It Started with Goodbye

by Christina June

  But try as I might, business plans never materialized in my head, because I couldn’t stop thinking about Ashlyn. Feeling particularly lonely and riled up, my body itched inside my skin, until I couldn’t sit still and concentrate anymore. Ashlyn’s perfectly highlighted blonde head flashed before me, with the same teary expression I’d seen on her face when she was sitting in her father’s car at the police station. I knew she was mad at me due to her radio silence. If our roles had been switched, I’d be mad at her too, but I’d like to think I’d give her a chance to explain. And since she was hours away at some secluded private school, my only chance for peace, or at least the ability to focus for more than ten seconds, depended on technology.

  A quick search for Blue Valley Academy yielded their pristine website, complete with pictures of wholesome teenage girls in plaid skirts carrying hardback books and field hockey sticks. None of them had on eyeliner or showed bare knees, two things every parent knew were the gateways into delinquency. I scanned the menu bar items and found one that said “student directory.” With a few clicks, I had Ashlyn’s shiny, expensive new email address.

  I sucked in a quick breath. My hands hovered over the keyboard, paralyzed. Why was I nervous? She was the one who needed to be apologizing to me. I willed my fingers to move and managed to slowly open my email and type AZanotti@bva.edu into the “to” field. The cursor winked at me, taunting.

  Despite being supportive and witty and so many other wonderful things, Ashlyn was a grudge holder. More than once, I’d seen her go at least a month without speaking to her father. Those were the days she’d spend more time at my house than hers. In addition to our trademark dance parties, we would read celebrity gossip magazines, play gin rummy, and practice braiding each other’s hair into crowns and fishtails. A good diversion for both of us, really. But she would never give in and talk to him until her mom paved the way for her, smoothing things over with her dad. I knew Ashlyn wasn’t suddenly going to change her stripes just because it was me she was angry with.

  I told myself that there were two ways I could approach this. I could just go for it, put myself out there and write a huge long confession, explaining what happened that fateful day from my point of view, telling her exactly why I couldn’t lie to defend her and Chase, and beg her to move on. But it probably wasn’t the time for that. If I unloaded while she was furious, it would guarantee me an empty inbox, probably forever, and our friendship would go from virtually nonexistent to dead on arrival.

  I’d have to be subtle. Casual. I wouldn’t mention the whole grand larceny business at all. Maybe a few jokes and jabs would get the ball rolling. I started crafting a letter, each key cool and hard under my fingers.

  Hi Ashlyn,

  Would she get stabby if I was formal, or would she think I was being contrite? I took off the lyn.

  Hi Ash,

  I heard through the grapevine that you enrolled at Blue Valley. I checked out the website, and it pretty much looks too good to be true. Do you ride to class on horseback? I bet they feed you nothing but ambrosia and Perrier too. We miss your face around here.

  We or I? I left it we.

  You aren’t missing anything at all at Henderson. Three more finals and then hello, junior year.

  Remember the logo I was working on for Abby Gold’s blog? I finished it, and it turned out pretty well. Abby thinks I should make this a regular thing and launch my own business. What do you think?

  Maybe she’d bite and give me her opinion. I did actually want it—she was pretty savvy when it came to people-oriented things, Chase excepted. I really just hoped she’d write me back.

  Anywho, hope things are going okay. Do you have a roommate? If yes, if she annoys you, you can always freeze her bra or something. My intel says that’s the kind of prank people pull at all-girls schools.

  Tatum

  Or should I sign it Tate? Ashlyn was the only person who ever called me that. Again with the formal name or not. I looked back up at the top of the email. I supposed they should match, so I changed it.

  Tate

  Oh crud. What about a closing? Did I say Love or Sincerely? Warmly? Yours truly? The cheeky but effective Cheers? Or, my least favorite of all because it was so sadly insincere and fake, Best? Why was this so difficult? I closed my eyes for a moment, the pores on my hands prickling. I googled “how to close a letter,” determined to find exactly the right way to show my friend that I missed her and wanted to talk with her, but that I wasn’t going to apologize because I’d done nothing wrong and acted out of self-preservation. Google would know the right answer.

  I read the almighty Wikipedia page titled “Valedictions”—apparently, that was the fancy word that meant how to say goodbye—and laughed at some of the phrases people used to write in old letters. “Yours aye”—which meant “yours always”—made me think of a pirate. The list of more casual closings suggested TTFN. That was too childish. Yours hopefully? Plain desperate, and too obvious. Couldn’t give it all away. And then I saw it. Be well. It made the most sense, as I was innocently hoping she was settling in at her new school. It wasn’t reciprocal. With a simple Be well, I was offering my personal goodwill without asking for anything in return. And it wasn’t too stiff or laid-back. Just right, as Goldilocks would say.

  Be well,

  Tate

  Before I could change my swirling mind again, I pressed send. I felt a little lighter than I had when I’d started writing, but half a second later the anxiety of waiting for a response overtook me, and my hands began shaking. I slammed the laptop shut, rattling my desk in the process, and flung myself onto the bed.

  Chapter 3

  The Tuesday after my dad left for the wilds of Botswana, Blanche arrived.

  Belén had anxiously fixed up the basement guest room in a way I could only assume she hoped would please her mother, moving the knickknacks from place to place before settling them and beating the wrinkles out of the throw pillows. She’d even put up a gorgeous poncho—all cream, red, and navy—on the wall like a tapestry. I’d never seen her go to so much trouble to make sure something was just right.

  When I was checking out her handiwork, I reached out to the poncho, only to admire it. Belén moved my hand away.

  “Tatum. Please do not touch that. You’ll get something on it.” She scowled and walked out of the room.

  I held my hands up in front of my face to inspect them. Not a speck of grease, ink, or any other errant substance to mess up her precious decoration. The woman really needed to pay attention more often. I worked in pixels, not paints.

  When Blanche showed up, via a yellow taxi driven from the airport, Belén instructed Tilly and me to stand side by side on the short walk leading up to the front door.

  “Stand up straight, girls.” Belén smoothed down her black pencil skirt and locked her knees, the heels of her three-inch patent leather pumps cemented together. I hoped she wouldn’t fall over. Or maybe I hoped she would. Tilly, dressed almost identically to her mother, squared her shoulders and stuck her chin out. She stood beside me, just close enough to give the impression we were united, but definitely far enough away that we weren’t touching.

  I think that if Tilly and I were not forced to be family, we might have been friends. And by friends, I mean people who exchange words sometimes, perhaps ask how the other is doing, show concern when something is going downhill. Instead, as stepsisters, we were mostly two ships passing in the night.

  Our parents got married one year after meeting on Match.com, and four years after my own mother had left us for the supposed better offer from her boy toy. I’ve always been told my mom had been a “free spirit” and “her own person,” which pretty much means she was selfish and decided being a wife and a parent weren’t for her anymore. It made sense that my dad would choose someone who was more family-oriented and responsible the second time around. He and Belén had a civil ceremony attended only by Blanche and my grandparents, who are now deceased.

  I was super excited
to have a sister. As awesome as Dad was, having someone my own age around to play dolls with and make pillow forts with and watch cartoons with sounded like the best thing ever. The minute Belén and Tilly moved in, I wanted to take back that thought. Belén didn’t believe in idle time for children. Or adults, actually. Tilly took piano lessons, ballet lessons, and martial arts classes three afternoons a week. The other days were strictly for schoolwork. Tilly wasn’t allowed to watch any TV until she had completed not only her daily homework but also an additional hour of practice in whatever subject Belén chose for that day. And the only TV she was allowed to watch was educational. Animal documentaries all around!

  Belén, obviously thinking only of my best interests, tried to use the same system for me. Dad hadn’t had time to put me in lessons or sports before, and it sounded like fun, so we both agreed. At my first ballet lesson, I figured out that tulle is itchy and I had two left feet. I also didn’t so much like watching myself stumble around in a gigantic mirror. In Tae Kwon Do, I talked back to the instructor one too many times, and they politely offered my dad our tuition money back if he agreed not to bring me again. Piano went slightly better because I picked up on patterns quickly. But I hated to practice with a passion that burned hotter than a thousand suns, which got me into more than a little trouble with Belén.

  “You will never succeed unless you practice. Do the work, Tatum,” she preached.

  My eight-year-old lips quivered. No one had ever spoken to me like that. Not my teachers. Certainly not my daddy. I was scared speechless, and for the first time ever, something that felt like disappointment set in. Belén watched over me like a hawk when it was time to practice, staring so hard, I felt like I might sink through the piano bench and into the carpet. I started making excuses as to why I couldn’t play. At first, I was hungry. So she would fix me a snack and point toward the piano. And then I had to go to the bathroom, where I purposely took ten minutes longer than I needed. In a matter of days, Belén caught on to me and shut down my shenanigans. So there I sat, resenting her for making me sit on the ugly bench and play the ugly notes that stopped making sense because I just didn’t want to do it. I dug my heels in, or my fingertips as the case was, and didn’t play. I let my hands hover over the keys, an inch of air between me and the ivories, and didn’t move.

  “You’re wasting time, Tatum.” Belén glared at me.

  “I don’t want to.” I tried to make my glare as forceful as hers, but I’m sure I was just amusing her.

  “Tatum, I will give you until the count of five to begin your scales, and if you do not comply, you will go to your room for the rest of the night.”

  I hesitated. “Fine.”

  “Fine what?”

  “I’ll go to my room.” I stood up from the bench, took the stairs up to my bedroom, and shut the door. No one came to tell me dinner was on the table, and my stomach rumbled. I got into bed, pulled the covers up to my chin, and read Charlotte’s Web until the sun had gone down and the sky was completely black. As my eyelids were beginning to droop, my door opened and my dad came in.

  “Having a rough night?” He sat down on the bed with me.

  Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. “I don’t want to play.”

  He smoothed my hair back and kissed the top of my head. “I know, sweetheart. But don’t you want to be successful at something?”

  I’d never heard him say “successful” before.

  “That’s what Belén says,” I said, pouting.

  He sighed. “She just wants what’s best for you, honey.” How did she know what was best for me? She’d never asked me what I liked to do or what I wanted to try.

  “I don’t like it anymore, Daddy,” I whispered, wiping away the water threatening to drop down my cheeks.

  “Would you do it for me?” He sounded as unsure as I was. Guilt was a new tactic for us.

  The waterworks came on in full force, and I buried my face in his chest, unable to speak. My chest heaved up and down so violently, my cheek felt raw from the friction against my dad’s shirt. He held me tight until I calmed down a little bit, stroking my hair in silence.

  “Will you at least think about it?” he ventured tentatively.

  I stuck my face in the crook of his arm and shook it.

  He sighed again, more deeply, giving in. “I’ll talk to your stepmother.”

  Eventually, piano disappeared from my social calendar and I found myself in art lessons instead, which quickly became my happy place. But the car rides there, as Belén shuttled me to the community center and Tilly to her dance studio, were silent and uncomfortable. For years.

  Standing next to Tilly, waiting for the cab door to open, reminded me of that initial awkwardness between the two of us. Maybe if we’d been able to bond over a shared interest, like dance, we could have forged some kind of friendship, but I accepted long ago that it just wasn’t meant to be. I always believed some of that was because of Tilly, and some, maybe most, came from Belén’s desire for her child to only have what she deemed to be positive influences. Which didn’t include the stepchild who wouldn’t stick to the approved plan, it seemed. Never mind the fact that I was regularly praised by my instructors and earned good grades in my classes at school.

  Tilly and I exchanged exactly zero words while we waited for Blanche, proof that our frosty acquaintanceship remained intact.

  The back door of the cab finally cracked, and a tiny foot sporting a leopard-print ballet flat stepped out onto the pavement. The rest of her equally tiny body emerged, all in form-fitting black, and I raised the other eyebrow, impressed with what good shape Blanche was in for a woman in her late sixties. Self-consciously, I glanced down at my own very average-sized, very average-curved body and shrugged.

  At last Blanche’s head popped up, and I found myself smiling at her before I could stop myself from showing positive emotion. Her face, just as perfectly made as her daughter’s, only showed the slightest hint of age. If I passed her on the street, I probably would have guessed mid-fifties, max, when I knew she was at least ten years older than that. Her golden skin was still mostly smooth, only betraying her age around the eyes and the mouth, leaving me wondering if she laughed a lot. I hoped so. Her eyes were kind as she surveyed us and her new domain.

  The cab driver stepped out and popped the trunk. Blanche motioned to us, the receiving line, to help with her bags. Belén sighed loudly. Interesting. Tilly stalked forward, spine aligned like someone had shoved a metal rod up there, and I followed quickly, my own posture resembling that of someone who spent hours slumped over a keyboard.

  Belén stood in front of her mother and paused, like she was trying to decide if she should kiss her or offer her a hand to shake. Blanche made the decision for her by putting her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and kissing both her cheeks. Belén put her arms around her mother stiffly, in perhaps the most awkward embrace ever witnessed. I stifled a giggle, and caught Tilly glaring at me.

  “What is your problem?” I whispered out the side of my mouth. She said nothing.

  Blanche released Belén and turned to Tilly. “Matilda, darling, how are you?” Though I knew she’d lived in the US for decades, her voice was still delicately accented.

  “I’m well, thank you, Abuela.”

  Blanche rubbed Tilly’s arms. “I’m glad to hear that, sweetheart.” Then she winked at me, and I instantly smiled.

  “And Tatum, let me look at you, dear,” she said, holding me at arm’s length and raking her deep brown eyes over me. It was oddly unnerving.

  I stood stock still, the warmth of her hands on my arms, waiting for her to finish her assessment. She nodded once, let me go, and charged toward the house. The rest of us stood there in the June sunshine until Blanche shouted, “Come on, slowpokes!” I picked up the floral suitcase the cab driver had handed me and took off after her, Tilly and Belén reluctantly following.

  Blanche was down the stairs already when I crossed through the front door. When I reached her room, I fo
und her surveying her new digs, clicking her tongue. “I haven’t seen this in years.” She gestured with her little chin at the poncho. I wasn’t sure if she expected me to comment, but I did anyway.

  “I think Belén thinks it’ll make you comfortable. Remind you of home, maybe?” I’d never been to Blanche’s house, but I thought it was perfectly reasonable to assume she might have some traditional Chilean pieces for her own home.

  Blanche clicked her tongue again. “I’m sure she does.” What did that mean? There was definitely something underlying in Blanche’s words and tone. As I stood there trying to think of a polite way to pry without annoying her, Blanche turned and focused on me. The way she stared made me think she didn’t miss much; I felt totally transparent.

  “You look melancholy, Tatum. Are you feeling down?”

  I looked down at my body for the second time in ten minutes, and tried to see what she saw. My silver, beat-up gladiator sandals were laced around my ankles. My bare legs, not nearly as toned as Tilly’s, were thankfully tan, despite the fact I hadn’t spent much time in the sun. Next, denim shorts, strategically frayed at the edges, and a plain black tank top. I wasn’t trying to impress anybody. My chocolate-brown, shoulder-length hair was pushed back behind my ears, and I could feel my cheeks were flushed from the already-too-hot weather. I blinked at Blanche from behind the long lashes I’d been told I inherited from my mother. All in all, utterly forgettable, but melancholy? After the last several days, I supposed I ought to be, so maybe I was. I shrugged. “Maybe?”

  She laughed. “At least you’re honest. So tell me something. Why am I here?”

  “Belén invited you?” I stammered.