by Cat Bauer
Dinner at the Reardons' is what I want. The Rear-dons are what my real parents must be like. Betty Reardon used to be my best friend, before Carla. There is singing and piano playing, huge bowls of pasta and carrots and watermelon; none of the food matches. People run in and out. Someone wrote “BOO RADLEY IS OUT!” on a blackboard in their dining room. Wild. Mrs. Reardon asked me my opinion on To Kill a Mockingbird because she knew Betty and I had to read it for English. I spoke for fifteen minutes, and the whole family listened to me, asking questions, agreeing and disagreeing. I felt brilliant.
Peppy reads romance novels with her brown eyes and Roger reads Popular Mechanics with his brown eyes. Bean and Lily do not read at all.
Now I pretend I sit at my real parents' dinner table and we are having a stimulating conversation. I dab my napkin at my lips. I turn to Peppy and ask, “Mother, have you read The Catcher in the Rye? What do you think Salinger was saying about phonies?”
Peppy is not interested. “If you'd get your nose out of those books, Harley, and put down that paintbrush, maybe you'd have time to help out around here.” The rock in my belly grows into a boulder.
The front door slams and Bean rushes in. He plops down at the table. Bean folds his limbs like a daddy longlegs, collapsing them into a pile of twigs under the table.
“Sorry.”
“Where were you?” Roger whacks him on the shoulder.
“Ouch! Nowhere.”
“Damn right, you're nowhere. You're grounded.”
“Aw, Dad. I was just hanging with Earl. I said I was sorry.”
My father picks up his knife and slices into his steak. He bites. Chews.
“This steak is tough.”
My mother shrugs. “It's sirloin, Roger.”
My father glares around the table. “Well, eat!”
My mother washes the dishes and I dry. This is my chore. I get nothing for it, not even a quarter. I am the only person I know who does not get an allowance. If I want money, I have to beg for it or steal it from my church envelope on Sundays if I can't get a babysitting job.
“Let them drip, Harley,” Peppy says.
“I am!” I buff my favorite spoon. We do the dishes in silence, like a jail sentence. That's okay, I love to dry the silverware. The teaspoons are the girls; the tablespoons are the big sisters. The forks are the mothers and the knives are the fathers. There is one real sterling silver teaspoon mixed in with the others and she is the princess. Her boyfriend is the sharpest steak knife.
Peppy drains the water out of the sink. “Did you do your homework?”
“Of course.” I put on my snob voice, as if the question insults me.
“Watch that mouth of yours.”
I ignore Peppy. I rub and rub the silver princess until she is sparkling. At night the silver princess sneaks out of the silverware drawer and spends the evening in the pot-holder drawer with the sharpest steak knife. The steak knife's father is long, sharp, and steely and only brought out for major jobs. The steak knife has no mother.
“Harley, what are you doing to that spoon?”
I jump. “Nothing!” Peppy's got a voice like an alarm clock. I watch her scrub the sink with cleanser. She is a big fan of Comet and uses it to clean everything, so the whole house is covered with a grimy lime residue. I wait until she heads into the family room, then I sneak the silver princess into the pot-holder drawer, together with the steak knife.
The phone rings. I toss the dish towel over my shoulder and answer it. “Hello?”
“Harley?”
“Granny!”
“There's a wonderful sky here tonight. So many stars!”
Granny Harley is my salvation. She bought me my easel and most of my paints. She looks like that plastic maple-syrup bottle, Mrs. Butterworth, all plump and friendly—not like Grandpa, who wears suits and ties, even at home, and talks to everyone as if they are his employees. My grandparents used to live in Lenape; I have summer memories of Granny holding my hand. Then Grandpa became vice president of the company, and they moved down south.
Sometimes I can understand why Peppy is the way she is, having Grandpa for a father. He plays tricks on children. Once, when I was as old as Lily, Grandpa told me he was a magician and put a penny in a paper bag. He waved his hand over the bag and, presto, inside was a nickel. Then a dime, then a quarter, all the way up to a silver dollar. He told me I could keep the silver dollar or see what happened next. Well, I wanted to know. I put the silver dollar back in the bag, he waved his hand, and out came a penny. He gave it to me and said, “Here, this is what you get.”
“We're coming up in a week or so, honey,” says Granny. “Your grandfather wants to visit his sister.”
“Great!” My brain works fast. This is the one person who holds the key to the Columba skeleton closet. “Granny …” I stretch the telephone cord to the family room, tiptoe over, and peek in. Peppy and Roger are watching the news. I lower my voice. “Granny … I have to ask you something.”
“What, honey?” I hear her smile. “Do you need some paint? They're having a big special in that shop I told you—”
“No, no, Granny.” I watch a spider tumble off the wall and into the Comet-covered sink. It tries to crawl up the gritty porcelain, then slips back down. Gently I pick it up by one of its tiny legs and set it on top of the counter. I watch it scamper away. I take a breath. I want to ask, Why? Why are they so angry? “Granny, I found this doll up in the storage area, this old clown—”
“Harley, who are you talking to?”
I spin around. “Geez!” Peppy the Silent Snoop has crept up behind me. “God, Mom, you scared me!” I swear, we need to put a cat bell on Peppy, she is so sneaky. “I'm talking to Granny Harley.”
Peppy sighs, like the last thing she wants to do is chat with her mother. Granny keeps Peppy on her toes. She puts her hand out for the telephone. “Well, let me talk to her.”
“At least let me say good-bye.” Peppy is so rude, I swear. She is a bulldozer plowing through my life. “Mom wants to talk to you, Granny.”
On the other end, Granny gets the picture. “Is she standing right there?”
“Yes.”
“We'll talk….” Granny pauses. “We'll talk when I come up, okay, honey?”
What can I say? I swear, I have absolutely no privacy in this house. Peppy has her arms crossed and this look on her face like I am some jerk in a phone booth who won't give up the line. “Okay, Granny.”
“I love you, honey.” Granny hugs me through the phone.
“I love you, too.” I toss the phone to Peppy and run out of the kitchen. “There's such a thing as privacy, you know.”
I am standing at my easel, repairing the damage to Strawberry Fields. I am listening to Imagine, of course. I keep my postcard of the Imagine mosaic clipped to the top of the canvas for inspiration; it reminds me I am going there someday. I dab fluffy white clouds over the meadow. Maybe if I paint myself onto a park bench …
Lenape Lakes is only forty-five minutes outside of New York City, if there's no traffic, although it may as well be four zillion light-years away since no one from here ever goes there. I swear, they should build a white picket fence around this whole town. Lenape Lakes is famous because George Washington slept everywhere here, and there were Revolutionary War battles in the hills behind our house. All the towns around here are named after Indian tribes. Lenape is a breeding ground for warriors.
Lily is on my bed, playing Barbie. She has pulled off Barbie's head and stuck pins into the earlobes for earrings. She makes an announcement, one she invented herself, in her squeaky voice: “And now, ladies and gentlemen, ALL the girls and NO boys, starring … Barbie!” No one but Lily knows what this means.
From the basement, my father's voice booms over the intercom: “HARLEY, BRING ME DOWN A DRINK!” Roger has set up intercoms all over the house. This way he can spy on Lily and me and Bean. He can listen to us, but we can't listen to him; we can only answer when he calls.
“Get it yo
urself,” I mutter. I ignore him. I shade the white clouds with a hint of gray. I resist the temptation to make it rain.
Lily sticks a pin into Barbie's eyeball and squeaks, “Harley, bring me down a drink!” Lily's got a voice like Mickey Mouse.
Roger is in his shop down in the basement. This is what he calls it. I call it a submarine. He spends most of his time down there, locked away from the rest of us, fixing broken appliances. He'll make himself a big glass of vodka and say to my mother, “Peppy, I'm going down to the shop.”
I used to sit beside him as he worked. I had my own stool. I would command the submarine while he fussed and bandaged the broken gadgets. One day I went down there and Bean was sitting on my stool, and I never went down again.
The intercom crackles: “HARLEY MARIE, DID YOU HEAR ME?” I crank up the volume on the stereo. I plunge my brush into the jar of gray paint and slab on a thundercloud. I grab another brush and dip it into the white. Now lightning bolts shoot across the canvas.
Lily says, “Daddy wants you, Harley.” She unties Barbie's ponytail and reveals a bald spot.
“I hear him.”
Once more, Roger's voice blasts over the intercom, this time with a nasty edge: “HARLEY MARIE, NOW!”
I slam down my paintbrush and stomp down the stairs into the family room. This is where we are all supposed to be a family and watch television together. This is where we eat supper so we don't mess up the dining room. This is where we hang out so we don't trash the living room, which Peppy has draped in slipcovers. This is where Roger Columba keeps his booze.
I splash some vodka into a glass and deliberately leave out the ice cubes because I know he wants them. I carry the drink down into the command station. Roger looks up from the toaster oven he's working on. “What took you so long?”
“I have homework, you know.” I am all superior, like I am shooting to go to Harvard. “I have a lot of studying to do.”
“Where's my ice?”
“I forgot it. Sorry.”
Roger looks like he wants to slug me, but instead he pours the new drink into the old glass, where there are still a few slivers of ice floating in water. He hands me back the glass. “Thanks.”
“Don't mention it.” Next to him, my old stool is cluttered with pieces of a broken radio. For a moment, I wish I could brush the broken pieces to the floor and sit once again beside my father in the submarine.
Roger glances up from the toaster oven and stares at me. “Do you want something?” He is cranky with vodka. His dark brown eyes are rimmed with red. Those bloodshot eyes nudge me toward the door.
Now I remember why I don't come down here anymore. This man is not my real father. This man is an impostor. I open the submarine hatch. “No.” My voice matches the ice in the glass. “I don't want a thing.”
I close the door just a little too hard behind me.
“Harley Marie, get over here.”
“What, Ma?”
“What do you have on?”
“Clothes.”
“Don't be smart. Put on a decent outfit.”
“This is a decent outfit.” Usually I refuse to wear name brands, but I got this sweater at the Salvation Army shop for almost nothing. I swear, no one in Lenape has a clue.
“You look like a delinquent.”
“If I get changed now, I'll be late for school.”
I am wearing black. My mother hates it when I wear black; she is a gray kind of person. But this battle is an old one, and she gives up without a struggle.
“Oh, all right.”
“See you.” I peck her on the cheek.
“Eat some breakfast.”
“I'm not hungry.” I walk out the door and head up the block, past the rows of houses that are all the same. I cut through the back of the Collelas' yard and over to the corner to wait for Carla to show up.
Mrs. Woods, the crossing guard, walks me across the street with her stop-sign-on-a-stick. I'm too old for it, but she is kind, so I allow her to cross me. “How was your weekend, Harley?” she asks.
“Same old thing,” I tell her. “Jetted to Monte Carlo, stopped off in London to catch a show.”
Mrs. Woods titters. “Always joking, you.”
Carla is a speck in the distance. She gets closer and I see she is wearing black, too. She irritates me with that. Whatever I do, she does. Everyone says we look like sisters. We even have the same blue eyes. If she paints her fingernails gold, it will push me over the edge. I painted mine last night and it looks wild. We meet and walk together awhile in silence.
“Did you do your history?” she asks me.
“Last night. Do you need to copy?”
“Naw. I don't care.”
I have not told Carla about finding the harlequin. I am very superstitious and don't want to jinx it. If you leak certain things out into the universe, you never know what might happen. I keep tight control over my secrets.
But I have spilled one secret to Carla, which is my crush on Johnny Bruno. He is older than me, but we share one class and that is band. Johnny is the only reason I go, hoping for a glance from those dark brown eyes. Band is full of rejects from the football team except for Johnny. He plays the drums and I play the oboe. Band is at the end of the day, and I have to suffer through six classes to get there.
Carla and I walk over the footbridge. Lenape Lakes has lots of lakes, but these days they are all polluted from the chemical plant where Roger and Grandpa used to work.
“Johnny said hi to me yesterday,” I tell Carla.
“Oh, yeah?”
“I think he likes me.” If Peppy had bothered to check, she would have seen that my pack of birth control pills has never been opened. I've never had a real boyfriend. Not yet. Just a few sad attempts by some bottom-feeders at parties. If I do not get a decent kiss soon, I'm going to die, but I refuse to settle for less.
Carla and I got the pills over at the clinic because her old boyfriend, Vic, wanted her to do it with him, and she was thinking about it. I thought I should get some too, just in case. We went there on a Saturday. The place was dark and gray, and the nurse was bored. She talked to us for about an hour and handed us a bunch of brochures with titles like Playing It Safe and Sex: Are You Ready? She examined me with a smooth, cold piece of metal that slid between my legs. I gazed at the dusty mobile of old warplanes that floated above my head. She opened a cabinet and took out the pills. “I'll give you a three-month supply, but you should also use a condom.” Yeah, right.
“I thought Johnny was still going out with Prudence Clarke.”
I pick up a pebble and throw it in the river. Carla knows exactly how to get to me. “I think they broke up,” I say. “They must have.” Prudence Clarke is the same age as Johnny. She can sing. She was the star of Annie Get Your Gun, and so was Johnny. I hate Prudence Clarke. I mean, what kind of name is Prudence? It sounds like dried fruit.
Carla and I walk up the hill to Lenape Avenue, the main road. “You wanna go uptown after school?” Carla asks me.
“I can't. I'm grounded.”
“You're always grounded. They should just chain you to the wall.”
“Don't give them any ideas.”
“Look!” Carla points to a small white box on the asphalt up ahead. “Cigarettes!”
I run over and pick up the box. Marlboro Lights in a hard pack. I flip open the lid. Three are missing.
“What should we do?” I ask her. “Should we smoke them?”
Carla stares at the white pack like it is from outer space. I shake out a cigarette. I hand it to her. She takes it and holds it between her fingers like a baton. “I don't know.”
The cigarettes are the apple and I am Eve. “Oh, hell, let's.” We divide the pack in two. I keep the box. I put them in my backpack. Cigarettes. Wicked.
We do not have assigned seats in history, but if you're a girl, do not sit in the first row, because Mr. Werner looks up your skirt. All the cool people sit on the right side of the room; all the kiss-asses sit on the left
. I sit on the right. I am smart without trying. I am always on the honor roll, which means instead of going to study hall, I can go wherever I want, as long as I stay on campus. This is a good benefit.
My father went to Lenape High, and he had Mr. Werner, too. So did my mother. My parents have known each other since they were twelve years old. My father carved his name on his desk: Roger Columba. I sit at his desk today. Wild. I try to imagine my father as young as I am, but it is too strange. I have to get out of this town.
If I don't look at the clock, Johnny will say hi to me in the hall. I write “Johnny, Johnny, Johnny” over and over in my notebook and then disguise it with flowers. If I wait at my locker just before the bell to the next class rings, sometimes Johnny passes by on his way to English. This is risky because if I am late, I will get detention. I have French next and Miss Auberjois is a bitch. Johnny doesn't have to worry, because he reads the morning announcements over the PA system and he can come and go as he pleases. God, I love that boy.
Mr. Angelo is my Honors English teacher. I adore Honors English. You have to be invited to get in. You have to be smart.
Mr. Angelo is cute and most people like him. He's not that old for a teacher. He's got ebony hair and a beard or a goatee, depending on the season. He wears a different tie every day; it is his personal statement. He's also the coach of the fencing team and is tall, thin, and slicing, just like a sword. Nancy Peterman has a crush on him, but he's married.
Today we are doing Romeo and Juliet. I imagine I am Juliet and Johnny is Romeo. We lust for each other. We die for each other. It is so tragic, it is romantic.
“Who believes Romeo was in love with Juliet?” My hand shoots up. “You do, Miss Columba?” Mr. Angelo always calls everyone “Miss” or “Mister.” It's sort of elegant, in an old-fashioned way. “How long have they known each other? A few hours? How can that be love?”