by Dalya Moon
* * *
On Sunday, we go swimming again with my father, and Briana joins us.
I wear my new one-piece swimsuit, so my cousin doesn't try anything weird at the pool, to my relief.
Maybe things are going to be okay.
* * *
I'm helping my mother clean up after Sunday dinner when she asks if I've noticed Tick “behaving unusually.”
“Very unusually,” I say. “She knocked on the bathroom door today before barging in.”
“Very funny,” my mother says.
“How about you and Aunt Trudy?” I ask. “How's that going? I don't think she complained about anything at dinner tonight. Maybe she's run out of things?”
Mom frowns at the bowl of mashed potatoes she's covering to put in the fridge. “So much left over. I guess I really overestimated how many potatoes this family needs.”
I take the bowl and put it in the fridge for her.
She says, “You can tell me, honestly, is your cousin fitting in at school?”
“About as well as any ninth grader can.”
She turns and looks me straight in the eyes. “I'm so glad I don't have to worry about you. You're my good girl.” She grabs me for another hug. She's been more huggy than usual lately.
“And Olivia,” I say, squirming away, but not too quickly.
Mom lets me go and turns back to the sink. “Your sister is flunking a class. She's also doing quite well with Boys One-oh-one, but that's not exactly accredited.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Boys One-oh-one.” She works away at a pot with the scrubbing brush. “If her grades don't pick up, she may find herself working two jobs this summer to pay for tuition herself.”
“It's college, Mom. She should have a little fun, right?”
“You sound just like your aunt when you say that.”
“Oh. Shoot me now.”
That makes her smile. “I don't know where the time goes.” She turns to me, and her face loses all expression.
I'm leaning against the doorway, not doing anything alarming that I know of. “What? Are you okay?”
She yanks open the junk drawer with a clatter and motions for me to stand against the door frame again. She puts her hand on top of my head and uses the felt pen in her other hand to mark my height.
Years ago, my father used a measuring tape and transferred markers up the door frame so we could record my and Olivia's height, just like his parents did for him and Aunt Trudy.
Mom and I turn and look at the new mark, which is even higher than the last one for Olivia.
According to the wall, I'm five feet and nine inches tall. That's nearly two inches taller than I was last year this time.
“You are growing like a kudzu vine,” my mother says. “Look at your jeans. The hems were always dragging on the floor and now they aren't.”
“No wonder my shoes feel tight.” I wiggle my toes, which do seem longer, now that I'm looking at them. “Oh, no. Am I going to have enormous feet like Dad? What if my feet keep on growing, and when I stand sideways, I look like the letter L?”
“Your feet should stop growing eventually.”
“Thanks, Mom. Very reassuring, as always.”
“How is your appetite? You didn't eat very much at dinner.”
Don't say diet, don't say diet, I tell myself.
“Fine,” I say.
I can't say the word diet around my mother or she'll get overexcited. It happened before, with Olivia, when she was sixteen. My mother brewed up this big batch of juice made with maple syrup and lemon juice and cayenne pepper. Olivia moaned and complained the full week they were on it.
The worst part was, Olivia swore that fasting business kick-started a big weight gain as soon as she was back on regular food.
No, my mother can't know I'm on a diet. It's bad enough having me worrying about what I'm eating. I can't have her meddling too.
She pats herself on her stomach. “We could do a juice fast together. I could lose a few pounds myself.”
She turns and opens the pantry cupboard, muttering about maple syrup.
“No!” I say, perhaps a little too vehemently. “Let's keep on eating normally. You can skip dessert for a while. I mean, stop making dessert, and we'll all avoid temptation.”
“No juice fast?” She seems disappointed.
“Well, I was reading some stuff online about fasts, and there's a blogger, a girl in Eating Disorder recovery, and she says fasting is a gateway to major problems. I don't want to get anywhere near those kinds of problems, because they seem really tough to get over, you know?”
“What? Eating Disorder recovery? We didn't have these things when I was your age.”
“Sure you did. People just didn't talk about them.”
“They didn't blog about them,” she says.
I wave my hands emphatically. “No juice fasting.”
“I should take more walks,” my mother says, patting her stomach, which has the tiniest of bulges, barely visible.
“You could come swimming with me and Dad.”
“You mean sit in the hot tub with a good trashy novel? Actually, that does sound good.”
At the thought of swimming, I realize how tired my body feels from today's exertion. My arms feel like someone played tug-of-war with my body.
I had a great time at the pool today. Briana hasn't had swimming lessons, but she's a natural, and we swam lots of laps, plus nobody pulled down the bottoms of my swimsuit!
I run my hands over my arms.
Mom says, “Sore from swimming?”
I flex my biceps. “Yeah, but look! I think I have more muscles.”
“Taller and more muscular! They'll be recruiting you for the Olympics soon.”
“I don't think so. If you want to do any competitive sports stuff, you have to get in much younger. I'm old. I'm fourteen, Mom. I'll never do anything special as a kid.”
“Don't say that.”
“It's true. I'm way past prodigy age for anything. Briana's sister might one day compete in figure skating, but she's been training since she was eight or nine.”
My mother shakes her head. “The world is so competitive. Don't worry, you'll find your thing.”
“I don't need a thing. I'm happy to be normal, like you and Dad.”
She frowns and fluffs out her hair. “I could still do something. I could write a movie script. I could write one of those romantic comedies. A nice one.”
I don't know what to say to that, so I open the utensil drawer and put away the serving spoons.
* * *
Later that night, when I'm getting ready for bed, I brush my teeth while balancing first on one foot, and then on the other. One of my father's friends was at the pool today, and he said if I do this exercise while keeping my hips level, it will help strengthen my hips and core muscles, which are the muscles around your abdomen and back.
I'm not sure if the balancing exercise is doing anything, but by the end of flossing, my legs are feeling a bit shaky, like how my arms felt after swimming.
Tick knocks politely on the bathroom door.
“Come in, I'm decent.”
She whooshes in, saying, “There's nothing decent about those pajamas.”
I look down, confused about why she's insulting my flannel pants. “They're just for sleeping in, Tick, they're not for fashion shows. Wait, are you ragging on my clothes now? You got a bunch of new sweaters and now you're the fashion expert?”
“Kidding,” she says. “I'm kidding. Don't be so sensitive. Gah.”
“Oh, okay. I'll just push my magic switch.” I poke myself in the belly button. “There we go. I'm no longer sensitive. Go ahead, I don't have any feelings to get hurt. You can say you don't even like me.”
“You're weird,” she says as she grabs her cinnamon-flavored toothpaste and purple, glittery toothbrush. “By the way, I'm going out tonight. Wanna come?”
“What? It's ten o'clock. Shut up, you're not going out.”
“I know it's late, but the good stuff doesn't start until eleven. I was going to wait until you were asleep and just go without you, but ... I think you should come with me.”
“Wait. Good stuff? You mean sneak out? Without telling our parents?”
“That's how sneaking out usually works. But you can't wear those pajamas.” She begins brushing her teeth.
I rinse out my cup, leave her to the bathroom, and climb into my bed. The flannel sheets feel cool, but they'll warm up.
My parents are talking down the hall, on their way to bed. My father must be tired from swimming, because he usually stays up later than my mother. Within half an hour, everyone will be asleep.
The sheets are getting warmer now, as long as I lie still, and my pillow is comforting. My legs and arms feel like jelly from swimming. I love my bed.
* * *
Someone is shaking me.
Olivia? Oh, Olivia, you're home! I missed you so much.
No.
It's my cousin. She's got her face close to mine, and she's asking if I'm ready to go. My heart is pounding from the surprise of being woken up.
I look over at my clock just as a new digit flips down: it's 11:15.
“I knew you'd chicken out,” she says.
“No.” I sit up. I feel angry. Was I dreaming I was yelling at her? “Don't go out alone. It's dangerous. Go to bed.”
“This is Snowy Cove, Population Boringsville. I think I can handle myself.” She steps up on my bed and walks over my legs. She opens the old wooden window, letting in a cold, moist chill. “Seeya. Wouldn't wanna be-ya.”
Grabbing the hem of her tan-colored cords, I say, “Wait up, you're not leaving here alone.”
I roll out of bed and grab my jeans from the hook on the wall, then pull them on over top of my flannel pants. The breeze from the open window makes me shiver.
I skip putting on a bra, because the idea of having less clothes on, even for a minute, makes me shiver harder. I put on a sweater over top of my pajama shirt, all the better to keep me warm on a cold night in February.
“We can't go. No boots,” I say, but she points to a pair of mine, waiting near the foot of my bed, along with a jacket. She must have crept down to the entry way and gotten them ahead of time.
She ducks out the window, and I follow. As I move along behind her, down the fire escape ladder, I wonder if this is even the first time she's snuck out. I am a pretty heavy sleeper, and she seems quite adept at handling the narrow ladder in the dark.
When we reach the bottom, I take one last, longing look at my warm bedroom—or at least the dark window to it. I should go back.
“Having fun yet?” she asks me.
I pull my coat tight around me and look down the street, so quiet at this time of night, lit only by streetlamps. It snowed after sunset, and everything's covered in echo-cancelling fresh snow. The air is cold. Crisp. Exhilarating.
“Time's a-wasting,” she says, setting out at a trot. I run along too, keeping pace with her. We switch back and forth between jogging and walking, and pretty soon we're at the door of The International, both of us red-cheeked and breathing heavily.
The sandwich board out front reads: Open Mic Night!The best* (*free) music and comedy in The Cove!
We walk in the door. This time, there's no sitar music or incense, but the air smells like beer, and people are laughing and talking.
Tick grabs my hand and leads the way over to the same table we sat at with my family last Sunday. Lots of people are bunched in around the table already. I recognize Dana instantly, with her blue hair, and some of the others Tick's been hanging out with. Ty is here too.
“Sup?” Ty says as he gives Tick a fist bump, then me.
I've never talked to Ty outside Drama class, where he's practically attached to Josh. The first thing you notice about Ty is his smile, and his bright white teeth, contrasting his dark brown skin. His hair is very short and very curly, and he wears it with a part down one side, so the top rises up like a triangle. I know his family's from Jamaica, and his mother's a nurse, and he'll do anything to get a laugh.
I smooth out my hair with my fingers and glance around for Josh, but I don't see him.
The restaurant looks different from when I was here with the whole Murphy family. The tables that were on one of the elevated levels have been removed, creating an entertainment platform. Funny, I never realized that step-up area was a stage.
Big speakers flank the small stage, and a dozen or more fat electrical cords criss-cross the floor. A silver-haired guy with a guitar is perched on the stage, sitting on a stool, singing an old song I don't know the name of. This is what we're here to see? I'm not an expert on music, but this guy seems like the opposite of what Tick described as “good stuff.”
Tick is already sitting, and Ty jumps up to offer me his chair. “I'm up next anyway,” he says, and he bounds up onto the stage as people applaud the singer.
Genna's big sister Gwendolyn is here, and she seems to be acting as host for the Open Mic event. She asks for another round of applause for the singer guy, then says, “Give a warm welcome to Ty Fakin' Bacon, no relation to the actor.”
The crowd laughs and claps. Ty's real last name is Barnes, not Bacon, but Fakin' Bacon is pretty genius.
Ty taps the microphone once and jumps back, one eyebrow raised, which gets everyone going. Ty's so naturally funny that all he has to do in a Drama skit is raise that eyebrow, and people start to laugh. He does a great Will Smith impression too, though he doesn't have the same round face shape.
Ty says, into the microphone, “As you can tell by my acne, I am in high school.” A few people laugh politely, which surprises me. Except for our table, most everyone here looks to be forty or older.
He grabs the microphone from the stand and paces right, left, then right again, then stops abruptly. “So, cafeteria food, amiright? Reconstituted meat substitute. What is that? Did Principal Woo make some sort of deal with the military to conduct torture experiments?”
The older folks in the audience smile and nod. A bunch of people at our table, including Dana and Tick, yell, “Crack hair!”
Ty grins at us, clearly loving every second of this. Everyone's so quiet now, I can hear chairs squeaking. I can also hear Ty breathing, into the microphone.
“Question for the older guys in the room,” Ty says, pacing, then stopping and batting his eyes innocently. “Is it normal to get hair growing all in behind your ...” He turns and points to his butt crack, or where it would be, under his jeans.
Everyone laughs, with the older men in the crowd laughing the loudest.
“What do you call that hair anyway?” Ty muses. “There's chest hair, and leg hair, and, of course, pubic hair. I've examined the crack hair—the individual hairs—and tried to match them up with a named area, but no such luck.”
I put my hand over my face, embarrassed on his behalf. People seem to be enjoying it, though, and there's something so sweet about Ty's innocent facial expressions, that it doesn't seem that gross.
He continues, “So, my Mom gave me one of those—” he switches to a falsetto voice, “—Son, your body is changing booklets, and sat me down for a talk, but nobody mentioned crack hair. Is it just me, then? So I decided to do some research. Word of advice. Do not google crack hair.”
Everyone's laughing pretty steadily now, and not just our table, but all the grown-ups too. As Ty continues his routine about body hair, moving into top-of-big-toe hair, Gwendolyn stops by the table to take our order. I lean across Dana and ask Tick if she brought her wallet, because I didn't.
“You can share some of my drink,” Tick says.
I apologize to Gwendolyn for being cheap, and order an ice water. I'm regretting the double layer of clothes, because I'm quite warm now, jammed in next to other people. I sit back in my wooden chair and enjoy the rest of Ty's act. He makes a few jokes and silly impressions that I recognize from Drama class, but it's mostly new material, and he's good. He's as go
od as any comedian I've seen on TV. I wonder how he got so good, but mostly I just laugh until my throat feels hoarse.
When Ty finishes, ending on a joke about finding a suspicious hair in the cafeteria food, he gets a big applause.
Tick hands me her drink, which looks like Coke. I take a big sip, but it tastes funny. “Did you put booze in here?” I ask. The glass smells like what my father drinks sometimes, rye, I think, and I'm sure the staff here wouldn't serve drinks to teenagers.
Dana opens her jacket to reveal a silver flask.
“Gross,” I say, handing the drink back. “We heard Ty's act, so we should go home now. It's late. And don't drink all of that or you'll get sick.”
Tick exchanges a look with Dana before chugging the rest of the glass.
I should phone my parents. This is like a real-life after-school special, where the kids get in trouble because they didn't do the smart thing and call a parent.
Oh, but I don't want to get myself in trouble, and I'll be in deep doo-doo for leaving the house, as an accomplice. I could leave her here and walk home myself, then wake my parents and tell them she's missing. Whether I was a participant would be my word against hers.
I don't know what to do. Normally, I'm very decisive, whether it's on tests or anything else. I see a problem, I think about the solution, I make a decision.
I can't think in here, with all this noise and all these people. I wish I could be home again, safe in my bed, and not being mocked. I think Dana and Tick are laughing at me for not drinking their flask of whatever it is.
That's it, I'm leaving. I start pulling on my jacket, but stop when Gwendolyn introduces the next person for Open Mic. “Please welcome Josh Neale,” she says.
Josh.
He's wearing pants that aren't jeans, and a button-down shirt. He's got his glasses on—thin, wire-frame ones—and he sits on the wooden stool, adjusts a guitar on his lap, and strums a chord.
This I have to see.
He pushes a pedal on the floor with his foot, and the lights over the little stage change from green to red, making his sandy hair appear almost pink.
I slowly slip my arms back out of my jacket. Can Josh actually sing?