Jack Kerouac is Dead to Me

by Gae Polisner

  * * *

  I shut my door and open the habitat so the few remaining butterflies can come out if they want. I shove the new bikini in my drawer, and pull on the T-shirt and stare at myself in the mirror.

  Goodbye, butterflies. Hello, sparkly bird.

  Nana is right. Thursday’s child has somewhere far, far away to go.

  Part IV

  Several types of butterflies have false eyes to scare off predators.

  Humans are not so lucky.

  MID-JUNE

  TENTH GRADE

  I come home from school the next day to a black garment bag on my bed, a folded note on top written on Mom’s stationery, in her fancy script:

  My darling JL,

  I know I’ve not been much use lately, but a girl going to prom needs a dress.

  Will this work?

  I love you,

  Mom

  P.S. Please invite Max over for dinner beforehand. Nana and I would like to get to know him better and take pictures.

  Tears spring to my eyes. I’ve been too hard on her, thinking she’s not paying attention when she is.

  I unzip the bag, and pull the dress out, a simple one-shouldered, floor-length chiffon sheath, totally plain except for a high, thin moss-green belt. But what’s most amazing is the color: cobalt blue, the same exact color as Blue Morpho.

  I hold the dress to my body and twirl in my closet mirror, blown away by how perfect it is. The fabric is weightless and sheer, nearly iridescent, like butterfly wings.

  I strip off my clothes and slip the dress over my head. It glides down my body like a waterfall, cascading to the perfect length on the floor. I look pretty, even if it doesn’t transform me completely, into something beautiful and rare like my mother.

  I twirl again, faster and faster, the fabric billowing outward, and lift my arms, moving across the floor, as if waltzing with an invisible partner.

  When I return to the mirror, I stare at my cheeks, warm and flushed, my chest heaving, my hair a mess, wisps fallen across my cheeks in slashes. I want to call Aubrey and show her how perfect it is.

  Instead, I call Max.

  “Come see,” I say. “I think you’ll love it.”

  I just want him to be okay with the dress.

  * * *

  “Hey, what happened to them all?” he asks when he walks in my room. He runs his fingers down the mesh of the habitat.

  “They died.” My tone may be matter-of-fact, but I’m crushed about it.

  “That’s sad,” he says. “I guess they really don’t live very long.”

  “Some of the more common ones live less than a week. But I used to let those out, so I’d never see them die.” I laugh a little because I don’t want things to turn morbid. Not with Max here. “Tropicals live longer than most. Maybe I’ll set the rest of them free this weekend.”

  “Still sucks,” he says, turning back to me. “So, put it on.” I tilt my head in question, and he says, “The dress, Jailbait? You wanted me to see.”

  “Oh, not on, just … well, here.” I slide the hanger out, press the dress against my body. It looks like little more than a slinky blue sheet hanging there. “It is way better on,” I say quickly.

  “I bet,” Max says. “So, go ahead.”

  I glance at my door, at the hall. Max stays put. “Can you wait out there?”

  He furrows his brow. “No. I want to watch you,” he says.

  My face flushes hot. “You want to see me put the dress on?”

  “Yeah. Can I?” I lay the dress on my bed and wrap my arms to my chest, self-conscious. We’ve done all sorts of things together, Max and me, but it’s not like I’ve paraded around naked.

  “Okay,” I say, tentatively. I close my bedroom door. Who knows when Mom might return? Swiftly, I pull my T-shirt off and toss it on my pillow, leaving on my white bra with black polka dots and black bow. A breeze from I don’t even know where slips across my stomach, raising goose bumps on my skin. I unzip my shorts and let them fall to the floor, but don’t turn around, leaning over my bed to slip on the dress.

  “Wait, don’t. I want to see you completely.”

  “Max…”

  “Please? I won’t touch. I just want to look at you.” I turn to face him, my arms hanging awkwardly at my sides. I swear I can feel my entire body blushing.

  “Same as a bikini, you know,” he says, and he’s right, so why does it feel so different? “God, you’re gorgeous.” He moves toward me. “Can I take this off?” Without waiting he reaches around and unhooks my bra. I can feel my heart pounding right out of my rib cage. “I want to see all of you in daylight.”

  He takes the straps from my arms, tosses the little piece of fabric onto my bed, and says, “I want to know you, Jailbait. I want to touch you, taste you, all of it.”

  He cups my breasts and kisses them, making goose bumps rise up everywhere now, and kneels in front of me, running his tongue down my stomach and over the front of my underpants.

  “Max—” I whisper. The truth is it’s hard to say no.

  “What?” He looks up at me, but doesn’t move, instead pulls the edge of my underpants aside, and slips his fingers under. “It’s okay to like it,” he says. I make a weird, out-of-body sort of noise, and he starts to move his face down, but I reach and hold it by the chin.

  “We can’t, Max. Not here. Not now.”

  “It would only take a second.”

  People talk, JL …

  A Jezebel is a whore. And it’s just kind of odd that, of all the butterflies you could have picked—

  “Soon,” I whisper, “I promise,” and he shakes his head, but pulls his fingers back, and gives me a swift kiss on the outside of my underpants instead.

  “You shouldn’t worry about what other people think,” he says, standing. “You should only care what you want.” He moves to the habitat and turns his back to me. “Okay, I’m not looking. Put the dress on.”

  He’s frustrated. Annoyed. And I feel bad. I want to give him what he wants.

  And he’s not wrong: What I want, too.

  * * *

  He tugs at the Velcro flap as I slip the fabric over my head and buckle the velvet belt. “Hey, can we let them out?” he asks.

  “Sure.” I turn to face him. “You can look now. It’s not special,” I say. “Or fancy. It’s just, well, the color.”

  He turns, and smiles, adjusting the crotch of his jeans. “Oh, it’s special. It’s perfect. Like you. And, therefore, apt to kill me.”

  “Max, is it?”

  “Totally. Classy, or something, like a model would wear. Or a movie star.” I snort, but he says, “I never dated a girl like you, Jailbait. You’re like every kind of good thing there is. But I’m not gonna lie. It’s getting harder and harder to keep waiting.”

  “I know,” I say. “That’s why I want to go with you to California. I can’t … I need to get out of here.”

  “So, you’re really serious?”

  What did he think? The money was just for him? I walk to my desk, the fabric swishing between my bare thighs, pull open the bottom drawer, and fish out the rest.

  “Super-serious,” I say, unfolding the purple sheet of paper and holding it out to him like a gift. “As in, I’ve never been so serious about anything.”

  His eyes grow big. “What’s that for?”

  “Us,” I say. “You, if you need it. Or want it. I don’t even care, Max, as long as we’re together. As long as you take me with you.”

  “Are you kidding me?” He takes half the bills, returning the rest to the paper. “I can’t take all of it. No way.” He shoves what he took into his pocket. “And this dress, and you in it?” He picks me up and swings me around. “The most beautiful thing I ever saw my whole fucking life on this planet.”

  MID-JUNE

  TENTH GRADE

  When I walk into my house after school, the air holds that eerie kind of quiet that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. The kind that is often met by my mother whirling t
hrough rooms in conversation with no one. Or with her wrapped under covers for days.

  With a stack of letters waiting to be mailed to a dead man.

  The living room is empty.

  “Hey, Mom! You home?”

  In the kitchen, I stop and freeze.

  She’s standing, quiet, at the kitchen sink, barefoot, in a cherry-red kimono.

  Her back is to me, shoulders hunched, head down, so at first I’m sure she’s crying. And next to her: one pink metal box, lid open.

  I suck air.

  She knows.

  She’s going to kill me.

  I search for a quick lie, something that, once shaped, might turn into a feasible explanation.

  For why I found the money and took it.

  For why I was looking in the first place.

  Nothing comes, and then: A school trip. Or a bigger lie: Dad called and asked me to look for it.

  “Mom?”

  She whirls around, eyes strange and far off.

  Well, screw it. She’s a mess. Maybe it’s time for the truth.

  After all, I’m not the one who has gone completely off the deep end. I’m the one suffering, trying to get through. I’m the one paying the price.

  I’ll tell her the truth. That I’m leaving. Until Dad comes back, I’m going to live with him. Going with Max. Staying for the summer, maybe longer. Until she gets real help. Gets better. Until one of her cocktails kicks in.

  “Jean Louise!”

  My legs shake. I feel like they’re going to buckle right under me. I ball my fists, ready to confess.

  Wait—she’s smiling?

  “I’m sorry. You know I’m not much of a baker, so I was concentrating. Plus, look at this chicken scratch!” She waves an index card at me. “It’s impossible to make out my mother’s handwriting. I’m so glad you’re home! You can help me.”

  And now I see the snow down the front of her red kimono. The white smears that dust her cheeks, the delicate flecks of dandruff in her hair.

  Flour.

  I see the bag, too—King Arthur’s Unbleached—sitting open next to her on the counter.

  The lump of dough.

  The rolling pin.

  Berries. And a pie tin.

  My mother is baking.

  Or trying to.

  My eyes shift back to the pink metal box. The index cards in it.

  It must be a different one.

  I take a few steps closer.

  Recipes.

  A recipe box.

  She doesn’t know about the money.

  I nearly collapse from relief. I nearly start laughing. And really, my mother is so off, so out of it, even if the money was missing, she might not even know. She might think she spent it herself. Bought some stamps. For her nine thousand letters to Jack Kerouac.

  “Why are you baking?” I ask.

  “I’m making a pie; I told you,” she says cheerfully. “Come help.” She turns back to the lump and starts kneading.

  My eyes shift again to the pink metal box as I walk over. She’s propped the index card up against the coffeemaker. At the top it reads: “Nana’s Famous Loganberry Tarts.”

  “That’s for tarts,” I say, pointing.

  “Tarts, pie, all the same,” she says.

  In the sink is a strainer full of blueberries, their empty plastic containers rinsed and stacked to the side.

  “I don’t think those are loganberries, either?” I say. She laughs, and blows a wisp of hair from her eyes. I reach out and push it behind her ear for her, slip an elastic band from my wrist, and pull it into a ponytail. “You’re supposed to tie your hair back when you cook.”

  “Hard to find those,” she says.

  “Elastic bands?”

  “No, silly.” She rubs her floured cheek against her shoulder. “Loganberries, Jean Louise. Loganberries.”

  She has the lump of dough flatter, starts to work at it with the rolling pin.

  “Where did you think you could get them?”

  “Damned if I know,” she says.

  I stand watching, confused, yet a little elated. She may be acting weird, but it’s been months since I’ve seen her look this happy. She rocks with the roll of the pin, singing some weird tune I’ve never heard of:

  “Your lips are sweet as honey,

  Red as loganberry pie.

  I could pinch your cheeks like dough.

  You’re the apple of my eye.”

  My mother is baking and singing. My mother doesn’t cook, let alone bake, so my head spins, trying to understand.

  “And why exactly are you doing this?” I finally ask, reaching into the sink to grab a handful of blueberries. I toss them in my mouth, and add with a mumble, “Making pie?”

  “Because I spoke to your father, and we’re celebrating.” My heart skips a beat. Real spoke or fake spoke? “He’s coming home, Jean Louise! First week of July, possibly sooner.” I nearly choke on the berries. “Home for good. Once and for all! Isn’t that wonderful? Something that calls for pie, don’t you think?”

  “Tarts,” I snap, angry. Furious. I can’t think straight, I can’t deal with her, and I sure don’t know what to believe. Has Dad really called to say he’s coming home or is it some wishful, delusional hallucination? And, if he is coming home, what will I do about Max? Now that Blue Morpho will be fixed, he can leave. How will I lose him after everything?

  I race through the alibis I’ve spent sleepless nights perfecting, the phone calls I’ve rehearsed, the intricate stories. If I can’t go, and he’s leaving in two measly weeks, I may never see Max Gordon again!

  I cough on the lump of blueberries, mingled with tears lodged in my throat. I can’t let them spill. How will I explain tears in the face of her very good news? News I’ve been waiting more than a year for. Already she’s staring at me, waiting for me to join in her jubilation.

  I need time to think. What if it is the end of June? That would still give me a week after school ends to make the trip with Max, and have a few days alone with him, before flying back home with my father. I can tell Dad I want to see Malibu before he leaves, how I’m sorry I haven’t come sooner. How I’ll help him pack up his things.

  That way, I’ll have a little more time with Max, and get my father back home. I’ll worry about the rest as it comes.

  I look at my mother, but she’s returned to her mess, to pressing and pinching piecrust into the tin.

  “Your lips are sweet as honey,

  Red as loganberry pie.

  I could live forever on your sweetness,

  If you’d only let me try.”

  My mother is celebrating. Singing. Making loganberry pie without one real loganberry in sight and I’m even considering what she’s saying might be the truth? When there’s not one good reason to believe her.

  I walk around her to the other side of the sink and pick up the box, identical to the one I took the money from. I remember at least two more like this, from the morning after the Rainbow Room.

  “Where are these from?” I ask, picking through the recipe cards with my finger.

  Mom turns. “Oh, those are Nana’s recipes. She wrote them all in duplicate by hand when I got married.”

  “No, the boxes,” I clarify.

  “Oh, those? Why?”

  She turns back and looks out the window, gazing over our pristine backyard, and sighs. I feel it in my bones, the grave shift in her mood, the fall from whatever high she was on to some catastrophic low. I wait for the shoe to drop, but all she says is, “Did you know, Jean Louise, that it’s impossible to find actual loganberries? I tried. I went to three different markets and called two others, but decided these other berries would have to do.”

  “Blueberries,” I say, because it shouldn’t be that hard to call them what they are.

  “Yes, of course. Blueberries.” Her voice is laden with sorrow, and when she turns back to me, she studies me like she hasn’t seen me in days or maybe weeks. “I was planning to make two pies. One for us to cel
ebrate, and one for tomorrow night, for that handsome boyfriend of yours.”

  Prom.

  Shit. Tomorrow night.

  I forgot to thank her for the dress.

  “The dress, Mom, thank you. It’s beautiful.”

  Her eyes dart up. We’ve both lost our grip on what we’re talking about.

  “It’s your birthday soon, right? Sixteen. Imagine that. A girl needs a beautiful dress.”

  I swallow hard. I wasn’t even thinking about my birthday. Because of where it falls, we usually celebrate it the first week of summer, once school ends. But other than a cake and some presents, I’m getting too old for parties and plans. “We’ll get you something new, as well. And when your father comes home, we’ll all celebrate.”

  “Okay,” I say, holding out the box. “But, Mom, I asked about these. What are they from? Are they Nana’s?”

  “Oh, those?” she asks, surprised. “No, why?”

  “No reason. Just interested.”

  A wistful smile spreads across her face. “They were mine from when I was little. Nearly antiques, now, I guess.”

  “Stop it,” I say. “You’re not old.”

  “I am,” she says. She holds her hands out in front of her, then drops them to her sides. “I can’t even look at my hands.”

  I shake my head, and slide the box in front of her. We both know that she looks way younger than she is. Which is already way younger than most of my friends’ parents. She and Dad married junior year of college when she found out she was having me “by surprise.” Surprise being code for “not a mistake because we love you, but not exactly using a reliable form of birth control, either.”

  “Nana saved them,” she says, picking up the box and inspecting it before pushing it against the backsplash under the window and tapping the lid back down. “She saved all my things. These were in a box of stuff she packed up for me when she and your pop-pop moved to the smaller house off Main Street, and we bought this one. They were originally a set of six. I don’t know what happened to some of them. I think I have four left. They’re for treasures.” She smiles, her thoughts far off, and I wonder briefly if she’s thinking about the money. God forbid I’ve made her want to look for it.