“She’s so tiny,” Tris said. “She’s smaller than a cat.”
“She’s a cutie,” I said, playing it cool. I could never say what I really think: that she’s the most miraculous baby ever created, that there’s never been a more beautiful, more perfect newborn.
We talked about the birth, and then, to stall, I coaxed them into telling me about the rest of the party: who’d messed around with whom (at least 12 hookups and one major cheating scandal), how many kids had slept over (40, they estimated, although they weren’t sure), and why none of the neighbors had called the cops (away for long weekends, maybe?).
When we’d exhausted party gossip, a silence fell, and I started panicking. Was this it? Were they about to drop the hammer? Then Hannah said, “Did you mean it, what you said to Noelle? About abdicating?”
My heart sped up. “Yes,” I said. “Is that OK?”
They all nodded. “It’s a relief,” Elliott said.
“I mean, you guys can still be popular, or whatever,” I said.
“Chloe, you know that’s not true,” Tris said. Not meanly, but matter-of-factly.
“Are you mad?” I asked him.
He shook his head tightly. Of course he was mad.
“I’m sorry, you guys,” I said. “I’m sorry I got so mean, and I’m sorry I was in denial about it.”
No one would make eye contact with me.
“And I’m sorry if I scared you,” I said.
“You did scare me,” Tris said. “I thought if I contradicted you or did anything wrong, you’d boot me out.”
“No, never,” I said.
“But you heard Noelle,” he said. “That’s part of it.”
“I’m mad about prom,” Hannah said suddenly. “I didn’t want to wear that white dress. I looked like a bride.”
“I thought you liked it!” I said. “You should have said something!”
“I couldn’t,” Hannah said. “You would have freaked out.”
My skin was burning. It was painful to listen to this. “I probably would have,” I admitted.
“You turned into a different person,” Tris said. “And now, what, you’re just back to normal?”
“I’m trying to be,” I said.
“We weren’t perfect either,” Elliott said. “We all went along with it.”
Hannah nodded. “One day when I saw Reese in the hall, I kind of wrinkled my nose like she smelled bad.”
Tris said, “I saw this freshman guy wearing cargo shorts and I said, ‘Cargo shorts—really?’ to Elliott. In a loud voice, too. The kid looked so shocked.”
“Well, when you said that, I laughed,” Elliott said. “I did so many mean things.”
“It’s all my fault,” I said. “The fish rots from the head.”
No one spoke for a while. Then Tris said, “I am going to miss our Instagram shoots,” and we all laughed.
The air was clear and the sun was shining on the green leaves, making them look like wedges of lime. My friends were with me, and it seemed like they were still my friends. I didn’t deserve any of it. I’d been so awful, and I couldn’t go back in time and change it. All I could do was try to be better from now on.
Wednesday, July 18
The next day, while Beatrice and Miss Murphy were sleeping, Dad drove me to Mom’s and helped me pack up my stuff. When we were done, he stood looking around the condo.
“Are we good?” I said. Snickers was pacing back and forth in front of the door, wondering when we could leave.
Dad didn’t seem to hear me. “I remember your birth so clearly,” he said. “In some ways it seems like it happened yesterday. I can’t believe you’re 17.”
Parents must experience time differently than kids do, because to me those 17 years have taken an eternity to go by. I can remember single boring summer days from my childhood that felt decades long.
Dad was staring at Mom’s couch. “I never anticipated this moment, that’s for sure.” He didn’t elaborate, but I could guess what he meant: no one gets married expecting to one day stand in his first wife’s condo, helping his kid move out and hoping he makes it home before his new baby wakes up. He turned to me. “How was it, living with Veronica?”
“Fine,” I said automatically.
“Yeah?” He gave me an intent look.
“Yeah.” We’ve never talked for real about what she’s like. Maybe he wanted to start, but I didn’t.
Thursday, July 19
And now I’m all caught up on the most eventful week of my life.
Since Beatrice was born, the days have passed quickly. I’ve texted Grady a few more times, but I haven’t heard back from him. It makes my heart ache to think about it, so I try not to, and I’m so busy, I usually succeed. I work a lot. When I’m not at the pool, I’m with Miss Murphy. She’s still crying all the time, she said mostly because Beatrice is changing at the speed of light and she’s tortured by her inability to stop time.
“But she’s going to talk someday!” I said. “It’ll be so exciting!”
“That’s a much healthier attitude,” Miss Murphy said.
I looked around online and read that in the few weeks after they give birth, women go through a bigger hormonal shift than teenagers do over the course of six years. Miss Murphy seemed impressed when I told her that.
She needs water every time she starts breastfeeding, so I get her that, and bring her the Boppy, and bounce Beatrice around so Miss Murphy can shower, eat a sandwich, or just take a break. I’m positive Bea knows who I am. She stares right into my eyes like she’s seeing something fascinating in my pupils, and sometimes she concentrates really hard and then makes a tiny warbling sound when I’m singing to her.
I’m not congratulating myself for being helpful. Helping is actually selfish in a way, because it makes me feel useful and like I’m making up for my months of bad behavior. “A penance,” Hannah said when I told her. I guess so, but a happy penance.
Friday, July 20
A bunch of people have come to meet the baby—teachers, one of Dad’s co-workers, some of Miss Murphy’s college friends. With the women who don’t have kids, Miss Murphy sums up the birth in a sentence or two: “It was really fast for a first labor” or “Everything went smoothly, all things considered.” With the women who have kids, she takes 45 minutes and tells them every single detail. I like the parts about me best, obviously. I wasn’t in denial, exactly. I understood I was in labor. But you know how contractions are—I couldn’t imagine standing up, much less walking downstairs. I thought, ‘I’ll just have the baby alone on this birthing ball.’ That truly seemed like the best plan. Thank God Chloe raced over and dragged me to the hospital. Actually dragged me. I don’t think her back has recovered yet, has it, Chlo?” At this point everyone asks how I did it, how I got her out the door, and Miss Murphy says, “It was like she channeled the mother she’ll be in 20 years. You know, upbeat but firm.” She always mentions that I don’t have my license yet. (People love that detail.) She always repeats my biking visualization word for word and says, “I couldn’t have done it without that imaginary bike ride.”
I admit I love hearing the praise. Still, I feel like a fraud. I’m not a saint. I’m not even a reasonably good person. Once, after Miss Murphy’s college friend Jillian left, I said, “I know you think I was brave, but I wasn’t. I was terrified the whole time.” She said, “Of course you were! That’s what being brave is! It’s doing the hard thing even when you’re scared. If any human exists who doesn’t feel fear, that human has never had to be brave.”
Saturday, July 21
There’s a thing at Thalia Rosen’s tonight. Tris, Elliott, and Hannah will be there, and they told me I have to come, at least for a while. A few minutes ago I went downstairs and told Dad I’m going to a party at 9 p.m. He said, “A party? At whose house? Will the parents be there?”
“Thalia’s,” I said. “And no. They’re out of town. That’s why she’s having people over.”
He looked at me. I did
n’t break eye contact. In the living room, Beatrice started screaming, and Miss Murphy said something to her in a low, sweet voice.
Finally Dad said, “I’ll expect you back by midnight.”
Victory!
Sunday, July 22
Maybe it’s because it’s summer and people aren’t constantly reminded of the pecking order, or because Noelle or Reese spread the word, or because my pink hair is fading, or because I was wearing a generic top and unremarkable shorts and the sandals Noelle tried to ban, or maybe it’s because I’m imagining things that aren’t there, but I think I’ve lost some currency. No one was rude to me last night, and many people went out of their way to congratulate me on Beatrice or tell me how much fun they had at my party. But there was no hush when I came into the room. No one darted nervous glances at me while whispering to a friend. I was just one more high school kid sitting on a couch nursing a beer. It mostly felt great, blending into the background. I don’t want to admit it, but for a few seconds here and there, I felt sad, like I’d lost something valuable.
Monday, July 23
Noelle came to visit Reese at the pool. They sat on the lifeguard chair together talking, laughing, admiring each other’s manicures, and whispering with their heads together and then gasping or giggling at the outrageous thing the other person had said. I assumed Noelle would leave without acknowledging me, but after a few hours she walked over to the concession stand, opened the door, and came in without being invited.
“How many times have you and Grady done it in here?” she asked, looking around.
“Only, like, twice,” I said. “It’s pretty cramped. Those days are over, anyway. He’s finished with me.”
“Yeah?” She sat on the stool next to me and I told her about Canada and the unanswered texts. I thought she might say, “He probably doesn’t have phone service up there,” but she didn’t.
We looked out at the turquoise rectangle of the pool.
“Back together with Reese, huh?” I asked her.
“I’m sure you saw that one coming,” she said. I could tell she wanted a cigarette. Suddenly I missed her so much. Her poise, her coolness, her wryness, her strength. None of my other friends are like her.
“Do you hate me?” I said.
She didn’t roll her eyes or pretend it was a dumb question. “You disappointed me,” she said.
“Have you decided what to do?” I said.
She glanced at me, then across the pool at Reese. “I’m going to give her the summer, and then I’m going to take her down,” she said.
A thrill ran over me. She’d listened to my advice! It was so flattering. Also, I couldn’t wait to watch her conquer our class. “Have you picked your squad members?”
“Working on it,” she said. “None of you guys, though.”
Ridiculously, I was hurt, even though I never dreamed she’d ask me and wouldn’t have said yes even if she had.
“I didn’t mean what I said at the party,” I said. “I don’t want you to crush us.”
She tapped an index finger on the counter. “You’re not worth the effort,” she said. “No offense.”
“None taken, you jerk.”
She laughed at that. At least I could still make her laugh. “You’ve already crushed yourselves,” she said. “That’s all I mean.”
A kid in swim trunks printed with dinosaurs came over and bought a Chipwich and a Coke. When he’d run off with his treats and napkins, I said, “I do appreciate it. Everything you did for me.”
She smiled a little. “Don’t let yourself off the hook. You did it too.”
When she stood up, I didn’t want to let her go. Worse than that, I had the urge to say something wildly corny, like I’ll always love you or Maybe we can be friends again when we’re grown-ups. But I refrained, and in the end it was her who leaned in and bonked her forehead gently against mine. Then she walked away without looking back.
It would be easy to pretend to myself that Noelle was the true ruler and I was merely her pawn—a decoy masquerading as a queen, like in that one Star Wars plot Grady’s told me about six times. But Noelle’s right. No one forced me to do the things I did. She made the plans, but I executed them.
Tuesday, July 24
Zach broke up with Hannah, goddammit.
“It’s all right,” she said when she called to tell me. “It’s for the best.”
“I hate him,” I said.
“No, no.”
“Yes, yes! Wait.” A horrible thought had occurred to me. “Please don’t tell me he’s getting back together with Reese.”
“Not that I know of. But I do think . . . Well . . .”
“Tell me.”
“I think he started liking me again because I was popular, and now that I’m not—”
“Oh, Hannah!” My mind was racing. Could I regain power somehow, so that Zach would fall back in love with her? Would that be the right thing to do, for the sake of her happiness?
“I knew what was happening,” she said. “Or I was pretty sure I did. And I went along with it. I even enjoyed it. It was exciting, knowing that people were interested in us.”
“How could he be so shallow?”
“I’d be a hypocrite if I blamed him. He’s in a band—I loved that about him. Does that make me shallow? It’s not a sin to be attracted by someone’s social status.”
“You sound so calm and wise,” I said.
Then she did start crying a little. “I don’t feel calm or wise,” she said.
I started crying too. “This is all my fault,” I said.
“I was in the Six of my own volition,” she said. “You didn’t make me do anything.”
Hannah, my dearest Hannah. I hope next year brings her a sweet guy who sees her for the gem she is and would never dream of cheating on her or breaking up with her.
Wednesday, July 25
Mostly I feel deep regret and shame about the way I behaved this year. But sometimes I’m glad it happened the way it did. Today I was waiting to order at Dunkin’ Donuts and some middle-aged dude wearing teal shorts and a pink Oxford shirt was shouting into his phone (“I’m gonna be late, dude. There’s a massive line here and it’s not moving”) and edging closer and closer to me until his elbow actually brushed my back, like if he only crowded me enough I’d dematerialize and he’d be able to order his coffee two minutes earlier. I turned around and smiled at him. “Hang on,” he said into his phone, and returned my smile, because I am, I’ve realized this year, a cute teenager, and he was probably hoping I was about to start flirting with him. I kept smiling and said, “Could you take, like, three steps back? You’re in my personal space.” He retreated immediately. I NEVER would have had the balls to say something like that before this year. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I’ve now had a lot of practice saying awful things out loud, and at the very least, that teaches you that the world doesn’t end because you say something less than sweet.
I think when you’re a girl, you have to be a little mean if you want to survive. Or no, not mean: tough. Gritty. Brave. I’m going to teach Beatrice about that when she’s old enough.
Thursday, July 26
I’m still phonebanking. I haven’t missed a week since I started. Miss Murphy saw me making calls in front of my laptop today and asked what I was doing, and I told her.
“Good for you,” she said. “It must be scary, calling up strangers.”
“It was at first,” I said. “I’m used to it now, though.” And I am, I realized as I said it.
“Does anyone actually answer?” she said.
“Hardly ever,” I said. “But it doesn’t bother me.” That’s true too. Phonebanking still feels frustrating and futile sometimes, but now I understand I’d have that same feeling if I were volunteering for the ACLU or Swing Left or any other organization. At some point I figured out that most kids don’t get to see clear evidence that their hard work has changed society. Most adults don’t. But you can’t use the lack of evidence as an excuse to giv
e up. If there’s a chance that the thing you’re doing might make a difference, you have to keep doing that thing. And sometimes someone picks up the phone and promises to call her rep, and you feel a burst of joy. You feel a calmer sort of joy after you’re done, too, because you know you could have fallen down the endless rabbit hole of the internet for two hours, but instead you did something good.
Friday, July 27
When Dad’s at work and I’m off, I sit around for hours and hours with Miss Murphy. All we do is stare at Beatrice while she sleeps, freak out with excitement and coo at her when she wakes up, and then try to help her when she starts crying. Usually she’s upset about something that’s easy to fix (she needs a blanket, a new diaper, something to eat, a bouncing walk around the house, etc.). If we try all that stuff and she’s still sad, the only thing that works is to sit in the glider with her and basically bore her to sleep by talking nonstop. It doesn’t matter what you’re saying—this morning I told her about all the guys I’ve had crushes on, starting in kindergarten. The key is to never stop talking.
Miss Murphy and I talk all the time too, sometimes about Beatrice (the way she moves her hands through the air like a tiny conductor! The incredible softness of her skin! The little red blotches on the back of her skull, which are called a stork bite!), and sometimes about dumb stuff (TV, Instagram), and sometimes about real stuff. Miss Murphy told me she’s still bleeding a tiny bit, but at least she’s wearing normal pads now and not the pillow-size ones they give you at the hospital. She told me she feels guilty that breastfeeding is so easy for her, when friends of hers have struggled with it. She told me she’s irrationally angry with her mother for being too sick to help her. I’ve confided in her, too. I told her Grady dumped me. I told her I’m afraid I’ll turn out like Uncle Julian. Today I told her I was the most popular girl in my class for a few months and that I hate myself for the things I did.
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