Lesson three: Never show your pain.
The Monday after the alleged slumber party Laney Daley marched up to Eleanor Pope and, in what surely was a line provided to her by one of her parents, demanded, “What, exactly, was the big idea behind all this?”
Eleanor, so pretty in a black dress that looked like a polo shirt, only longer, raised her brows slightly and said with mock surprise, “Oh my gosh, you didn’t get that it was a joke? You really thought I’d invite you to my house? That’s so funny.”
Ruthie, whose locker was two down from Eleanor’s, had witnessed the interaction. And when Eleanor smiled at her, a smile that expressed both pity and contempt for Laney’s cluelessness, Ruthie smiled back, and rolled her eyes in agreement.
She was rewarded that afternoon. Eleanor said “hi” to her as they passed in the hall. But Ruthie had learned not to expect any promises from small gestures of friendliness (lesson two). Just because Eleanor said hello one day did not mean she would do it again. It was all so tricky. It was all so exhausting. More exhausting even than making good grades at Coventry, which simply required a tremendous amount of study.
When Ruthie returned to school after the funeral, she surprised herself by feeling grateful to be back in the midst of Coventry’s strange social labyrinth. She was grateful for any distraction from the haunting thoughts that had lodged themselves in her brain. She thought obsessively about the last few moments of her parents’ lives, when they realized the plane was going down. A loop of images ran through her head—her mother screaming, her father trying to shield Naomi with his arms before the pilot barked for them both to put their heads against their knees. And with those images came a series of unanswerable questions:
Did they know they were about to die, or did they fool themselves into thinking that somehow things would turn out okay, that once again Phil would cheat death? Did they think about her and Julia, about what would happen to them? Did they regret the instructions left in the will? Were they scared of death itself or just the pain of dying? Did they wonder if there might be a heaven or a hell? Did they pray? Did they kiss? Did they cry?
Compared to this echo chamber of her own imagination, Ruthie welcomed returning to the land of the bitchy girls, the land of the cranky, demanding teachers.
But the accident had a ripple effect even at Coventry. When Ruthie returned to school after the double funeral, everyone was kind and solicitous. Teachers and students alike. The members of the Eight smiled at her sweetly in the hallway. Her math teacher, Mrs. Stanford, who once had asked if she was “trying to sound stupid,” started calling her “dear.”
The last class of the day was English with Mr. Roman. Both Eleanor Pope and Laney Daley were in the class with Ruthie. Ruthie was a little surprised to see Laney still at school. If it had been she who was caught picking up twenty rolling tampons, she who had been rumored to have blood all over her pants, she who had been asked loudly at lunch, by Trevor Jackson, whether or not she had anything he could use to stop up his bloody nose, Ruthie would have gone home sick.
But there sat Laney, in her assigned seat in the second row, wearing acid-washed jeans—which went out of style years ago—and a Coventry T-shirt.
Eleanor walked in just before the second bell, her long dark hair pulled into a high ponytail. Still tan from spring break in Barbados with her family, she wore a white denim miniskirt and a turquoise scoop-neck top with three-quarter-inch sleeves. Around her neck was a half-inch-thick silver chain. In her ears, big silver hoops. She was chewing gum. She was wearing heels. She looked about eighteen years old, her blue eyes widened by liner, her angular cheeks even further defined by blush.
They were reading the Odyssey. Not the modernized version, but the classic. It was a seventh-grade tradition at Coventry, God knows why. The language was so dense, so confusing, that Mr. Roman only assigned three pages per night. Still, Ruthie struggled. It was like reading a foreign text without having taken any language classes. And the print was so small, the pages so thin. And what did she care about the adventures of Odysseus anyway? The only character she liked was Penelope, who promised her unwanted suitors that when she finished weaving a shroud for her dead father-in-law she would accept that Odysseus was dead and choose one of them as her new husband. But every night she secretly undid that day’s weaving.
Mr. Roman was talking about the sirens who sang to the sailors, making them veer off course, making them crash against the rocks. Wise Odysseus, knowing the lure of the siren song, told his sailors to lash him to the stern of the boat so he would not give in to the seductive music.
“Do y’all think there are still siren songs today?” asked Mr. Roman. “Temptations that steer us off course?”
Ruthie thought about Julia in the front seat of Jake’s car early that morning. “Fuck yeah,” she had said when he asked if she wanted to get out of there. Everything was a siren song for Julia: boys, cigarettes, alcohol, pot. They all called to her. They all made her veer off course. But what could she tie herself to that would keep her from turning toward danger?
Ruthie. If Julia could be tied to Ruthie, Ruthie would make sure her sister stayed on track.
Casey Floyd, who was not a member of the Eight but sometimes sat with them at lunch, raised her hand. “What’s your siren song, Mr. Roman?” she asked.
He grinned, raked his hands through his hair. “Ladies,” he said, “I never stray off the course.”
“Yeah, right,” said Eleanor.
“My wife would probably say Häagen-Dazs ice cream. I always tell her I’m going to cut out sweets and then I pass by those pints in the freezer section of the grocery store and I just can’t help myself.”
“What’s your favorite flavor?” asked Suzy Branch.
“Chocolate chocolate chip,” Mr. Roman said. “Gets me every time.”
A buzz was felt in the room. Mr. Roman was letting them get off topic. This was something he usually curtailed the girls from doing, but it was a warm spring day and maybe he was as ready to be done with school as they were. Maybe he would even sing for them.
“Will you sing us a siren song?” asked Casey.
Mr. Roman grinned, flashing his ultrawhite teeth.
“Come on,” said Casey. “Sing us a song that will veer us off course. It will be like a real-life example.” She was famously bold.
“Well, I’ve got one that kind of fits.” Mr. Roman stepped out from behind the podium where he had been lecturing, tucked his hands into the pockets of his chinos, fixed his gaze somewhere above the girls, and began singing in a clear, unwavering voice about a desperado who needed to come to his senses.
The girls burst into giggles and scattered applause.
Laney turned and grinned at Eleanor, as if they were friends. “I think he’s wicked cute!” she said.
“I think you’re wicked dorky!” Eleanor whispered, exactly matching Laney’s breathless tone.
Mr. Roman was still singing. Ruthie wasn’t sure if she was supposed to keep smiling or just watch him the way she’d watch a movie, straight-faced but interested. He was singing something about the queen of diamonds, the queen of hearts.
“I want to bear his children,” whispered Casey.
“Dare you to tell him,” whispered Eleanor.
He kept singing, his gaze just above the girls, his eyelids half-closed.
“No way.”
“I’ll do it!” volunteered Laney.
Oh my god. She would. Ruthie knew it in her bones. Laney would tell him that she wanted to have his children. On the day that she dropped twenty tampons in front of the junior high, she would declare her desire to be impregnated by her seventh-grade teacher. Ruthie wanted to lean over and tell her to shut up, just shut the hell up. Just keep your head down and get through this year and things will get better.
Julia said that in high school everyone calmed the fuck down.
Ruthie squinted her eyes, looked at them, at Eleanor and Casey smiling wickedly, encouragingly, at Laney. At Mr.
Roman, in his button-down oxford shirt tucked into chinos, crooning at his seventh graders. Singing the entire song, slowly. At Laney, in her terrible acid-washed jeans, her Coventry T-shirt. Her permed hair, which might have been the style at her prior suburban public school but was certainly not in fashion at a place like Coventry. Her use of the adjective “wicked” to mean good.
Laney was going to yell out that she wanted to bear Mr. Roman’s babies, and no one would ever, ever stop talking about it.
Except Ruthie wouldn’t be around to hear. In less than two months, she was going to be out of this place. All of these people, so real in this room right now, would be reduced to memory.
She squinted so that everyone looked blurry, fuzzy. She imagined them receding into the distance as she boarded a plane that took her away from Coventry, away from Atlanta, away from this world. She had a glimmering realization: Soon none of this would matter. These people, these sadistic girls, they would be so far away.
Mr. Roman had (finally) reached the apex of the song, the repeated line, sung with gusto, demanding that the desperado accept love.
There was a brief moment of silence, as Mr. Roman stood, having offered himself before them. And then Casey stuck her fingers in her mouth and wolf-whistled and someone began clapping and everyone followed and Ruthie saw Laney’s hand shoot up—oh God, she was going to ask to be called on before saying it—and before that could happen Ruthie heard herself shout, “I want to bear your babies!”
It didn’t matter what she said. She was soon to be gone.
And everyone was laughing, as if Ruthie had just cracked the funniest joke in the world; everyone was laughing besides Laney, who looked annoyed that Ruthie had stolen her line.
And because it was Ruthie who said it, the poor girl who just lost her parents, Mr. Roman only blushed and shook his head and told the girls to stop being silly.
“Let’s get back to the book,” he said. “We’ve gotten way off course.”
Chapter Five
When Ruthie and Julia walked in the back door that afternoon, Mimi was waiting for them at the kitchen table.
“Hi,” said Ruthie, dropping her backpack on the floor as always.
“Hi,” said Mimi. She did not smile at Ruthie like she usually did. “Julia, we need to talk.”
Ruthie glanced at Julia, who looked a little roughed up. Her hair was loose and flattened a bit in the back, and her nose and cheeks were red from the sun. She did not look like someone arriving home from a diligent day of study.
Julia slipped her bag onto the center island, then walked to the refrigerator and opened it. She pulled out two Cokes.
“What about?” she asked, handing a Coke to Ruthie.
There was a crack and a hiss as Julia popped the top. Ruthie opened hers slowly, barely making a noise.
“Dean Hasher called. Said he’s the Dean of Boys at Coventry? Apparently you didn’t show up for any of your classes today.”
Julia rolled her head slowly from one shoulder to the next, as if she were trying to stretch out a crick. “Oh yeah,” said Julia. “He’s right.”
She walked over to the kitchen table and sat in the chair next to Mimi, placing her Coke on the hand-painted table without using a coaster. Had Phil been around, he would have insisted she use one. He had been fanatical about the use of coasters on anything that cost him money.
Ruthie remained by the center island, drinking her Coke and watching her sister respond to her aunt. Julia did not appear to be nearly as concerned as Ruthie felt she should be.
Mimi looked directly at Julia, raised her hands imploringly. “Honey, what’s going on? I can’t be getting calls from Coventry saying you’re a no-show. I mean, what the hell did you do all day?”
Julia put the Coke can, beaded with condensation, to her forehead. She let it rest there a minute, and then pulled it away. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I’m impulsive. It was a beautiful day and sometimes I just get so depressed about what happened to Mom and Phil it’s hard to be at school, hard to be where everyone has such a normal life. I just couldn’t take it today. I went to the park.”
Ruthie gave Julia an incredulous look. Was she not going to add the fact that she went to the park with Jake Robinson? Wouldn’t Mimi already know that anyway, if Dean Hasher had called?
As if she read Ruthie’s mind, Mimi asked, “Did you go to the park by yourself?”
“No. I went with Jake. Look, I know everyone thinks he’s bad news, but he’s actually a really good guy. His mom died, too, you know, when he was little. Had an aneurism and snap, she was gone. He’s the only person I really know how to talk to about all of this.”
Ruthie wanted to scream, “What about me? You can talk to me!” And she knew that Jake and Julia didn’t spend their time talking about their mothers. Ruthie bet Jake hardly thought about his mom anymore at all. What kind of a person plays a song about how violent sex is and then goes to the park to cry about his dead mom?
Mimi pushed on the tip of her nose with her pointer finger, a nervous gesture Ruthie had seen her do before. “You don’t know what a shitty position you’re putting me in, Julia. I honestly don’t know what to do here. I guess I’m supposed to scream and shout and ground you. But I just don’t have it in me to do that right now. And frankly, I don’t know how much good it would do. Seriously, though, I need you to fucking go to school and stay there.”
It was the first time Ruthie had ever heard a grown woman use the word “fuck” except for in the movies. Southern mommies just did not use that word. At least not the ones Ruthie knew. She bet Mimi didn’t use to use that word, either, back when she was growing up in Tennessee.
Julia looked embarrassed, and Ruthie was glad.
“I’m sorry,” Julia said. “I was being an asshole. I won’t skip class again.”
Apparently it was free curse day at Wymberly Way.
“I know you’re angry about having to move to Virden. But maybe some good will come out of it. Maybe you and your father will build a really strong relationship. And it’s only for two years. Afterwards you can apply to wherever you want for college. We all know how smart you are. You’ve still got time to buckle down, to apply yourself. And if you do that—and you quit skipping classes—you’ll get in somewhere really top-notch. And you know what? A letter came from your dad today. It looks like he’s really trying to reach out.”
Julia looked suddenly very alert. “Today? Where is it?”
“It’s on the marble table in the front hallway. With all the other mail.”
“Are we okay? Can I go read it?”
“To be completely honest, I’m still annoyed. But sure, go ahead.”
Julia sprang from her chair, kissed Mimi on top of the head, and hurried out of the room. Mimi pulled two long clips out of the back of her hair, freeing it from its chignon. She ran her fingers through her scalp for a full minute, her eyes closed. When she opened them they landed on Ruthie, who was trying to decide whether or not she could sneak out of the kitchen to follow Julia, to read her dad’s letter with her.
“Do me a favor, sweetie,” Mimi said. “Keep your innocence for as long as possible. I’m not good with teen drama.”
“Julia and I are very different,” said Ruthie. She felt disloyal saying it, but she also knew it was true. “Besides,” she added. “You did great.”
Just then Ruthie heard Julia screaming in the hallway. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuck! I hate that goddamn fucking bitch!”
They heard a loud thudding as Julia ran up the stairs.
Mimi looked at Ruthie, her eyes wide. “She’s not talking about me, is she?”
“I think she’s probably talking about her stepmom. About Peggy.”
“You want to go talk to her?” asked Mimi.
As Ruthie hurried off to find out exactly what had made her sister scream, it occurred to her that she and Julia had switched positions. That it used to be Julia who was running out of the kitchen to comfort a hysterical Ruthie, crying on the living room so
fa, having been banished from the table for doing childish things.
Ruthie found Julia in her room, sitting on her bed, knees curled up to her chest. She was playing INXS, loudly.
“Can I turn this down?” Ruthie asked.
Julia shrugged. Ruthie walked over to the stereo, turned down the volume.
“Aunt Mimi wants to know if she’s the g.d. f-ing mag you were talking about?”
Julia pushed a little breath of air out of her mouth, shook her head at Ruthie, as if she were hopelessly naïve.
“I got my response from Dad. They’re not budging. He thinks San Francisco is not an appropriate place for a ‘spirited teen’ like me. It’s straight out of Peggy’s mouth. God, I hate her.”
“Let me see the letter,” said Ruthie, walking to the bed with her hand held out.
“You can read it, but bottom line, they’re making me go to Virden.”
Ruthie read it anyway. She wanted to see for herself.
April 16, 1993
Dear Julia,
Peggy and I received your letter the other day, and we both appreciate the care you put into it. After I read it I rummaged through the boxes I’ve got stored in the attic, looking for those pictures you sent me when you were a little girl. We took them down when Peggy first moved in. She noticed that the edges were curling and said they would be safer in an album. You’ll be interested to know that I found five of your drawings. Three are of cats, one is of a dog, and one is of you. The cats are orange, black, and brown and white striped. The dog is brown, and you, of course, have that beautiful red hair that you got from your mother.
A Soft Place to Land: A Novel Page 9