Pearl

by Deirdre Riordan Hall

  I see a clone of my mother seated in the corner of the room with a needle in her arm, and then passed out on a moldy bathroom floor. Another image of her floats by, while a female officer reads her rights. I see her eyes bugging wide with paranoia as she checks closets and under beds for a threat only known to her warped mind. Later, there’s her face, screwed up in fits of detoxing agony. As a backdrop I hear her laughing, always laughing. She seems to laugh at herself and everyone else like the most rebellious of children, as if to say, I don’t give a shit.

  This is not the escape I’d hoped for. But then, as her laughter fades, I float farther north to a room that smells faintly of smoke and dirty socks, a bed of pine, and clean sheets. I look into Grant’s eyes. He holds my hand, and we linger there, together, joined, then I lean over his bed and heave. Only instead of a wood floor, I stare at tile and realize I’ve just puked all over the lanai. I snap to and stumble to my feet to get a towel.

  “Not feeling good?” my aunt says when she sees what happened.

  “Maybe it was the eggnog,” I mumble.

  “We’ve all had it. Seemed fine.”

  Denial.

  I carry out the following days with the pills, but avoid the eggnog and wine. I read Vogue or sketch elaborate designs on a sketchbook in my mind. Each time, I float away from my body to the chorus I never want to not feel this way. There’s no fight inside or around me. The cocktail of fear and disgust that pierces my mind freezes, and nothing matters.

  Erica and Logan return to New York to meet up with friends for New Year’s. My good-bye with Erica is the only time I allow myself to be lucid. She leaves me with some clothes and extras from Christmas, including moisturizers, hair products, and a refill of my favorite shade of matte red lipstick.

  As the humid mornings and stormy afternoons pass until my return to Laurel Hill, I find Grant’s image occupying my thoughts, and my mother just a dim silhouette in my mind.

  “Pearl,” my aunt calls.

  The lanai has become my sanctuary from my uptight aunt and uncle. The thick air does me the favor of keeping me prone.

  “Pearl,” she repeats.

  The pills assist with me not caring whether or not I answer. I don’t bother lifting my head or opening my eyes. I have daily fantasies about Grant’s hand on my back in the clearing, our lips meeting for a kiss, and more. I long to feel his breath on my bare neck and his fingers on my skin.

  “Pearl.”

  A shadow blocks the bricks of sunlight formed behind my closed lids. I blink open my eyes.

  “It’s time to go to the airport.”

  For a moment, I’m hopeful, like Janet realized she was looking at the map upside down and finally found her way here.

  “We don’t want you to miss your flight,” my aunt says.

  I snap to sitting, both of us thankful it’s finally time for me to leave.

  As a sedan returns me to placid Laurel Hill, I feel something of my former obedient-schoolgirl self returning. While staying with my aunt and uncle, I felt shackled and filled with resentment. I couldn’t quite be me, yet it was like they even held the not-me against me with their criticisms and looks of disapproval, as if I were JJ.

  All I want to do is kick and scream my way out of their deep mine of anger veiled as criticism. At Laurel Hill, even though no one truly knows my past, no one blames me for it either. The sole responsibility of the adults around me is to prepare me for the future, and that is what they do. No covert insults, no denial. The rest is up to me. I wonder how long it will take for my internal landscape to shift, now that my outward one is populated by rolling hills that disappear into the horizon, trees that brush the watercolor-blue sky, and smiles from passersby instead of sneers. It feels good to be back.

  Chapter 13

  After returning to Viv Brooks, I’m stashing the pills I took from my aunt and uncle’s copious medicine cabinet with the remaining prescription from the fire, when I hear Charmindy approaching with a cheerful hello to someone in the hallway.

  “How was vacation?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer, and I don’t offer one. “I brought you some clothes. I thought you could work some of your design magic on them,” she says, carting in her luggage.

  It’s impossible not to notice how few things I own. Charmindy is being charitable, but it could easily have been insulting. However, I’m used to seconds and am nearly as happy with them as I would be with brand-new swaths of untouched fabric—though that has yet to happen. My visions for fiber grandeur remain on the page alone. I’m not even really good at sewing. Vintage is my favorite, because the stitching and embellishments tell the story of the previous wearer.

  “Thanks,” I say, tucking the bag in my closet. “How was your time back home?” I try again, my interest the only thing I have to offer her.

  Her expression passes through disappointment and lands on a version of unpleasant, but she doesn’t have time to answer, because Sorel bursts into the room, eager to fill me in on her trip to Seattle. Casting an irritated glance in Sorel’s direction, Charmindy busies herself with unpacking.

  “The people there are so chill. And, seriously, the coffee rocks, and don’t get me started on the bands and the parties . . .” She goes on to describe the city like it’s the best place in the world, Disneyland for hip and jaded youths. “All the schools I applied to are out there. You have to promise to visit.”

  “Sure,” I say, uncertain if that will ever happen.

  Her story gets more and more elaborate, and the slight tint to her skin suggests she saw some sun. I don’t know much about the Pacific Northwest in December, but wonder if her itinerary also included a tropical getaway. I don’t get the sense her parents appreciate her interests and doubt they would have sent her to Seattle for long, but I indulge her, only half listening.

  I avoid divulging how I fantasized about Grant, anesthetized myself against my aunt and uncle’s false cheer over the holiday, and failed to pick up a brush, pen, or other artistic tool, as Shale instructed, the entire holiday.

  As classes resume, I dutifully recalibrate to having responsibilities and meeting expectations. I replenish Charmindy’s colorful sticky note supply and pledge study hours to her. However, like misdirected luggage, everything I learned last term in math, I lost somewhere between Laurel Hill and Florida. Maybe my mom is on a baggage carousel in a lonely midwestern town, holding fast to my understanding of polynomials and leading coefficients and waiting for someone to send her home.

  In the next days, an insistent storm paints the campus with a pristine blanket of snow. I sketch versions of my self-portrait but wrinkle them into snowballs and toss them to the floor. Shale would be proud.

  There still hasn’t been any word from my mom. I’ve dialed a few contact numbers I have, using the dorm phone, but I either was hung up on or received a message saying the number was no longer in service. I’d hoped my uncle would get me a cell phone for Christmas, but the pajama set and student planner are still in my suitcase.

  Disappointed, I rest my head on top of my sketchbook. An image of JJ, a replica of me, after she’d gotten out of rehab, dips and floats into my mind. She was golden that day. I flip to a new page, eager to capture the memory before it flutters away.

  Halfway done, I sit up and run my hands over my face.

  Charmindy throws the door open, her expression a mixture of gusty and delighted. “Guess what?” she asks.

  “You figured out a way to scan your class notes directly into your brain,” I say.

  “That would be awesome, but no, Brett asked me out.” She collapses onto her bed.

  I’m not sure if she means this with the giddy glee of a typical sixteen-year-old or with the excitement of just having finished a math marathon.

  “We were at the library and then went for a walk down by the pond and he kissed me and then asked if I wanted to, well, be with him,” she
says all in one breath. “I didn’t see that coming.”

  “I did . . . all the way from him walking you to the dorm, from the art building, and in the dining hall, and—”

  She puts her hand up to stop me. “He called me over holiday break. In India.” She rolls over to face me. “Pearl, at the risk of sounding slightly more mature than I am, I have AP-level classes, student government, debate, cello, Students for Seniors, field hockey, theater . . . my parents. There isn’t time for a boy.”

  My thoughts quickly yield to Grant and boyfriends. As though reading from a spreadsheet, Charmindy details the pros and cons of the hypothetical guy who may or may not have the credentials approved of by Mr. and Mrs. Rajasekhara. The various guys I’ve done more than hang around with over the years appear one by one in my mind.

  There was Nathan and then Brody, whose lives were pretty much identical to mine, which made for a challenge, because we’d try to one-up each other with dreadful stories. Then there was Anthony, whose mother always enticed me into her kitchen with the scent of garlic and basil. None of them ever took me on a walk down by a pond or officially asked me to be his girlfriend. With each of those boys, we just fell in with each other, but not in love with each other. Our relationships lacked romance and fire. I was never taken on a date, unless I count sneaking into clubs. I may have grown up in a strange limbo between privilege and poverty and been given a shoddy sense of direction, but I’ve gleaned an idea of how relationships work. I’ve yet to claim that experience for my own, but I was never in love with any of the boys I dated. We were just convenient for each other, a warm body, a friend to cause trouble with, a kiss and a tell. And what’s Grant? He doesn’t want to be friends, but he acts like one. He doesn’t want to talk, yet he asks to hear my voice.

  Charmindy flits around the room, gathering her robe and her tote of toiletries to take to the shower, while singing, “I’m going out with Brett Fairfax.”

  Smiling at her sweet innocence, I’m just turning back to my sketch pad when I hear Terran shouting in the hall. Charmindy flies back into our room and flings herself on the bed, this time facedown.

  I sit next to her. “What happened, Char?”

  She sobs into her comforter, one terry cloth slipper dangling from her foot, the other halfway across the room. She turns her face so she can talk.

  “Terran totally just yelled at me, saying Brett only asked me out to make her jealous. She said I’d better back off or else. He asked me, PJ. He asked me, the brainy girl from halfway across the world who has only talked to boys during class. A girl who’d never been kissed, no less asked out.”

  After a few hiccupping sniffles, she says, “We kissed. It felt so real and a little wet, but still. He didn’t say anything about her.” She eyes the door as if Terran might barge in. “I mean, I’ve seen them walking from classes together and sometimes at the table in the dining hall. If I knew they were together or serious, I wouldn’t have kissed him back. I thought they were just friends.” She groans.

  I think back to Terran’s stares and the warning in the dining hall, along with the stink eye when Brett and I walked together from the art building. “I bet Terran just heard about it and is mad it wasn’t her. Jealous, y’know? Brett probably really likes you. Don’t worry about her,” I say, trying to be comforting.

  “You should have seen her, PJ. She looked crazy, like she was going to tear my hair out or spit fire.”

  “I heard her,” I say quietly. In fact, since my first encounter with Terran, I have done my best to avoid her. I can smell crazy a mile away, having been born and bred into it. The brand of crazy I’m accustomed to often doesn’t wear shoes and has missing teeth or a gold grill, but Terran hides her brand of crazy neatly behind a perfect smile. I know enough to keep a safe distance.

  “What am I going to do?” Charmindy asks, rolling over and pressing herself up onto her forearms.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe talk to Brett about it? You’ll know if he’s sincere. I get the feeling Terran probably had a crush on him and he didn’t return the interest,” I say carefully. “It seems like she tends to get really involved in things, like a lot.”

  Charmindy sits up and gives me a hug. She feels tiny in my arms, like a baby bird.

  “I’ll go down to the showers with you. If she gives you any more trouble, I’ll be there.” I gather my toiletries. Lacking a fluffy robe, I grab my towel.

  When we enter the bathroom, sure enough, Terran stands before the mirror, blowing out her ash-blond hair. Turning off the blow-dryer, she glares at Charmindy and then me, through the mirror. She slowly turns around. Using her wooden hairbrush as a pointer, she hisses at Charmindy, “I told you to stay away from me and to stay away from Brett. This is my dorm, my school, and he is mine.”

  Terran found Charmindy’s weak spot, the chink in her armor. She hardly bats an eyelash at her extra class load and the intense pressure her family puts on her to achieve, but as the tip of the brush comes close to her nose, she cowers, uncertain in the land of boys and relationships.

  I start to say lightly, “Listen, Terran, Charmindy doesn’t mean anything by it. She didn’t know that you and Brett—”

  Terran rounds on me. “You stay the hell out of this, bitch.” Her eyes narrow. “I found out all about you and where you come from, one of the perks of being the student liaison to the dean. Speaking of which, why don’t you tell Charmindy here why no one dropped you off? Or showed up for parents’ weekend? Where was it you went for Christmas again? Does she know? How about your parents, Pearl Jaeger? Tell us all about them.” Her words fly at me like knives.

  My breath comes sharply through my nose. My fists tighten. My vision takes on a reddish hue. I feel Charmindy’s eyes on me, growing wide. I have been in a few fights with bullies. I’m scrappy and unafraid when the survival instinct kicks in. I catch a glimpse of myself, wild, in the mirror behind her. The reflection is too familiar, too much like JJ. I exhale and lower my hackles. I take a deep breath.

  “Nothing to say?” Terran spits.

  I bite the inside of my cheek.

  “You’ll be sorry,” she says as she sweeps out to the hall. I distinctly feel like I will.

  Without another word, Charmindy and I quietly take our showers. I let the steaming water burn away my anger.

  Of course, everything Terran said is true. It isn’t the first time someone has loaded my past and present and fired away, using them as ammunition. In elementary school, I’d been insulted plenty because I wore the same thing to school three days in a row and my unbrushed hair smelled like cigarettes. I endured taunts because no one came to school plays or open houses. When my mother did appear, her erratic behavior was enough to peg me as the weird girl. It’s a fact of academic life: the weird girl is picked on, at least in my experience. I changed schools frequently, forcing me to learn how to combat the teasing. Either I made myself as small and invisible as possible or, as my mother told me, as long as they threw the first punch, I fought back.

  This situation is different. We all live at school and in the dorm together. We’re all nearly adults. This fight really belongs to Charmindy and Terran or, if I’m being rational about it, just to Terran.

  I don’t want to provoke her. I’ve used the tactic of inconspicuousness to avoid trouble. She has the faculty in her pocket, which she makes perfectly clear, first with Connie, then at the all-school assemblies where she puts on skits about peer-health education, through her activities, and by being on the dean’s advisory committee—the student liaison or whatever. She leads the debate team and captains volleyball. She is Laurel Hill’s all-star golden girl. I don’t want to be on the wrong side of her, any more than the conventions of high school naturally dictate.

  Once safely back in our dorm room, when we’re snug under our blankets and the lights are out, I say, “Hey, Charmindy, Terran puts the ass in dorm assistant.” Our shared laughter distances me
from my growing anxiety and invites the feeling of what it would be like if Grant asked me out down by the pond.

  Chapter 14

  As the first frigid months of the new year wear on, everyone comes down from the high of holiday vacation. The teachers lose their luster as distraction and disinterest vie for our attention. The sand and salt spread on the sidewalks and the resulting slush reflect the general mood. Except for Shale. His eyes are brighter, his beard trimmed, and it appears he’s pulled out his favorite Nordic knitwear. Despite this, to say he isn’t pleased that I haven’t started my self-portrait would be an understatement. He’s livid, possibly ready to throw me from the third-floor window.

  “You say today, you will get out the paint. No. Nothing. Dry canvas. You are stalling. I want to see who you are, Pearl. The assignment is self-portrait. Do not waste time in this class. Do not blow smoke in my ass.”

  Despite the usually reserved demeanor of the students in the class, this elicits a snicker.

  I try, and fail, to tuck away a smile. “Actually, sir, it’s ‘do not blow smoke up my ass.’ Not in. Or, in this instance, up your ass. No smoke in anyone’s asses,” I clarify.

  His eyes bore into mine, icicles, ice daggers. I turn back to the blank canvas, and, as I’ve been doing for weeks, I stare, waiting for the form to take shape, but all I see is my mother there, whether my eyes are opened or closed.

  On our way to the dining hall, Charmindy says, “That was legendary. Seriously, in the history of Shale’s tenure here, no one, and I mean no one, has ever responded to him like that. I’ve investigated. Never mind the fact that he’s never said a single word to me, nor I him, I can’t believe . . . well, Pearl, I think he likes you. Not in a weird old-teacher, young-student, Lolita kind of way, but like a prodigy.”

  But her words drift away with the snow. I have enough problems on my hands, practically failing precal, despite the fact that my roommate is, in fact, a math, science, and English genius and could help me; my crush on Grant; my missing mother; and how my toes are permanently frozen.