by Jenny Han
My whole life I’ve looked up to Conrad. He’s always been smarter, faster—just better. The thing is, I never really begrudged him that. He was just Conrad. He couldn’t help being good at things. He couldn’t help that he never lost in Uno or races or grades. Maybe part of me needed that, someone to look up to. My big brother, the guy who couldn’t lose.
But there was this time, when I was thirteen. We were wrestling around in the living room, had been for half an hour. My dad was always trying to get us to wrestle. He’d been on the wrestling team in college, and he liked teaching us new techniques. We were wrestling, and my mom was in the kitchen, cooking bacon-wrapped scallops because we were having people over that night and they were my dad’s favorite.
“Lock him in, Con,” my dad was saying.
We were really getting into it. We’d already knocked over one of my mom’s silver candlesticks. Conrad was breathing hard; he’d expected to beat me easily. But I was getting good; I wasn’t giving up. He had my head locked under his arm and then I locked his knee and we were both on the ground. I could feel something shift; I almost had him. I was going to win. My dad was gonna be so proud.
When I had him pinned, my dad said, “Connie, I told you to keep your knees bent.”
I looked up at my dad, and I saw the look on his face. He had that look he got sometimes when Conrad wasn’t doing something right, all tight around the eyes and irritated. He never looked at me like that.
He didn’t say, “Good job, Jere.” He just started criticizing Conrad, telling him all the things he could’ve done better. And Conrad took it. He was nodding, his face red, sweat pouring down his forehead. Then he nodded at me and said, in a way that I knew he really meant it, “Good job, Jere.”
That’s when my dad chimed in and said, “Yeah, good job, Jere.”
All of a sudden, I wanted to cry. I didn’t want to beat Conrad ever again. It wasn’t worth it.
After all that stuff back at the house, I got in my car and I just started driving. I didn’t know where I was going and part of me didn’t even want to go back. Part of me wanted to leave Conrad to deal with this shitstorm by himself, the way he’d wanted it in the first place. Let Belly deal with him. Let them have at it. I drove for half an hour.
But even as I was doing it, I knew that, eventually, I would turn back around. I couldn’t just leave. That was Con’s style, not mine. And it was low, what I said about him not being there for our mom. It wasn’t like he knew she was gonna die. He was at college. It wasn’t his fault. But he wasn’t the one who was there when everything got bad again. It all happened so fast. He couldn’t have known. If he had known, he would have stayed home. I know he would have.
Our dad was never gonna win a Father of the Year award. He was flawed, that was for sure. But when it counted, there at the end, he came home. He said all the right things. He made our mom happy. Conrad just couldn’t see it. He didn’t want to.
I didn’t go back to the house right away.
First I stopped at the pizza place. It was dinnertime, and there wasn’t any food at the house. A kid I knew, Mikey, was working the register. I ordered a large pizza with everything, and then I asked him if Ron was out on a delivery. Mikey said yeah, that Ron would be back soon, that I should wait.
Ron lived in Cousins year-round. He went to community college during the day and he delivered pizzas at night. He was an okay guy. He’d been buying underage kids beer for as long as I could remember. If you gave him a twenty, he’d hook you up.
All I knew was, if this was gonna be our last night, we couldn’t go out like this.
When I got back to the house, Conrad was sitting on the front porch. I knew he was waiting for me; I knew he felt bad for what he’d said. I honked the horn, stuck my head out the window, and yelled, “Come help me with this stuff.”
He came down to the car, checked out the cases of beer and the bag of liquor, and said, “Ron?”
“Yup.” I hoisted up two cases of beer and handed them over. “We’re having a party.”
chapter twenty-seven
After the fight, after Mr. Fisher left, I went up to my room and stayed there. I didn’t want to be around when Jeremiah got back, in case he and Conrad went for a second round. Unlike Steven and me, those two hardly ever fought. In all the time I’d known them, I’d only seen them do it, like, three times. Jeremiah looked up to Conrad and Conrad looked out for Jeremiah. It was as simple as that.
I started looking around in the drawers and closet to see if there was anything of mine left there. My mom was pretty strict about us taking all our stuff every time we left, but you never knew. I figured I might as well make sure. Mr. Fisher would probably just tell the movers to throw all the junk out.
In the bottom of the desk drawer I found an old composition notebook from my Harriet the Spy days. It was colored in pink and green and yellow highlighter. I’d followed the boys around for days, taking notes in it until I drove Steven crazy and he told Mom on me.
I’d written:
June 28. Caught Jeremiah dancing in the mirror when he thought no one was watching. Too bad I was!
June 30. Conrad ate all the blue Popsicles again even though he’s not supposed to. But I didn’t tell.
July 1. Steven kicked me for no reason.
And on and on. I’d gotten sick of it by mid-July and quit. I had been such a little tagalong then. Eight-year-old me would have loved to have been included in this last adventure, would have loved the fact that I got to hang out with the boys while Steven had to stay at home.
I found a few other things, junk like a half-used pot of cherry lip gloss, a couple of dusty hair bands. On the shelf, there were my old Judy Blumes and then my V. C. Andrews books hidden behind them. I figured I’d just leave all that stuff behind.
The one thing I had to take was Junior Mint, my old stuffed polar bear, the one Conrad had won me that time at the boardwalk a million years ago. I couldn’t just let Junior Mint get thrown out like he was junk. He’d been special to me once upon a time.
I stayed upstairs for a while, just looking at my old stuff. I found one other thing worth keeping. A toy telescope. I remember the day my father bought it for me. It had been in one of the little antique stores along the boardwalk, and it was expensive but he said I should have it. There was a time when I was obsessed with stars and comets and constellations, and he thought I might grow up to be an astronomer. It turned out to be a phase, but it was fun while it lasted. I liked the way my father looked at me then, like I had taken after him, my father’s daughter.
He still looked at me that way sometimes—when I asked for Tabasco sauce at restaurants, when I turned the radio station to NPR without him having to ask. Tabasco sauce I liked, but NPR not as much. I did it because I knew it made him proud.
I was glad he was my dad and not Mr. Fisher. He never would have yelled or cussed at me, or gotten mad about spilled Kool-Aid. He wasn’t that kind of man. I’d never appreciated enough just what kind of man he was.
chapter twenty-eight
My father rarely came to the summer house, for a weekend in August maybe, but that was pretty much it. It never occurred to me to wonder why. There was this one weekend he and Mr. Fisher came up at the same time. As if they had so much in common, as if they were friends or something. They couldn’t be more different. Mr. Fisher liked to talk, talk, talk, and my dad only spoke if he had something to say. Mr. Fisher was always watching SportsCenter, while my dad rarely watched TV at all—and definitely not sports.
The parents were going to a fancy restaurant in Dyerstown. A band played there on Saturday nights and they had a little dance floor. It was strange to think of my parents dancing. I’d never seen them dance before, but I was sure Susannah and Mr. Fisher danced all the time. I’d seen them once, in the living room. I remembered how Conrad had blushed and turned away.
I was lying on my stomach, on Susannah’s bed, watching my mother and her get ready in the master bathroom.
S
usannah had convinced my mother to wear a dress of hers; it was red and it had a deep V-neck. “What do you think, Beck?” my mother asked uncertainly. I could tell she felt funny about it. She usually wore pants.
“I think you look amazing. I think you should keep it. Red is so you, Laure.” Susannah was curling her lashes and opening her eyes wide in the mirror.
When they left, I would practice using the eyelash curler. My mother didn’t have one. I knew the contents of her makeup bag, one of those plastic green Clinique gift-with-purchase bags. It had a Burt’s Bees chapstick and an espresso eyeliner, a pink and green tube of Maybelline mascara, and a bottle of tinted sunscreen. Boring.
Susannah’s makeup case, though, was a treasure trove. It was a navy snakeskin case with a heavy gold clasp and her initials were engraved on it. Inside she had little eye pots and palettes and sable brushes and perfume samples. She never threw away anything. I liked to sort through it and organize everything in neat rows, according to color. Sometimes she gave me a lipstick or a sample eyeshadow, nothing too dark.
“Belly, you want me to do your eyes?” Susannah asked me.
I sat up. “Yeah!”
“Beck, please don’t give her hooker eyes again,” my mother said, running a comb through her wet hair.
Susannah made a face. “It’s called a smoky eye, Laure.”
“Yeah, Mom, it’s a smoky eye,” I piped up.
Susannah crooked her finger at me. “C’mere, Belly.”
I scampered into the bathroom and propped myself up on the counter. I loved to sit on that counter with my legs dangling, listening in on everything like one of the girls.
She dipped a little brush into a pot of black eyeliner. “Close your eyes,” she said.
I obeyed, and Susannah dragged the brush along my lash line, expertly blending and smudging with the ball of her thumb. Then she swept shadow across my eyelids and I wriggled in my seat excitedly. I loved it when Susannah made me up; I couldn’t wait for the moment of unveiling.
“Are you and Mr. Fisher gonna dance tonight?” I asked.
Susannah laughed. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Mom, will you and Dad?”
My mother laughed too. “I don’t know. Probably not. Your father doesn’t like to dance.”
“Dad’s boring,” I said, trying to twist around and get a peek at my new look. Gently, Susannah put her hands on my shoulders and sat me straight.
“He’s not boring,” my mother said. “He just has different interests. You like it when he teaches you the constellations, don’t you?”
I shrugged. “Yeah.”
“And he’s very patient, and he always listens to your stories,” my mother reminded me.
“True. But what does that have to do with being boring?”
“Not much, I suppose. But it has to do with being a good father, which I think he is.”
“He definitely is,” Susannah agreed, and she and my mother exchanged a look over my head. “Take a look at yourself.”
I swiveled around and looked in the mirror. My eyes were very smoky and gray and mysterious. I felt like I should be the one going out dancing.
“See, she doesn’t look like a hooker,” Susannah said triumphantly.
“She looks like she has a black eye,” my mother said.
“No, I don’t. I look mysterious. I look like a countess.” I hopped off the bathroom counter. “Thanks, Susannah.”
“Anytime, sugar.”
We air-kissed like two ladies who lunch. Then she took me by the hand and walked me over to her bureau. She handed me her jewelry box and said, “Belly, you have the best taste. Will you help me pick out some jewelry to wear tonight?”
I sat on her bed with the wooden box and sifted through it carefully. I found what I was looking for—her dangly opal earrings with the matching opal ring. “Wear these,” I said, holding the jewelry out to her in the palm of my hand.
Susannah obeyed, and as she fastened the earrings, my mother said, “I don’t know if that really goes.”
In retrospect, I don’t think it really did go. But I loved that opal jewelry so much. I admired it more than anything. So I said, “Mom, what do you know about style?”
Right away, I worried she’d be mad, but it had slipped out, and it was true after all. My mother knew about as much about jewelry as she did about makeup.
But Susannah laughed, and so did my mother.
“Go downstairs and tell the men we’ll be ready to go in five, Countess,” my mother ordered.
I jumped out of bed and curtsied dramatically. “Yes, Mum.”
They both laughed. My mother said, “Go, you little imp.”
I ran downstairs. When I was a kid, anytime I had to go anywhere, I ran. “They’re almost ready,” I yelled.
Mr. Fisher was showing my dad his new fishing rod. My dad looked relieved to see me, and he said, “Belly, what have they done to you?”
“Susannah made me up. Do you like it?”
My dad beckoned me closer, regarding me with serious eyes. “I’m not sure. You look very mature.”
“I do?”
“Yes, very, very mature.”
I tried to hide my delight as I made a place for myself in the crook of my dad’s arm, my head right by his side. For me, there was no better compliment than being called mature.
They all left a little while later, the dads in pressed khakis and button-down shirts and the moms in their summer dresses. Mr. Fisher and my dad didn’t look so different when they dressed up like that. My dad hugged me good-bye and said that if I was still awake when they got back, we’d sit on the deck awhile and look for shooting stars. My mother said they’d probably be back too late, but my dad winked at me.
On the way out, he whispered something to my mother that made her cover her mouth and laugh a low, throaty kind of laugh. I wonder what he said.
It was one of the last times I remember them being happy. I really wish I had enjoyed it more.
My parents had always been stable, as boring as two parents could be. They never fought. Taylor’s parents fought all the time. I’d be over for a sleepover, and Mr. Jewel would come home late and her mom would be really pissy, stomping around in her slippers and banging pots. We’d be at the dinner table, and I would sink lower and lower into my seat, and Taylor would just go on talking about stupid stuff. Like whether or not Veronika Gerard wore the same socks two days in a row in gym or if we should volunteer to be water girls for the JV football team when we were freshmen.
When her parents got divorced, I asked Taylor if, in some little way, she was relieved. She said no. She said that even though they had fought all the time, at least they had still been a family. “Your parents never even fought,” she said, and I could hear the disdain in her voice.
I knew what she meant. I wondered about it too. How could two people who had once been passionately in love not even fight? Didn’t they care enough to fight it out, to fight not just with each other, but also for their marriage? Were they ever really in love? Did my mother ever feel about my dad the way I felt about Conrad—alive, crazy, drunk with tenderness? Those were the questions that haunted me.
I didn’t want to make the same mistakes my parents made. I didn’t want my love to fade away one day like an old scar. I wanted it to burn forever.
chapter twenty-nine
When I finally went back downstairs, it was dark out and Jeremiah was back. He and Conrad were sitting on the couch, watching TV like the fight had never happened. I guessed it was that way with boys. Whenever Taylor and I fought, we were mad for at least a week and there was a power struggle over who got custody of which friends. “Whose side are you on?” we’d demand of Katie or Marcy. We’d say mean things that you can’t take back and then we’d cry and make up. Somehow I doubted Conrad and Jeremiah had been crying and making up while I’d been upstairs.
I wondered if I was forgiven too, for keeping a secret from Jeremiah, for not taking a side—his side. Because it wa
s true, we’d come here together as partners, a team, and when he’d needed me, I’d let him down. I lingered there by the stairs for a second, unsure of whether or not to go over, and then Jeremiah looked up at me and I knew I was. Forgiven, that is. He smiled, a real smile, and a real Jeremiah smile was the kind that could melt ice cream. I smiled back, grateful as anything.
“I was just about to come get you,” he said. “We’re having a party.”
There was a pizza box on the coffee table. “A pizza party?” I asked.
Susannah used to have pizza parties for us kids all the time. It was never just “pizza for dinner.” It was a pizza party. Except this time, with beer. And tequila. So this was it. Our last night. It would have felt a lot more real if Steven had been there too. It would have felt complete, us four together again.
“I ran into some people in town. They’re gonna come over later and bring a keg.”
“A keg?” I repeated.
“Yeah. A keg, you know, of beer?”
“Oh, right,” I said. “A keg.”
Then I sat down on the ground and opened the pizza box. There was one slice left, and it was a small one. “You guys are such pigs,” I said, stuffing it into my mouth.
“Whoops, sorry,” Jeremiah said. Then he went into the kitchen, and when he came back, he had three cups. He had one balanced in the crook of his elbow. He gave that one to me. “Cheers,” he said. He handed Conrad a cup too.
I sniffed it suspiciously. It was light brown with a lime wedge floating on top. “Smells strong,” I said.
“That’s because it’s tequila ,” he sang. He lifted his cup in the air. “To the last night.”
“To the last night,” we repeated.
They both drank theirs in one shot. I took a teeny sip of mine, and it wasn’t too bad. I’d never had tequila before. I drank the rest quickly. “This is pretty good,” I said. “Not strong at all.”
Jeremiah burst out laughing. “That’s because yours is ninety-five percent water.”