Somewhere in all those unfamiliar terms, I realize he’s talking about an apartment. And I get excited. I mean, people who are splitting up don’t buy a new apartment together, do they? I’m thinking a great walk-up in SoHo or maybe one of those places in Tribeca that are funky-cool even if they need a lot of work.
But as he keeps talking, I realize that’s not what he’s saying at all. He’s not talking about some new place we’re buying, but our old apartment in the Village and how we have a good offer and he thinks it’s a good time to sell. He keeps saying “we” and “us,” as if I have any say in all of this.
He finally stops. I know he’s waiting for me to say something, but I’ve got nothing. He clears his throat and takes a breath loud enough for me to hear it through the phone. “Penny, I know you’ve been through a lot, but just remember your mother and I still love you very much.” And I wonder if he’s reading from The Big Book of Stupid Things Parents Say to Their Children.
All of a sudden I feel dizzy and too hot and I’m afraid I’m going to throw up. But my dad just keeps talking and talking until I have to pull the phone away for a minute so I can breathe.
I hear my name and put the receiver back to my ear.
“What?” I ask.
“Penny,” my dad says, “did you hear me?”
“Yeah,” I say, but it comes out more as a whisper than anything.
“Are you okay, Bean?” he asks. He hasn’t called me that in years. I can feel the tears coming again.
“I just hate it here,” I say. “I want to come home. I miss you.”
“I know, Bean. I miss you, too.” He’s quiet, and for a moment I wonder if the call dropped, but then he clears his throat. “Listen, I want you to know that you always have a place with me. Just say the word and you can come here,” he says.
I want to say “the word,” but I don’t know what it is. Help? Then I realize I don’t even know where “here” is. I’ve never been to his new place. I only know it’s somewhere uptown. He starts talking about his apartment building and how it has a rooftop garden and how it’s right around the corner from the Museum of Natural History. He keeps adding details, but they’re just adding to the sinking feeling in my stomach.
“I mean, just think . . .” he says, and I am, but not about his new apartment and his new kitchen and his new life, but about my old one and how it’s going away.
“Listen, Dad,” I say. “I have to go, okay?”
“Sure,” he says. “Think about it, Penny.” There’s silence for a moment. “Let’s talk—” But I don’t hear the rest because I push the End button on the phone and drop it onto the window seat.
I try to calm myself by looking at the ocean again, but it’s dark out now, and all I can see is my own reflection looking back at me. The sick feeling won’t go away. I want to get out of my own skin, but I can’t. So I do the next best thing—get out of the house. I pull my windbreaker tight around me and walk down the trail until the water covers my feet. I can’t believe they’re selling the apartment. I know it’s just a place, but it’s our place. “If the apartment goes, what’s next?” I ask the seagull sitting on a rock near me. He doesn’t answer, just looks at me and flies away. The wind coming off the water makes my teeth chatter, but I just stand there, letting my toes sink into the soft sand. Somehow, with each announcement my parents make, my old life seems to drift farther and farther away. I let the cold water lap against my ankles. And along with the cold, something else begins to seep into me. Like the water pulling at my feet, it threatens to pull me under. It’s a feeling of hopelessness. And of being completely alone.
Gram says if you stand on the beach long enough, eventually everything will come to you. I’m sure she was talking about ideas. But while I’m standing there, feeling cold and miserable and sorry for myself, something does come to me. When it does, it knocks me down.
“Oh man, I am so sorry.”
I have to squint because my eyes are filled with either sand or salt water or tears—or more likely all three. “Here.” I can see well enough to know that a hand is reaching out to help me up. I let myself get pulled back to standing. Now I’m wet all the way through. But it doesn’t matter, because I now realize whose hand I was just holding. “I am so sorry,” he says again, and I feel something soft being pushed into my hands. I use it to wipe at my eyes. I keep the soft thing pressed against my face for a moment, listening to the sound of a dog’s soft chuffing and then his panting and the dull thudding of his tail against the sand. “I am so sorry.”
I look up and smile. “You already said that.” Marcus has one hand on Sam’s collar and the other is nervously combing through his hair.
“I am sorry. I mean, we’re—” Sam chuffs again as if in agreement.
“It’s okay,” I say, first to Marcus and then to Sam. I put my hand out to Sam, who is straining to get to me. I let him lick my hand and I rub him behind the ears. Marcus is only wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, and I realize that I’ve been wiping myself with his sweatshirt. “It’s just a little water,” I say.
“And sand,” Marcus says.
“And sand.” I’m not as nervous as I was when I saw him in the hallway. Maybe because it’s dark, or maybe because I’m soaking wet, or maybe it’s because we don’t have an audience, or maybe it’s just because of Sam. “Thanks for the candy.”
Marcus shrugs, and for an instant I wonder if girls all over the school are getting Jolly Ranchers from him. Maybe he just started giving them to me because he needed a new grape girl. Then he smiles at me.
“I’m sorry we interrupted you,” Marcus says.
“I was just thinking.” Saying it makes the thoughts start up again.
“The beach is a good place for it,” he says.
I picture him and his father walking up and down the shore after his mother died. Thinking about his parents makes me think about my own. How they seem only half there, like ghosts. And I imagine what it would be like to lose one of them. Here one day, then gone completely. I can’t even get my mind around it. I mean, my dad is busy and my mom is sort of confused, but I still know where they are.
Sam stops straining and sits, as if he’s thinking thoughts of his own. He’s quiet, except for his tail, which keeps beating the sand. Marcus lets go of his collar, and Sam comes and sits by me, leaning against my leg. He feels warm and solid, which I don’t have much of right now. All three of us watch the waves as they push toward shore, breaking into low whitecaps and then drifting across the pebbled beach. As the water pulls back away from us, it rolls across the rocks, dragging them along with it, making a low rumbling sound.
“When I was little I thought that was a monster growling,” I say. It’s out before I can stop it.
But almost before I finish Marcus says, “Me, too.” He looks over at me. “But now it seems more like it’s whispering than growling.”
I listen for a moment, the waves breaking and the water sliding over the sand. “It does,” I say. I like how he changed it for me with just one word. “I wish I could understand what it’s saying.”
“You mean you don’t speak Ocean?” Marcus asks.
“Nope,” I say. “Just Spanish, sort of. And un peu de français. How about you?”
“Un peu français aussi,” he says.
I smile at his affected French accent. “Actually, I meant do you speak Ocean?”
“Oh,” Marcus says. “Well, they don’t offer Ocean at HHHS. I mean, not officially.”
“But unofficially?” I ask, playing along.
“To a select few.” He pretends to look serious. “Actually it’s a pretty small club. Just two members.” I’m starting to think there are a lot of small clubs in Hog’s Hollow. “But, we are looking to expand our membership. Are you interested?”
“Definitely,” I say. “What do I have to do?”
“You just have to get approval from the rest of the club.”
“Oh,” I say, nodding.
Marcus bends and p
ets Sam, who is still leaning against me. “Looks like you have one vote,” he says.
“Just one?” I ask.
Marcus looks up at me, and even in the moonlight I can see him blush. He straightens up and gazes back out over the water. “I think it’s unanimous,” he says. We stand quietly for a bit, just watching the waves and listening to the sounds of the pebbles shifting against one another.
“So what’s it saying now?” I ask.
“It’s more of a feeling, really. Not words.” He’s quiet again. The wind is cold against my damp skin, making me shiver, but I stand as still as I can. If I move, even a little, I’m going to ruin this moment. “It’s sad tonight.” His voice is soft. I wonder if it’s always sad for him. And if it is, why does he keep coming out here?
Sam sneezes. The sudden noise startles us. Marcus shifts a little away from me, and it’s like the bubble that we made burst.
“We should get home,” Marcus says. He smiles slightly. The mouth-only smiling must run in their family because it’s the same smile Mr. Fish has. I wonder if that’s how it’s always been with them or if it’s something that crept in after the accident and never left.
I try to think of something to say, but like so many other times recently, I feel like I have nothing and too much in my head at the same time. When I look at him, I realize whatever was between us has vanished. I try to hand him his sweatshirt.
“Keep it,” he says. “I’ll get it back later.” He smiles one more time then starts heading away down the beach. Sam stays beside me, leaning heavily, until he, too, takes off into the night. His weight against my leg disappears so quickly that I almost fall again. Over the sound of the waves and the shifting pebbles, I imagine I can just make out the sound of sneakers hitting the hard pebbles followed by the nearly silent sound of paws striking the hard sand.
I make my way slowly through the deep sand back up to the house. The house is dark except for the one lamp in the living room that’s on a timer. I feel a little like that—cold and dark, with just one small light deep inside. But when I think about Marcus, I feel guilty for feeling so sad about my problems.
I stomp on the mat near the back door, trying to knock off as much sand as I can. I don’t bother flipping on any lights. Sometimes with the lights on it feels like I’m even more alone, like I’m on this tiny, lit island in a sea of darkness. I sit back on the window seat, feeling the dampness of my sweatpants seep into my legs. I should change, I think. But I don’t. I just keep sitting, listening to the sound of the waves filtering in through the open door. I lift Marcus’s sweatshirt up to my face and breathe in. Somehow the strange smells just make me feel like I don’t belong here even more than before. I keep breathing in, trying to find something familiar, but it just smells salty and musty and slightly of wet dog.
chapter ten
My eyes all puffy from all the crying. It feels like they are permanently sealed shut. I manage to open them enough to stumble into the bathroom. I stare at myself in the mirror and try to open my eyes wide, but they stay squinty and pink. I stick my tongue out at myself and shut off the light. “Penny,” Gram calls from downstairs, “you’re going to be late.”
I sigh and walk to my closet. I flip past a bunch of clothes that I haven’t worn since I got here. In the City, I would dress to be noticed. Here I try to dress to disappear. I yank on a pair of cords peeking out from the top shelf in my closet, but they don’t budge. I pull harder, and a whole stack of sweaters falls on top of my head. I pick up the sweater on top, a navy blue one with just the tiniest hole in the sleeve. To climb out of the closet I have to kick aside a suitcase that I haven’t bothered to unpack.
“Penny,” Gram calls again. Coming, I think. I quickly get dressed, staying in the T-shirt I slept in. I don’t even bother with a hairbrush. I just pull my hair back into an elastic, flipping it over and over until it’s a tiny mound at the base of my head. I search the room for my Chucks, even checking under the bed, until I remember that they’re downstairs still in the washer. Perfect. I pull an old pair, with paint splatters all over them, out of my closet. I can pinpoint where each color came from. Green from when I painted my old bedroom. Pink from my mom’s gallery. Blue and gray from the art project at the MoMA camp last summer. As I pull my shoes on I keep trying to come up with a way to get out of school, but I don’t think Gram is going to fall for the whole thermometer-on-the- lightbulb trick.
From the bottom of the stairs, I can see Gram standing with her back to me, stirring something on the stove. I take a deep breath and prepare myself to give her the silent treatment. I know it’s not her fault that my parents are separated. It’s not her fault they’re selling the apartment, but I feel like she’s in on it and I’m tired of being outside of everything. I try not to talk, but as I walk across the living room and into the kitchen, I see someone else is sitting at the table.
“What are you doing here?” It comes out louder than I want it to.
Tally looks up from her bowl, tilts her head at me, and half smiles. Her hair is pulled back from her face with a headband that matches the tips of her hair, which are now hot pink instead of blue. I pull out one of the chairs farthest from Tally and sit down. She is still looking at me, her eyebrows raised. I brace myself for the question, You okay? But she just shakes her head slightly and takes a bite of her oatmeal. I know she’s dying to say something, but maybe we haven’t known each other long enough, or maybe she wants to wait until later when we’re alone.
Gram walks over from the stove, the pot and a bowl in her hands. She stops and stares at me. “What happened to you?” she asks. “You look like something Oscar dragged in,” she says, nodding toward my cat on the window seat.
“Thanks,” I mumble. “Why aren’t you at the bakery?” I ask, trying to change the subject. So much for giving her the silent treatment.
“Your mom said she could handle it, and I was feeling tired this morning, so I just decided to stay in bed a little longer.” She puts the bowl down in front of me with a thunk and spoons some oatmeal into it. Then she sits down at the table. “Tally thought she’d come by and walk with you,” Gram says. Tally nods and takes another bite of oatmeal. “If you hurry, you’ll still have time to get changed before school.”
Sorry, Tally mouths at me when Gram’s not looking. I just roll my eyes.
“Fine.” I push away from the table and start toward the stairs.
“Wait,” Tally says. She reaches into her backpack and pulls out some green fabric. “Here,” she says, balling it up and tossing it to me. I catch it and unfold it, realizing it’s a T-shirt. My own drawing is staring up at me. I flip it over. RPS FOR THE ARK is written across the back in letters that look like they came from an old typewriter. I smile at the shirt and then at Tally.
“I’ll be right back,” I say. I hear Gram’s voice when I’m about halfway up the stairs. I know she’s talking loud enough so that I’ll overhear.
“Maybe now she’ll stop feeling so sorry for herself,” she says.
I feel heat on my cheeks, but this time it’s not because I’m embarrassed or sad, but because I’m mad. The problem is, I can’t figure out whether I’m mad at Gram for saying it or mad at myself because she’s right.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Tally asks, slowly plucking apart a cattail she picked when we crossed the bridge into town. Tiny fluffs of seed float up from her fingers as we walk. “Sometimes it helps,” she says when I don’t answer. I want to talk to her, but I don’t know where to start. Do I tell her that my parents are communicating only through me and attorneys now? Do I tell her they’re selling our apartment? Do I tell her my biggest fear, that it isn’t going to be “fine”?
“Looks like it’s going to rain,” Tally says. I look up and see the heavy clouds pushing down on us.
“Perfect,” I say.
Tally misses the tone of my voice or just chooses to ignore it. “I know, right?” she says with a smile. “The rain is going to keep everyone inside at lunch
. We’re going to make a killing.”
“Tally, what are you talking about?”
“The T-shirts,” she says. “Your T-shirts. They go on sale today.” She pulls the last clump of seeds out of the cattail and tosses them into the air. The wind catches them, sending them up into the trees. She puts her hand on my arm and stops, making me stop, too. “Do you know how to do it?” she asks.
“Um, yeah,” I say. “Selling T-shirts? I think I can manage that.”
“No.” She puts her hand out in a fist. “RPS.” She quickly runs through the three options. “I can teach you.” I squint at her, trying to figure out if she’s serious. She just smiles at me. “Really,” she says. “A lot of people just think it’s luck.”
“I think most people do,” I say.
“Well, that’s where most people are wrong,” she says. “Here, hold your hand out.” I make a fist and put it up near hers. “Okay,” she says. “Remember, you throw on four.” I keep watching her face. We’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk in front of the school, and people have to squeeze around us, but Tally doesn’t seem to notice. “Ready?” she asks. I nod. We pump our fists three times and then I leave mine closed. Tally has her hand flat, palm down. “Nice,” she says. “Rock is an aggressive first throw.” I look back up at her face, trying to predict when she’s going to start laughing. “Okay, let’s see what else you got.” I put my fist out again; this time I form scissors. Tally has her hand in a fist. She smiles and puts her hands in the pockets of her hoodie. “I can teach you,” she says. “It’s not hard.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. We start walking again. “I mean, it’s pretty simple, right? It’s not like there’s any strategy,” I say.
“Okay, then,” Tally says. “Then how did I just beat you twice?”
The Cupcake Queen Page 7