by Cat Bauer
Sean Shanahan is my father.
“Ronnie, is Carla there?” I am home alone. I've just got to tell Carla that Sean Shanahan is my father, too. Carla is my half sister. I can no longer keep this to myself.
“Hold on, Harley. Carla?”
I hear Carla holler in the distance: “Who is it?” Ronnie covers the mouthpiece. Her words are muffled. Then she says, “I'm sorry, Harley. Carla isn't home.”
So that's the way it is. I speak real low so Ronnie will not know how upset I am. “Tell her I need to talk to her, okay? Tell her it's important.” I hang up the phone fast.
The hell with Carla. I whip out a piece of paper from the kitchen drawer. I write “ ‘Compassion,' by Harley Columba.” I write in red ink. Blood ink.
No one cares
if you're stuck
no more prayers
no more luck
no one shares
compassion sucks.
Ha, ha, ha. That should get old Minelli-poo.
I go into the family room and get the dictionary off the shelf. I love this dictionary. It used to belong to Granny Harley's mother, my great-grandmother. I look up compassion: “a feeling of deep sympathy for another's suffering, accompanied by a desire to alleviate the pain or remove its cause.” Hmmm. Dictionaries are so wordy, I swear.
I run up to my room and get a piece of drawing paper and some charcoal pencils and my calligraphy set. I carry them downstairs to the family room table and spread them out. I sketch a girl peering through a huge magnifying glass. Under the glass, I write “Compassion.” I pause. I must be a cold-hearted beast. I can't think of one single person I have sympathy for. Except … Granny Harley. I will write the poem to her.
Underneath the title, in small letters, I print “Dedicated to Suzanne Harley.” I am getting all misty just thinking about it. I miss my granny. I blink really fast, but still the tears blur my eyes. I write:
If you could hear me, I would say I love you
If I could touch you, I would never let you go
If I could stop your pain, I would ache myself
If I could, I would do anything for you
But you are gone and I can't
And I can't.
A tear drips onto the paper and smears the last word. I breathe on it gently, then retouch it. I could use a little compassion myself. I blow my nose. I pick up the phone and dial. I listen to Evan's phone ring and ring and ring. Evan has his own line, lucky him, in addition to his cell phone. I let it ring about twenty times. I know he is rehearsing, but I love the sound. Then I hang up, wait a moment, and dial again.
This time, after the third ring, someone picks up and this deep voice says, “Hello?” Oh, wow. It must be his father, Q.C. I sit there, frozen, with the receiver to my ear and say nothing.
“Hello? Hello? Who is this?” Q.C. sounds angry. He waits. I say nothing. “Answer me, if you have any guts.”
Whoa. I don't know what's come over me. I cannot talk. I can't even move to hang up the phone. The receiver is glued to my ear.
“You must be a real jerk to call up and not say anything. You must be some kind of loser. Answer me, goddamn it.” I say nothing. Finally Q.C. says, all deadly, “Go to hell,” and hangs up.
So that's Evan's dad. Boy, I'd like to lock Roger in a room with him and see who comes out alive.
I see Carla heading down the hall with Nancy Peterman, all laughs and giggles. Brother. Nancy Peter-man is such a rah-rah. I run up to them.
“Carla, I've got to talk to you.” I am breathless.
Carla gives me a look like she is staring at a sloth. “We have nothing to say to each other, you traitor.” She flips her hair and keeps walking. I run along next to her.
“Look, I'm sorry, but I've got to tell you something really, really important.”
Carla stops. “Go ahead, Harley. Tell me this really, really important thing.” She is all sarcastic, and Nancy Peterman giggles.
“I think I should tell you in private.”
“I think not.”
I don't want to blab this in front of Nancy Peter-man, but this may be the only chance I get. Carla has been avoiding me worse than the plague.
“Let me whisper it.”
Carla rolls her eyes and bends over to me like I'm this idiot child. She is getting so tall, I almost have to stand on my tiptoes. I cup my hand around my mouth and whisper, “Sean Shanahan is my father, too. That makes us half sisters.” The words are hot, burning from my mouth to her ear.
Carla straightens up and her blue eyes are wild. “You are so crazy, Harley. You are so out of your mind. You need to see a shrink.” She tugs Nancy Peterman away. I have lost her, I think. My heart is a ball of yarn, one end attached to Carla, unraveling down the hall.
I decide to take Miss Posey up on her offer to use the art room instead of going to study hall. There is only one problem. When I open the door, thirty pairs of upperclassmen's eyes turn to look at me. My first instinct is to back out the door and run away. But Miss Posey sees me and motions me inside.
I try to be invisible, but I feel like Gulliver walking through Lilliput as I tiptoe over to my corner and put on my smock. I want to finish the painting for the first act, the princess with no face. I set up my easel so that my back faces all the other students.
I pick up my paintbrush and begin, but all I can think about is thirty pairs of eyes on my back. I dab my brush onto the portrait. I stop. Try again. It's impossible. Then I hear the soft simple chords of a piano begin playing. Miss Posey has put on Imagine. I turn to look at her and smile: Thanks.
I relax. Squint. Touch up the hair. Shade the chin. Now the colors start flowing from my paintbrush. When the bell to the next class rings, I am just adding the finishing stroke.
“Hey, that's really good, Harley,” says a voice behind me. I nearly drop my brush. Johnny Bruno has appeared at my side.
“Tha … thanks.” I wipe my hands on my smock. It's funny, but I'm not even glad to see him. In fact, I feel nothing at all. “Are you in this class? I didn't see you when I came in.”
“Yeah. But I'm not an artist.” He steps back and admires my painting. “Not like you, anyway.”
“I'm happy with it.” I state this as a fact, not a gloat. I take off my smock and hang it up.
Johnny looks at me as though he is seeing me for the first time. “You know, Harley, I was thinking. Do you want to go with me to the Spring Ball?”
“What?” I stare at him as if he has lost his mind. “I thought you were going with Prudence Clarke.”
“Well, that's what she thinks, but it's not what I want.”
I rinse my brush in some turpentine. I push my easel into the corner. Then I look him straight in the eye. I say: “Johnny, I wouldn't go across the street with you, let alone to the Spring Ball.” I watch his mouth drop open as I walk out the door.
“Lily?” I have waited until the perfect moment to give Lily her picture book, right before we go to bed when we are alone in our room.
“What, Harley?” Lily yawns. She is wearing her long white nightgown, and looks like an angel.
“I have a present for you.” I have wrapped the picture book in Barbie paper so that it is a proper gift.
“Really?” Lily squeaks. “What is it?” I hand her the gift. She rips off the Barbie paper like a wild tiger. Some people unwrap presents carefully, but Lily is not one of them.
“It's your very own New York City picture book, one that you can color in as much as you want.”
For a moment, I think Lily is going to hand the book back to me. She hesitates. “And you won't get mad?”
I shake my head. “I made it for you specially.”
Lily flips gently through the pages as if they are part of some sacred manuscript. Her little face gapes up at me, amazed. “The girl looks like me! It's all about me! What does it say?”
Now it is my turn to yawn. “I'll read it to you in the morning.”
“No, I want to read it right now!”
/> “In the morning.”
“Then I want to color it right now!”
Lily gets that stubborn look on her face and I think it was a mistake to give her the book before bedtime. “If you wait until tomorrow, I'll let you use my markers so it looks professional. Not crayons.”
“Promise?” Lily folds her arms across her chest like a miniature dictator. She can be quite demanding.
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” I say, making the gesture, which is a pretty morbid promise when you think about it, but it appeases her.
“Okay.” Lily puts her arms around my waist and snuggles her head against my stomach, the picture book dangling behind my back. “I love you, Harley.”
I pat her on her cantaloupe head. I say, “I love you, too, Lily. I really do,” and think I finally understand what compassion means.
Six o'clock on Friday night. One hour to Evan. I am in black. I look great. There is only one problem: I have no plan of escape. I decide to try my new approach. I will tell Peppy the truth.
Roger's in the family room, snoring, the news blaring from the television set. Peppy is in the kitchen, listening to some stupid love song from the '80s. I must get Peppy out of earshot of the drizzly monster in the Barcalounger.
I tiptoe into the kitchen and stop short. Peppy is standing at the sink with her eyes closed, humming. A shaft of light is streaming in from the back door, softening her face, and for a moment she looks as young as her high school photo. I wonder what she is dreaming about. Or who. I feel a little guilty watching her, the moment seems so private.
I back out silently, into the living room. “Mom?” I call, warning her I am coming. I give her a second, then act like I am entering the kitchen for the first time. Peppy has grabbed a sponge and pretends to wash a pot. She opens her mouth to speak. I put my finger to my lips so she doesn't wake Roger, and pull her out of the kitchen and into the living room.
“Harley, what on earth are you doing now?” Peppy looks almost frightened. Like, what kind of revelation am I going to dump on her this time?
I take a breath and lower my voice. “Mom, this boy asked me out to dinner tonight. His name is Evan and he's really cute and I really like him a lot. He's picking me up at seven and I really want to go. I've been grounded forever. Please, please, please, can I go? I'll be home by ten o'clock, I swear. I cleaned my room and everything. Please?”
Peppy looks relieved. She probably thought I was going to drag out Sean Shanahan again. I am thrilled that I have this new weapon in my artillery. I must be careful not to abuse my power. “I don't know, Harley. Your father …”
“Please, Mom. I never go anywhere. He's so sloshed, he won't even notice that I'm gone.”
“Don't talk about him that way.” Peppy hesitates. She glances toward the family room. Roger mutters and stirs in his chair. “If he says it's okay.”
I trudge into the family room and watch Roger's chest move up and down. His head is slumped to the side. I'm glad he's not my real father. Then I get sad. I guess he's glad he's not my real father, too. I reach over and touch his shoulder. “Dad?” Nothing. I shake him harder. “Dad?”
Roger mumbles and opens one red eye. “Mom said I could go out tonight if it's okay with you. Okay?” Roger stares at me as if he's trying to figure out who I am. Then he closes his eye and turns on his side. “Okay?” I ask again.
Roger mumbles, “Okay, okay.” Good.
“He said okay, Mom!” I call to Peppy in the kitchen. Peppy shakes her head but says nothing. I am out the door.
My butt is cold. Seven-thirty and no Evan. Every couple of minutes I see the curtains move and Peppy peers out the living room window. Yeah, Mom, still here. I hate boys.
Maybe he forgot. Maybe he got caught in traffic. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe …
Then I hear it. In the distance, the rumble of Evan's Camaro. He peels down the street and screeches to a halt in front of my house.
Peppy opens the front door. She is so predictable. “Harley …”
Evan jumps out of the car and runs up to the front porch. He hands me a bouquet of daisies. My first flowers. I put them under my nose and inhale; then I'm embarrassed because, of course, they have no smell. “They're beautiful.”
“Sorry, I'm late,” he says. “Traffic.” He winks at Peppy in the doorway. “You must be Mrs. Columba.” He grins and offers her his hand. Peppy's face turns from frowns to smiles. The boy has a natural charm.
“Mom, this is Evan.” I swear, she's positively blushing.
“All that hair!”
“Mom—” I warn her.
She gets the message. “Nice to meet you, Evan.”
I see the curtain pull back and Lily's and Bean's faces peek out the window. I swear, I have the nosiest family. Bean squishes his face against the glass and makes a pig nose. What a jerk.
Evan turns to me. “Ready?”
“Ready.” I am so excited, I can hardly breathe.
“Don't be late.” Peppy morphs back into a mother.
Evan takes my hand. “How's eleven?” He tugs me toward the car.
Peppy hesitates. I let go of Evan's hand and dash back up the steps. I hand Peppy the daisies. “Can you put these in water, Mom?”
“Okay … eleven. Don't be late.”
I am so happy, I reach up and give her a hug. Peppy is startled, then hugs me back. I fly down the steps to the car. Evan opens the passenger door for me. I slide onto the white leather seat and make a big show of buckling my seat belt. He closes my door and waves good-bye to Peppy. He jumps in the front seat and kicks over the engine. It roars.
“Be careful!” Peppy calls.
Evan beeps the horn and steers the Camaro off into the night.
We are tucked into a wooden booth in Gilgard's over in Wynokie, this restaurant-dance kind of place. Rock music blasts from the jukebox and a bunch of couples are moving on the dance floor. Evan orders a beer and the waitress doesn't even proof him. I order a Diet Coke. I cannot eat; it is such a thrill to sit in a restaurant across from this boy.
“Aren't you hungry?” Evan has devoured his burger and is on his second beer.
“I'm … I'm just glad to be here,” I say, like I do this every Friday night, but inside I am Jell-O. I take tiny squirrel bites of my burger, hoarding the moment like a nut to crack open and dream over later.
Evan reaches across the table and touches my hand. “I'm glad you're here too, babe.” Babe. He called me babe. I cannot swallow. I am stuck with a mouthful of fries. I gulp my Coke. The music on the jukebox changes to a slow love song. Girls wrap their arms around their guys' necks and sway.
“Wanna dance?” Evan drains his mug.
“Sure.” Please, God, do not let me stomp on Evan's feet. Evan tugs me out of the booth and leads me to the center of the floor. I watch what the other girls are doing. I wrap my arms around Evan's neck. He holds me tight, as if he is afraid I will float up off the floor. Maybe I will; I am nothing but air.
“You feel good, Harley.” Evan buries my head under his chin. He is taller than I thought he was. I am tense; then I relax and lay my head against his chest. We fall into each other's rhythm: back and forth, back and forth. I close my eyes and think, I can die right now and I will die happy.
Evan pulls back. I look up into his deep gray eyes. He leans over me and touches his lips to mine. It is only the two of us here on earth; everyone else has left the planet.
Then the music stops and a loud bass cranks in. Evan kisses my forehead and leads me back to the booth. “What do ya say we skip the movies? Some friends are having a couple of people over. Wanna go?”
“Okay.” I'd go anywhere with this boy.
Evan throws some money on the table and helps me with my jacket. “I'm having a really good time,” he whispers in my ear.
“Me too.” Talk about understatements.
“Evan, hey!” I hear a girl's voice behind us. I turn and almost bump into this tall red-haired girl who looks like a model. She has big go
ld hoop earrings and long graceful arms. I go on alert.
“Hey, Tori.” Evan's voice is cautious. “You know Harley?” The redheaded Tori checks me out.
“Hey, Harley.” Her voice is dainty, like china.
“Hi.” I sound like a foghorn. Now go away, I think. I am not ready for the coach to turn into a pumpkin.
“We're going over to Oliver's.” Evan is uncomfortable.
“Yeah?” Tori smiles. Of course she has perfect teeth. The better to eat you with, my dear. “Maybe I'll catch you later.” She winks at me like she's sharing a secret and swoops back into the crowd. I see a group of people surround her and turn to look at me. I feel my face turn red. I hope it's dark enough that Evan doesn't notice.
“I used to go with her,” Evan says. “She's a good kid. Spacey, though.”
“She seems nice,” I say, and step out into the night.
“Oliver's folks went to Bermuda.” Evan has parked a few blocks away, since the whole neighborhood is lined with cars. I can hear the thud, thud, thud of a bass guitar as we walk up to a gate. Oliver lives in Sunrise Estates. I guess his parents are rich.
People are sitting on the lawn and spilling out the door, which is wide open. Music blasts into the neighborhood. Beer bottles and cigarette butts litter the ground. We walk into the living room. Smoke curls through the air. Bodies are slumped in every chair, on every sofa, on the floor. Microphones and a drum set are crammed into a corner of the living room. Roger has this old song, “Mama Told Me Not to Come,” that he used to play on the stereo, and now that song spins inside my head.
“Wanna beer?” Evan shouts.
I hesitate. “Okay.” I grip his hand and we walk into the kitchen, where a keg sits in the sink. Some tall guy with long curly hair and a goatee is drinking beer from a pitcher instead of a glass. “Harley, this is Oliver.” Evan lets go of my hand and pours some beer into a plastic cup and hands it to me. I take a big gulp.
Oliver checks me out. “Yum, yum. Hey, bud, not bad. Not bad at all.” I feel like a piece of steak.
“Watch yourself, Oliver.” Evan laughs, but I can tell that underneath he is serious. “Don't get any ideas.”