He always said one well-put question shows more intelligence and interest than two paragraphs of talk.
“We’re going out again. I need ink for my printer. Finn will watch you.”
“I don’t need to be watched.”
She whispers in my ear, “Be good and I’ll tell you everything when I get back.”
I suppose this is the best I can hope for today. I need to collect real-life information and compare it with what I’ve read in The Valiant Rake. Right now I’m rereading a chapter where Rebecca tells the rake that she hates him and that loving him is the worst thing she could ever do. Then she kisses him, which is not exactly smart on her part.
By the time they’ve reached the sidewalk, they are holding hands, their shoulders brushing together as they go. They look straight at each other as they walk, and if they aren’t careful, they will run into a tree or trip over the curb. Lisa is wrong about kissing and love. It might make you pretty at first, but it makes you look stupid, too.
I sit on a white plastic chair on Charlotte’s porch, or what passes for a porch. It is already warmed by the sun. While my toes dry properly, I take a good look at the neighborhood. I never saw the Duprees go for a walk last night, and Mr. Dupree’s long green car is still parked in front of his house. It makes me consider the possible options: sick, overslept, dead. There are other, less likely possibilities, too: alien abduction, vacation, movie marathon. In crime shows, an investigator will sometimes put chalk lines on car tires to monitor movement.
I’ll go home early today, find some chalk, then take care of myself, thank you very much. Our fridge is stocked with actual food right now. There is something on every shelf. Grandma always leaves it that way, and not just with carrots.
Her upper lip is red when she gets back. I know it’s from kissing bushy mustache hair. If you want to know, I suspect Charlotte is dating a real-life rake.
The lovebirds pretend not to notice me as they go inside, still hand in hand. What I’m thinking is Whatever. I look at a magazine and pick out the girls I want to look like. This is something Lisa and I used to do, even though we knew it was no use—we’d never look that good in a million years. There is one girl I particularly admire because her hair is short and blunt-cut like mine. She wears a thick, dark choker necklace and long, teardrop-shaped earrings. These would look good on me for certain. There’s an article on the opposite page.
Five Ways to Appear More Confident
Swing your shoulders way back.
Count to three before responding to someone’s question.
Cross your legs at the ankle when seated.
Ask the person opposite you what they’ve been reading.
Make direct eye contact.
Finn lets the screen door slam shut and sits down on the other plastic chair. He puts his bare feet up on the railing and laces his hands behind his head. I notice that the hems of his jeans are worn out from being dragged around. This is a sign he’s been to a lot of places.
I fan myself with the magazine the way I’ve seen the women in movies do.
“I thought you liked to read,” Finn says, not even looking at me, so I can’t make direct eye contact. It’s a struggle, but I manage to count to three before responding.
I say, “This is reading,” waving the magazine in case he has poor eyesight and can’t see how obviously wrong he is.
“I meant a book.”
I know where he’s trying to steer this talk about books over magazines, but if he only knew me, he would know I’ve outread most kids my age. Especially if you count the book summaries in my dad’s college-essay assignments. And, yes, there are loads of books I haven’t read, but I can wait. Books don’t go bad. They don’t spoil on you like milk you have to drink before the expiration date.
“So, what have you been reading, then?” I ask.
He takes his legs down, sits up at attention.
“Ulysses by James Joyce,” he says. “Ever heard of it?”
“My father has a copy, though I’ve never read it myself. He says it will be more enjoyable after I’ve read Homer.”
“Okaaay,” he says, in a way I can tell means he’s impressed. There. I have it. The magazine was right. My father always gives me a hard time about magazines, but now I have evidence of their effectiveness.
“Don’t you have something to study? Or are you a slacker?”
I hope this makes him go inside and leave me to my thoughts about Mr. Dupree’s car and where is the best place to make the chalk marks, front or back?
He laughs. “Well, I do have my whole pizza career, as you know. An
d I’ve written a huge paper, and it’s being edited now. While my mom’s gone, I’m trying to chill out for a while. Hence, evidence of being a slacker. But right now I’m just waiting for a FedEx.”
He says this so plainly and sweetly I am all of a sudden embarrassed at my questions. Plus, I don’t think I’ve met another person in real life, besides my dad, who uses the word hence.
“So, why do you stand on the tree stump?”
“You’ve seen me?” I ask. This is so embarrassing.
He thinks on this a minute and then says, “Don’t you look at something you’ve never seen before?” I guess I do. All this time I’ve watched everyone else in our neighborhood and I had no clue someone might be watching me.
He gets a far-off look in his eyes, smiles right into the sun. His brain is traveling someplace nice, I just know it. I get a nice view of him in profile. He could be in a magazine, easy. Maybe an ad for cologne or something. Wouldn’t I love to have a camera right now? Yes, I would.
Dear Atticus,
Today I am feeling strange and don’t really know what to say. I’ve tried to think how to seek your advice about my own mother. To do that, I realize that I must tell you all about her. This will be the TMI (too much information) letter. I almost don’t want to write it in case someone discovers these letters. If they do, I am in deep trouble. I’ve already gotten called names because of my situation. And we’ve moved around a lot because of it. But I remembered what you said to Jem about people who called you bad names, names I cannot even repeat here. Remember that time? You told Jem that it’s not an insult for someone to call you what they think is a bad name. Atticus, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I’m not sure if I believe that. Anyway, I will tell you about my mother and get it out of the way.
Here goes. The situation with my mother is this: She went crazy ten years ago. Now, before you tell me I’m using my imagination and that she is just like Arthur Radley next door, no, she is not. She is a real-life crazy person who lives in a mental institution because she killed my brother and tried to kill me. There was a big trial about it, too. Two trials, actually: one for her and one for my father, who was charged with something I don’t completely understand.
Sure Signs of Crazy Page 7