Pearl

by Deirdre Riordan Hall

  “Not according to my father. I had until, oh, about last year to make my choice,” Grant says.

  “Is he pressuring you?”

  “If by pressuring you mean threatening, yes. He doesn’t get me. He wants me to cut my hair, join the student senate or the football team. We don’t even have football in Scotland. Soccer, yeah, and I’m happy with that. Soccer is about as natural to me as walking, but he associates it with hooligans fighting after matches, disorder, drunkenness . . . The only thing he approves of is the fact that I lost my accent,” Grant says in a very strong Scottish accent, surprising me. It’s sexy, with little crags in all the right places.

  “He only found that out when he overheard me talking on the phone with Pepper over the break, but it’s not really gone, it’s just easier to blend in without it, I suppose,” Grant says. “It’s like he thinks that by getting rid of anything remotely Scottish, and trying to make me as straitlaced, American pie, and Stars and Stripes as possible, I’ll get ahead in life. But I can’t deny who I am.”

  “No, none of us can. The truth always comes out. So, what do you really want to do?”

  Grant thinks about this for a minute as giant flakes whip up around us in a gust. I glance back, and our tracks are already almost completely covered.

  “Aside from playing pro soccer, I think I’d like to study English or journalism . . . My father wants me to be a lawyer or doctor or something prestigious. He rants, ‘I haven’t spent a fortune on your education in the United States just so you can kick a ball and write poetry all day.’ No, he sent me here so he wouldn’t have to deal with me and the fact that I remind him of my mother. It’s like he hopes that one day I’ll just appear all grown-up, in a cookie-cutter business suit, with a yacht and a BMW, married with a couple of kids, and a few million in the bank. Mission accomplished.”

  “So what about your mom? What does she think?”

  “My mom? She’s gone,” he says sharply and then clears his throat. “She left about five years ago. Said she needed to get her head together. Apparently that doesn’t involve me.”

  I slip my hand in Grant’s; neither one of us has gloves. I want us to curl up together inside a giant mitten until the storm of high school passes. “I’m sorry.” And I am. Even though my mother has been around, the sleepwalking trance she exists in is often as good as gone. I swallow what feels like a golf ball in my throat. I haven’t spoken to her since the summer. Her words of not being able to live without me echo hauntingly.

  We walk for about a half hour, along unfamiliar back roads, snowy arteries leading us back to campus, before I think I recognize where we are. I shiver.

  “Cold?” he asks. The snow continues to fall, making the world disorienting and beautiful. “We’re almost there.”

  By the time the campus lights come into view, Grant and I are laughing about ten kinds of delight and nonsense. Vampires versus werewolves, whether toilets flush in the opposite direction in the Southern Hemisphere, tattoos, if we bite or lick lollipops, and the paper-or-plastic conundrum.

  Despite the cold, the awkward ice between us cracks. He and I playfully romp in the snow and toss it at each other with shaking fingers. We both crumple to the ground at the top of the hill leading down to the classroom buildings. My leg rests on top of his, and he drops his head back in the pillowy snow. I rest against his chest, so we’re face-to-face. I dreamed about this on the lanai in Florida, though it was far warmer.

  “You do realize that we’ve been talking. And doing things friends do. I thought—”

  A sad smile spills from his eyes to his lips.

  “Are you OK?” I ask.

  Grant sniffs and starts to get up.

  “Yeah.” He pauses and snaps to his feet. “Wait here.” He disappears behind one of the maintenance-work sheds I didn’t notice. I don’t have time to consider what just happened, because he returns seconds later with a floppy-looking piece of cardboard coated in duct tape.

  “Where did you—what is that?”

  “Sometimes I sneak out of my dorm too,” he says, winking. “Hop on.”

  Grant wraps his arms around me and secures me between his long legs. I grip the sides of the makeshift sled as we careen down the hill, snow flying in our faces, both of us whooping loudly. At the bottom of the hill, we lie in a heap on the fresh snow, once again, both out of breath and laughing wildly.

  “That rocked,” I say.

  “Want to go again?”

  We take a couple more rides, and our hands are red and sore before we realize dorm closing quickly approaches. Grant walks me to the porch of Viv Brooks, and we stand there expectantly.

  “If this had been my old life, which it wouldn’t be, but if it was, I’d invite you in. My mom wouldn’t care, but then who knew what crazy thing she’d do or who she’d be with so, no, it probably wouldn’t happen. She wasn’t the parent that would make sure there was a solid foot of space between a boy and me on the couch—if there was a couch—while we watched Brady Bunch reruns.”

  “That’s something you’d tell a friend,” he says.

  “Is that what we are?” I ask.

  Grant looks at me shyly, yet intently; his eyes are soft with remnants of the sadness from before. His long hair peeks out from beneath his dark blue hat. I start up the stairs, but then step down and timidly kiss him on the cheek, my lips reluctant to leave his skin, like this is a do-over on our terms, the beginning of us, of everything.

  “I had fun tonight,” I say, our eyes meeting again.

  “Me too,” he answers, and all traces of melancholy are gone. He starts to walk away, then calls, “I still don’t want to talk or be friends.” But his laugh tells me that’s not true.

  Then we rush to each other, our lips colliding, and kiss under the falling snow until dorm closing.

  Chapter 17

  Inside the warm dorm, I stomp the snow off my boots and keep my eyes out for Sorel. I go down the hall and find Connie talking in a hushed tone with Terran, by the check-in desk. The latter flashes me a dirty look. Typical.

  “I see,” Connie says, eyeing me, chilled and wet in the entryway.

  Terran crosses her arms in front of her chest, and her mouth pinches smugly.

  “PJ, I’d like to have a word with you,” Connie says in an even tone.

  “Sure,” I say. The lingering thrill of the last hours with Grant does the job of helping me ignore Terran’s warning look.

  With a quick appraisal of my soaked outerwear, she says, “Terran claims one of her necklaces went missing last week. It had a star on it, filled with diamonds. She put up a sign on the bulletin board, but it hasn’t turned up. Any idea where it might be?”

  “Oh yeah, I saw the sign. Sorry, Terran, I haven’t seen it,” I say helpfully, craning toward Terran over Connie’s shoulder.

  “We’re going to have to do a mandatory dorm room search if it isn’t returned by tomorrow morning,” Connie says pointedly. “She thinks someone took it.”

  Then it becomes clear. My breath catches. Terran probably hid it in my room to get me in trouble. She promised revenge. I can practically hear her unraveling a web of lies to get back at me for interfering with Charmindy and Brett or for being poor and vulnerable to someone with a scrap of power.

  I square my shoulders and lift my chin, determined that she will not get the better of me. “Is that all?” I look into Connie’s eyes. I have nothing to hide.

  I turn and walk down the hall until I’m out of sight, then tear up the stairs. The bubbles from the night with Grant burst and pop. I proceed to rip apart my room, looking for a necklace, which, apparently, is silver with a star pendant.

  Charmindy comes in minutes later, glowing from head to toe. She starts to exclaim about what a wonderful night she had, but she interrupts herself at the sight of me, frenzied and flushed. “What are you doing?”

  I flip
my mattress. I pull out drawers. I riffle through clothes. I’m not sure how to explain. “Looking for that necklace Terran said she lost,” I say from under my bed, running my hand over the dark floor.

  “Oh, that? She probably lost it.”

  I’ve looked everywhere, when someone knocks on the door. It’s nearly lights-out. Charmindy answers, and there stands Connie.

  “Listen,” Connie says to me, “I want to give you an opportunity to give me the necklace now so there isn’t a big scene. Terran said you took it.”

  Once more I meet her eyes. “I didn’t take it.”

  Connie surveys the disaster resulting from my search. “Why is it such a mess in here? Clean-room review is this Sunday. I hope you get this tidied up, PJ. Charmindy, is she usually like this?”

  “No.” Charmindy looks at me, confusion flashing across her brow, but quickly puts the pieces together. “Her side of the room is usually very neat. Connie, PJ wouldn’t do something like that. Take something that isn’t hers, I mean.”

  “I sure hope not. We do not tolerate that kind of behavior at Laurel Hill. If it doesn’t turn up, we will have to look for it.” She leaves, closing the door firmly behind her.

  “Thanks,” I say to Charmindy before quietly pulling off my boots, pants, and sweatshirt and falling into bed. I’m not particularly tired, but want to forget the last twenty minutes and bring myself back to the moments shared with Grant. I can’t stay focused as I try to replicate his smile and the sound of his laugh or read between the lines of what he’d tried to say. Memories of thefts intrude, smashing like icy snowballs, with the one of my mom and me rushing out of a store with a cartload of stuff smacking me right in the face.

  On Monday morning, I sleepily shuffle downstairs. I’m dully aware Terran closes in on me like prey as I enter the common room for a dorm meeting. Her eyes sweep me as if the suspected missing necklace is around my neck and she’s ready to choke me with it.

  As part of her usual greeting, Connie opens up the floor for messages and announcements. After a reminder that the ski-trip fees are due and a thank-you to everyone who helped with the Valentine’s dance, Terran raises her hand. She promptly takes the floor.

  “As all of you are well aware, a necklace that was very special to me has gone missing. It had a star with diamonds in the center. I think I know who took it, and I suggest she give it back.” She looks directly at me, and several other eyes land on my face. I fight against turning red, because obviously I didn’t take it. “Connie said a dorm search will be conducted if it isn’t returned.”

  My color deepens, but my lips refuse to stay shut. “Are you sure you didn’t misplace it?” I ask, instantly regretting throwing myself into the ring as she glares at me.

  Her eyes narrow. “Yes, PJ, I’m certain.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone in this dorm taking anything,” I say pointedly.

  “I can. Some people admire fine jewelry, especially when they don’t have any of their own.”

  Feeling pushed too far, I say, “If you’re accusing me of taking something, come out and say it.” Denser, sharper words want to pour out of my mouth, but I hold back.

  Her expression suggests that she didn’t count on me standing up for myself. I hadn’t either.

  “Girls,” Connie says delicately, “that’s enough. If she says she didn’t take it, we have to give her the benefit of the doubt. Sorry about the mistake, PJ.”

  Terran’s gaze locks on mine. “Did you fill your roommate in? Huh? Do the other girls in the dorm know?” She looks out at the faces of the girls, some shocked, others intrigued.

  Before I take refuge in staring at my hands, I suffer beneath Charmindy’s questioning expression. Of course she doesn’t know.

  “No, you didn’t, because it’s humiliating. It’s humiliating to be the offspring of a scandalous drug addict, famous for failure, a washed-up has-been wannabe. That’s who Pearl’s mother is—Janet Jaeger. Not even worth the couple of one-hit-wonder songs she made.” She meets the eyes of the girls gathered around her and lands on me, leveling me with her glare.

  A hush falls over everyone in the room. I feel as though arrows, one for every set of eyes, have struck me. In the gush of my dissolving composure, I doubt anyone remembers JJ, except for the news article after the fire. It certainly made the rounds.

  Terran smiles wickedly. “Oh, and if the name Janet Jaeger sounds familiar to some of you, that’s because the infamous JJ made headlines recently. The newspapers and tabloids read, ‘Former wealthy rock star nearly kills a hundred homeless, including her own daughter, while using drugs in a shelter, where they lived.’ Not favorable press, if you ask me.”

  “Nobody asked you,” I mutter. Catching Charmindy’s disappointed expression, I awkwardly make my way through the gathered crowd seated cross-legged on the floor and the furniture.

  When I reach the door, Connie claps her hands together, breaking the hold of mortification. I expect her to come to my aid, give me the benefit of the doubt, as she said about the necklace. Instead, she moves on. “Girls, we need to discuss the problem with the toilet on the first floor.”

  As the voices fade behind me, my disappointment rests with me, more than with Connie’s silence, for not standing up to Terran myself.

  I try to forget about the necklace incident and Terran maligning me in front of my entire dorm. But since she wasn’t wrong on one of two accounts, I wonder if, like fire, word will soon spread across campus.

  Sure enough, the girls in Viv Brooks give me a wide berth in the hall, and their whispers catch in their throats when I enter the common room. For the first couple of days, Charmindy says fewer words than Shale; mostly he just grunts disapprovingly over my shoulder. But that’s typical for him. The image I’m begging to appear in my mind to transfer to canvas for my self-portrait gets dimmer and more distant as Terran’s ugly words repeat in my memory.

  Toward the end of the week, Sorel catches up with me after spending more days than necessary in the health center with the flu. I happen to know she was avoiding an essay for American Lit.

  “I’m not sure if I should start with what went down in the common room or at the party. Don’t listen to what Terran the Terror says about your mom. Whatever, right? JJ seems awesome. I mean, your mom’s a rock star. Badass. So tell me what happened last weekend with Grant,” she asks with a nasally voice.

  I’m stuck on how my mother being a rock star is less badass and more bad. I want to tell Sorel how my mom’s just forgotten about me, how she hasn’t responded to my letters or called. How she missed Christmas and about all the times she wasn’t there or, if she was, she hardly knew her name or what day it was.

  We walk in the woods, along a dirty path worn through the white snow. When we arrive at the clearing, Grant, Pepper, and a reedy guy named Mark have already lit up. I’ve only seen him a few times; he’s not a usual visitor to the smoking section bordering Laurel Hill.

  “What, you can’t wait for the ladies?” Sorel asks accusingly.

  Pepper gives her a big kiss, reminding me of a slobbering dog. Walking away from them, I approach Grant, my feet cold and my thin jacket not warm enough. I let out a pathetic cough, my insides still charred from the fire. Mark stands at attention. His sharp eyes remind me too much of Terran’s, like he’s on the prowl. I want him to blow away.

  Grant’s smile makes his eyes twinkle. He holds the cigarette pack out.

  “Hi, guys,” I say uneasily.

  Mark eagerly leans closer, as if the bait is set and he’s ready to slap cuffs on my wrist and ring the sirens. Nausea sinks my stomach. My head feels heavy. Maybe Sorel’s flu already circulated around the dorm, and I’ve caught it. Or maybe it’s instinct warning me away. “Nah, I’m good,” I say, declining the cigarette offer.

  Grant tilts his head toward me. I want to take him by the hand and lead him far from here, hemming ourselves b
ack into Friday night, but my fingers shake, and I’m not very good at sewing; sketching is more my talent.

  “Then why’d you come here?” Mark asks as he exhales smoke with a cough. I smell hostility and Terran’s citrus perfume.

  I don’t trust my tongue to answer. I will my face blank. “I don’t know. I just walked Sorel here. I’m leaving,” I say dumbly. If he’s here to get me in trouble, I’m not giving him a reason. I turn to go, slipping on invisible patches of ice in the clearing. When I make it to the path, Grant catches up to me.

  “You just got here. Are you all right?”

  “I think maybe I’m getting that flu going around.” I don’t feel well—that’s not a lie—but it has less to do with my immune system and more to do with my intuition.

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  “I don’t know where I’m going,” I say. Inexplicably, tears pierce the edges of my eyes. I dodge the reminder of Shale’s assignment, the snowy lawn like the blank canvas I’ve been staring at for weeks.

  He leans closer. “Let’s go there together,” he says as soft as a snowflake. Then softer still, “I want to be with you, wherever you go.” The ocean ripples in his eyes, and I’m the tide, ebbing to a distant shore.

  “I thought you didn’t want to be friends,” I say.

  He looks afraid and then like he is casting about for courage. “I don’t know what I want except you.”

  I crunch my way along the path toward the campus, weak all over. I want nothing more than to lie down in the snow, will the sun to come out, and melt along with it, if only to make the sharp and forbidding feeling in my chest disappear.

  Grant grabs the arm of my coat, halting me. He smiles at me hopefully, gently, his eyes still twinkling. “If we’re not going to be friends and if we’re not going to talk, then let’s—” Echoing the card, he leans in.

  I sniffle, pulling away. “You don’t want me,” I say, shaking my head and continuing up the path to my dorm. “You heard about my mom, the Shrapnels . . .” My voice is as thin and brittle as a twig.