“So why did you move?” I ask.
“I had issues with the old school,” says Dylan, pressing his clicker as a large bus lumbers past us. “Some people I could do without.”
“Oh.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m getting a job as soon as I graduate.”
“What do you want to do?” I ask.
Dylan shrugs. “Anything.”
“You could do something with your art—you’re pretty good.” I remember the artwork sitting in my drawer at home and feel embarrassed.
“That’s just kid’s stuff. Art isn’t going to get me anywhere,” says Dylan gruffly.
“Who says?”
“My dad,” snaps Dylan.
I’m thinking that Dylan’s dad might have it wrong when a car squeals around the corner. It’s going way too quickly to take the turn properly and ends up clipping a parked car as it goes past. The noise is an awful crunch and then there’s another squeal as the car takes off down the road.
“Hey!” I shout.
“What an idiot,” says Dylan. “We should call the cops. Did you get the license number? Hey, are you okay?”
I’m suddenly shaking so hard that I drop my clipboard. I laugh but it turns strange. Crying once in front of Dylan was bad enough. Twice would just be pathetic.
Dylan touches me briefly on the arm.
He picks up my clipboard and starts to tell me a joke about a dog and a cow and an exploding house. The joke doesn’t make sense, but I finally stop shaking and laugh anyway.
“Hey, you two. Are you working or what?” It’s Sarah waving to us from across the road. I burst out laughing again.
“That girl is a control freak,” Dylan says.
52.
Most Mondays I hang out with the school newspaper group. Sometimes Dylan drops in when he’s not in detention. Angelique is after him to do some illustrations for the newspaper, but he’s playing hard to get.
“My stuff’s no good,” he says, but we all know he’s lying. Even he does.
Angie wants me to write a review of my top five movies for the year. I stall and say maybe, maybe. I haven’t been to the movies for a while—it reminds me too much of the three amigos. Three friends that went their separate ways.
On Wednesdays, I do my stint on Radio SRN, but I don’t do anything out of the ordinary. I don’t want to sound like I’m showing off or anything—so I’ve quit the multiple accents and funky music intro. After school on Wednesdays I visit Leonard and we don’t say much.
On Friday nights I go to the game with Angie and we cheer on Eric’s team. Sometimes Dylan comes along, sometimes not. I don’t like the Friday-night Dylan. I prefer it when he’s not around. Even when he’s not looking at me, I know he’s watching. Watching for me to make a move on Eric. As if I would. I just need to be around him. Maybe I should have explained that to Dylan, but probably he wouldn’t believe me.
Not being into sports, I’m surprised how quickly I get sucked into the excitement of the game. There’s a lot of yelling and banging feet when something exciting happens and I want to join in. Instead I copy Angie’s polite clapping. Sometimes Eric is so psyched up after a game, he ignores Angie. He’s so busy thumping his bag and kicking it around when he loses, or high-fiving his teammates when he wins, that Angie just waits on the sidelines until he’s ready. It’s not Eric’s fault that he ignores her. I want to push her forward, but Angie is content to wait.
Afterward we grab something to eat, unless it’s really late. Dylan never sits near me—we’re always at opposite ends of the bench. When we go to the food court I sometimes catch a glimpse of Desi and Margot, but it’s like I’m seeing an old movie rerun that doesn’t make sense anymore. They never look my way but I feel them watching me anyway.
On Friday nights, Mr. Mendez always gives me a ride home. The first time he took me home, he seemed a little angry, but after that he was okay. Maybe it had something to do with me living near his son.
Angie and I exchange stories. The Mendez family is Angie, her father, her brother, Tony, and her mother, who lives in France. Her brother and father aren’t talking.
“Dad is strict,” Angie explains. “Tony blamed Dad for Mom leaving. Dad and Tony had a big fight. Dad wanted Tony to apologize, but of course . . .” Angie shrugs her shoulders. “Dad told Tony if he didn’t apologize, he had to get out. So Tony left. I think Dad thought Tony wouldn’t leave. I think Mom sends Tony money sometimes.”
“Do you miss your mom?” I ask.
Angie shrugs. “We were never that close. She was always busy. I’m closer to my dad. But I am going to see her during the summer—maybe you could come?”
Oh, yeah. That was really going to happen. Maybe two years ago, but not today. Not unless Angie was paying.
“Is your mom really a model?” I ask.
Angie nods. “Was.”
“So do you want to be a model or a journalist when you graduate?”
Angie shrugs. “My father wants me to be a journalist.”
“And what do you want?’ I ask.
She shrugs again.
One Tuesday, about a month after the breakup, we get our grades back for our geography project. Sarah has done a great job of desktopping it. Our stats have been turned into bar graphs, and her historical input includes some old photos from the Internet. She’s done some nice interviews with the mini golf players, who complain about how the traffic fumes interfere with their game. Candid shots appear on every page, including the photo of the three of us.
We get high marks for the project. I put a copy in my underwear drawer. Mom finds it there when she puts away my clothes that night.
“That’s that Nice Young Man,” she says. “You should invite him over again soon.”
“That’s my geography project,” I snap. “A-plus.”
“Good work, El,” she says with a funny little smile on her face.
The next day I say to Leonard, “This is just a waste of money.”
He shrugs. “It’s my money,” he says. And then he looks like he wishes he hasn’t said anything. He writes something down in his notebook. He’d better not leave me alone in his office again. I’m dying to find out who I am according to Leonard. Or maybe not.
That night, when I ask Mom what Leonard meant, she explains that Leonard had taken on my case pro bono.
“Do you know what that means?” she asks.
“I know what it means,” I say. “For free. A charity case. God, how poor are we?”
Mom continues cutting an onion. Bella flashes me her shut-up glance as she walks past, but I can’t let it go.
“How much longer are we going to live here, anyway? I mean, when’s it all going to be straightened out?”
“It is straightened out,” says Mom dully.
“So what are we still doing here? How much money did we end up with?”
“There is no money,” says Mom.
I know it’s the truth. Somehow I’ve known all along, but I need to hear it anyway.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Mom puts down the knife and spreads her hands. “El, you know about the bankruptcy. There’s just nothing left. I know I led you to believe . . . I thought that . . . Your father—”
“Yeah, well, he’s really left us in the shit, hasn’t he? You lied to me. You said this was only temporary.” I wave my hand around the tiny kitchen and dining family room. “What about all our furniture? What about all my things?”
“It’s in storage,” says Mom. “I suppose I should sell it—”
“And school? Don’t tell me I’m stuck at crappy Blair till twelfth grade. I need to get back to my old life.”
“But you have new friends now. And you can still have your old friends.”
“Don’t be stupid, Mom. That wouldn’t work. Me at Blair and them . . .”
“Bella’s kept in touch with her friends. Nothing’s changed. She still goes out.”
“They’re at college. She’s lucky. And Leo
nard. What about Leonard? Why has he taken me on for free? Am I some kind of guinea pig? Is he some kind of pervert or—”
I see it coming before it happens, but I can’t believe she’s going to do it. Mom slaps my face and I stop talking.
“Jesus,” says Bella, then a door slams and she is gone.
I stand looking at a stranger who has tears in her eyes. She reaches out to me and I flinch away. Then I go to my bedroom and lie down on my bed. In my mind I take out my secret jewel—my walk home with Eric. It’s starting to look dull, but I take it out anyway and give it a polish and look at it from different angles.
Although my door is shut I can still hear the sound of Mom crying in her bedroom.
53.
Mom’s left for work by the time I get up the next morning. She’s made me lunch and I grab it and chuck it in the garbage. It lands with a delicious thump. A thought jumps into my head and I say it out loud, trying it on like a new piece of clothing.
“I am a beaten child,” I say. “I have suffered child abuse,” I say a little louder.
“I’ll give you child abuse,” says Bella, who has been watching me from where she is drying her hair in front of the wall heater.
“You saw her. She slapped me. I should call the police,” I say.
“She was wrong. But you . . . you need to grow up, El,” she says. “Asking her all that stuff. What did you think was happening?”
“I just want it to be like it was. I want to wake up and find everything back to normal.”
“This is our normal now. Get used to it.”
“Mom’s never hit me before.”
“Well, what do you expect? Talking about furniture and school, as if that’s what matters. And trashing her boyfriend like that—”
“Boyfriend? Since when did she have a boyfriend? I didn’t say anything about a boyfriend.”
“Well, friend.”
“What friend?”
“Leonard,” says Bella.
“Leonard!” I repeat. “Leonard. What about Dad? And isn’t Leonard married?”
“Divorced.”
“Oh.”
I need to talk about this with someone right away. Not Bella, because she’s acting like it’s all normal. Not Mom, obviously. I could call Angie, but I’m not sure that she would get it. The whole hugeness of it. She’d probably be nice to me, but I feel the need for some straight answers from someone who knows the whole story.
I call Margot’s cell phone. She’s the only one who can help me. Before she can answer, I hang up. I decide to text her instead. Somehow it’s easier to write it than to speak it. My mind races as I consider the possibilities of my new situation. It takes me three attempts before I get a message that works.
MOM’S NU BFRIEND IS MY LEONARD. SHE SLAPPED ME. WHAT WILL I DO? XEL
Already I feel better.
My good feeling doesn’t last long. By the time I get to school it drops away like the floor of an amusement park ride beneath my feet.
A bunch of Angie’s friends (I still think of them as that) gather around me, patting my arm and cooing like a flock of pigeons eyeing a bag of scraps.
“Are you okay, sweetie?”
“Hey, he wasn’t worth it.”
“Are you still talking to her?”
I drop my bag and raise my arms so that they fall back a little.
I’m panicking that maybe Dylan has been blabbing about my crush on Eric.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“We got your message,” said Jessy. Even she looks concerned. “About your mom and Leonard—your Leonard.”
“Oh. Holy—oh.” Little bits of information trickle into my brain, like the first thawing of a frozen stream.
“I mean, we didn’t even know you had a boyfriend,” says Jessy.
“Oh,” is all I can say again. Then I pick up my bag and head for the bathroom.
I am still sitting on a toilet-seat lid when the bell goes for first period.
This is what I have worked out so far:
A. I have sent a group message to everyone in my phone’s contact list about Mom and Leonard.
B. People in the list include Angie, my mother, my sister, Leonard and Eric and Dylan, to name just a few.
C. By now there is a rumor spreading around the school that my mother has just run off with my boyfriend.
D. Eric thinks I have a boyfriend.
E. Dylan thinks I have a boyfriend.
F. By now there is a rumor spreading around the school that my mother beats me and the vice principal is probably contacting Children’s Services as I sit here thinking.
The bathrooms are probably my second-favorite place to be at Blair. Now, school bathrooms are usually disgusting, but the principal has this thing about cleanliness. I know this because there’s always a notice for Radio SRN about keeping the school clean and tidy. The fact that he offers a cash prize at the end of each term is enough incentive for students to give it their best. I’ve seen kids grab garbage out of the trash cans and take it to the yard monitor, just so they can get points for the end-of-term garbage tally.
The tiles in the girls’ bathrooms are yellow. Not an abusive yellow, but a nice mellow yellow of morning sunshine. Some are cracked, but the grout between them is white. The school janitor cleans the toilets twice a day. They smell like lavender—in a bathroom kind of way. The best time to be there is when everyone else is in class. Sometimes I get a pass to go to the bathroom, shut the door, and just enjoy the quiet dripping of the taps.
I am still running through A, B, C, D, E, and F when Desi finds me about twenty minutes into first period. When I say Desi, I mean her hand. I’d know that hand anywhere.
“El?”’ she says.
I want to say something, but my voice just makes a little squeak. The next thing I know there are two hands waving under my door.
“Open up, El,” says Desi.
I sag with relief. By the time I open the door I hear the machine-gun clatter of Ms. Clooney’s heels enter the bathroom.
“Omigod,” says Desi.
“Well, well,” she says as she rounds the corner. “Do you girls have a pass? No? I didn’t think so. See you at lunchtime detention—today.”
“I guess we’re even now,” whispers Desi.
54.
I get through the day without any further interruptions. I sit by myself in class, though Desi keeps looking at me like a mother hen might look at a stray chick. Lunchtime detention is non-eventful. I sit alone at the back corner of the room, and Ms. Clooney lets me sit there, away from prying eyes.
At the end of detention, Ms. Clooney says she has some good news for me. I doubt it, but I listen politely. She tells me she has submitted my detention story to the school newspaper and that it has been accepted for the end-of-year publication.
“Okay,” I say.
I don’t even bother getting angry that she has done this behind my back. I wonder why Angie hasn’t mentioned it. I head for the door, but Ms. Clooney stops me.
“What are you doing with your life, Ariel Marini?” she says.
“What?” It was the cat-and-mouse game with a twist. Just me and Ms. Clooney and no one watching.
Ms. Clooney looks me long and hard in the eye. For once I look back at her, really look, and I see a person. Just a person with washed-out gray eyes.
“I don’t wish to see you in detention again,” she says quietly.
Then she goes and I’m a mouse left without a game.
At the end of the day I check my phone and there are eighteen messages. I scan through them. Bella’s says I should be banned from using technology and was I all right. There is a message from Mom that just reads “sorry.” There is no message from Margot. This hurts more than any slap on the face.
The days roll on.
Mom and I are civil to each other. She has told me sorry about thirty-seven times and I’ve said sorry too, but I spend a lot of time in my room. I curse the fact that we don’t have Internet a
ccess at home, but then reconsider and think maybe it’s just as well no one can instant message me. In the end I get so bored I do my homework. That’s when I know that I’ve reached an all-time low.
I don’t go to basketball that week. I tell Angie that I have a headache, then I sit at home and watch a rerun of a classic chick flick called Sleepless in Seattle. This gives me a chance to cry without anyone asking questions. It actually turns out to be not a bad night. Mom has been given a box of chocolates, I don’t ask by who, and we sit on the couch together and watch TV, eat chocolates, and argue about the ending.
Then Bella gets home from work and the three of us watch the next movie—some Elvis movie—and though Bella groans through all the corny lines, she has us up twisting and rocking and rolling and we laugh together like we haven’t laughed in years, until Mom collapses against the door frame and says, “Oh, that’s enough. I have to go to bed. Good night, you two.”
I wait for her to kiss me on the forehead, but I haven’t let her do that for ages, so I just say, “I think it’s cool.”
“What?” says Mom.
“I think it’s cool that you’re going out with Leonard.”
Mom looks bewildered, like she’s opened the door to the wrong house.
“We’re not going out, Ariel,” she says. “He’s just someone I can talk to.”
Then she kisses me on the forehead, goes to her bedroom, and shuts the door quietly behind her.
On Sunday, Angie drops in. She’s been visiting her brother and seems happy.
“How’s your headache?” she asks.
“Headache . . . oh, yeah. Fine, thanks.”
“I should introduce you and Tony one day.”
“Yeah, that would be good,” I say. I can think of a few things I’d like to say to him. Him and his water pipes.
“I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“I’m fine,” I say, still embarrassed about the group text message.
“El, someone told me something on Friday . . . something that I need to ask you about.”
A tap has turned on in my stomach. A trickle of cold water is slowly filling me up.
“Sure,” I say. “What?”
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