by Sarah Dessen
I was in the post office picking through the mail one day—bills, a check from Mira’s card company, and a postcard from my mother featuring the Venus de Milo in workout wear—when I heard it.
“Well, you know what they say about her.” It was a woman’s voice, middle-aged and twangy. She was around the corner, behind the next row of mailboxes.
“I’ve been told some things,” a second woman said. You could tell she wanted her friend to go on. She just wasn’t ready to contribute yet.
This was also part of what I knew.
“It’s no secret,” said the first woman. I could hear her shuffling her mail. “I mean, everyone is aware of it.”
I stepped back and leaned against the mailboxes, touching my tongue to my piercing. My face was already hot, that uncontrollable red flush that climbed across my skin, rampant, that one dry spot in the back of my throat that no amount of swallowing helped. I might as well have been back at school, standing in the girls’ locker room listening to Caroline Dawes announce to her friends that I’d told Chase Mercer my mother would pay him to be my boyfriend.
And that was a good day. Now here, months later in a town where I hardly knew anyone, it was happening again.
“She’s been like this ever since she moved here,” the first woman said. “But it goes beyond just personality quirks, you know? With that bike, and the clothes she wears. Not to mention all the strays she takes in. It’s like she’s running some kind of weird commune down at the end of that road. It’s embarrassing for all of us.”
“You’d think,” her friend said, “that someone would have told her how ridiculous she looks by now.”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” the first woman said with a sigh. “But it’s no use. She’s crazy. It’s that simple.”
I took a deep breath. They weren’t talking about me; of course they weren’t. They were talking about Mira. I thought of her on her bike, pedaling furiously, and my face began to burn again.
“Big Norm Carswell’s just beside himself that his son is living beneath her house. God knows what goes on over there. I don’t even want to think about it.”
“Is he the football player? Or the basketball star who went to State on that scholarship?”
“Neither,” the first woman said. “He’s the youngest, Norm’s namesake. They never knew what to do with him; the boy didn’t play anything. He has long hair and I think he’s into drugs.”
“Oh, that one. He’s actually very nice. He came to my yard sale just last week and bought up all my old sunglasses. Said he collects them.”
“He has many problems,” said the first woman. “But then, so does Mira Sparks. I just know she’ll end up living out her days alone, getting crazier and crazier, and fatter and fatter—” and her friend snorted once, an oh-you’re-terrible laugh—“in that big old drafty house.”
“Oh, my,” her friend said, savoring this. “That’s so sad.”
“Well, it’s her choice.”
I already hated this woman, the way I had learned to hate anyone who talked trash behind someone’s back. I was used to the flat-out mean, straight-to-your-face insult, no messing around or mixing of messages. Somehow, there was more dignity in that.
I turned back to the mailboxes, still feeling sorry for Mira, and tucked our mail in my back pocket. Then I heard something behind me. When I turned around, I saw the Big-Headed Baby for the first time.
I recognized her instantly: there was no way not to. She was about two years old, wearing a frilly pink dress and white sandals. Her hair was blond and wispy, and there was a pink elastic ribbon with a bow stretched across her head, which just made it look bigger, if that was possible. She had true-blue eyes and looked up at me, open-mouthed, clutching her skirt in her hand.
Man, I thought. Mira had been right: it was quite a cranium, somewhat egg-shaped, the skin on her scalp pale and almost translucent. The rest of her body seemed toylike in comparison.
She stood there and stared at me, the way kids will when they haven’t learned it’s rude yet. Then she lifted one hand, touching a chubby finger to her lips in the exact place where my piercing was. She held it there, still watching intently, for a few seconds. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
And then, just as quickly as she’d appeared, she turned and toddled back around the corner, her tiny footsteps barely audible on the tile floor.
I was still standing there when the women walked past—the baby clinging to the hand of the taller one—and out the door, the bell clanking behind them. They were talking about someone else now, about husbands and divorces and real estate. They didn’t see me.
I watched them go, two middle-aged women in shorts and sandals. The one with the baby had curled blond hair and was wearing a sweater patterned with sailboats. They stopped outside, still talking, and smiled and waved at a little old woman with a walker coming up the steps. The baby ran down the front walk, arms outstretched, toward the white picket fence and the roses growing across it.
It didn’t matter how old you were. There were Caroline Daweses everywhere.
I stood at the window of the post office, watching them get into their cars and drive away. Then I walked back to Mira’s.
“So,” she said with a smile, flipping through the mail. “What’s the word on the street?”
I heard that woman’s voice in my head, so snide, and felt that same dry spot in my throat, the same flush across my skin.
“Nothing,” I said.
And she nodded, believing me, before turning back to the TV.
It was so much easier with wrestling. There was a balance: you had your good guys, like Rex Runyon, and your bad guys, like the Bruiser Brothers. The bad guys sometimes pulled ahead, but there was always a good guy in the wings, ready to run out and clock someone with a chair or throw them over the side or slap them into a figure four, all in the name of what was right.
As I watched, I realized that Mira probably did know it was all faked; she had to. But there was something satisfying about watching the Bruiser Brothers reduced to limping off the mat, heads in their hands, paying for what they’d done. It restored your faith. And it was enough to push aside your skepticism and just believe, if only for a little while, that good always wins out in the end.
“The thing is,” Morgan said, scooping out another measure of coffee and dumping it into a filter, “Mira has always been different.”
We were at work, before opening, and I’d told her what had happened at the post office. She’d just sighed and nodded, as if she wasn’t really surprised.
“I mean,” she went on, “ever since she came here, people have been talking. Mira’s an artist and this is a small town. It’s practically natural.”
I nodded. I was rolling silverware: knife, then fork, on a napkin, then the napkin pulled taut at a right angle and three tight rolls. Morgan watched me out of the corner of her eye, checking my technique, as she talked.
“I can still remember the first time I saw her. Me and Isabel were in high school, about your age, I guess. We were checkout girls at the Big Shop, and Mira came up one day on her bike, wearing some bright orange parka. She bought about six boxes of cereal. That’s all she ever seemed to buy. I kept waiting for her to go into sugar shock, right there at my register.”
I kept rolling, afraid she’d stop if I said anything.
“Anyway,” she said, straightening the stack of filters, which was just slightly crooked, “after a while, she started to get involved in the community. I remember my mom took this painting class Mira taught over at the Community Center. It had been taught before by this old lady who had a rule that everyone could only paint flowers and animals. And then here comes Mira, talking about the human form, and perspective, and encouraging everyone to just throw the paint around and whatnot.”
I smiled; that sounded like Mira.
“But the worst part was she talked the mailman, Mr. Rooter—who was about seventy, even then—into modeling for the class.”
I looked up
at this.
“Nude modeling,” she added, doing another filter. “Apparently, it was quite horrifying. I mean, my mother never really recovered. She said she could never look at the mail the same way again.”
“Wow,” I said.
“I know,” Morgan replied. “Mira never understood what all the fuss was about. But from then on, everyone already had their ideas about her. You’re not rolling those tight enough.”
“What?” I said, startled.
“You need to pull that napkin tighter,” she said, pointing. “See how they’re kind of loose and floppy?”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”
She watched me, eyes narrowed, until I shaped up. “But Mira didn’t even seem to notice that everyone was up in arms until they asked her to leave. And poor Mr. Rooter. I don’t think anyone made eye contact with him for at least a year. The next week that class was back to flowers and puppies again. My mom painted this awful lopsided basset hound that she hung in the bathroom. It was really scary.”
I wasn’t quite sure what to say to that.
“So that was kind of how it started,” she went on. “But there were other things, too. Like when some parents wanted to ban some books from the middle school. Mira freaked out about that, started showing up at school board meetings and making a real commotion. It just made people nervous, I guess.”
“That’s a shame, though,” I said.
“Yeah, it is.” She picked up one of my sloppy rolls and redid it, pulling the napkin tight. “But that’s when they started getting kind of nasty toward her. Like I said, this is a small town. It doesn’t take much to get a reputation.”
“Those women I heard today in the post office,” I said, softly, “one of them had this—”
“The baby,” she finished for me, and I nodded. “That’s Bea Williamson. The Williamsons are old Colby: country club, town government, big mansion overlooking the sound. She’s got some kind of issue with Mira. I don’t know what it is.”
I wanted to tell her that sometimes there doesn’t even have to be a reason. I knew from experience that no matter how much you turn things in your head, trying to make sense of them, some people just defy all logic.
“They were saying all these terrible things,” I said, finishing another silverware. “You know, about the way she is.”
“The way she is,” Morgan repeated flatly.
“Yeah, well,” I went on, not looking at her. I suddenly felt terrible for even bringing it up, as if I was Bea Williamson, just that shallow. “The way she dresses and all.”
She absorbed this. “I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “Mira’s always been a free spirit, as long as I’ve known her. She’s just Mira.”
There was a crunching of gravel outside as the Rabbit pulled up, radio blasting. Isabel got out, wearing a pair of white sunglasses, and slammed the door.
“Oh, look at this,” Morgan said loudly.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Isabel said, walking right past me, sunglasses still on, heading straight to the coffee machine.
“Where were you last night?”
Isabel pulled down the newly stocked container of filters and balanced it on her leg to pull one out. Then she slipped a bit, knocking a few onto the floor, which she stepped over as she went to start the coffee.
This, of course, sent Morgan into a snit.
“Give me that!” she snapped, grabbing the container and putting it on the counter, reaching in to repair the damage. “I just did these, Isabel.”
I rolled silverware, keeping my head down.
“Sorry,” Isabel said. The machine started gurgling, spitting out coffee, and she stretched and yawned while she watched.
“You know I was worried sick about you,” Morgan said, reaching down to pick up the spilled filters. Just for spite she knocked Isabel’s knee with the dustpan, which she already had at the ready for cleanup.
“Ow.” Isabel stepped aside. “God, Morgan. You’re not my mom. You don’t need to be up nights waiting for me.”
“I didn’t even know where you were,” Morgan grumbled, busily sweeping. “You didn’t leave a note. You could have been—”
“Dead on the highway,” Isabel finished for her, rolling her eyes at me. I looked back, surprised at even being acknowledged.
“Yes!” Morgan stood, dumped the grounds in the trash, then put the brush and dustpan neatly back into its place. “Easily. In my car, no less.”
Isabel slammed her hand on the counter. “Don’t start about the car, okay?”
“Well,” Morgan said, raising her voice, “you shouldn’t just take it like that with no notice, I mean, what if I had to be someplace? Considering you didn’t tell me anything, I’d have no way of finding you . . .”
“Jesus, Morgan, if you weren’t such an old woman maybe I would tell you more!” Isabel yelled. “Living with you is like having my grandmother breathing down my neck. So excuse me if I don’t share all my intimate details, okay?”
Morgan flinched, as if she’d been hit. Then she turned around and busied herself with the sugars and Sweet’n Lows, segregating them with quick, jerky movements.
Isabel yanked out the coffeepot, stuck a cup under the stream, and let it fill up about halfway. Then she replaced the pot, took a sip of the coffee, and closed her eyes.
It was very quiet.
“I’m sorry,” Isabel said loudly. It sounded more genuine than when she had said it to me. “I really am.”
Morgan didn’t say anything, but moved on to turning all the spoons right side up.
Isabel shot me a look which I knew meant get lost, so I stood and took the silverware and napkins into the kitchen. But I could still see them through the food window. I hopped up on the prep table, trying to be quiet, and watched.
“Morgan,” Isabel said, softer this time. “I said I was sorry.”
“You’re always sorry,” Morgan said without turning around.
“I know,” Isabel replied, in that same low voice.
Another silence, except for Morgan arranging straws.
“I didn’t even know I was going out,” Isabel said. “Jeff just called and said we should go sailing so I went and then the afternoon just turned into night and the next thing I knew . . .”
Morgan turned around, her eyes wide. “Jeff? That guy we met at the Big Shop?”
“Yes,” Isabel said. Now she smiled. “He called. Can you believe it?”
“Oh, my God!” Morgan said, grabbing her by the hand. “What did you do? Did you freak?”
“I had, like, totally forgotten who he was,” Isabel told her, laughing. I was so used to her scowling that it took me by surprise. She looked like a different person. “He had to remind me. Can you believe that? But he’s so nice, Morgan, and we spent this awesome day. . . .”
“Okay, go back, go back,” Morgan said, walking around the counter and sitting down, settling in. “Start with him calling.”
“Okay,” Isabel said, pouring herself some more coffee. “So the phone rings. And I’m, like, in my bathrobe, watching the soaps . . .”
I stood there, listening with Morgan while Isabel told the whole story, from the call to the afternoon sail to the kiss. They’d forgotten I was even there. As Isabel acted out her date, both of them laughing, I stayed in the kitchen, out of sight, and pretended she was telling me, too. And that, for once, I was part of this hidden language of laughter and silliness and girls that was, somehow, friendship.
The two of them fascinated me. I spent most nights, after wrestling and Mira’s early bedtime, sitting on the roof outside my window. I had a perfect view of the little white house from there.
Morgan and Isabel loved music. Any kind, really; from disco to oldies to Top Forty, there was always something playing in their shared background. Isabel couldn’t seem to function without it. The first thing Morgan did when we got to work was start the iced tea machine; Isabel would turn on the radio and crank it up.
If Isabel was happy, she playe
d oldies, especially Stevie Wonder’s Greatest Hits, Volume One. If she wasn’t happy, she usually put on Led Zeppelin IV, which Morgan hated; she called it stoner music, and it reminded her of some old boyfriend. Their CD collection, which I’d glimpsed just once as I’d stood on the front porch waiting for Morgan, was enormous. It was spread across their entire house, stacked on speakers and the TV and the coffee tables and just everywhere, spilling across the floor to make a path from one room to another.
Morgan saw me notice this. She had to kick two CDs—George Jones and Talking Heads, it looked like—out of the way just to shut the door.
“It’s the Columbia Record and Tape club,” she said simply, nodding toward the house. “Twelve for a penny. They hate us.”
Apparently Isabel and Morgan were engaged in a mail war with Columbia, sending angry letters back and forth. But the music kept on coming. It was Isabel’s main accessory as she dashed in late to work, always with two or three CDs, usually new, tucked under her arm.
At night, when I crawled out on my rooftop, it was what I heard first, rising from their windows. Usually they were on the front porch with the door propped open, the two of them lit up from behind. Isabel smoked and they split a six-pack, sitting barefoot facing each other. Every so often one of them would get up and go inside to change the music, and the other would complain.
“Don’t play that Celine Dion crap again,” I heard Isabel call out one night, stubbing out her cigarette. “I don’t care how much you miss Mark.”
Morgan reappeared in the doorway, hand on her hip. Behind her, Celine was already singing. “It was my pick, you know.”
“Y’all need a new song,” Isabel grumbled. “Just for that, I’m putting Zeppelin on for my next three choices.”
“Isabel,” Morgan said, plopping down beside her. “Then I’d have to do Neil Diamond, and you don’t want that.” Morgan loved crooners: Tony Bennett, Tom Jones, Frank Sinatra. She only played Frank, though, when she’d had a crappy night and was really missing Mark. I knew this music well because my mother was a Sinatra fan too.
“Well, then,” Isabel said, “I’d have to play one of those Rush songs with a ten-minute drum solo. I wouldn’t want to, but I’d have to.”