All four locker rooms, the cafeteria, and the school store—which had three flavors of Charleston Chew but never any gum—were located in the basement. The upperclassmen's locker rooms always seemed to be maintained. I'm not sure if this was a budgetary thing, or simply because the freshman experience is congruent to a permanent state of figuring shit out, and the chaos that comes with it.
The freshmen lockers were bright red, layered two high, and smelled of feet and GAP Dream. Jessica Kautzman's transfer had landed me with a bottom locker, which was only a problem in the mornings when she popped her zits.
My backpack hit the ground with a thud. I pulled out my planner to see which books I'd need to take home when I noticed my neon-purple combination lock was on backward.
"Son of a bitch," I huffed, kicking the metal closet storing my books.
Gianna Finelli must have noticed I'd forgotten to lock up, and didn't want to waste the opportunity. I took a seat and kicked myself backward, my skin whining against the vinyl flooring.
Leaning my head against the locker, I rolled the dial three to the right, one long turn to the left, and a quick right. After packing my books, I walked to the other side of the room to locker 47. Of course, she'd fucking locked hers.
"Bitch."
I waited for the bell to ring, and made my way to the bus once Sister Monica began the afternoon announcements.
"Hey, Vinny."
"You're out early."
"Yeah, I cut last period."
"You keep doing that, you're going to wind up driving this bus," he said, taking a sip of coffee.
Vinny was a retiree who drank too much coffee and blamed his hair loss on the stress we girls gave him—not how he constantly ran his fingers through it once we got on the Long Island Expressway.
I rolled my eyes and realized I was first on the bus. Although I wasn't a senior, I walked to the back and tossed my backpack into the very last seat. I removed the navy-blue wool sweater identifying me as a frosh, and crammed it into my Jansport. Although just the polo made it ten degrees cooler, the combination of nylon tights and wool skirt wasn't making the unusually warm October afternoon any more bearable.
I hated this school, this uniform, this bullshit bus with its bullshit rules about freshmen needing to double up so seniors could have seats to themselves in the back. I hated theology class and God and that stupid movie. Most of all, I hated Mom for making me come here. For never letting me have a choice.
Mom was convinced I needed God and His rules. Every afternoon when I got home from school, she'd say, "How was your day, Rowan?"
"It sucked," I'd reply. "Do I have to go back tomorrow?"
"If you don't go tomorrow, then how are you going to get an education?"
"At Mineola High School," I'd reply.
Then she'd repeat the same line she'd given me the day we'd come to visit Mercy: "You wouldn't last one day in Mineola High School, Rowan."
"How hard can it be? You did it."
"Don't you have homework?"
The seniors piled into the bus and stopped midway through the aisle, pointing and whispering at my defiance.
"Take a seat, girls!" Vinny crabbed out. "We can't move until you take a seat."
For a moment, I got nervous that Lauren Ferro was going to make me move, but she just sneered and took the seat in front of me. I smiled and slid the headphones of my red Sony Walkman around my ears, turning the volume as high as it would go, and settled in. I hated the forty-five-minute bus ride too. As Mercy grew smaller in the bus window, I went back to my first visit to the school.
* * *
The summer before eighth grade, Mom enrolled me in a Catholic High School Entrance Examination (CHSEE) prep course at Chaminade, an all-boys Catholic high school less than a mile from our house.
Mom woke me at 7:20 on six separate Saturdays to shower, eat breakfast, and get in the car by 8:10, so I'd arrive by 8:17, and be at my desk by 8:30. Class would begin with a timed practice test, which we later exchanged with our neighbor to the left for grading.
These courses were marketed to middle-class parents and convinced them a Catholic high school education was sure to get their children to the Ivy League, the boardroom . . . to greatness. Like so many other Long Island parents, Mom was convinced a faith-based education was superior to the public school education of her youth, and the underachievement she felt it produced.
The relief I felt when the course finally ended was short-lived. Mom dragged me to Barnes & Noble where we purchased vocabulary flash cards, mathematics test books, and a wall calendar.
Beneath her Anne Geddes calendar of sleeping babes, Mom penciled in the names of every Catholic high school's formal open house—Our Lady of Mercy Academy, Kellenberg Memorial, Saint Anthony's—and they were all on a Saturday. Having worn a uniform the past eight years, I was hoping to ditch Catholic high school. But if I had to go—and it seemed I did—I wanted to go to Holy Trinity.
* * *
When my brother Aidan and I reached the age where our being home for the summer annoyed Mom, she decided to make us Mineola Summer Rec's problem. In exchange for what I assume to have been a substantial fee, the Village of Mineola provided its residents' children with the cheapest possible cotton shirts, whose insides would shed and stick to their skin. Distracted teenagers would gossip and blow whistles as we played kickball in a baseball diamond whose glory days were long behind it. On rainy days, we glued popsicle sticks together or made key chains out of lanyards.
Mom would come pick us up at two thirty p.m.—a faded, multicolored, polka dot and striped canvas bag crammed with towels slung over her shoulder, our pool passes hanging around her neck, and a jug of iced tea in her hand. Aidan and I settled in the front row of beach chairs on the second level, while Mom claimed the lounge chairs directly below us.
Aidan and I would squirm and jump impatiently as Mom slathered us with sunblock before we cannonballed into the deep end, washing most of it off. After we started to prune, we'd head back to Mom, who'd sometimes give us a few dollars to hit the snack bar and treat ourselves to french fries and Pepsi.
But most days, Aidan and I would drape our Power Rangers towels over two chairs, creating a fort that could shield us from the sun.
"What time is it?" we'd whine.
"Any minute now," Mom would say, flipping through her magazine.
We watched the entrance and waited for a mustached man with dark jeans, holes in his shirt, and a backpack full of tools to walk in after the little hand was between the four and the five, and the big hand landed on the six.
Even though we were always in the same spot, Dad would place his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun, and search for us. I'd see him first, and could never wait for Aidan before running to him.
The lifeguards would stand and blow their whistles, shouting, "No running!" as we sprinted into Dad's arms, not caring that he smelled of sawdust and sweat. We'd drag him to our spot, where Mom would be waiting with a kiss and his swim trunks.
Mom developed a permanent fear of water after seeing Jaws, but Dad could swim from one end of the pool to the other without coming up for air. His favorite thing to do was cup his hands under water, have us place our feet on top, and push off as he lifted up, sending us flying backward and making the biggest splashes.
By the time I hit sixth grade, the village had raised the Summer Rec tuition three times, and Mom began searching for alternatives. She finally enrolled Aidan and me in Holy Trinity's Summer Performing Arts Program. It was there I met my first Asian friend, Olan.
Olan was also adopted, but her parents had made a commitment to making sure she learned as much about her Korean heritage as possible. During one of our sleepovers, she tried to teach me how to use chopsticks and introduced me to kimchi.
Performing came easily, and I decided I wanted to become an actress. Trinity had a reputation for producing world-class performers. There was a rumor a junior was going to be on Sabrina the Tee
nage Witch.
Trinity had everything I needed to make it as an actress, plus boys and the only other person I'd met who looked like me, other than Aidan. On the CHSEE, you were allowed to list three schools, in order of priority, to receive your scores. Holy Trinity was at the top of my list.
* * *
Being that it was an all-girls school, Aidan, two years younger, got to stay home and watch cartoons the day of Our Lady of Mercy's formal open house. Mom hadn't stopped scolding Dad about his speed, forcing me to have my headphones on full volume. Suddenly, I noticed Mom's hand waving in front of my face.
"What?" I scoffed, attempting to swat her hand away.
"If I can hear your music, then it's too loud," she said, turning back to face the road. "Joe, I think you have to turn here."
"If it's not loud then I can't hear it over Dad's radio."
"Lower. It. Now."
"How much longer? It's been, like, an hour."
"We get there when we get there."
Our Tahoe turned into the parking lot of Our Lady of Mercy Academy twenty minutes later and found a place among MD and DDS license plates. We stretched and shook out the nearly hour-long car ride and joined the herd of North Shore families who had brought their daughters to the open house.
From what I could see, the school was four stories high, made of coral-colored brick, with a large tower in the center. The windows on the first floor were floor-to-ceiling, while the rest seemed to be a normal size. The building was surrounded by trees and sunlight—it was beautiful. But there were no boys at Mercy, and for me, this was a deal breaker.
"Why are there bars on the windows?" I asked as we made our way to the entrance.
"It used to be a boarding school," Dad began. "My mother was part of the original class of eleven in 1928, you know. By the Second World War, the sisters were doing their part with the rations and food stamps. I guess they put 'em up for protection."
"Isn't the war over?"
Rules were the backbone of Our Lady of Mercy: only seniors could take the staircase that ran down the center of the school, skirts were never to be rolled at the waist, all shoes must be purchased from the school's catalog.
"Faith is at the core of everything we do at Our Lady of Mercy Academy," Sister Margaret Ann, whose office I'd later come to frequent, began. "The education young women receive here is rooted in Christian values, and empowers them to use their God-given gifts to make a difference in the world."
It seemed like hours before we saw the Tahoe again.
"I don't want to go here," I said, slamming the car door shut.
"Watch that door, Rowan!" my mother shouted.
"I want to go to Trinity! I'd rather die than come here."
"Well, what if you don't get into Trinity? Then what are you going to do?"
"Why? Because I'm not smart enough?"
"Rowan, I didn't say that."
"Trinity is where I want to go. If I don't get in, then I'll just go to public school."
"You," Mom said turning to face me, "wouldn't last one day in Mineola High School with your attitude."
"Whatever. I don't want to go to Catholic school anyway—especially one where there aren't any boys. I'm an atheist!"
"Where'd you learn that word?"
"Nowhere."
"Don't you lie to me, Rowan Kelly. You tell me where you picked that up."
Silence.
"Fine, you don't want to talk? That's fine. Fine by me. Well, let me tell you what's going to happen: you're going to get out of this car, you're going to think about what you've said, and you're coming to Mass tomorrow and—"
"What? No, I'm not going to Mass!"
"You're going and then afterward we're going to ask Father Ken if he has time for confession because you need to get on the right path, Rowan Kelly."
* * *
When Vinny braked at my stop, I passed the seniors I'd displaced to the middle of the bus with a smirk, and hopped off the bus, determined. I came up the driveway slowly, wondering how I was going to start the conversation. After dinner, when the kids Mom cared for were done with their homework, but before the last kid was picked up, was ideal.
The house on Elderberry was one of two made of brick. One Christmas, an elderly woman wandered through our front door, handed Dad her coat, and Mom a cheesecake along with an index card with the recipe, in case it was her last Christmas. They both laughed as she realized she'd wandered into the wrong brick house, and the lady took back her coat and her cake, and came back for the recipe card an hour later.
After we lost Grandma Walker's cheesecake recipe, Dad decided it was time to give the house a more definitive look. He woke early one morning to head to the library, the lumber yard, and then Home Depot.
As I helped Mom set the table, we shouted to each other over the whine of the power saw and booms from the garage. Dad was covered in sawdust when he came in for dinner, and Aidan had gray paint all over his shirt.
Our directions to people who had never visited the house on Elderberry were always the same: If you've hit the IHOP, you've gone too far. It's the one with the shark mailbox, you can't miss it.
Walking up the gravel driveway, I thought about how weird it was that we never used the front door. We came in the back door, which opened to the laundry room. There was a black mat to the right, covered entirely by children's shoes. I took off my Oxfords outside to air them out before coming into the house.
The two sets of identical light-up Skechers belonged to the twins, Olivia and Julianna. I was surprised to see Jack's and Joey's matching Nikes—just different sizes—since they almost never stayed for dinner. My feet hurt just looking at Bethanne's penny loafers—I didn't miss Corpus Christi or its uniform.
As I headed into the kitchen, something caught my eye. A perfect pair of pink ballet slippers, which meant only one thing: Emma was here.
* * *
For a long time, I didn't think Mom had a job. Every morning as Aidan and I ate our cereal, Mom would stand behind me, comb out my knots, and try to make up for the fact that she could never give me curls. She learned to French braid, how to arrange butterfly clips, and I was the first girl in my school to wear a bra-strap headband. For my first middle school dance, she used a teasing-tail comb to make a zigzag out of my part and put my hair into high pigtails, just like Baby Spice.
When Aidan and I got home from school, there were always other children in our house—children whose parents had real jobs and couldn't pick them up from school. Since Mom didn't work, she took care of them. I thought this was pretty embarrassing.
We'd spread out across our kitchen table and Mom would put out chips or pretzels for us to munch on while we did our homework. Mom would give me a tiny Tupperware bowl, but the other kids got to eat out of the big Batman one. At dinner, I had to move down to the very end of the table, and I was the last to choose a treat even if my plate was cleared first.
I hated how Mom used to laugh when I claimed she loved the other kids more than she loved me. I hated that I had to go to school when all the other girls got to go to work with their moms on Take Your Daughter to Work Day. I hated how she'd hold up her finger for me to wait when she was talking and laughing and listening to the other kids describe their days at school.
"She doesn't love them more than she loves you, Rowan. That's crazy talk," Dad would say. "She works—"
"She doesn't work! She doesn't go to work!"
"She doesn't go to an office, but she works. She takes care of those kids so she can be here for you and Aidan."
"But she's not here. She doesn't pay attention to me when they're around."
"Rowan," he'd laugh, "your mother loves you so much. She loves you more than anything in this world. I wish you knew how special you are to her."
There was that word—special. By then, I knew "special" didn't mean special—it meant different.
In fourth grade, I volunteered to help Miss Lagalante bang the erasers at the end of the day. The chalk dust gat
hered in a cloud around me, attaching itself to my skin, making me paler. While Miss Lagalante ushered the children from our class down the hallway to the bus, I rubbed the erasers against my arms and face.
I sped to meet Mom in the parking lot with my arms wide. Maybe we could buy chalk dust for me and Aidan—we could put it on in the morning and no one would think we belonged in China anymore. I'd finally found a way to fix it.
"Rowan!" Mom screamed, putting her arm out to stop me from making contact. "What happened? What did you do? You're a mess!" She licked her hand and began brushing my cheeks and arms. "You're covered! Stand over there and get that stuff off you before you get in the car."
Mom had a talent for being angry with me one moment, then turning around with a happy face for the children she cared for. I watched her give the other kids smiles and hugs and high fives as they piled into our van, knowing I'd never be one of them.
* * *
The house was in full chaos when I got into the kitchen. The twins had just learned the repeat game, and Josie, our latest addition at just eleven months old, had opened all the cabinets in the kitchen.
"Rowan, can you go into the den and tell Emma I'm ready for her?"
"Ready for what?"
"She's going to help me roll the meatballs."
"Here," I said, going to grab an apron, "I can—"
"Rowan, she wants to help, I said she could help. Please, just let her know I'm ready."
"Okay," I sighed, defeated—not knowing my dislike of Emma would eventually develop into a fully formed and rationalized hatred. "But later can we—"
"Wait, before you do that, grab the milk from the fridge."
If anything had been new in our U-shaped kitchen, it was long ago. The vinyl flooring—a mock stone pattern of red, green, and orange blocks held together by a thin layer of gray—had begun to bubble from countless kids crawling, then walking, then running over it on their way past where Mom cooked, beyond the dinner table, and to the hallway, which led to the den and the toys we kept there.
Inconvenient Daughter Page 2