Speed of Life

by Carol Weston

  I speed-dialed Tandoori Take-Out, then Grandma Pat. “Grandma!” I said. “Happy birthday!”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Sofia. It must be nice in Florida now.”

  “Yes, it’s nice of you to call.”

  “Grandma, I’ll wait while you switch to your new phone.” Whenever she wasn’t on her special amplified-hearing phone, she had to do a lot of guessing and I had to do a lot of shouting.

  “All right. Just a moment.” I waited a minute, not a moment, and then we talked about weather and classes and babysitting, and I told her that things were “going great.” I did not tell her how much I missed Mom or that Dad was out on a date or that my friends were all growing up while I was staying still.

  We said good-bye when the deliveryman buzzed from the lobby, and I took the elevator down, paid him, then went back up and ate alone. Afterward, I walked two flights down the stairwell to the Russells’ to babysit their two-year-old, Mason. Mrs. Russell had been my math teacher in fifth grade as well as my emergency contact.

  “We’ll be back at eleven,” she said. “There are ribs in the fridge.”

  “Thanks, I just ate,” I said, though of course I intended to sample everything edible. Our building’s New Year’s party, the one I had skipped this year, was a potluck, and everyone always looked forward to Mrs. Russell’s ribs. Everyone had loved Mom’s Baked Alaska too.

  Mason came running in and grabbed my leg. “Sofiiiiia!” He was barefoot and his yellow pajamas were sprinkled with airplanes.

  “Mason!”

  He high-fived me, and I hoisted him up. He wrapped his arms and legs around me, and his twisty hair smelled of baby shampoo.

  Mrs. Russell looked at him and asked, “Who’s the best little boy in the whole wide world?”

  “Mason!”

  “And who loves Mason soooo soooo much?”

  “Mommy!”

  “Give Mommy a kiss,” she said, and I held him tight as he squirmed and leaned into her cheek. “Good night, darling boy!”

  “G’ night, dowwing Mommy!” I watched their big hug, my throat tight.

  When Mrs. Russell left, Mason looked anxious. “Mommy gone?”

  “Your mommy is meeting your daddy for dinner,” I said. “You’ll be fast asleep when they come back.”

  “Mommy come back?”

  “Yes. Mommies go away and come back.”

  I felt light-headed. Had my mommy really not come back? How was that possible? Was I really supposed to live the rest of my life without her?

  “Mommy come back!” he confirmed, his dark eyes big and trusting. “We play cars and fire engines?”

  “You got it!” I said. “Cars and fire engines.”

  “You got it!” he repeated, beaming.

  • • •

  Hours later, after I tucked Mason in and made sure he was asleep, I got out my laptop and started typing.

  Dear Kate,

  It’s me. I’m babysitting. Sorry to bother you again, but is there a way I can get people to understand what I’m going through? Sometimes, the grief feels brand-new, but I can’t say that—even to people I love.

  Alone a Lot

  It helped that I could say it to Dear Kate. It felt like I could tell her anything.

  No sooner had I sent the email, than I started looking for a reply. None came. It was Saturday night, and I realized that even advice columnists can’t be on call round the clock.

  The next morning, however, an answer was waiting.

  Dear Alone a Lot,

  You’ll never be able to get everyone to understand what you’re going through. But that’s not your goal anyway. Your goal is to feel good and whole again. It helps if you have at least one or two people with whom you can think aloud. You’ll find them. Hang in there. Things will get easier, I promise.

  Kate

  I hoped she was right. I needed things to get easier.

  I printed out all the Dear Kate emails and stuck them in the bottom drawer of my desk in a folder marked “Notes for History.” I wanted to be able to reread her promise: “Things will get easier.”

  I also wanted to believe it.

  March

  I was so over Julian, I was surprised I’d ever liked him. I felt that way about a lot of ex-crushes. In fifth and sixth grade, I’d been obsessed with Daniel, but as soon as I gave up on him, I wondered why I’d fallen so hard in the first place. Maybe because Kiki and Natalie and Madison had preapproved him? As for Julian, everyone liked Julian. I’d just joined the crowd.

  Right then, it felt as if I alone liked Miles. I didn’t know if anyone else even knew him, but Natalie and I had noticed him the week before at French Roast, a bistro on Broadway and Eighty-Fifth that seventh and eighth grade girls were starting to go to. He was a ninth grader from Collegiate, and he was with a Trinity girl, but we decided she was probably his sister because they were both tall and had the exact same wavy, dark hair.

  “He’s cute, don’t you think?” I’d asked.

  “Yes, but not my type,” Natalie said.

  “Then he’s mine, all mine,” I’d said, and we’d laughed.

  Now it was Saturday night, and Miles was sitting with us at Twelfth Night in the Morse Theater at Trinity. Natalie had invited me because her cousin was in the play, but she’d gotten me to go by saying, “Maybe your crush will be there. I found out his sister is playing Olivia.”

  The play was good. I liked the set design (especially the papier-mâché palm trees), and I liked how all the characters were confused about love. But what I liked most was that Miles had sat down right next to me.

  We talked a little before the show, and at intermission, he asked, “What’s your name anyway?” When I told him, he asked, “With an f or p-h?” He did not seem to be thinking, Aren’t you the girl whose mother died?

  “With an f,” I said.

  He smiled, so I smiled back. I introduced Natalie and said her cousin was playing Malvolio.

  “Cool,” he said. “My sister’s playing Olivia.” Neither Natalie nor I revealed that we already knew that. “Hey,” Miles added, “my parents are in the country this weekend, and my older brother and I are having a party. Wanna come after the play?”

  “Uh…yeah,” I answered as though Natalie and I routinely accepted such invitations. Kiki sometimes snuck out to meet a guy when her mother had to work late, but I didn’t have a curfew because I didn’t have a nightlife.

  “Um, I just have to call to make sure we can go,” Natalie said, grabbing my arm. She yanked me toward the stairwell and said, “Sofia, are you crazy? My brother will never let us go!”

  “Won’t he be at a cast party?” I said, surprised that for once, I was the one bending the rules. “Our parents know we’re together, so they’ll assume we’re at each other’s apartments. I’ll call my dad first.” I pressed DAD on my cell phone while Natalie stared at me, wide-eyed.

  “Hi, cupcake,” Dad answered.

  “Can I stay out a little later tonight? Natalie and I want to watch a movie after the play.”

  “Okay.” Mom would have pressed for details: Whose home? Who else was there? What movie? What’s it rated? “Since I know you’re safe,” he added, “I may stay out later too.” Whoa, now Dad wanted to stay out?! “Will you be sleeping at Natalie’s?”

  I turned to Natalie. “Can I sleep over?”

  She nodded, nervous. “Yes.”

  “Yes,” I echoed.

  “Great. So I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Okay. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  I frowned at the phone. Not only had I gotten away with a lie, but Dad had seemed almost glad I wasn’t coming home until morning. Was he relieved I wasn’t moping?

  Wait. Until recently, hadn’t we both been moping? Last Thanksgiving in Flor
ida, he’d told Grandma Pat how hard it had been to disconnect Mom’s cell phone and how he used to call it just to hear her voice. He also told her about the grief groups he was always inviting me to. I’d never gone, but when was the last time he had gone? Come to think of it, Dad was acting almost cheerful lately, wrestling with Pepper and going out at night.

  Mom’s birthday was June 22, and now she also had a death day: April 7. Did Dad realize this anniversary was around the corner? Or had he turned a corner?

  During the second act of Twelfth Night, Miles pressed his leg against mine. Or was I imagining this? I moved my knees together, but Miles’s knee followed. Okay then. Should I press back a teeny tiny bit? Or not? Questions like this made it extra hard to keep track of the Shakespearean mix-ups.

  After the play, Natalie and I got in a taxi with Miles and headed to his apartment. I sat in the middle. Miles’s knee was against mine the whole time, and it was clear it was no accident.

  Miles lived on the East Side, on Fifth Avenue, not far from Mount Sinai, the medical center where Dad worked, and not far from Natalie’s old apartment. When the cab stopped, Miles paid, and the doorman greeted him as “Mr. Holmes.” We walked through the marble lobby to the elevator, where a second man in uniform pressed eighteen.

  Growing up in Manhattan, I’d been to lots of fancy apartments. Kiki’s, I have to admit, was pretty cramped. Our place had two small bedrooms, a small living room, and a small kitchen. But Natalie’s, before her dad lost his job, was a humongous penthouse with a wraparound terrace. My mom used to tell the story of how, in first grade, I’d gone to Natalie’s for a playdate, and when I came home, I had asked, “Are people allowed to pick where they live?” Mom said, “Of course,” and I got all bent out of shape and said, “Then why didn’t you pick a penthouse?!”

  Actually, Mom and Dad had started renting at Halsey Tower before I was even born. It was designed to provide “convenient and affordable faculty housing,” and Dad had liked the cheap rent, and Mom had liked the “non-commute” and that everyone knew everyone. This August 1, however, Dad and I were getting, as he put it, “gently evicted.” Halsey had granted us “a courtesy year” since the beloved Señora Wolfe had taught there for nearly two decades. But rules were rules, and time was up. Teacher Tower was for teachers, and Mom wasn’t teaching anymore.

  I didn’t like thinking about leaving the only home I’d ever known.

  “Nice apartment!” I said to Miles when we stepped out of the elevator into his parents’ marble foyer and giant living room. It was already packed with kids. Who were they? Were they from different schools? Natalie said she was hungry and headed toward the kitchen. But I wanted to check out the view—and also get my courage up. I walked across the oriental rug, passing a piano topped with silver-framed photos of people on horseback. I looked out at the glowing street lamps of Central Park and the skyline of the Upper West Side.

  “Amazing view!” I said when I realized Miles was right behind me.

  “That’s just what I was thinking.” He looked me up and down and placed his hand on the side of my waist. I felt a tickle of excitement. He followed my gaze out the window. “My parents always have people over during the marathon. It’s cool to watch the runners from here.”

  “Sounds cool,” I said. Little Miss Conversationalist. What was amazing was to be standing with Miles in his home looking down on Central Park.

  “Hey, so what can I get you?” he asked. I wasn’t sure what he meant. “Vodka? Beer? Wine?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, then realized this was a dumb answer. But I’d never really drunk alcohol, not counting sips of sangria with my family in Spain. He moved closer, spreading his fingers and subtly tugging at the hem of my shirt. He touched first the cloth, then my skin. I felt a shiver of excitement. Or was it nervousness? Should I tell him I was completely inexperienced? Or was that completely obvious?

  I turned toward him, and he walked slowly forward, moving me backward, until he’d backed me into the wall. The lights were dim, and no one was nearby. I felt drawn to Miles but a little repelled too, caught in the pull and push of a magnet.

  He tilted his head and leaned into me. It was as if we were slow dancing without music. Then he kissed me. His lips were dry and tasted of cigarettes. I kissed back, aware of my braces and my awkwardness. He started pressing himself against me, and I could tell he was… What did Dr. G call it in Life Skills? “Tumescent”? I wanted to keep liking Miles, wanted to want to kiss him. But I didn’t like feeling cornered. Was Miles a great guy? Or a horny rich kid? And had I asked for this—led him on?

  Dad often lectured me about guys, especially on Saturdays after he did pro bono work at a clinic for teenage girls. But his words had always seemed abstract. Even though I knew that a lot of Halsey girls, like Kiki, had done stuff with guys, I knew that a lot of others, like me, hadn’t.

  “Wait,” I said to Miles, pushing him away.

  “Wait? Why?”

  “I just want to know you better.”

  He put out his right hand. “I’m Miles Holmes, and I’m crazy about you.”

  I shook his hand. “But you don’t know me.”

  “I like what I see.”

  I wanted to feel flattered, not flustered, but he was in such a hurry. He was already kissing me again, and it didn’t feel the way I wanted my first kiss to feel. His lips were on mine, but it wasn’t romantic. It was rushed—it was wrong. And now his tongue was in my mouth.

  I pushed weakly against his chest. “Maybe I will have something to drink,” I mumbled. Where was Natalie? Was she okay?

  “Sure.” He led me by the hand to the crowded kitchen.

  “Do you have flavored water?” I asked.

  “Flavored water?” His eyebrows went up, and he peered down at me. “Help yourself,” he said, letting go of my hand.

  Just a sec—was he dumping me because I hadn’t let him grind against me and didn’t want to do vodka shots? I searched for Natalie and thought, I lied to my dad for this?

  A girl with red sunglasses on top of her head shrieked, “Miles! I couldn’t find you!” She rushed over and gave him a big, sloppy kiss.

  Natalie appeared. “I heard he has a girlfriend. I’m assuming we’re looking at her.”

  “She can have him. I wouldn’t even mind leaving—unless you want to stay.”

  “No. Let’s get out of here.”

  We jostled through the crowd toward the elevator, and some guy tripped and sloshed beer on my blouse. “Sorry!” he said, then started pawing at me as if to get the beer off. Ugh! Natalie and I darted out, and I made a mental note to drop my smelly top straight into the laundry machine rather than in the hamper. Or maybe I’d just do a load the second I got home.

  Miles’s doorman helped us get a cab, and I paid for it since I was the one who’d wanted to go to the East Side. Twelve dollars! I sighed, furious with myself. I’d spent a lot of time daydreaming about a boy I never even wanted to see again.

  At Natalie’s, we made sundaes, squirting fudge sauce onto ice cream and adding mini marshmallows.

  “Your bat mitzvah was so fun,” I said, remembering last winter when everything was much easier for me—and for her. “I liked when the rabbi said to ‘shower you with sweetness,’ and we pelted you with marshmallows.”

  I was glad Natalie and I were at her place. “And I even got to dance with Daniel,” I said, since back then, he’d been the boy I liked.

  In fourth and fifth grade, Natalie and I had both been “madly in love” with Daniel. We’d vowed not to let it come between us if he asked one of us out. Which he never did. In the beginning of sixth, he did drop a blueberry down Natalie’s shirt—making me insanely jealous. But by the time Natalie was “called to the Torah,” she and a boy in her Hebrew school had gone out, broken up, gone out again, and broken up again.

  I was still the only one of our friend
s—our “Core Four”—who’d never gone out with a boy. As for having my first kiss, did that kiss with Miles count? I hoped not. “Natalie,” I said quietly, “I don’t even get what just happened. Did Miles reject me, or did I reject him?”

  “Maybe it doesn’t matter?” she said. “Or maybe both?”

  I nodded and was going to say more about Miles, but she said, “It’s weird to think that my family used to have an apartment as big as his.”

  “I like this apartment,” I said, although I’d liked her family’s bigger one too.

  She shrugged. “Yeah. But my dad gets mad a lot now. He wants my mom to go back to work. I guess they lost a lot of money.”

  I listened. Just the other day, she and I were little kids with little problems. Were we really becoming “young adults”? Were we ready?

  • • •

  On Sunday morning, when I got home, Dad was in such a good mood, I almost told him about the party. But no. Bad idea. Forget it.

  Still, I wanted to talk to someone about making out with Miles. Kiki? Maybe. But if I called her, would she think I should just get over myself and grow up?

  I turned on my computer.

  Dear Kate,

  Remember I told you I’d never kissed a guy? Well, last night I did, but it didn’t turn out like I hoped. He was kind of arrogant, and he already has a girlfriend. At least I stopped him when I did, if you know what I mean. I feel like such a little kid sometimes. I also feel bad because I didn’t tell my dad about the party. But if I tell him, he’ll never let me go out again. And I don’t want him to worry. He’s actually been acting happy lately. Is that bad? (Me lying, not him acting happy.)

  Catlover

  For Subject, I typed “Lies and Kisses.”

  I pressed Send, then stared at my screen for a few minutes. The icon didn’t budge.

  Oh well. Just writing it all down made me feel a little lighter. Still, I decided to call Kiki after all.

  She picked up after the first ring, and I spilled my saga. She said she’d heard Miles was full of himself and had gone through a number of Nightingale and Chapin girls. She also said things were good with her boyfriend.