“You know I didn’t mean it that way.” Lyla looks hurt. “We’ll always be best friends. It’s just that . . . you don’t always have to have a lot in common with someone to be their friend. Look at us . . . friends since second grade and we’re really different from each other. Just be a little more open to others, that’s all I’m saying.”
In my head, I know she’s right, but how do you go from A to B? It’s easy to say it and understand it, but the other part . . . that’s not so easy. But I know Lyla well enough to know she feels bad having to spell it out for me like this. Right now, she probably feels she pushed me too hard. Lyla and I have history so it’s easy with her. With everyone else it seems like too much of an effort.
“Let me do your hair for you!” Her voice suddenly sounds bright.
Ninety minutes later my long, brown hair is sleek and shiny with loose curls that tumble gently over my shoulders like in the magazines. How does she do it? My mother used to say my hair had a mind of its own, but if I would be patient with it, it would always behave perfectly. I used to wonder if she was really talking about me and not my hair. I usually get around to figuring things out if I have enough time.
Lyla calls her parents who give their permission for her to eat dinner at our house but she has to be home by eight. Whenever I think my dad is too controlling I think about Lyla’s parents. I couldn’t stand a day under their rules but Lyla seems to enjoy the tight constraints they put on her. That’s another way we’re different.
“I have to wake up super early tomorrow so I can’t stay late,” she informs me, and it sounds like she’s making an excuse for their overprotectiveness because she knows how I feel. “What should we do now? Our hair is done. Our nails are done and we look hot, girl! Let’s go unleash ourselves on the world.” She beams at me like I’m her marvelous creation.
“I have an idea,” I say. “Let’s take the Hornet.”
__________
“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?” Lyla sounds irritable. The “surprise” that I promised looks less and less promising. “I don’t even know where we are and I don’t think my parents would be very happy if they knew I was here . . . wherever we are.” Her green silk top is rumpled and . . . is that actually a sweat stain under her arm?
“This is the house.” I point across the street to 758. “In case you’re interested.”
A dark-haired, young boy bounces a ball against the garage door. Pound-bounce-catch. Pound-bounce-catch. It makes a racket each time it hits the cheap vinyl door.
“Oh my God!” Lyla’s mouth forms an O of horror. “This is a new low. We shouldn’t be here, Krista. Let’s go.”
I don’t know what I was expecting. Of course she wouldn’t understand why I brought her here. Why would she? I barely understand it myself.
Just then, the front door opens, and a woman walks out. She speaks loudly to the boy in a foreign language. The boy looks dejected and catches the ball on the bounce. He walks over to the dead grass of the tiny front lawn and throws the ball up in the air and then catches it. He does it again. The woman walks back to the front door and then turns to look at the Hornet. She stares for a few seconds before disappearing into the house.
“She saw us, Krista. I mean it, let’s get out of here.” Lyla’s voice is panicky. It doesn’t take much to make her nervous. “This is so wrong.”
I pull away from the curb and drive slowly by the house. The woman looks out the window as we pass by.
For the rest of the night, Lyla is different. She’s quiet through dinner and I wonder if my father notices the change. She also keeps looking at me as though she’s noticing something for the first time, and it makes me wonder what that something is. I know there’s nothing new inside me. It’s only that I’ve gotten good at hiding what’s already there. I took her to the house hoping that she might get it, but I should have known better. Nobody does.
After dinner, I walk Lyla to her car, but we don’t say too much, and we don’t talk about what happened earlier. We say goodbye and hug each other tightly. She tells me to take care of myself and that she’s only a phone call away. There are promises to celebrate our birthdays when she gets back from Maine. I stay for a moment longer to watch the red taillights of her car disappear down the road along with the sparkle that is Lyla’s life.
Chapter | 3
The dream I’m having doesn’t want to let me go, and I don’t want to let go of it either. When I open my eyes, I’ve forgotten everything except the feeling, which is warm and satisfying, so I close my eyes hoping to return to that place. I’m usually able to sleep through the typical morning sounds, but a baby’s outraged cries are new and succeed in waking me. The Sullivans must have brought their baby home. It seems impossible this day could finally be here after everything that led up to it.
Mom spent hours supporting Rachel Sullivan during a very difficult time. Together, they drove to fertility specialists when Mr. Sullivan was out of town on business, my mom taking notes for him while the doctors explained this reason or that reason the Sullivans couldn’t conceive. And then came the long, drawn out process of adoption—more difficult for the Sullivans because they weren’t young anymore. Mom helped with that as well. It was an exciting time for all of us, but now I can’t remember how that felt.
The baby is finally here. I can hear its howls, and I sympathize. It can’t be easy to be tiny and helpless and still attempt to make sense of everything life throws at you. I just wish Mom was here to see it. That would have made her happy. Maybe I should go next door and visit them soon. Mom would have wanted me to.
Lying here on my foam pad with a thin sheet loosely covering me, I can feel my hair—long, thick and damp with sweat—around my throat. My scrunchie came loose while I slept and now I feel like I’m being strangled by hair. There’s no more delaying, so I get up and crawl out of my tent. It’s already hot, and by the position of the sun, it seems I’ve slept late.
I think of Lyla relaxing on the plane, maybe reading a book or watching a movie, thinking about a lazy summer on the beautiful coast of Maine. I went with her once, when we were younger, and her grandparents were also younger and willing to allow her to bring a friend. I remember a formal, gray stone manor with a wide, green lawn that spilled into the ocean behind it. We sat in lounge chairs under the shade of a tree and read silly books and told each other silly stories of what we would be when we grew up, and who we would marry. When we got hot we ran into the salty water and splashed the stickiness off our sunburned skin. Her grandmother served us oatmeal cookies and huge, sweating plastic tumblers of lemonade.
Now Lyla’s grandparents want her for themselves, and I think I understand why even though it’s hard for me to be left behind. They only see her a few times a year and those times grow more and more precious the older they get. I guess when you’re old you probably realize how important it is to focus on the people you love. At some point, you must know that tomorrow might never come. I never used to get that, like most kids my age. But when you do finally get around to understanding it . . . well then you just wish you hadn’t.
The back door is unlocked, so I don’t have to pull the key from its hiding place under the smooth, oval rock in the rose bed. The morning dishes and coffee cups are still in the sink—I make a mental note to take care of that so as not to give Marie another reason to complain, as if she needs one. There’s a note stuck to the refrigerator door:
Krista, dinner at 6. Please don’t be late. Also, please set aside time to talk after dinner.
Dad, the obsessive scheduler.
I pull a bowl from the cupboard and walk into the pantry for cereal. A pathetic squawk like a crow with a belly-ache floats across the emptiness of the house. It’s Charlie. Hardly anyone pays attention to him anymore. He was Mom’s cockatiel, and all his physical needs are being met, but nobody can bear to do any more than just that. I set down the box of
cereal and walk into the study. Charlie’s cage stands alone in a corner next to the window.
“Hey boy,” I say. “How’re you doing?”
He cocks his head to get a better angle on me. He squawks in a disinterested way. Charlie has managed to pull every feather out of his chest and under his wings. The exposed pink skin repulses me, and I fight the impulse to look away. The bird vet said there was nothing medically wrong with Charlie. We even bought him new toys to cheer him up, but he doesn’t find any joy in them. The vet said that birds are highly sensitive to their surroundings and will feel things that might not be visible to an outside observer. A canary will die in a coal mine long before the miners are aware of any toxic fumes.
After breakfast, another long, blank day is facing me. I go upstairs for a shower and decide to style my hair just like Lyla did yesterday. I’ve made a resolution to move my life forward in a positive direction. I will be forward thinking like Lyla. Then I’ll sit down at my desk and plan for the rest of the summer. When Dad calls me in for his talk after dinner I will preempt whatever he says with my own plan. He’ll be surprised at first and then pleased that I’m taking charge of my life. He’ll back down and defer to whatever idea I come up with. He’ll be amazed at the change in me. I’ll start with my hair, though. After all, a person’s outward appearance tells a lot about what’s going on inside their head.
After my shower, I sit on the vanity chair in my bedroom armed with blow dryer, flat iron, wide-toothed comb, round brush, and curling iron.
A row of products is lined up in front of me: de-frizz leave-in conditioner, mousse, shine-enhancing oil, and hairspray. I try to remember the order and location on my head that Lyla used them. I carefully pin up my hair and start to work segment by segment. Less than halfway through, my arms are aching from the effort of holding the strands of hair away from my head. The result is not impressive. My hair looks flat and dull—probably because I’ve used too much product. The curls look limp and heavy, nothing like the shiny bouncy curls that Lyla created yesterday.
Two years ago, I was well on my way to becoming popular. Honestly, I was riding on Lyla’s coattails, but still, I got lots of attention and invitations to great parties. I never doubted it would only keep getting better. It’s hard for me to see that girl when I look at myself in the mirror today. I sigh and pull my hair into a ponytail.
I’ve had a minor setback but I’m still determined to look forward. I pull a notebook from my desk drawer and start writing a list.
Possible Summer Activities
I think about kids I know at school and the kinds of things they do in the summer.
Babysitting
Swim team
SAT prep classes
Summer abroad
Music camp
Retail (good discounts on clothes)
Start my own business (what kind of business?)
My post-breakfast enthusiasm begins to wane and I draw cartoon owls below the list. I wonder what Dad will suggest in our talk tonight.
I think about Lyla again and decide to call her tonight—or maybe just text her. I remember what she said yesterday. I’m a “big responsibility” for her, an emotional responsibility. I don’t want to be a buzzkill and intrude on her excitement, bring her down during her vacation. I guess I’ll just text.
Last summer it wasn’t hard to lose my best friend for two months. I was still feeling numb and her absence was just one more thing I didn’t care about. Last summer my father cut me a lot of slack and didn’t say a word when I spent most of it in front of the TV. He didn’t demand that I look for a way to occupy myself. He was barely taking care of himself and probably didn’t notice a lot of what I did. Last summer Marie didn’t live with us, either.
Now my feelings are returning. Just like a deep flesh wound that severs the nerves and leaves the surrounding flesh with no feeling. Then the nerves regenerate. They find their missing counterparts on the other side of the wound. They make new pathways. Slowly but surely, sensation returns to the flesh around the wound. My feelings are returning. Is that a good thing? It depends which feelings I’m having on any particular day. Most days I miss the numbness.
I have a stack of books on my desk—summer reading for my AP English class. How could my father accuse me of wasting my time if I manage to finish a book by the time he gets home? Or at least put a serious dent in one. But I know what I’m going to do, so who am I kidding? I’m going to the only place where I don’t have to hide what I feel. I’m going back to 758.
__________
The drive takes thirty minutes, but this time I don’t have to plug the address into my navigation system. I find my way easily, and soon I’m parked in the same spot facing away from the house. I’ve adjusted my side and rear mirrors to get a good view. There’s a car in the driveway that wasn’t there before—an old, brown Toyota. The paint is so faded that silver patches are showing through. If it wasn’t here yesterday, then it probably doesn’t belong to the woman I saw who I’m sure is the mother. I’m guessing it’s his, and maybe I’ll see him today. My heart starts to thump hard in my chest, so I pick out a playlist on my phone to relax me, and then I slouch down in my seat to wait.
After about ten minutes, I glance at my gas gauge and notice it’s near empty. I could turn off the engine to save on gas, but heat waves rise visibly from the street and my air conditioning won’t cool unless the engine is running. It seems like I should go, but before I have a chance to reposition my mirrors, there’s a rap on my window. A policeman stands there motioning for me to roll down the window, which I do.
“Driver’s license and registration,” he says.
I reach in the glove compartment and pull out the plastic pouch containing all my paperwork. I fumble around in my purse for my driver’s license. “Is there a problem?” I ask.
He’s young and looks sympathetic. With pale hair that clings to his scalp from perspiration, and cheeks flushed with heat, he doesn’t quite fit my idea of what a cop should look like. His eyes are blue and kind, but he holds himself with a posture of authority.
“Can I ask what you’re doing here?” he wants to know.
“Am I doing something illegal?” I ask. “It’s a public street.” He peers at my driver’s license.
“No, you’re not doing anything illegal. Wait here for a moment, please.” He walks back to his car with my license and gets in. I turn off my engine to conserve gas. A few minutes later he returns and hands me my license.
“Look, why don’t you move along?” he says. “We received a call from a resident. You’re making them nervous. Apparently, this isn’t your first time here.”
I don’t know how to respond. I want to argue with him since technically I’m not breaking the law, but I know enough not to argue with a cop. For some reason I feel humiliated, but why should I? I foolishly ask him where the nearest gas station is, and he points me in the direction. We both pull away from the curb at the same time, and I swear I see a shadow behind the window underneath the striped awning.
With the Hornet filled up with gas, I’m restless—purposeless. I can’t get past the feeling of humiliation. The policeman acted as though I had done something wrong. I wanted to tell him it isn’t me . . . I’ve done nothing wrong. Just go up to that house, I wanted to say. 758. Knock on the door. Talk to the person who answers, and let them explain who’s done something wrong. Not me who’s just parked on a public street.
I’m embarrassed and angry at the same time. I can’t bring myself to go home but I have nowhere else to go, so I drive aimlessly until I’m within blocks of the mall. The mall seems as good a place to be as any. I can cool off there. And be anonymous.
Kids from my school don’t come to this mall. There’s an outdoor mall closer to my home that has fountains and palm trees and posh little shops where women with oversized Chanel sunglasses and Marc Jacobs purses leisurely wind
ow-shop, lattes in hand. This mall, on the other hand, is serious and fully enclosed. The architecture isn’t all that welcoming, but the message is clear: Come inside these doors to shop and buy. Stay as long as you like—as long as it takes. Personally, I have no desire to shop, even though my father gave me a credit card of my own. I pull into the multi-level parking structure where the Hornet will stay cool. There’s a food court in this mall—and no one would ever consider asking a girl who’s lingering over lunch to move along.
__________
The mall shoppers remind me of salmon swimming upstream, and I join their numbers. I’m swept up in their single-mindedness, which appeals to me in its simplicity. I pass by stores . . . children’s shoes, yoga clothing, giant pretzels, gourmet chocolate, sporting goods. I pause in front of the sporting goods store. The mannequins in the display window are dressed in brightly-colored fleece jackets, nylon sweatpants, and hiking boots. The male figure carries an elaborate orange and black camping backpack. The female wears a broad-brimmed canvas sun hat. Her head has been twisted slightly and angled to give her the appearance of looking up at her male companion. Maybe he’s just told a joke or maybe he’s giving her directions or warning about rattlesnakes and bears. Each of her hands clasps a walking pole. Their faces are black and smooth—featureless. Their world in this glass display case is still innocent and pure. I walk into the store.
I’m not much for sports or even outdoor equipment, but I know there’s something here for me. I walk through aisles of dumbbells and athletic socks and yoga mats. I even pause to consider a pair of pink and gray running shoes, impractical for what I’m about to do.
Then I see what it is I’ve been looking for: a monocular. Small, black, portable, only about four inches long. I bring the lens to my eye and focus on the other side of the store. A sign that says On Sale Today Only! is plainly visible, as though it was directly in front of me. From my rooftop tent, I would have the eyesight of a great-horned owl. I barely hesitate before dropping it into my purse.
The House at 758 Page 2