Two or Three Things I Forgot to Tell You

by Joyce Carol Oates

  She knows. What they’ve posted about me.

  She knows, and feels sorry for me.

  “Are you waiting for—is it Mariana? Your housekeeper?—to pick you up?”

  Nadia murmured no—well, yes . . .

  “If you need a ride, Alex is driving—we’re going to a JV meeting downtown—he could swing around and take you home first . . .”

  Quickly it had happened in the New Year: Merissa Carmichael and Alex Wren had become a couple, of a sort—at least, they were very good friends and were often seen together; several times, Merissa and Alex had sat together at lunchtime, as Merissa’s friends cast curious glances in their direction. Alex was tall and lean and soft-spoken and easier to talk to than boys in their class like Shaun Ryan; it was clear that he liked Merissa, very much. Merissa’s friends saw that she was happy in Alex’s company, relaxed as she’d never been with Shaun; she smiled and laughed more, and did not seem so stiff and perfectly poised.

  In fact, Merissa looked healthier lately. She wasn’t so very thin—her face was a little fuller.

  Nadia felt a little stab of envy. Merissa had a boyfriend, of course—Merissa was likely to have boyfriends, being so beautiful, and slender; Nadia had never felt comfortable with Merissa, who seemed always to be coolly judging her and had never seemed to like her as much as she liked their other friends.

  Now Merissa was comfortable enough with Alex to offer Nadia a ride home in his car. And where were they going together after school? JV—Junior Volunteers?

  “Thanks, Merissa—that’s really thoughtful. But I don’t need a ride.”

  “You sure? Alex won’t mind. Your house isn’t far out of our way, maybe ten minutes. . . .”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine, M’rissa.”

  Please go away. Please don’t interrogate me. Can’t you see—I want to be alone.

  Nadia was trying to be her usual smiling, slightly breathless self. She was the most girlish of the girls of Tink, Inc., the most young-seeming; which endeared her to her friends at times, but at other times exasperated them.

  Nadia and Merissa had had at least one good moment together, Nadia remembered, though she doubted that Merissa would remember: when Merissa had fallen down the school stairs and cut her forehead the previous year, and Nadia had spent a little time with her later that day, and Merissa had been in strangely elevated spirits—“Maybe I’ll even have a little scar, to remind me to pay attention when I’m running downstairs.”

  Nadia had thought this was a strange remark. Yet she’d understood it perfectly.

  Wanting to say now, Hey, it looks like you don’t have a scar after all.

  But Nadia didn’t want to continue this awkward exchange with her friend who was on her way to meet her very nice boyfriend in the student parking lot. She was uneasy with the way Merissa was eyeing the grocery bag, trying to see what was inside it.

  “Something for my stepmother,” Nadia said, with a roll of her eyes, to indicate a painful subject. “Don’t even ask.”

  Merissa frowned, and didn’t ask. The subject of Nadia’s très impossible stepmother was well known to the girls of Tink, Inc.

  Though Amelie wasn’t nearly so entertaining, or so monstrous, as Tink’s Big Moms.

  “You do have a ride home, Nadia? Right?”

  “Yes!” Nadia insisted.

  “Okay, sweetie—see you tomorrow.”

  Sweetie. Nadia was moved.

  When she’d talked with Mr. Kessler the other day, in the privacy of his office, and told him certain intimate things, she hadn’t told him about her friends—the girls of Tink, Inc. Somehow, it was difficult to speak of friendship.

  Nadia waited until Merissa was safely out of sight, then continued into the faculty parking lot. Snowflakes had begun to fall, swirling out of a sky of corrugated wintry clouds.

  Nadia, what were you thinking!

  Were you thinking—at all?

  There it was: Mr. Kessler’s green Subaru with the bumper sticker that made Nadia smile—I BRAKE FOR BUTTERFLIES.

  Now she had to hope that the vehicle wasn’t locked.

  (Her father was so vigilant about locking his expensive car, a Porsche, he automatically locked the car when it was in the (locked) garage!)

  Hoping too that no one was watching her and would wonder what Nadia Stillinger, a senior, was doing alone in the faculty parking lot, acting suspicious.

  Luckily, it was one of those dark winter days, hardly any sun and snow flurries melting on the pavement, and by four p.m. almost dusk.

  Nadia approached Adrian Kessler’s vehicle. Saw her gloved hand reach out to touch the handle of the right rear door—it was unlocked.

  “Oh God. Maybe—better not.”

  Her heart pumped like a fist. She felt Tink close beside her but could not determine what Tink would advise.

  “But maybe—yes? Except . . .”

  Here was the problem: Nadia hadn’t been sure what was the best way to give the secret gift to Mr. Kessler. For she wanted it to be—well, secret; but she wanted Mr. Kessler to know, too.

  Nadia had made the accompanying card herself. It was a sort of birthday-Valentine card—(Mr. Kessler had happened to mention in class that his birthday was this week, and it seemed to Nadia that he’d glanced in her direction, smiling)—in the shape of a heart, of red construction paper, with smaller hearts and flowers in silver felt-tip pen, and carefully printed words:

  Mr. Kessler—

  Happy Birthday!

  Dani A.

  In Mr. Kessler’s science class, in conjunction with the phenomenon of variations and permutations, they’d recently discussed anagrams: Mr. Kessler had entertained the class by jotting onto the blackboard ingenious examples like “the eyes”—“they see”; “butterfly”—“flutter by”; “desperation”—“a rope ends it.” Nadia had doodled in her notebook NADIA DANI A.

  But would Mr. Kessler see that “Dani A.” was an anagram? Would he understand that the name was a secret code—secret between him and Nadia—for Nadia Stillinger?

  She thought so, yes! For surely Mr. Kessler thought of Nadia as much, or nearly as much, as Nadia thought of him.

  She was sure that he would recognize the wriggly shapes and rainbow swirls in the little painting she was giving him—meant to remind him of the PowerPoint slides he’d shown last week in class—many-times-magnified photographs of microscopic creatures called protozoa.

  Mr. Kessler was a teacher of science, but his classes were always so visual. Nadia felt sad, a stab of loss, that Tink had not seemed to have faith enough in the future, or in her life in the future, to have lived into her senior year at Quaker Heights—if she’d taken Earth and Our Environment with Adrian Kessler, maybe that would have made a difference.

  Nadia had hesitated about signing the card. She’d wanted to sign Love, Dani A., but her hand shook so, she could not write Love.

  Nadia made her decision: She opened the right rear door of her teacher’s vehicle and quickly set the glittery faux-gold bag inside, on the backseat.

  Then she turned blindly away.

  Then she was running through a scrim of slow-falling snow. She was too anxious and too excited to return to the school building to call her father’s housekeeper—the last thing she wanted was to encounter another friend, or one of her teachers. It seemed that every time they turned around, the girls of Tink, Inc. ran into Mrs. Jameson, who all but clutched at their arms, regarding them with searching, “sympathetic” eyes—If ever you want to speak with me, in private, about your friend—about how you are dealing with the memory of—your friend . . . Please know that I am available at virtually any time.

  Nadia had had several conferences with Mrs. Jameson. She knew that others had, too.

  Yet it never seemed to be enough.

  The fear was, another girl would harm herself in the wake of Tink Traumer, who’d been such a charismatic and enigmatic personality.

  As Tink would have observed, Imagine the ugly publicity for QHD if there
’s a Tink copycat!

  Nadia made another decision: to walk home.

  It was rare for QHD students to walk home, for part of the walk was along a busy state highway.

  Mostly, QHD students were picked up by their parents, or by friends’ parents. There were school buses, but it wasn’t cool to ride them.

  Coolest of all was to have a boyfriend like Alex Wren, who could drive you. Or maybe coolest of all was to have your own car and drive yourself.

  It was about a mile and a half to the Stillinger house on Wheatsheaf Lane, in a residential neighborhood called High Brook Farms.

  She had a fear of being shouted at, if she walked along the road. Colin Brunner and his crude friends. Nad-ja! Naaad-ja! How’s about a ride . . .

  That terrible, ugly word they’d posted: S**t.

  S**t, like d***h. You did not want to acknowledge such words if you could avoid them.

  And Mr. Kessler might be driving on Post Road also, and see his student trudging along the side of the road in swirling snowflakes. . . .

  If Mr. Kessler pulled the green Subaru over to the side of the road, to invite Nadia to climb inside . . .

  Nadia swallowed hard. She was having trouble believing that she’d actually left the gift for Mr. Kessler in the back of his car.

  It was a very special gift, in fact. Probably expensive.

  He would know what it meant. He would know how Nadia Stillinger loved him.

  And how clear her life, now. It had never been Colin Brunner she’d “loved”—all that had been a mistake. All along, it had been Adrian Kessler whom she loved, and would die for.

  Oh God. Now—he will know.

  Now, no turning back.

  3.

  THE GATHERING STORM

  Nadia walked quickly. Soon she was out of breath.

  Unlike the other girls of Tink, Inc., Nadia wasn’t an athlete. She wasn’t very physical, if she could avoid it.

  Something was going to happen, she thought—she knew—like a gathering storm you could see in the sky above the Atlantic Ocean, off Nantucket Island: massive, bruise-colored clouds threaded with rays of red sunshine like veins of blood.

  Beautiful! But scary, too.

  Most of August they spent in the beautiful old dark-shingled house overlooking the ocean, on Nantucket. This was Nadia’s mother’s house, or had been. Nadia felt so bad—she could not truly remember her mother in the house. She’d been too young for true memories, and even photographs of her mother were scarce—Nadia’s father had hidden them all away, maybe.

  Or worse.

  So—what was happening was like a gathering storm. Though you could see it in the sky, you could not prevent it.

  But you could run from it! You could run for shelter.

  “Tink, I wish you were here. I need your advice.”

  Nadia told herself Mr. Kessler would understand. Tink was gone, but Mr. Kessler was here and he would provide shelter.

  In his office, Adrian Kessler had told Nadia certain things. He had shared with Nadia Stillinger certain things. He had not told anyone else—any other of his students, Nadia was sure.

  He’d touched her wrist, lightly. The skin still tingled!

  Through Nadia’s body—the tips of her breasts, between her legs where she was uncomfortable sometimes, and could find no comfortable way of sitting; in the region of her heart, which was so suffused with sadness, sometimes—but more often with warmth, hope, excitement.

  He had touched her all these places.

  Not literally—but emotionally.

  Of course, Nadia had told Mr. Kessler—things. She’d shared with him certain facts about her life that none of her friends knew, and even Tink had not known.

  Knowing that Mr. Kessler would understand.

  Nadia, of course—you must have guessed—I love you.

  But I will have to wait for you to grow up.

  You’re just a girl—sixteen—but in another four years, you will be twenty. And I will be . . .

  Nadia had discovered that Mr. Kessler was twenty-seven just this week. And so in four years, he would be just thirty-one.

  This was—old. But not really old, of course.

  If he waited for her. If he promised.

  Nadia’s father was fifty-one. Now, that was old!

  Nadia’s father’s new wife, Amelie, was twenty-nine. Nadia’s aunt Harriet, who was her father’s older sister, teased Mr. Stillinger when the new young wife was out of the room—Is there some equation between you getting older and them getting younger? Where will it end?—but Mr. Stillinger hadn’t seen any joke in this.

  Nor did Nadia, overhearing, think it was the least bit funny.

  The night before, Nadia had exhausted herself trying to figure out how to give the gift to Mr. Kessler. Lying awake in her bed, squirmy and itchy and feeling a sensation like red ants crawling over her body—her flabby waist and hips she hated—and between her legs, the scratchy hairs she hated—thinking of how Amelie saw an aesthetician who did Persian waxing, a cosmetic procedure Nadia didn’t altogether understand, but knew that it was de rigueur if you wanted to wear a very minimal bikini.

  When Nadia first heard about this, she’d texted her friend Chloe Zimmer: A.S. IS SO GROSS DON’T EVEN ASK.

  Between Nadia and Chloe text messages flew back and forth about their S-Ms—(private code for stepmother)—since each of the girls had a stepmother.

  Though Chloe, at least, didn’t have to live with hers. Just had to see the b***h—(Chloe’s abbreviation, funnily expressed as a sort of sneeze)—every third weekend when she went to stay with her father and his “new family” in Westchester County, New York; for Chloe’s parents had joint custody of her, which made Chloe feel like a dog shuttled back and forth between households.

  “What about your mother, Nadia?” Chloe had asked; and Nadia had said with a bright little smile that she hadn’t exactly lived with her mother—or even seen much of her mother—since she’d been five years old.

  Chloe seemed embarrassed for having asked the question.

  “Wow! That must be hard.”

  Nadia shrugged, saying, “I guess it was. When I was little.”

  Nadia had a secret about her mother she didn’t intend ever to reveal, not even to Chloe. Nor had she told Tink.

  Nadia had learned from a previous school in Connecticut, where she’d believed she had good friends, that you must never tell anything really crucial about yourself, not even to a close friend.

  Nor did friends appreciate whiners. Nadia Stillinger was not ever a whiner!

  And Tink herself had said, Some secrets are toxic. Not to be shared.

  Nadia worried, possibly she’d already told Chloe too much. And Hannah, and Martine—texting them about Mr. Kessler. Mostly Nadia’s text messages were playful and joking about “Mr. K.,” but once she’d texted them about the “special looks” that her science teacher gave her over the heads of other students; and the “special help” he’d given her with her lab notebook, so she’d managed to get an A-minus.

  Nadia hadn’t (yet) told them about the intense conversation in Mr. Kessler’s office. How Mr. Kessler had looked at her with such sympathy, and how he’d touched her wrist.

  Lightly reproving, he’d said, You’re a very intelligent girl, Nadia. You must have faith in yourself.

  Nor had she told them how she felt about Mr. Kessler—Love him so. Love him more than anyone in the world. I would die for him. I am serious!

  If Mr. Kessler had a diseased kidney, for instance, Nadia would donate a kidney to him—anonymously.

  Or, Dani A. would be the donor.

  But she hadn’t told Chloe. She would not tell anyone.

  Just Adrian Kessler—when he called her, after opening the present; when he realized that Dani A. was Nadia Stillinger.

  If only she hadn’t made that terrible mistake with Colin Brunner!

  (Colin hadn’t even been nice to her, really. Just smiling at her so her heart melted—it was that silly! She was
such an idiot!—and whatever they’d given her to drink, or slipped into her drink, made her thoughts weird and perforated so it was like carrying water in a sieve to try to think with the loud hammering music, and the guys’ laughter, and Colin saying, Nadja? Nad-j-ia? Don’t pass out so fast, hey, Nadjjja!)

  If only she’d realized that the person she loved was Adrian Kessler and that he was a superior man—kindly, intelligent, idealistic.

  The way Mr. Kessler spoke about global warming! The way he spoke about the future of the planet!

  She was shivering, walking in the January wind. The Gap jacket was fleece-lined and she had the hood up, but still she was cold, for the jacket came only to her waist.

  Shouldn’t have bought straight-leg jeans. That was a mistake. The other girls could wear these, like Merissa, and Anita Chang.

  Nothing more uncomfortable than tight jeans, waistband, crotch, knees. She’d been trying to diet—starving herself, practically—but it didn’t seem to do any good. She’d eaten—how many?—four, or five—oh God, maybe six—of those little fruit-flavored Dannon yogurts instead of a real lunch that day.

  Hannah said you could make yourself seriously sick, eating so crazy.

  Nadia said, wanting to laugh, No Big Deal!

  That was Tink, in Nadia’s head. Sometimes she wanted Tink gone from her head, but then she’d be stricken with such a sense of loneliness, like when her mother vanished, she knew that she could not ever give up Tink.

  And Tink had promised never to give her up.

  Maybe not in actual words. Tink hadn’t been sentimental. But there had passed an understanding between them, Nadia knew.

  Feeling now a little sickish. Like—a storm at sea, rushing to land.

  Just could not think. Since Tink had d**d. She’d tried to tell Mrs. Jameson how sometimes a buzz of mad hornets were thinking for her.

  Maybe medication? Antianxiety, antidepressants?

  Nadia was scared of meds. She seemed to remember that her mother had taken meds. Or meds had been prescribed for her mother. How many is too many? How few is not enough?

  She’d been crushed when Mr. Kessler had scolded her.

  In class! Everyone listening!