Speed of Life

by Carol Weston

  I could feel the color rising to my cheeks.

  “Her inbox is out of control,” Alexa continued. “And you would not believe the letters! What a joke! ‘I have boobs, but my mom won’t take me bra shopping.’ ‘I went on a church retreat and accidentally shoplifted.’ Or this one’s classic: ‘Sorry I haven’t written in a while…’ Like my mom keeps track. These kids are delusional!” Alexa snorted. “Ha! Dear Kate, patron saint of losers!” She looked at me, waiting for me to laugh along.

  “A few weeks ago,” she continued, “I was in her office when some girl with a zit on her vajayjay wrote my mom all spazzed out ’cause she was convinced she had an STI. The kid had never even had sex! And probably never will, little bozo. A virgin for life.” Alexa was amusing herself to no end. “Basically, my mom spends half her waking hours giving out Band-Aids. She doesn’t get that ‘making a difference’ doesn’t make a difference and that she should just tell everyone to get a life once and for all.”

  “Do you read all her mail?” I wondered if I’d gone bubble-gum pink. Alexa probably thought I had a rare skin condition or an allergy to fresh air.

  “Only when I’m beyond bored. You couldn’t pay me to read it all—though she’d love for me to help her. I keep telling her I’d ruin her career. I’d tell the little freaks to dry their eyes and quit their whining. Especially the repeat customers.” Alexa shook her head. “I do proofread her columns though. She makes me so she doesn’t use dated slang and lose her street cred.”

  We’d walked about halfway around the small lake when Alexa checked the time on her cell. “Hey, want to see where we hang out around here?”

  “Sure.”

  “Mom!” she shouted. “We’ll be home in fifteen!”

  “Okay,” Kate shouted back. She and Dad were ahead of us, holding hands. I tried not to stare, but my stomach was in a knot.

  Alexa pointed out the clubhouse and said that decades earlier, some rich guy had built an estate with a polo field, stable, and windmills. Later, Windmill Farm got divided up and houses were added, and the polo field became a ball field. “In the summer,” she said, “there’s a snack bar and red beach umbrellas, and people swim and go down that giant slide and play sand volleyball and stuff.” I tried to picture this quiet lake bustling with people. “I used to play Ping-Pong and foosball in the Teen Room. Now we have other places to go. I mean, once you’re a teen, you’re not going to go to the Teen Room!”

  Alexa led me toward an old, red windmill. The paint on the door was chipped. She tugged at the padlock, pulled back a latch, and we stepped inside. It was dark, but she walked to a ladder that led to the top. Hey, wait. Had we just broken in?

  “Have you ever gone up?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Is it safe?” I could feel Alexa rolling her eyes. She checked her cell again, no doubt counting the minutes until she could leave.

  “It’s cool.” Up we climbed. When we got to the top, we sat on a worn wooden bench and I looked out past the windmill’s rusty blades to the lake below. “I mean, it’s not the Empire State Building,” she conceded.

  “No, but I like it.”

  “You know what I used to call the Empire State Building?” I shook my head. “The Umpire State Building.”

  “I called it the Entire State Building!” I gave her a half smile, but she just stared at me.

  “When are you getting your braces off?”

  I felt self-conscious again, but at least I had a good answer: “Tuesday.”

  Her cell phone rang, and she picked up. “Literally on my way!” she said. “Don’t you dare start without me!” She turned to me. “My friend Nevada is turning sixteen, so my friends Amanda and Mackenzie made her an epic Earth Day birthday cake with vanilla frosting polar bears on top. Amanda and I play volleyball together. We’ve known each other since, well, seventh grade for me, eighth for her.”

  Now that Alexa was about to ditch me, she was being chattier. But the second we got back to the house, she raced off like a bat out of hell.

  • • •

  “All in all, that went pretty well, don’t you think?” Dad asked as we drove home.

  “You mean, besides your calling me ‘cupcake,’ the soup burning a hole in my tongue, and Alexa making me feel like I was five?”

  “She’s a tough cookie.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “She’s a tough cookie.” He smiled. “So did you soften her up, turn her into a fresh-out-of-the-oven cookie?”

  I shook my head.

  “Sofia, I appreciate your coming today. It means a lot to me.” He paused. “She means a lot to me.”

  I didn’t know whether to say, That was quick or Me too. I settled on, “Can we listen to music?”

  “First, just answer me this: Katie’s pretty nice, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.” I sighed. “She’s pretty and she’s nice.”

  “This might be good for you too. I mean, if you ever want to confide in her, you could.”

  I stared out the window. He so didn’t get it. He and I couldn’t possibly share Kate. “Dad, it’s not as easy for me as it is for you, okay?” I pushed a button and David Bowie started singing, “Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes…”

  Dad pressed Pause. “Sweetie, talk to me.”

  “There’s nothing to say.” I blinked hard and swallowed, and warm tears started to roll down my cheeks. “Here’s how it works: you can get a new wife, but I can’t get a new mom. It’s not your fault, and I’m glad Kate isn’t evil or, like, twenty-eight years old, like some of Kiki’s dad’s girlfriends. But don’t expect me to be instantly thrilled, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I still don’t even like sitting up front. I think of it as Mom’s seat.”

  “I miss Mom too.”

  “Well, maybe I miss her more.”

  Dad’s shoulders sagged. “It’s not a contest. And you can’t measure missing.” His hands tightened on the wheel. “People say that the widows and widowers who were happily married are the first to remarry—not that I’m thinking about that.”

  “I should hope not!” I crossed my arms and surveyed the other cars, many with couples in the front seats. I pictured my parents doing the crossword, watching TV, buying groceries at Fairway. I didn’t want those memories to fade.

  When Dad and I had both been raw with grief, at least we were in the gulley together: misery loves company. Neither of us had enjoyed last Christmas—the decorating or undecorating. But now it was late April, and he was moving forward—and taking Dear Kate with him. And he was not even aware that I was making a sacrifice!

  In my mind, I sent one last email to Dear Kate.

  Dear Kate,

  I can’t write you anymore because I found out who’s taking my father away. You! Please don’t tell him I went to that party or that I asked about kissing. And don’t mention the pimple. And please forgive me for having taken up so much of your time.

  Yours truly,

  Another Delusional Loser

  I was remembering how I’d hinted about my online identity by going on and on about cats, but Kate hadn’t picked up on my clues. Maybe it was just as well. Still, it didn’t feel right to keep our correspondence all to myself. Were secrets overrated? Mine felt like a burden. “Dad, if I tell you something, you promise not to get mad?”

  “Well, honey, that depends—”

  “Oh, Dad, just say yes.”

  “Fine. Yes. What?”

  How would it feel to reveal the truth? I decided to start small. “When Kate spoke to the parents at Halsey,” I began, “Kiki and I were in the balcony, hiding. I left you a note, but then I got back before you did, so I threw it away.”

  Dad looked unsure of how to react. “Okay…”

  “Okay,” I echoed and tried to determine if I felt any lighter.

 
No. I felt the same: hollow.

  I figured it would be crazy to say anything else, so I pressed the button and let Bowie get back to singing about ch-ch-ch-ch-changes.

  Dad started singing along.

  “Stop,” I said. “You’re kind of ruining it.” You’re kind of ruining everything.

  “Sorry.” He stopped singing but added, “I always liked Bowie.”

  I knew he wanted me to press Play, but I didn’t feel like doing what he wanted.

  Instead, I pressed Skip and wished I had a device that worked like that in real life: whenever you got to a bad patch, you just pressed Skip.

  But I didn’t. So I turned off the music, and we drove home in silence.

  May

  “Tell me if it hurts,” Dr. Kossowan said.

  “Ishokay,” I mumbled. My mouth was wide-open, and the orthodontist and her assistant were probing with tools and air suckers as they removed my braces, bracket by bracket, while putting in and taking out cotton rolls damp with saliva and specks of blood. I squirmed in the big chair under the bright light.

  But for once, I was happy to be there. My braces were coming off!

  No more x-rays and moldings and rubber bands. No more ugly hardware in metallic colors. No more having to make up missed classes because of appointments and adjustments. No more goofy goody bags with friendly Mr. Tooth cartoons on the outside and free wax strips on the inside. I had enough dental wax to sculpt a score of tiny turtles. Now, after years of being a patient—a very patient patient—the bands and wires were going into the garbage. Good riddance!

  Dr. Kossowan repositioned my chair and handed me a mirror.

  “Wow!” I said. My teeth weren’t crossed, there were no gaps or spaces, and they weren’t covered with unsightly metal or tiny, pointy wires that jabbed the insides of my cheeks.

  I examined my smile…and smiled.

  “Of course you still have to wear your retainer at home,” Dr. Kossowan said.

  “Of course,” I said, though for a second, I’d thought I was home free.

  • • •

  The next Sunday, while Dad met with a real estate agent, I walked through Riverside Park and went up to Mom’s tree. I’d done this once before, and this time I hoped to stop and say something.

  But it was still too hard. I couldn’t do it. Not yet.

  I just stood there in silence and then walked on.

  A few hours later, Dad and I drove to Armonk. He turned on NPR.

  When we arrived, Kate said, “I’m afraid Alexa is at an all-day SAT prep session.”

  “That’s okay,” I chimed and hoped it wasn’t obvious that I was more relieved than disappointed. Dad and Kate started holding hands, and I added, “I think I’ll head over to the lake.” Not that I particularly felt like it.

  I was amazed at how green the ball field and woods were—and more amazed when I passed a striped skunk followed by four wobbly black-and-white baby skunks. Who knew skunks were so cute?

  At the lake, I took off my shoes and dipped my toes in. Freezing! I couldn’t imagine ever climbing that slide and speeding down into the water. I started looking for pebbles, then tried skipping them across the water. Each one sank.

  “It’s all in the wrist,” said a male voice.

  I whirled around, my heart beating fast.

  It was a boy a little older than me. Tall and lanky, with sandy hair, he was wearing a faded black T-shirt and worn jeans. He didn’t look threatening—Kiki would say he looked hot.

  “I’m sorry you saw that,” I said.

  “Me too. Not a pretty sight.” He had a slow smile.

  “I’ve never done it before,” I said shyly.

  “I could tell,” he teased.

  “I live in the city,” I said, as if that explained it.

  “The city? New York? New London? New Delhi?” His eyes were sea green.

  My face grew warm. “New York.”

  “Well, it’s your lucky day. I happen to be an Olympic stone skipper, and I can give you one lesson for free.”

  “Okay…”

  “First, we need the right rocks.” We? I followed as he hunted for stones that were round, smooth, and flat. We returned to the water’s edge, and he put his hand underneath mine and showed me how to send the stones spinning, not plunging. “It’s like throwing a mini-Frisbee,” he said. With a quick sidearm flick, he launched three stones in a row, low and parallel to the water. All three skipped repeatedly before disappearing. “See? All you have to do is defy gravity.”

  “You make it sound easy,” I said.

  “It’s not easy. But you can do it.”

  I gave it a try. The first stone sank. So did the second. The third spun and took a tiny skip. I lifted my arms in triumph. “I did it!” For a second, I thought he might give me a congratulatory hug, but he just looked out at the lake.

  We skipped a few more stones, and he asked where in the city I lived.

  “Upper West Side.”

  “Where the dinosaurs roam?”

  It took me a second, then I laughed. “Well, not inside the Natural History Museum.”

  “I used to meet my cousins there. I was all about T. rex bones and IMAX movies.”

  “We live about fifteen minutes away, depending on how fast you walk.”

  “I walk fast. I’m on the track team.” He checked his cell phone. “In fact, I gotta go. I’m meeting some guys. I’ve been keeping them waiting.”

  “Okay.” He started walking away, and I blurted, “I’m Sofia.”

  He turned and shouted back, “I’m Sam.”

  That night, in my room, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I couldn’t remember everything he’d said about stone skipping, but I could feel his warm hand guiding mine.

  • • •

  Dad got a call and hurried off to the hospital. On his desktop, I saw an email from DearKate@fifteen.com. It hurt to know she was writing him, not me, and I almost opened the email. But I didn’t.

  I was half tempted to write Dear Kate myself. I wanted to send an update signed “Stress Mess” and tell her I was happy about meeting a boy and unhappy about having to move. But I couldn’t because I might be tempted to add that one thing that was weighing on me was where things were heading with Dad and his no-longer-mysterious woman. Besides, what did she even care anyway? She was deluged with letters from losers.

  I called Kiki. “Meet me in Riverside Park? By the flowers?”

  “The You’ve Got Mail flowers?”

  “Yes.” We used to watch that old movie with my mom. It was one of her favorites, and it was filmed in our neighborhood. Mom said the crew had spent days pinning yellow leaves to bare trees to make it look like autumn. “I only have half an hour,” Kiki said. “I’m meeting Trevor.”

  “Trevor? I thought it was Tim.”

  “That’s over. He kept saying he liked how ‘exotic’ I was. Creeped me out! I don’t want people to like me because I’m mixed. I want them to like me because I’m awesome.” I’d heard this before. “Trevor’s cuter anyway.”

  “Just meet me. I have something to tell you.”

  Ten minutes later, Kiki and I stood by the community garden. It was bright with tulips and daffodils, and the nearby cherry trees were in bloom and even smelled good. Two dog walkers with a dozen dogs of all sizes sauntered by.

  “I have sort of a secret,” I said, cutting to the chase. I hoped Kiki wouldn’t be mad that I hadn’t told her about Dear Kate, but I’d needed to figure out how I felt before Kiki started telling me how lucky I was—or angling for an invite.

  “A secret?”

  “You know about my dad and the Mystery Woman?”

  “Yeah, the MW in the ’burbs.”

  “There’s something you don’t know.” We began walking south. “And you can’t tell anyone.” Boats bobbe
d on the Hudson.

  Kiki met my eyes. “All right.”

  “Pinkie swear?” I knew I was being stupid, but I didn’t want the whole school buzzing.

  “Pinkie swear,” she repeated.

  “Okay, remember when Dear Kate came to Halsey?” I began. “Well, her car died that night, so she was like a damsel in distress. And my dad was like a knight in shining armor or, I don’t know, maybe a do-gooder in a down parka.”

  “Sofia, what are you talking about?”

  “The MW is Dear Kate!”

  “What?!” Kiki’s eyes grew wide. “Omigod! I can’t believe it! Or maybe I can—my mom said that when Dear Kate signed her book for your dad, it was like they had some ‘karmic connection.’ I thought Mom was just jealous.”

  “They did know each other! But, Keeks, it wasn’t a past life—it was this life! Dear Kate’s big sister was best friends with my dad’s high school girlfriend.”

  “Shut up! Seriously? Omigod, have you been to her house?”

  I nodded.

  “More than once?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get out! You are so lucky! Why didn’t you tell me? Or invite me!”

  “Number one, you’ve been pretty busy lately. And number two, maybe someday.”

  “Is she nice? Please don’t tell me Dear Kate is a nightmare in real life.”

  “She’s nice.” I paused. “Her daughter’s kind of scary.”

  “Tell you what. Invite them over, and I’ll drop by! Or take them to Saigon Sun! We’ll give them freebies! Bo luc lac and curry tom—on the house!”

  “Kiki, there’s something else. You know how you once wrote her, and she wrote back?” Seagulls screeched above us, and I remembered once in sixth grade when Kiki and I were walking on Broadway together and a bird pooped on my jean jacket. I was freaking out because I was late for chorus, but Kiki said, “Just switch with me. I’ll wash it, and we’ll switch back tomorrow.” We traded jackets, and off I ran, grateful to have such a friend.

  “In February,” I confessed, “I started writing Dear Kate—like, a lot. And she answered a lot. But that was before I knew—”