Little & Lion

by Brandy Colbert

  She peels herself off the wall and steps closer, and I do look at her then. Her eyelids are rimmed with dark, heavy liner, but underneath, her eyes are a warm hazel. Friendly, which I didn’t expect from someone who looks so tough. A pretty tough, but tough all the same, like people who don’t know her probably wouldn’t fuck with her, tiny as she is. And I’m almost paralyzed by how good she smells. Earthy and a little sweet.

  “Why haven’t I seen you around?” she asks before I can say anything back, and I’m glad, because I wasn’t sure what to say to her. She seems so easygoing, so sure that she belongs here with these people I don’t know at all or barely know anymore.

  “I just got back from boarding school.”

  “Oh, shit, you’re the best friend? This party is for you.” She takes a swig of beer as she looks at me. “I’ve heard all about you.”

  “All good?” And I realize, with surprise, that I actually want it to be true, for her to think good things about me. I cared about what people in Avalon thought, but that was because everything was new—every place, person, experience. But here, I have almost too many people who actually care about me to worry about those who don’t. So why is it so important for this girl I just met to like me?

  “From what I hear, you’re practically a saint.”

  “Really?”

  “Not really,” she says with a wry smile. Her lips are filled in with a dark purple color that hasn’t smudged, even from the beer she’s drinking. “But you are apparently the best friend ever, so… I’m Rafaela, by the way.”

  “I’m Suzette. How do you know DeeDee?” I ask, trying to remember if she’s ever mentioned this girl.

  “Through Alicia, actually. I went out with Grace for, like, five minutes,” she says simply. “Thank Christ we realized we were better as friends, and I totally weaseled my way into her group.” I must look confused because she grins and says, “The girl with the green hair?”

  “Oh, right. Grace.”

  But I wasn’t confused. I was processing the fact that she’s dated a girl. I felt—well, relieved. To be back in a place where strangers openly discuss relationships that aren’t just boy-girl, where a certain group of students don’t whisper about the guys who were caught kissing in the woods behind Dinsmore Hall. And where two girls sleeping curled up in one bed wouldn’t be gossip to make the rounds.

  She drains her bottle and nods toward the kitchen. “Beer?”

  I follow, palms sweating as we enter the kitchen, where her friends are still standing around. I glance at Grace, trying to picture the two of them together: going to see movies at the Vista and shows at the Echo and holding hands where anyone can see. It’s not hard to imagine that for other girls—just for myself, since Iris and I were so private.

  Rafaela hands me a beer and when she turns back to the fridge to get one for herself, I can’t help staring. At the back of her head, where black curls bounce along the slope of her neck as she moves, at the flowers emblazoned across the back of her shoulder. I twist the cap off the bottle and take a big swallow, but I can’t ignore the way my body thrums with nerves. My skin is warm and tingly and the feeling doesn’t stop even when I look away from her.

  Maybe it wasn’t an Iris thing after all.

  five.

  The next morning I come downstairs to find Lionel making peanut butter toast.

  Even though I can’t let go of the words Catie used (schizo, creepy, secretive), I’m glad to see Lionel up and moving around. Last summer, when he was in the deepest trench of his depression, I would only see him at the table for dinner, if then. Mom and Saul didn’t always make him eat with us, and I took it upon myself to bring meals to his room on those days, even if he wouldn’t eat or acknowledge I was there when I opened the door to check on him.

  “Hey, you want a piece?” he asks, hand poised over the bag of bread.

  “Are we out of challah?” I look past him to the open bread box. We usually have leftovers from Shabbat, and it makes the best French toast.

  “Yeah, sorry. I used it to make a sandwich last night.” He looks at me over his shoulder. “So… toast?”

  “We should go up to the Brite Spot,” I say, picturing the wood-paneled interior and shiny pleather booths of our favorite neighborhood diner. My stomach rumbles as I think about the vast menu, where I could choose from French toast or omelets or a breakfast burrito or—

  “Or we could have peanut butter toast in the tree house?”

  “Deal,” I say, and a part of me lightens with relief. We didn’t bike to the reservoir yesterday. In fact, I hardly saw him at all.

  I prep a tray and pour two glasses of orange juice while he makes our breakfast. He’s serious about it—the bread is toasted to a perfect golden brown, the thick globs of peanut butter applied with precision. We carry it all out to the tree house and I let Lionel go up first, then carefully pass the tray before I climb the wooden slats nailed against the tree to join him. It’s a proper room, big enough to stand in. We’ve moved a few things up here: the old green rug that used to be in the living room, a small futon that lived in the garage. Lion and I used the tree house a lot the first few years after it was built, but now it looks like he hasn’t been up here in months, maybe since I last left.

  He kicks aside a few leaves and sneezes, then sits down cross-legged.

  “When was the last time you were up here?” I take in the dust that’s settled on every surface of the room before I brush at a spot on the rug and sit down with my back against the front of the futon.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs, pushing the tray between us. “It wasn’t the same with you gone.”

  I know what he means. We didn’t always come up here together; there were solo trips, and a few with people like DeeDee or Emil. But every time Lionel went to see his mom up in Northern California, I tried to sit in the tree house alone and didn’t last more than a few minutes. The vibe was off. Empty. And it never occurred to me that Lionel would feel the same way with me gone.

  I pick up my plate and pause before I take a bite of toast. “We missed you last night.”

  He looks up at the ceiling as he chews, then back at me. “You were probably the only one.”

  I consider mentioning that Catie asked about him, but he’s no fool. He’ll know that missing him wasn’t the real focus of whatever she said. Instead, I ask, “Lion, what happened? Emil said you drifted apart from everyone and they haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “Drifted apart? That’s a nice way to put it.” He washes down his toast with a swallow of orange juice. “I don’t know. I missed a bunch of school and… People texted at first. A few emails. DeeDee was good about it, even after everyone else stopped. But then she wasn’t, and school was weird as hell when I went back. Like, everyone was too scared to even ask what happened, so they wouldn’t talk to me about anything real.”

  I frown as I set down my toast. “Why didn’t you call them on it?”

  “Because they already think I’m crazy! I shouldn’t have to make people want to hang out with me. I’m still me.” He shakes his head. “And you know, everybody drinks now and I can’t do that. Doesn’t really go with my meds.”

  “Oh.” I hesitate before plowing ahead. “How is all that?”

  We haven’t talked much about the pills he takes, though I’ve seen the long plastic organizer he keeps on his dresser, separated into compartments with a different day of the week printed on each square. I can remember only one time he brought up the subject himself, a Sunday afternoon shortly after I’d arrived in Avalon my first semester.

  His voice was thin and defeated over the phone as he told me they were changing his meds. That sometimes people have to try a few different combinations before they get it right. And that he wanted to believe them, but he felt like he was crawling out of his skin—that he would never feel better.

  For a while, I regularly asked about his treatment each time we talked on the phone, wanting him to know I cared even if I couldn’t be there
. He’d answer, though it was always just enough information and nothing extra. But then one day, right around Halloween, he said he didn’t want to talk about it—the bipolar, his meds, nothing. I said okay and bit my tongue so I wouldn’t blurt out that I was worried about him, because if he wasn’t talking to me, who else was left?

  So I never brought up the topic again. Until now.

  “They’re working. Or at least that’s what everyone tells me.” Lion taps his fingers against the juice glass next to him as he talks. “But I hate feeling dependent on pills. This doesn’t go away, you know.… Doctors say I have to take them for the rest of my life if I want to feel normal.”

  “They said that? Normal?” Of course I’m guilty of thinking that word myself, and I’m still not sure which one of the Lionels I’ve seen fits into that category. But I’m not a medical professional, and he’s not my patient. I’m trying to learn how to be around the person I thought I’d figured out so many years ago.

  “No, they said, ‘You’ll have to take some form of medication to live life to the best of your abilities,’ or some shit like that,” he says, slipping into a nasal tone.

  “Well, you seem…” I look down at my feet. The soles are dirty, from walking barefoot outside and climbing the tree and scuffling around on the tree house floor, and that reminds me of long-ago summers, when Lionel and I could spend all day outside and hours up here, only needing each other’s company. “You seem like you did before…”

  “Before I went off the deep end?” he finishes, not giving me time to find the right words. He smiles but his eyes are mirthless, his lips upturned in a plastic half-moon. “That’s the thing. Everyone—Dad, Nadine, Dr. T—keeps saying this seems like the ideal combination, the right dosage, blah blah blah. But that only lasts until I have a bad day or week or month, or until the meds make me too sick to stay on them, or until Dr. T starts worrying about my blood levels. I’m tired of feeling like a fucking guinea pig.”

  “Maybe…” I pause, and it’s hard to believe there was ever a time when I said whatever I wanted to Lion without thinking about it beforehand. “Maybe if you start hanging out with everyone again, that will get your mind off it.”

  “Right. So they can say stupid shit to my face instead of behind my back? No, thanks.”

  “The only ones saying stupid shit are stupid people, like Catie, and—” I clear my throat, try to rework my words, but Lionel latches on to them immediately.

  “What is Catie Ransom saying?” He’s trying to sound as if he doesn’t care, as if we all know how offensive and clumsy-mouthed she can be and it doesn’t really matter. But we both know how much more thoughtless words hurt when they come from someone who’s supposed to be your friend.

  “Nothing worth repeating.” I touch the tip of my nose ring, where it peeks out between my nostrils. “She—”

  “Little, come on.”

  I take a deep breath and tack my words onto the exhale. “She said some people think you’re schizophrenic and that’s why you stopped coming around.”

  “They think I’m schizophrenic.” He stares at me, shaking his head. “What if I were? Is there a hierarchy to mental illness? And how is what I have any of their business?”

  “It’s not. I never told anyone anything, I promise.”

  “Fucking typical,” he says, standing up now, as if his agitation is too big to contain. “For someone who acts like they’re so above it all, she sure seems to have something to say about everyone.”

  “Listen, fuck Catie. No one’s really saying that. She’s just trying to start shit. But really, there were so many new people there last night, and it wouldn’t be as bad as you think, hanging out with everyone again. If I can come back and do it, you can, too.”

  I smile after I say this last part, but Lionel’s eyebrows crease.

  “The reasons we haven’t been around them aren’t exactly the same, Little.”

  “I know, I’m…” I’m trying to let him know I understand how difficult it can be to integrate back into a group that’s moved on without us, but no matter what I say, it will sound patronizing. I was able to lie and tell people boarding school was my choice, but no one chooses a mental illness. No one will ever give our excuses the same weight.

  Lionel starts walking toward the doorway and I want to take everything back, to not ask him about the medicine or bring up our friends or anything else he doesn’t want to discuss. All I’ve wanted since I got back was to sit up in the tree house with him like old times, and now that’s ruined.

  None of this would have been an issue, pre–boarding school. We talked about everything, but especially the things that made us hurt.

  “Wait a minute.” I stand, too. “I’m sorry. I just—”

  He stops and turns, and his blue eyes are full of angry ocean waves as he looks at me. “Maybe Catie Ransom doesn’t matter, but if she’s saying shit like that out loud, other people are thinking it. And it really sucks to know people I haven’t hung out with in a year are trying to guess how crazy I am.”

  He’s down the tree before I can stop him and then stalking across the yard, and I wonder how I’ve managed to create a rift between us when I haven’t been back even a week.

  then.

  I haven’t thought of going shopping with anyone but my mom for my bat mitzvah dress, but when Catie Ransom offers to go with me, I know I have to say yes.

  Catie is bold and unafraid, and everyone listens to her, even if they don’t like what she has to say. Me included, I guess. Mom agrees to let us go alone but insists on dropping off Lionel, too, who is armed with a paperback copy of Sula. I don’t protest because I always like having him around; he’s sort of a lousy chaperone, though, being only a year older than Catie and me.

  “Call me if you need anything,” Mom says before we get out of the car, but she’d really rather we didn’t. She works part-time as a copywriter, and this is one of her writing days, where she gets to stay home and work on her screenplay. I know it’s a big deal for her to take time out of her schedule to drive me to the mall, but I still wish she could stay. I’m nervous about my bat mitzvah, worried I’m going to do everything wrong in front of everyone, including wearing the wrong dress.

  “I’ve been to a million of these,” Catie says in greeting. The worry must be plastered all over my face. “I could pick out a bat mitzvah dress in my sleep.”

  That only makes me sweat more—is there a specific type of dress I should wear, and would everyone notice if I didn’t? I’ve been to my fair share of ceremonies, but it feels different now that it’s my turn. And I know people will be watching me closer than the other girls in my Hebrew classes; I don’t look like any of them.

  For all her boasting, Catie is a reckless shopper. Not at all methodical and not at all interested in looking for my dress, at least not right away. My mother would have a set list of stores to go to and she’d look on the other side of the store from me to make sure we didn’t miss anything and she’d stand outside the dressing room, available to give her honest opinion and grab different sizes. We’d find a dress by the time we got to the third store, and by the time we were sitting down to lunch, my anxiety would have faded.

  Catie takes me into stores that don’t sell anything in our size just to make fun of the clothing and rolls her eyes at me when I tell her she’s being mean. We burn a quick path through a candy shop, Catie dipping her fingers into the bins when no one is looking so she can pop stolen candy into her mouth. I don’t know why no one is looking. She wears all black and too much makeup and she’s not a fan of inside voices.

  “I really need to find a dress today,” I say after an hour. We’re in an electronics store now, where Catie is playing around with the display model of a computer, typing nonsensical emails to no one.

  She sighs as if I’ve ruined her entire day but steps back from the computer and nods toward the door. “Come on. I know the perfect place.”

  And she does. It’s a store I never would have thought
about going into. From the outside, it looks like they only have two or three options, total, and everything is in muted colors—black and taupe and ivory, sometimes gray. But once I get inside, I see that all the clothes look better up close, with impeccable lace detailing and delicate beading and fabric so sumptuous I wish I could use it for my bedsheets. It’s expensive, but when she handed over her credit card earlier today, Mom said, “I don’t want you maxing out my account, but buy something nice, okay? It’s a special day for you, sweet pea.”

  The sales associates know Catie, and they help us choose dresses for me to try on, fawning over us both like we’re celebrities. It’s kind of fun, after a while, emerging from the dressing room to all of their expectant eyes and having them fuss and fight over what looks best on me.

  The dress we all agree on is the prettiest thing I’ve ever owned, by far. Fine gold thread is woven throughout the champagne-colored bodice, which has a sweetheart neckline and slender gold straps. The skirt is a soft, cream-colored tulle that stops above my knees and floats around me like air.

  I’m smiling when I give them the credit card, pleasantly surprised that Catie came through for me. Maybe she isn’t so bad.

  “Mazel tov!” the blond girl calls out from behind the cash register as we leave. I wave at her in thanks, then duck my head when a woman appraising a pair of white pants gives me a strange look.

  I’m suddenly ravenous and ask Catie if she wants to grab something to eat with Lionel and me before she leaves.

  “Sure. But I have to give you something first.” Before I can say anything, she pulls from her purse a long necklace with the most delicate gold chain and a violet-colored teardrop pendant hanging from the center. “Really pretty, right?”

  It’s beautiful. But why isn’t it in a box? It takes me only a second to remember Catie looking at the jewelry while I paid for my dress. And that Catie never paid for anything in the store.

  “For you,” she says, holding it out between us. “It’ll look amazing with your dress.”