“Oh, thanks,” I say. Mom beams.
“Everything you need to know is in here.” He flips through the pages. “Signs…right of way…” He’s going to read me the whole pamphlet. “…pedestrians…”
“Great. I’ll have a look.” I try to take it from his hand.
“School zones…speed limits…”
I’m starting to wonder if life was better when Mom was passed out silently in another room.
“And a whole little index at the back. Hi, kids!” He takes a break to wave at Maisie and Evan, sitting on the sofa, staring. He turns back to the pamphlet.
“You guys better get going,” I say. “You don’t want to be late.” For what, I have no idea. Mom shoots me a look when Oliver turns his back.
I call Jacquie when they leave. “He’s killing me,” I say. “They’re killing me.”
“At least he can’t stay overnight there,” she says. “You should’ve seen what crawled out of Dad’s room last weekend. The type who’ll steal your deodorant. Seriously.”
She has a point.
“How’s our apartment looking now?” she asks.
“Don’t tempt me. I’m weak. Oliver just read me an entire booklet about driving.”
We make plans for her to come over on Friday night and keep me company when Mom goes out with him again.
I start taking out my notebook at night. I don’t even have to hide it from Mom; she’s gone all the time. It’s mostly poetry lately: No butterfly sleeps inside this cocoon, only binding layers that suffocate. I write until my eyes feel heavy enough to sleep.
*
Cold dread fills my stomach at the sound of the alarm. I linger with Maisie at her school and walk her to her classroom. Say hello to Mrs. Williams. Slip into English just before the bell. Will doesn’t have a chance to say hello before Mr. Drummond starts. Did he even try? The worst will be that day when there’s nothing—that little “hey” is barely keeping me from falling somewhere dark.
It’s getting harder to put one foot in front of the other, to keep my chin up. I give up on chin up and settle for one foot in front of the other. With those little bursts gone—those pockets of warmth with Will—the hallways seem long, voices echoing. Rooms too big. My library, my refuge, feels like an empty house the day after a party. Only pizza crusts left, broken streamers, tipped bottles. I start going to the computer lab instead.
One day I see Nimra in the cafeteria, her back to me. She’s sitting in a small circle of friends. What would they say if I sat there too? If Amanda, Damien or even Zara was with her, I’d go. I don’t recognize any of the other faces. Can’t bear that awkward pause, eyes darting, too polite to send me away.
“Whatever happened with you and that Will guy?” Damien asks in Spanish.
I pretend not to hear him—two feet away from me—and keep writing. How much does the fruit cost? Cuesta veinte dólares.
The next day, darting between classes, I see them. Will and Amanda. Two figures disappearing down the hall, his thin line next to her sturdy frame. He leans in to hear something she says and laughs. The good laugh. My chest shrivels. Mouth is sucked dry.
What right do I have to feel this way? I sent him away. They make a good couple, actually. Both a little weird and reclusive. And he could probably even hold her hand in the light of day. Go on a date. Visit her family without risking his life. If I really care about Will, I’ll want him to be happy, right?
I spend all of Biology in a bathroom stall.
Walking to Spanish, a coin brushes my leg and hits a locker.
“Hey, Isabelle. I got a dollar,” someone calls behind me. Chorus of laughter.
I’ll have a go for a dollar or so.
“I don’t mind the smell!” he shouts to my back.
Walk on. I’m already far away.
*
I have to pick the right time to tell Mom about John E. Hartwell High School, only ten minutes from Maisie’s school. If I drop Maisie off and get the right bus connection, I might slip in on time. Maybe two minutes late. Still. Coming back should be the same. Maisie could wait in the office for a couple of minutes if she had to.
I’ll tell Mom before she goes out with Oliver. She’ll be excited, a bit distracted. No, dismissive maybe. After? Maybe on Sunday afternoon, if I can keep that idiot away for more than an hour. I’ll make her understand somehow. It isn’t only about Ainsley and Pole Dancer, and strangers throwing coins at me. Maybe I should tell her about Will. Even worse—running from a boy. I don’t know exactly what’s dragging me down, just that my feet feel heavier every day. And someday soon they’ll stop.
On Friday I walk into English, head down. As always, I find my desk, drop my bag, look for him.
But something’s different. Before I even drop my bag, I hear his voice already talking. I snap my head up without thinking.
Turned in his desk, elbow resting on the top, legs taking up the aisle. He chats with Amanda, smiling. Like how he smiled when he teased me. Raggedy Ann and Andy.
In that split second between dropping my bag and sliding into my seat, nothing. Not a glance. Not a nod.
This is the day.
EIGHTEEN
“Have you seen my green dress?” Mom says. “The one with the little flowers?”
I trail after her, clipping her heels. “No, Mom.”
“How many places could it be?” She digs through a drawer, tossing clothes over the side.
“Mom, do you remember me saying I wasn’t happy at this school?”
“Oh, it has a stain,” she says, pulling it from a basket of dirty clothes. “That ruins everything. What was that, Isabelle?” She drops the dress back in the basket and starts to rifle through hangers in the closet. “Too bad you’re such a Skinny Minnie. I could borrow your stuff.” Her voice sounds muffled through the clothes. All of my clothes are hand-me-downs from Jacquie, fairly decent.
She emerges with a black velvet skirt that strains as she zips it up. “Well, it’ll do.” Goes to find a blouse. I give up and look for Maisie and Evan.
They’re in their bedroom, making a road on the floor out of Popsicle sticks and Hot Wheels. Barely look up as I walk in.
I wander out to the living room, toss some crayons back into their container. Check the sink for dirty dishes—none. Pick up and put down a newspaper Mom brought from the bus stop. Jacquie, when are you coming?
After a few minutes, Mom comes out, all ready. Makeup, little hoop earrings. She has found a purple sweater—which gives her great cleavage—to go with her skirt.
“Which shoes do you think?” she asks, slipping one foot into a black flat and another into a four-inch heel.
“I hope you guys are using protection,” I say. “The last thing I need is another mouth to feed.”
“Isabelle!” She’s speechless.
I know I should apologize, but I stick out my chin instead and stare her down. Saved by the buzzer. Mom trots to the intercom and presses the button.
“It’s me!” Oliver. “Can I come up and say hello?”
I’m in the shower, I mouth, pointing toward the bathroom.
She shakes her head at me, annoyed. “Isabelle’s in the shower. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
“Would it be too much—” she starts to say as she gathers her jacket, but I walk to the bathroom and lock the door. If she tries to talk to me, I’ll run the shower. I hear her say goodbye to Maisie and Evan before she leaves.
I know I do this with her—take these jabs. I should feel guilty. I don’t. It isn’t just that she’s dating the most annoying man in the city, or that she subjects us all to his cleverness every night of the week. To be fair, he could be worse. But this hopeless Prince Charming dream. Has she thought past this week? Can she really see us all living with Oliver, eating pasta salad with his aging parents? Will he pick up the pieces when she loses her job or can’t get out of bed to look after her own kids? I know exactly who’ll pick up the pieces. I feel like running after her now, hurling more words at her
back.
Buzzer again. Jacquie.
“I’m freezing my butt off,” she says through the intercom.
Evan and Maisie come out when they hear her voice in the living room. “Monkey one,” she says to Maisie, scooping her up in one arm. “Monkey two,” to Evan in the other. “I think it’s time for monkeys to go to bed.”
They protest, but she promises them two stories each and no tooth-brushing. It’s a better deal than they’d get from me. After they’re settled in, pretending to sleep, Jacquie wanders into the kitchen and pulls a beer from Mom’s case.
“She’ll notice it’s missing, you know,” I say.
“So?”
Right. What’s she going to do? Miss Knocked-Up-at-Sixteen-and-Drunk-for-the-Rest-of-It.
We stretch out on the floor, head to head. Jacquie tells me about her dad getting an eviction notice after not paying rent for two months, a new guy from her apartment building, a fight with her science teacher.
I tell her about Words on the Wall and the poem, skipping the part about Will. I cut straight to the lame apology, going to a new school, and Oliver and Mom.
Jacquie can’t find enough swears for Ainsley, Celeste and Pole Dancer. “You should’ve let me beat them up when I offered,” she says. “Wait, you actually call her Pole Dancer?”
“Well, not to her face.”
Jacquie rolls on her back and laughs, her belly jumping.
“If you saw her makeup, you’d understand.” My laugh fizzles out. “Bet they’re all there tonight, at the dance.” I’ve been trying to forget all week. Frankenstein and the Corpse Bride.
“Your school’s having a dance?”
“Some Halloween thing.”
She rolls over, gripping my wrist. “We should go.”
“Did you hear anything I just said? Besides, I can’t leave Maisie and Evan.”
“Right.” She rolls onto her back again, hands behind her head. “Too bad.” Jacquie was banned from dances at her own school after instigating a brawl and holding some girl hostage in a bathroom stall.
We’re making stove-top popcorn in the kitchen when something appears beside us. Jacquie yelps. It’s Mom. Hair slipping down, cheeks drooping. Sad flower.
“Mom, what are you doing here?”
“Oliver’s mom had a fall. He had to rush home,” she says, her voice flat. How inconvenient of his mother. I hope her hip surgery doesn’t interfere with their next date.
“Mind if I join you girls?” She reaches into the fridge and pulls out a beer. Jacquie sneaks another and gives Mom a wink.
“Actually, Aunt Marnie,” she says, twisting off the cap, “Isabelle’s school is having a dance tonight. Do you think she should go?”
Mom blinks. “You should’ve told me, Isabelle. Oliver and I could’ve stayed in.”
“It’s okay.” I glare at Jacquie. “I didn’t want to go.”
“She’s been a bit down lately, hasn’t she?” Jacquie continues. “Maybe a night out is just the thing?”
“She has been down lately,” Mom murmurs. They’re both carrying on like I’m not standing right there. “Why don’t you go, love? I’m sure Jacquie could come along, right? I’ll just stay and read my book,” she says, loading a few more beers in the crook of her arm and shuffling toward the bedroom.
Great. Now I get to hang out with Jacquie while Mom gets quietly hammered in the next room.
“Look.” Jacquie pulls me close. “You said you’re leaving anyway. Why don’t we just go together and have a good time? Screw everyone else.” I haven’t danced with Jacquie since she came to my grade-nine graduation. The only family member who came. “We’ll dress up, do our own thing, and people won’t even recognize you.” She’s pushing hard now.
Maybe she’s right. What do I care? In another week or two, I’ll never see those people again.
“Fine. But you have to behave yourself,” I say. “No locking anyone in the bathroom.”
“She deserved it!” She laughs. “But yes, best behavior. Pinky promise.”
“And no more of this.” I take her bottle and put it by the sink. “They’ll be checking at the door.”
“Yes, sir.”
While Mom’s buried in her book, stretched out on the bed behind us, Jacquie and I rummage through the closet, looking for something to make into costumes. Jacquie slips a sequined tank top, one Mom wears to work sometimes, off a hanger.
Then she rifles through my clothes—her old clothes—throwing most of them in a pile. “Ah, I remember this one,” she says, handing me a stretchy black top with a V neckline. I’ve never worn it. “Go try it on.”
I take it to the bathroom, Jacquie a step behind me. I tug it over me and turn toward the mirror. White bra poking out of the V. It’s tight.
“I don’t know.” I swivel to check from the side.
“It looks good! For once in your life, Isabelle—” She cuts herself off. “Do you have a push-up bra?”
I shake my head. “I do have a black bra though.”
“Anything to help these little bee stings.” She motions toward my chest.
“Shut up.” I slap her hands away.
Jacquie talks me into my tightest black jeans—ones I already put in the give-away pile. Smoky eyes. I won’t be able to make fun of Pole Dancer’s makeup tonight. I cut out some black paper triangles and tape them to one of Maisie’s headbands while Jacquie gets herself ready. She ends up in a sequined tank top, black leggings, fairy wings from Maisie’s toy box and sparkly makeup. We stand side by side in front of the mirror.
“We’re definitely the hottest cat and fairy,” she says.
I feel like Maisie, clomping around the house in Mom’s heels, makeup like a clown. But somehow, behind all this black and mascara, I get to be someone else for the night. This Isabelle would never run and hide in a hole. This one would do three backflips and land on her feet, machine gun poised. Karate chop to the throat and leave with the guy.
“Let’s go!” I say. We sneak out before Mom can see me dressed like a feline hooker and Jacquie wearing Mom’s good shirt.
We walk on the road. Holler at cars. Every seat around us empty on the bus as we fall against each other, laughing.
“This is it,” I say, motioning to the bright windows against the night sky. Strange to see it like this, the vibration of music thumping across the lawn.
“Wait a sec,” Jacquie says halfway up the school path. She looks around. “Wait here.” She heads toward the cars along the curb. This better not be a dealer.
I stand there for a minute, squinting in her direction. Goose bumps through my thin sweater. Two shadows emerge on either side of her.
Jacquie and two guys. Two months at this school and I don’t have a single friend. Less than ten seconds, Jacquie’s got a guy on each arm.
“Surprise!” she says. “I got us dates.”
I stare. They smile, eyes glassy. Probably clam-baking in the car.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” I take her arm and steer her onto the lawn. “Who are those guys?”
“Relax. Nick’s the taller one—he’s with me. I asked him to bring a friend for you. Jamie, I think. I texted them back at your place.”
“What happened to just you and me?”
“I thought you’d be happy,” she says, taking a step back. “He’s pretty cute, actually. Not as tall as Nick, but you’re a small fry. Give him a chance.” She walks away. This is what I get for not telling her about Will.
I look back at them, giggling, hands shoved in their pockets. Technically, he’s not ugly. Blond hair, baseball cap, athletic.
Then he opens his mouth. “I gotta take a piss,” he says. Nick snorts. Jamie wanders over to some bushes—not far from where I stood with Will—and turns his back to us. I swivel around, checking for teachers. Thanks a lot, Jacquie.
While we’re waiting, Nick and Jacquie start making out, tongues all over the place. I feel like catching the next bus home. Catwoman, Isabelle. You’re Catwoman tonigh
t.
Jamie strolls back and tells them, “Get a room.” He looks me up and down now, making a face like he got stuck with the ugly sister. Like he’s some prize.
“Let’s go,” I say, and we head for the door.
Mr. Talmage. Of course. He shifts as we approach: Isabelle the thug, some other girl who’s falling out of her clothes, and two clowns tripping over each other.
“Hi there!” I start with an optimistic smile.
“Brought some guests?” he says, peering down.
“This is my cousin Jacquie”—I grab her arm and drag her next to me—“and her boyfriend.” I point to Nick. Jamie sidles next to me, looping his arm through mine. “And this is my… boyfriend.” I throw up a little in my mouth.
Mr. Talmage looks from face to face. Probably wondering if he should go against his better judgment. Chewing on a mint, he leans close to our faces. Everyone’s standing upright.
“I don’t want any trouble tonight,” he says. “Is that clear?”
We nod dumbly. He takes our money and stamps our hands. I feel his eyes on our backs as we head in. I’d hoped he would say no and spare me this “date.”
Dark gym. Pounding music. There are a few circles of girls jumping around together in the center of the gym. Shadows in dark corners. Always that one couple slow-dancing to a fast song. Flashing lights. A string of chaperones slump against the wall, their arms crossed. The DJ moves at a black-covered table on the stage.
It’s hard to make out faces—it’s dim and smoky. There must be a dry-ice machine somewhere. Jacquie was already dancing as we came through the door. She pulls Nick onto the dance floor, his hands on her swaying hips. Jamie and I shuffle behind. While I barely move, Jamie dances in his own world, putting on a show for an invisible audience.
I’m looking over heads, past heads, around heads. Stop, Isabelle. Checking for Ainsley and Pole Dancer, right? Liar. I spy a tall head bobbing in the corner but can’t make out the face. The song finishes, and I’m still craning my neck, trying to catch a better look.
“What are you doing?” Jacquie shouts, pulling my arm.
On the edge of the dance floor, Nick leans over and whispers to Jamie, then Jacquie. She nods. They turn and disappear.
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