“I prefer James Bond, but I’ll take what I can get.”
She gives me back the phone and a look of pleasure falls over her pale, angular face. “You aren’t going to stalk him or anything?”
“No, just boil his bunny.”
She squints and her face becomes something else entirely, a feral cat with wounded eyes. Then she’s instantly back to being pleasant. “Cole … hang on.”
She turns to the cash register and pulls a picture off a bulletin board covered with snapshots of smiling customers. She hands it to me, and I look down at an attractive man my mother’s age having what looks like a scotch at that very bar.
“That’s him,” she says.
I hold this picture close. He looks shiny and clean, blond hair slicked back. When she turns her head, I secretly place it under a bar napkin.
“When does he come in here?”
She looks above my head, toward the light from the street.
“He used to come all the time. The other bartender likes to take snapshots of our biggest customers. But he hasn’t come in a long time, actually. Maybe a year.”
She busies herself behind the bar for a while and I sip my drink. When I get up to leave she shakes my hand, like I’m a full-grown adult. I steal the picture and she pretends not to notice.
Back on the subway I study Cole in the photograph. He has on a black sport coat. He looks eager. I glance up and notice that everyone on the entire subway car is reading, trying to transport themselves away. I pull out Mom’s phone and search through the contacts. Catherine, Cate, Charles … Cole.
It’s lame when you try so hard to get what you want, and then when you get it, you realize you need something else even harder to get. I really don’t want to believe that my mother was cheating, but something is telling me to keep following my instincts. I mean, what if finding her phone was a sign? And speaking of signs, I now know there were others, besides when I found her talking on the phone in the bathtub. It’s like when you love someone so much you are blind to their flaws.
I went to one of her photo shoots once, in the Meatpacking District. I remember she had nothing on, but there were balloons covering her private parts. There was a man in the picture with real snakes around his neck who freaked me out. It was an ad for Diesel jeans that ended up everywhere. There were trailers, and Mom had her own. I was waiting outside with Tile, and through the makeshift window I heard kissing sounds. At the time I just thought it was one of the makeup artists, the gay guys she was always kissing. Now I wonder if it was someone else. But if she was really fooling around, why would she do it with Tile and me so close by?
As I approach my building, I run into my dad on the street. He looks angry.
“Hey, listen. I saw you coming out of the subway. What’s our rule on this?”
I realize I’m still holding the photograph. I try to subtly slip it into my back pocket. I start to stammer a little, until—I swear—Oliver comes out of nowhere, spinning his book bag.
“She was with me,” he says, “and my housekeeper. See?” He points to his housekeeper walking up the steps across the way. I nod my head as if it’s perfectly natural that I’d be traveling on the subway with Oliver and his housekeeper.
“All right, but next time tell me where you’re going. You coming up?”
“In a sec.”
He leaves us there, and Oliver keeps swinging his bag and looking at me.
“Thanks for the picture,” he says. “It’s really macabre.”
“Not really what I was shooting for, but you’re welcome.”
“No, in a good way.”
“Okay.”
He kisses me on the cheek, easy, like he planned it. Then he pushes up the sleeve of my hoodie, writes his phone number on the underside of my forearm, and gently slides my sleeve back down.
“Later, Fifteen.”
I watch him run up his stairs and disappear behind the giant wooden door. Then I roll up my sleeve and make sure it’s still there, that I didn’t dream it.
CHAPTER 14
SIGNS
Tile, Dad, Elise, and I have dinner in the dining room, which we haven’t used since Mom died. It’s something Elise made, and the only way I can describe it is stew. Even though I think I like her, it feels weird having her in my house, and the fact that Tile loves the stew is making me burn with anxiety. It’s not about the stew, of course, but about everything I’ve learned over the past week, and the question still swimming in my head. Was my mom having an affair? It sounds corny, but for as long as I can remember, when I picture my parents in memories, they’re smiling. They had their own separate lives, for sure, but when they were together they were happy. The only time I ever sensed something was off was one night when I’d come back from Rachel One’s eleventh birthday party. I heard whimpering, and opened the door to the powder room to find my mom on the floor, her gown splayed around her like a parachute. She was crying, and when she saw me she didn’t stop, it just got worse. I asked her what was wrong and she kept saying, “I’m fine, Luna, I’m fine.”
I got her into bed and went back downstairs into the kitchen to get some water. My dad was sitting at the table with an empty glass in his hand. He wasn’t crying, but he looked fallen.
“Hey, Moon.”
“Hi. What’s going on?”
He waved his hand. “Minor bumps in the road. Nothing to be startled about.”
“Okay.” As I left, he cleared his throat really loud so I turned around.
“You know that no matter what, your mother and I, we will always love you and Tiley.”
I remember thinking this wasn’t something my father would say. Way too Hallmark Channel. But he meant it, and I told myself it would be okay. Now, watching Elise reach for another scoop of her stew, I wonder if it ever was.
All through the next day, my first day back at school, I make sure the number doesn’t fade, protecting it with my long-sleeve sweater. It’s time for me to carry a secret.
Between fourth and fifth periods I see the two Rachels in the bathroom. They’re doing their lipstick and looking totally put-together.
Six months ago I was like one of those people who walk along the side of highways. Lost, and maybe a little crazy. Now I feel on track, but I’m not sure exactly where I’m headed.
The first time I actually cried after Mom’s death was at the end of the reception following the funeral. Most people had gone, but there was a group of women huddled in the den, looking at some magazine that my mother was in. I crept up behind them without them noticing, to get a glimpse of the page they had suddenly stopped at. It was a girl my age, dressed in short shorts and what looked like a high-fashion sports bra.
A few of them gasped and one woman said, with unveiled disdain, “Can you imagine the mother who’d let her daughter out in something like that?”
I have never been drunk, but I imagine what I felt was similar. A deep gravity consumed me, and I fell to the floor in slow motion, crouching behind the couch. Someone called from the kitchen and all the women got up to leave. Then I felt a sharp pain in my stomach, like I had been punched, and I literally couldn’t breathe. My eyes became rivers and everything blurred.
Eventually Rachel One came in. She sat down next to me but didn’t touch me.
“You know what’s really sad? Your mother was the coolest—she wasn’t really like a mom, you know? My mother is like an android.”
Leave it to Rachel One to make it about her. She does have a heart in there somewhere, but her narcissism is intense.
“She was a mom. She was my mom,” I said.
My breath caught a couple more times, and Rachel just adjusted her position, then her bracelets, and then her hair.
“Anyway, see you in school.”
She started to walk away but then turned around and reached out her manicured hand to help me up. She was the first girl in school to have earrings, be able to wear lip gloss, and get highlights. But if that’s all there is to strive for, what a
sad existence. The fakeness of it all made me hold back another fit of tears. She helped me up and I just stood there, studying the empty room. Everything—the curve of the couch, the droopy plant, the billowy curtains—looked different. It was a house without a mom.
My father was upstairs, and Tile was long gone with my grandmother, and no one else was in the house. It seemed so hard to comprehend. There was no order in anything, only swirling thoughts, until one memory settled itself, perhaps one of the earliest ones I had. It was my sixth birthday party, and everyone was waiting for me to take a bite of the “cake,” which was actually pie. I had one of those spastic moments when your body just acts without messages from your mind. I flipped the piece of cherry pie onto my white blouse—of course I was wearing white. After it happened I stood like a stunned animal, and everyone looked on the verge of bursting into laughter, including the parents. Time seemed to stretch and I remember feeling my head about to explode, then bam—my mother dips her hand into her pie and smears it onto her dress, just like that. The pressure in my head evaporated, and before I knew it, everyone was putting cherry pie on each other. Yes, it sounds like a dumb movie but it wasn’t. It was my mother, and her quirky way of handling the situation. She had my back and always protected me, like a lioness with her cub.
So there I was, alone, in a room filled with crumpled-up napkins and leftover drinks. I smelled one of them and could tell it was scotch. I’m not sure why they say alcohol numbs pain. All it did for me was sting my throat and make me want to brush my teeth. Still, I would have reached for anything at that moment. Anything that would take me back to being six, when the worst thing that could happen was staining my clothes with cherry pie.
Now, Rachel One looks at me in her pompous way, then shoos everyone out of the bathroom. I’m glad I’m wearing my blue dress. Even though I’m not really proud of it, I miss her.
“Is that the Marc Jacobs?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“How are you?”
Could you have asked me that at the funeral?
“Okay.”
“You look much better.”
“Thanks.”
I don’t really want to care this much about Rachel One, but I find myself smiling at her like a complete dork.
“I have a new cell, call me, we’ll catch up.” She hands me a pale pink card with her number written in baby blue cursive.
“Sure.”
Janine comes in as Rachel leaves and makes a sound that disapproves of me. She points at the card.
“Back in the clique?” she says, shaking her hair out, then refastening it with a red scrunchie.
“Yeah. Whoopee.”
“The funny thing is, everyone thinks they need the Rachels’ approval now, but in ten years they’ll probably be in some miserable marriage popping out babies for show. Tired.”
She’s probably right. As she leans back a little, I notice that her breasts are way bigger than mine. I tell her a little bit about my Oliver crush. She says we should go on a double date with her and her motorcycle-riding boyfriend.
“Well, let’s wait until he kisses me,” I say, showing her the digits he wrote on my arm.
She runs her fingers along the numbers. “That is so romantic. He really wanted to make a mark, so to speak.”
“Let’s hope so,” I say.
After English, Ms. Gray pulls me aside. She has on mom jeans and a blue Gap sweater dated about ten years. Her lack of style does nothing to hold back her spirit. After my mother died, she was the only reason I even came to school. She gave me a small journal and told me that whenever I wanted to speak to my mom, I should write my thoughts in it. I never wrote anything, but I still have it, a reminder that someone cared. For three weeks she was the only person I’d talk to. She has this gift for being able to make every single person in her class feel like they’re extraordinary.
I show her some of my photographs.
“This is your calling!” she says in a stage whisper.
“I got this vintage camera, Sands Hunter. It’s amazing.”
“That is wonderful! Can you bring it in to show the class?”
“But it has nothing to do with English.”
“I’ll make an exception. C’mon, it’ll be great.”
“Okay,” I say. “I will. But I had a question. You know when I saw you at my mom’s yoga class that time?”
“Yes, dear, what is it?”
“When does Maria teach?”
“Wednesdays and Fridays at four, why?”
“Nothing, I just want to take her class.”
Ms. Gray knows something is up and gives me a funny look. On my way out, I look back at her and she says, “I’m still here, you know. If you need anything.”
“Thanks.”
Janine talks all the way home but I’m not really listening. My mind is focused on what is up my sleeve.
When I get home I stare at the phone for a few minutes before dialing the numbers on my arm. His mother answers, seemingly excited that Oliver has a girl calling him. She tries to act normal but it’s obvious.
“Thanks for helping me out yesterday,” I say when he gets on the line.
“My pleasure. But where were you?”
“It’s a long story, but that’s what I called you about. I need your help. Well, sort of.”
“Okay, how?”
At the risk of sounding like Tile, I say, “There’s foul play.”
Silence on the line. I decide to just forge on.
“I am, well, looking into my mother’s death. I have her phone, and there are seven messages. I am listening to each one in order to see if I can piece it all together.”
“What do you mean, ‘looking into her death’?”
“I’ll explain. But listen, can … can you come with me later? To yoga?”
More silence. I feel my heart banging against my rib cage.
“Hang on.”
I hear him speaking Spanish to his housekeeper; then his breathing comes back on the line. “What time?” he says.
“Four.”
The housekeeper starts talking again.
“Okay. Fifteen, I have to go. See you outside at three-thirty.”
I hang up the phone. Just as my heart starts to regain its normal beat, I see the picture of Cole sitting on my desk and it hits me. I scan the photograph into my computer. Using the micro zoom in Photoshop, I magnify his wrist area. It’s hard to tell what kind, but he’s definitely wearing a cuff link, and it’s silver.
CHAPTER 15
DEEP BREATHING
As we walk the ten blocks to the yoga studio I fill Oliver in on everything. He seems very intrigued by it all, and even though it’s potentially more horrible than it already seems, I get a rush from his reaction. Before I’m finished, it looks as if he’s already devising a plan.
“So why do we have to actually take the yoga class?”
“To be nonchalant.”
“I like how you think, Fifteen.”
The place is a huge, spotless studio overlooking Columbus Avenue. We set up our mats far enough away that it’s not awkward. The fact that he looks like he’s dressed for soccer practice is adorable. I’m suddenly seeing why the Rachels are so obsessed with boys. I’m thinking, as I sneak looks at him during the opening breathing, that I just never had the right one to fixate on.
Maria’s tan makes me feel like an albino. The class is superhard and we’re completely drenched in sweat by the end. She doesn’t recognize me until I introduce myself.
“Luna! I haven’t seen you in years, you’re all grown!”
I smile and turn the attention to Oliver, whose curls are flattened onto his face.
“You guys were really good. Your first time?”
“This type, yes. But I actually have a question for you.”
Here’s when she gets that look. The one of sympathy that I guess I should appreciate, but most of the time it makes me feel worse. She knows the question’s going to be about my mother.<
br />
“Sure. Anything.”
“Were you with my mother at Butter the night she died?”
Some long-haired guy quickly hugs her on his way out, sweat and all. Oliver cringes.
“No, dear, I wasn’t.”
Time slows down. I feel my heart drop through the floor and my throat constrict, and I want to scream, Yes! Yes you were! But she wasn’t, which means my father lied to me. Oliver is studying his bare feet and wiggling his toes.
“Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” I say, but it comes out like a whimper. I feel pathetic.
“I haven’t … hadn’t seen your mother since that fundraiser on the boat. She had taken a hiatus from my class. I’m so terribly sorry, Luna.”
Please don’t let her hug me with the combined sweat of everyone in her class that just hugged her.
“Thank you,” I say, and quickly turn away.
When we get outside, Oliver says, “I know what you need now.”
He takes me to a place called the Creperie and—I’m serious—orders in French. My anger toward my father is momentarily dissolved as my teeth sink into a thin banana-chocolate crepe with melted vanilla ice cream.
“So who do you think was really with her that night?” Oliver asks as we finish our crepes.
“Well, it’s obviously someone important, or my father wouldn’t have lied about it.”
“Right. Cole?”
“That would explain the cuff link. Will you try and find him with me?”
“This sure beats doing my scales,” he says, and leaves a crisp twenty on the table.
“Was that a date?” I ask as we enter the pedestrian traffic.
“If you wanted it to be,” he says.
As we walk toward home, Oliver looks at me with genuine concern.
“Do you think your mom was having an affair with this guy?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t want to even go there without knowing for sure, you know?”
“Yeah. My dad was having an affair before they got divorced. There was this woman who gave me tennis lessons. It’s ridiculous how naive I was. She was practically falling all over him.
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