Bittersweet

by Shewanda Pugh

A cold glance from her mother served as bare acknowledgment that both knew the question hadn’t been totally answered. After all, harm came in infinite forms.

  “I’ve never hit you,” her mother pressed. “So, you haven’t ventured much by saying so.”

  Edy cautioned a look and found the corner of her mother’s eye narrowed to crinkles, her mouth pinched, her hands fisted on the steering wheel.

  “Where are we going?” Edy said. How long will this take?

  To that, her mother turned on NPR.

  “A coalition of leaders from 30 countries met the United States president yesterday to discuss airstrike campaign and boot strategy in the ongoing war against terror.”

  Edy tuned it out in the way that only a politician’s kid could. She knew all the stories, all the drama: alliances forged and broken, angry rebels, innocent victims, soldiers dead too young. Wasn’t it always the same? Man knew no other way. War begat war begat war.

  Suddenly, they were no longer on the interstate, but in Quincy. Not near, but not far from home either. It wasn’t a place she went to on purpose, but she could take the T and get home if she needed to. Or if things somehow went horribly wrong. She made up her mind to watch the roads and note the street signs.

  Edy sat up a little straighter. God, they were the worst sort of dysfunctional, weren’t they? Here she was planning escape routes from her mother, just in case. Just in case ‘what’, she should have asked herself.

  “Here we are,” her mother said.

  She pulled into the drive of a two-story old world white house of clapboard with broad school house windows. When Edy glanced at her, she killed the engine.

  “Lesson one,” her mother said. “Have possessions of your own. Have options of your own. The house at 2260 Dunberry belongs to your father and rightfully so. It’s been passed down for generations. This house belongs to me. One day, both will be yours. Now get out so I can show you around.”

  Edy’s mother climbed out the car, leaving her to scramble after.

  “Why would you need a second house …” Edy’s words died with the look of impatience her mother gave.

  “Indoors, please. Private affairs belong in private. I know your Facebook generation has forgotten that, but...” She headed for a flaming red door.

  “Whatever,” Edy muttered and followed her.

  The door opened to a short sweep of hall, where Edy’s mother hung her keys. From there they entered a fully furnished living room decked in sweeps of robin blue and green. Lush curtains hung from windows trimmed in gold, while a massive stone fireplace spoke of elegance and refinement.

  On the mantle sat a picture of Edy and Hassan. Next to it was her mom, Cam, and Kyle.

  “Would you like the tour?” her mother said.

  “No.” Her eyes wouldn’t tear from that picture, from her mother’s smile, from Cam’s arm around her. Were they a family now? Were they a true family? Were they the family the Phelps never managed to be?

  “Edy. You know that your father and I aren’t working out, right? That we aren’t … compatible? This house is only a tangible result of that.”

  ‘A tangible result.’ How very removed of her.

  “For years now, your father and I have been separated, divorced in everything but name.”

  Liar. Cheating liar.

  “I brought you here because I want you to be a part of my new life. I’d like for us to have a better relationship than we’ve had before.”

  Edy looked at her. “Take me home.”

  Her mother hesitated, hands wringing. “Think of this as home, too, Edith.”

  “Take me home! Now!” She should smash all the pictures of her and Cam. She should smash Kyle when she saw him. Lying, no good imposter that he was. He knew what their parents were up to and said nothing.

  “I love you,” her mother said.

  Edy’s nostrils flared and her vision—her vision up and abandoned her. She wasn’t upset. She had no reason to be upset. Her parents had a rotten marriage and now it was over.

  “Oh sweetheart, please don’t cry.” Her mother stood.

  “I’m not crying.” Edy raked a hand across her face and saw it came away wet. “I’m sweating. You need to get your AC fixed.”

  Her mother halted, arms in the air, and guffawed loud. “You sweat out your eyes, little one?”

  Edy smiled only a bit. Then she froze with the realization that her mother called her ‘little one’ like she used to long ago. And wait. Had she been about to hug her, too?

  “Nothing will change in the meantime,” her mother announced. “Your father and I are waiting until an agreeable point in the future to initiate a divorce. The timing has to be just right.”

  Right. As in, post-election right.

  “I’d like to talk to you about something else,” she said and paused for effect. “I’d like to talk to you about Rani.”

  Edy eyed her cautiously. It was impossible to turn off the guard with her mother. Few things came out the woman’s mouth that didn’t benefit her in some way, too.

  “I’m listening,” Edy said.

  “You should pay closer attention to what’s happening around you and why. I know I’ve created a weakness in you that’s easily attacked—”

  “Yes, right, I know! I’m weak!” Edy cried. It was the same with her every time.

  Her mother paused. “Edith, please. If you could forget your feelings for a moment—”

  “I don’t want to hear this.” Edy threw up a hand, started off, and got snatched back by the arm.

  “You will listen to me. I’m your mother. Me. Now use your brain if it’s not too much trouble. Mala Bathlar lives here, Edy. You think that’s an accident? Rani has a standing appointment for tea with her aunt. They are friends who want to become family. You know who is not part of that equation? My daughter. The same daughter she encourages to pursue ballet instead of college. Why does she want you in ballet instead of college, Edy?”

  “Because I’d be away from Hassan for four years.”

  She knew all this and felt it rotting within her, sour truth mixed with denial and a tinge of hopefulness. Not so, she tried to tell herself again and again. Not Rani, not them, not ever.

  “She can’t force him to marry,” her mother said, “but she can poison your relationship. She will poison it, given the chance.”

  Could Rani really? Edy wondered. Edy wondered if anyone could between them. Or were those naïve thoughts made by a girl with too much confidence?

  “After the divorce,” Edy said. “Will Kyle and Cam live here, too?”

  Her mother shook her head. No. No more questions. No more talking. Time to go.

  Thirty-Two

  Edy squinted at her mailbox one Saturday afternoon as if it were a puzzle she couldn’t hope to know. Friday there’d been a pep rally, then an away game that they barely managed to win. Hassan played marvelously, racking up runs and yards and whatnot, and even did some showboating that his dad loved. Afterward, there was an after party at this guy Kearns’ house, but they bailed on it when Gwyn said that TJ had something going at his place. Edy and Hassan had boilermakers for the first time and then ganged up on TJ about football. She went to ballet practice with a skull breaker of a headache. Now she stared at the mailbox, willing it to open for her. With a sigh she snatched it open and then cleared its contents. Edy rummaged through the usual assortment of bills and circulars—Jason Mann’s parents were having a furniture sale—and she stopped at a letter addressed to her from the Youth International Ballet Competition.

  Impossible.

  She let the rest of the mail drift to the pavement as she tore it open, questioning how they knew her, what they wanted, and what she’d say in response.

  Dear Edith Phelps,

  Congratulations! It is my pleasure to welcome you to the Youth International Ballet Competition. You will join a robust body of the most outstanding young dancers in the world; consider this a formal acknowledgment that you are among them. Please revi
ew the attached materials regarding rules and regulations, pertinent FAQs, where to report for the Boston Regional Competition, and information regarding each phase of the competition. Again, we welcome you and congratulations on your achievement.

  Sincerely,

  Anna Constable,

  Executive Director

  Edy crushed the letter to her chest and blinked as if dirt had found her eyes. She’d been accepted without applying, without dancing, without anything.

  Rani.

  Edy gathered up the mail and stormed the Pradhan house, determined to find out just what was happening.

  She banged the door wild, still fisting the letter while she shouting for Rani. In Sci-Sci, curtains would shuffle and eyes would peek. The Pradhans and Phelps were at it again.

  Rani threw open the door as if the house were on fire and snatched Edy in. “What are you doing? What is the problem?”

  Edy meant to flash the paper with some kind of great flare, but she’d balled it up so badly that she had to stand there and unravel it while Rani tapped her toes.

  “This,” Edy said and flourished the suspicious letter. “How did you do it? Did Vi help you? Did you pay someone? And don’t tell me it wasn’t you. No one else would care to bother.”

  Rani eyed the paper and shrugged. “It was me. For precisely the reason you said. But I did it properly. I submitted dance footage, the fees, and application. Vi wasn’t involved.”

  “But it wasn’t your place to submit my name. Not without my permission,” Edy said.

  Rani looked a little bored. “So don’t participate,” she said. “Don’t show up. Don’t respond. Ignore them.”

  Edy went home and sat with the Youth International paperwork for awhile. They made grand promises for competing, grander ones for winning. Unequivocal prestige. Excitement. Touring the world while competing. Then there were the workshops on how to find college dance programs; scholarship prizes, bragging rights. Dancing in and of itself proved seductive, alluring, but adding all this to the pot, made it unfair, irresistible.

  In Edy’s haste to go through the mail, she nearly missed one without a postage stamp. It had her name across the front. She tore open the bulky envelope, unfolded the letter, and her breath caught at once.

  Dear Edy,

  Do you want honesty? Good. I’m ready to give it. First, you should know that you’ve turned my heart into brick. Every moment I hear your name or see your face is a moment I feel raw and damaged. I want a chance to use you the way you used me. I want to make you feel second best. I want to push you down and humiliate you, so I can be your comfort when you cry.

  I love you still.

  I’ll tell you the truth.

  Skip a game and I’ll tell you what happened with Lottie.

  Wyatt

  Edy set aside that sheet and picked up the next. He’d created a shopping list of confessions.

  1. Lied about going to the Jersey Shore

  2. Lied about liking ballet

  3. Stole money from dad to take you to Max Brenner

  4. I was born in Boston, not Chaterdee

  5. My grandfather’s a Brahmin

  6. I don’t understand your dad’s research

  7. I hate hearing about Hassan

  8. I hate Hassan

  9. I hate my parents

  10. I hate my life

  11. I hate you

  12. Please, I’m in love with you

  Edy paused to turn the page.

  13. I don’t know how to roller skate

  14. I don’t know how to ice skate, either

  15. I really haven’t seen The Godfather

  16. I haven’t seen Coming to America, either

  17. Hassan’s mom has been to see me

  18. I don’t like her

  19. I don’t trust her

  20. I miss you, Edy

  21. I miss you so bad, it chokes me.

  Edy stopped there. She couldn’t see through her tears anyway.

  ~~~

  Hassan received the news that Edy would be competing in Youth International with an “oh.” When she stared at him expectantly, he added, “So, she convinced you to change your mind I see.”

  She hadn’t; he didn’t believe it, and they argued about that. From there they went to school with no more talk of ballet.

  Training for the competition turned into a life experience. When Edy wasn’t at school or studying, she was at her traditional ballet practices, which she kept up, or somewhere working on choreography for the competition, or executing it in her attic. Sleep only figured into her life when she penciled it in. Thank God she took SAT Prep as an elective.

  With winter came cold weather and Election Day barreling in on them. Add to Edy’s to-do list sudden crisscrossing campaign stops, lots of Starbucks, and way too many camera flashes for her taste.

  Two days before the election, it was announced that the leak about the opposing candidate’s affair may have come from her mom’s camp. Edy’s mother categorically denied any accusation and stressed instead the importance of giving the family privacy so that they may grieve in whatever way deemed most appropriate.

  Her mom won in a landslide victory.

  Even Hassan seemed to be having better than average luck lately. He now swore by his weekly, sometimes daily meetings with her dad at Harvard or at her house, or wherever they seemed to be. As a result, South End churned out win after win, knocking down foes, crushing opponents. Maybe, Edy thought, she’d one day talk to her dad about the endless hours he somehow found for Hassan. With every game, Edy thought about Wyatt’s outstanding offer. She could learn the truth about Lottie. And he’d tell her. He’d bared his soul on ten pages just for her.

  Edy’s parents began to go in about Harvard. Little things at first, like ‘had she considered what she wanted to study’ or ‘did she want a formal tour of the facilities.’ Thankfully, she’d been rushing on to one place or another, and therefore, could always blame her schedule for the lack of interest. She was building up to ‘the talk’ and its fallout. A little more courage and she’d be there.

  In the throes of wrestling with choreography for the upcoming competition, Edy had tracked down Hassan’s favorite cousin, Ronnie Bean. He’d introduced her to b-boying and krump dancing during a summer together in New York and was back now with his dad in Louisiana after an ‘episode’ at his aunt’s place. Edy, working with Bean, had come up with a hybrid routine, infused with the beauty of ballet and the panache of street dance. They did their best to coordinate by cell, with Edy recruiting Chloe, Kori, or Gwyn to hold the camera phone and apparently complain every day.

  So, the girls were crowded in the attic making their usual gripes known, ready to forward Bean the next clip for feedback. Kori’s phone lit up like the lotto machines with instant winnings at the gas station and she gasped at whatever filled her screen.

  “You see?” Kori announced. “I told you! I told you!” She thrust her phone into the air and showed Gwyn, then Chloe.

  “Well, don’t be so proud of it,” Gwyn said. “It’s not like it’s good news. It’s terrible, in fact.”

  “The truth is always good news,” Kori said. “Whether you like it or not.”

  Edy looked on in exasperation and threw her hands on her hips. “Are you guys even filming me? Let’s see what you’ve got so far.” She marched over to thrust her hand out and Kori dropped the phone in it.

  Pictures of Hassan. Hassan and Mala. Hassan and Mala in different clothes. In different weather. Walking. Sitting. Standing. Over again. Infinity.

  Meltdown.

  “Excuse me,” Edy said and rushed from the attic.

  Downstairs. Into her room. Lock the door. Lock away the world.

  “Edy—” Chloe said. “Tell me you’re all right. Please.”

  ‘All right.’ Yes, that was her. All right. All trusting. Believing Rani. Believing him. Seeing this.

  Edy ripped open her bedroom window and the slap of forbidding winds reacquainted her with wi
nter. She pulled on her sneakers, climbed out onto their tree, and scaled like a cat across the distance.

  Hassan’s windows were drawn and shadowed in darkness. Edy took the chance of yanking, knowing that a lock could throw her off balance and send her plunging to the ground. But they had a rule about never locking the window between them, so it shot up straight, as it should.

  She pulled back the curtains and peeked in; knowing she could encounter Ali, Rani, or God knows what after seeing those pictures.

  She found an empty room. Edy slipped in and took a seat on the bed, figuring she’d have enough time to think.

  What did she know? What did she believe? How important were either one? Clearly, Hassan knew about Mala being in Boston. Not only had he kept it from her, he’d spent time with her. Lots of time with her. In the craziness of football, ballet, and school, Edy could count the kisses they’d shared, the touches they’d shared, the minutes shoved between one destination and the next. He hadn’t complained and she hadn’t complained; this was simply their life. Their life together, right?

  I hate Hassan. I hate my life. Hassan’s mom has been to visit me.

  I don’t trust her.

  Edy glanced at the door. “I don’t trust her either, Wyatt.”

  She willed herself to be calm. Why should she question a few pictures of him and Mala? Hassan could talk to who he wanted when he wanted. But there had been so many pics and an obvious need for secrecy on top of that. She couldn’t fault him for a secret per se. She’d met Mala and kept it from him, too. She had the letter from Wyatt and thought about it daily. She wasn’t exactly broadcasting that. Maybe some sense would be made of him seeing Mala over and over again when they could hardly find time for their relationship.

  Yeah. She’d like to hear him make sense of all this.

  The bedroom door opened and Hassan stepped in with his dirty practice clothes and a helmet under his arm. He didn’t even pause at the sight of Edy before locking his bedroom door.

  He tossed the clothes in a closet hamper and set the helmet up on the top shelf. He went for his backpack next; he pulled out a stack of textbooks and placed them neatly on his desk.

  “Well?” Edy demanded.