by Marta Acosta
“Don’t ask how MV knows these things,” Constance said. “She never remembers my birthday.”
“Yes, I do. It’s in one of those M months, March or May. Maybe Mebruary or Maugust.” Mary Violet smirked. “Someday I’m going to write stories with terrifying monsters and werewolves.”
“I thought you were writing mysteries and historicals,” Hattie said. “Besides, no one needs to hear scary stories about make-believe monsters.”
Mary Violet scrunched up her face as she thought for a moment. “I think we do because fear makes us feel alive. Besides, the supernatural is really about the id.”
“I don’t know what the id is, but id guess it’s something ridiculous,” Constance said.
“Id is not.” Mary Violet tugged one of Constance’s braids. “The id is your unconscious desires and fears. It’s your instinct for pleasure and survival. That’s what my mother says and she did her minor in psych.”
Constance said, “That sounds like something Mrs. Radcliffe would lecture about in Night Terrors. I think there must have been some huge psych fad when they were at university.”
“They probably had study sessions to analyze Madonna songs and danced like this.” Mary Violet began hopping around and swinging her arms up.
“And once again, MV’s dragged us completely off topic,” Hattie said. “I bet you love living here, Jane.”
“Totally, even though Jack Radcliffe tried to scare me about the trees walking at night. Please.”
“That’s his twisted sense of humor,” Mary Violet said as she continued hopping and swinging her arms. “It’s not as refined as mine.”
“Yes, I could tell that he’s a…” I paused to think of the right term. “He’s a major excrement-disturber.”
After dinner and after I’d let Mary Violet trim an inch off my hair (which became three inches because she kept trying to make it even), she said, “Mr. Mason seems so lonely since his wife died. Jane, when did your mother die and how long did it take you to recover?”
“She died when I was six and I had an accident then. The doctors put me in a coma while I healed, and when I woke up, I didn’t remember anything—not the accident, not my mother, not my life before. The official name is retrograde amnesia, and because my brain went without oxygen for a long time, those memories are gone forever.”
There was a long and awkward silence, and my friends switched the conversation to the guys at Evergreen and how they’d changed during the summer.
“None of them is much improved,” Mary Violet said. “Jane, tell us about your boyfriends in the hood. Was it like those movies with the smart girl and the dangerous boy, hopefully with a big dance-off?”
“Not hardly. I’m always in the friend zone because I look like a little kid.”
“You mean you have had no carnal knowledge at all?”
“Mary Violet!” Hattie said. “Let a person have some privacy.”
“Just because you won’t talk about your lover doesn’t mean Jane doesn’t want to talk about her experiences.” Mary Violet pouted. “I confided in you how Teagan Bartholomew stuck his tongue down my throat and then dropped trou with no warning whatsoever. After my mother’s paintings, I’d assumed everyone had a hoo-ha and I was so shocked that I screamed. I thought he had a disfiguring tumorous growth. True story!”
“You’re totally making that up,” Constance said, and Hattie spit out her soda, and we were all howling.
“I’ve been deeply traumatized ever since,” Mary Violet continued. “I’ll probably die a virgin.”
Hattie’s phone trilled and she answered it with a terse “Hello.” Then she said, “How did you know I’d be here?” She went out to the porch to talk, closing the door behind her.
Constance said, “MV, you’re the one with the crazy dentist theory.”
I tried to puzzle this out. “Okay, I give up. What do crazy dentists have to do with anything?”
“I’m so glad you asked!” Mary Violet brushed brownie crumbs off her shirt. “Your wisdom teeth get removed only once in your lifetime. Some people have them taken out too early because they want to get it over with, but the surgery’s more complicated if your teeth are impacted. And some people go to any old dentist as if it doesn’t matter, but a bad dentist can make it a horrible, horrible experience.”
“Okay, I get that,” I said, “but you can’t compare the sex with dental surgery, because dental surgery is always going to be scary and painful, but—”
MV shook her head, tossing her curls. “My point is about the memory of a unique and significant incident. You can’t control each individual factor, but you can wait for the right time and choose the right dentist, because you’ll live with that memory for the rest of your life. That’s my dentist theory and it’s not crazy.”
I searched her earnest face before telling Constance, “I hate to say this, but she’s making sense.”
Constance sighed. “Sometimes she does. That’s the danger of hanging out with her.”
We crashed about two A.M. Mary Violet slept on the sofa, and Constance had gone to the bedroom to escape her friend’s snoring. I awoke under my comforter on the floor. Hattie’s sleeping bag was empty.
I checked around, but she was gone, so I put on shoes and a sweatshirt, got my flashlight, and walked outside. “Hattie, Hattie,” I called in a whisper. I began walking along the trail toward the Radcliffes’ house. “Hattie!”
“Over here!” Hattie’s voice came from the direction of the amphitheater.
The blackness wasn’t as dense in the clearing. A full moon was barely visible through the clouds. Hattie sat on a bench, cloaked in a blanket. She was as still and pale as a statue. The lace hem of her long white cotton nightgown skimmed her bare, narrow feet.
She saw me and smiled. “What are you doing out here?”
“I was wondering where you were.” I sat beside her, the cold stone bench chilling me through my thin cotton pants.
“I woke up and felt like taking a walk. Isn’t this place magical? In the moonlight it’s like a black-and-white photograph.”
“How did you find your way here?”
“I know the grove and, besides, I have great night vision.”
We sat quietly, listening to the whispering of the trees and feeling the damp air on our skin. Then Hattie said, “I know things are different for you here, Jane. Whenever you want, you can talk to me.” The moonlight caught the shine of her eyes as she turned toward me. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”
“It’s been so long since I’ve had someone I could really talk to that I forget what it’s like for most people.” Peaceful moments always reminded me of Hosea. “I had a friend, Hosea, at the group home and I could tell him anything. He was a few years older than me, and he was brilliant in a way that went beyond book smarts. His girlfriends never understood why he always let me tag along, but I loved being with him.”
“Did he get adopted?”
“No, he got bacterial meningitis and died. One day he had a fever and stayed in bed. By the time I got home from school, he was burning up.” My heart ached as I thought of seeing Hosea being wheeled on a gurney though double doors at the ER. “He died that night.”
“I’m sorry.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak for a few minutes. “He was the best person I ever knew.”
“When you were changing clothes, I saw that tattoo with an H.”
“One of my housemates did it for me. Her name’s Wilde. Well, her real name is Tiffany and she hates that. She read some graffiti in a bathroom that said ‘More is not enough. Oscar Wilde’ and that’s how she lives.”
“How did she do the tattoo?”
“With ink from a ballpoint pen and a needle.”
“That sounds painful.”
“Sometimes you suffer for the things that are important to you.” We were speaking very softly. I listened for other sounds, but heard only the wind in the trees. “Who comes to this place? Because someone broke the flow
erpot on my porch while I was asleep the night before last.”
Hattie’s brow furrowed. “Sometimes locals come here, but no one should have been on your porch. Did you tell Mrs. Radcliffe? She’d really want to know.”
“Maybe it was the wind, or an animal. Please don’t say anything to her.”
“I think you should tell her, but it’s your call.” Hattie watched the play of shadows from the birch branches. “How did your tutoring lesson with Lucky go?”
“Good. He doesn’t seem to care about chem, but he solves the problems easily.”
“Lucky pretends to be incompetent and other people fall over themselves to do things for him because he’s so gorgeous,” she said bitterly.
“Hattie, good-looking people always get special treatment. So do rich people and people with connections. Everyone at Birch Grove gets special treatment.”
“We must all seem completely self-centered to you.”
“You seem … incredibly lucky. I think it’s hard not to believe you deserve the best things in life when you’re told you’re extraordinary all the time. People say that anyone can make it, but rare exceptions don’t make it true.”
“But you made it, Jane.”
“I’ve made it this far. But I can name dozens of kids at Helmsdale City Central who are amazing students and they’re trying to succeed without, well, everything. Saying that anyone can make it is an excuse for ignoring all those who need a little help.”
“I’ve thought about that. Bebe sometimes told me about what she went through. She’d laugh like it was nothing, but I could tell it still hurt. I think that people like me, people with advantages, should do something to make the world better.”
“The problem is finding a way to actually make a difference when there are so many obstacles in the way. I haven’t figured out how I can help yet, but I want to make a difference.”
In a lighter voice, Hattie said, “I hope Lucky will find friends who’ll bring out the best in him, instead of feeding his egomania. He’s got a good heart and he’s smart … But why are we talking about Lucky anyway? I’d rather talk about Jack. He looks out for me and he can make me chill out when I get riled.”
“What sets you off?”
“The usual stuff. Being treated like my opinions don’t matter. Being treated like I’m just a girl. Just a girl. Whenever people say that, it makes me want to punch them. What makes you angry, Jane?”
“Pretty much everything,” I said casually, as if it weren’t true. “Life isn’t fair, so you have to play the best game you can with the cards you’re dealt.” The wind gusted and I crossed my arms over myself.
“You’re cold.” She took off the blanket and placed it over my shoulders. “Let’s go back.”
I used the flashlight, but Hattie walked as surely as a cat on the path. The hem of her white nightgown drifted behind her in the breeze.
I rearranged the blanket over me. “Anyone seeing us would think we’re ghosts.”
“You aren’t superstitious, are you?”
“No, there’s a rational explanation for everything.”
“I stood here, and saw before me the unutterable, the unthinkable gulf that yawns profound between two worlds, the world of matter and the world of spirit; I saw the great empty deep stretch dim before me, and in that instant a bridge of light leapt from the earth to the unknown shore, and the abyss was spanned.”
Arthur Machen, The Great God Pan (1890)
Chapter 13
I became accustomed to my new school and my new home. Sometimes I glimpsed the beam of a flashlight in the grove at night, or heard faint voices carried by the wind, but I no longer pushed my sofa against the door at night. Catalina ignored me in Latin class, and I stopped paying any attention to her, too. My most difficult class was Mrs. Radcliffe’s seminar. I struggled with my essay on “Wake Not the Dead.” The day after I handed it in, Mrs. Radcliffe stopped me as I was leaving class.
“Jane, I read your paper last night.” She came from behind her desk and smoothed her skirt. “It was quite businesslike. I’d hoped for a more personal analysis.”
“I thought the assignment was about story comprehension,” I said, hiding my irritation.
“Comprehending literature requires more than grasping the plot. Fiction offers insights to the human condition. Don’t tell me what happened in the story, but how you feel about what happened and the characters.” She handed me my ungraded paper. “I know you can do better, and I’d like you to try again.”
That night, I started the essay three times, getting more aggravated with each effort. Why should I be graded on my feelings for an assignment? Finally, in my clumsy cursive hand, I scrawled, “‘Wake Not the Dead’ is not a story about love. It is about one man’s thoughtless and cruel selfishness. He believes his position and wealth entitle him to do whatever he desires, irregardless of the consequences for everyone else.” I read the paragraph over and changed “irregardless” to “regardless.” The rest of the essay came rushing out as I thought about love and desire, and the way I wanted Lucian Radcliffe and the things that I would be willing to do if I thought that I could have him.
* * *
Mary Violet invited me to stay over on Friday night, and we set up cots on a second-floor balcony. I stared up into the sky, the stars hidden by a layer of clouds.
“JW, I’m jealous you get to tutor Lucky. I’ve got dibs on marrying him, though.”
“He might want to marry someone he hasn’t even met yet.”
“He doesn’t have much choice. Radcliffe men only marry Birch Grove girls, and Radcliffe girls only marry Evergreen boys. At some point, the inbreeding is going to show up in rare blood disorders or prehensile toes. Maybe even a tail.”
“Why are you obsessed with genetic mutations?”
She pointed upward. “I always wonder what’s out there and what’s here on Earth that we don’t know about. I saw a documentary with a scientist explaining the theory of multiverses. He said that an infinite number of universes can exist, and that they can each have their own rules of physics. Maybe in one universe, E doesn’t equal MC squared, and maybe in one there’s magic, and maybe in one, time moves backwards or in circles.”
“So that realities that seem mutually exclusive could coexist?”
“Yes.” She sighed contentedly. “Maybe there are alien girls talking right now about the possibility that girls as fabulous as us exist somewhere.”
I thought about how Hosea would have loved that theory.
“Jane?”
“Yes, Mary Violet?”
“Do you mind sleeping outside? When you lived in the hood did you ever go camping?”
I vaguely remembered nights sleeping outside and the scent of fires. “Sort of, but it wasn’t anything fancy.”
“Camping isn’t supposed to be fancy. Whenever we go camping, the days last forever, but summer vacation seems really short. Someone should do a study on the theory of relativity and holidays.” She was quiet for so long that I thought she’d gone to sleep. “We always go to my parents’ alumni camps and see the same people every year. Did you camp at a state park?”
“It was a long time ago,” I said. “There’s another thing. When I had my accident, I didn’t just lose my memory. I might have had brain damage. I had to go through testing. The doctors said I’m fine, but sometimes I wonder.”
“Maybe you are fine.” I heard MV’s long exhalation of breath. “It’s probably easier to remember things when parents remind you about them, always saying ‘remember when you did this’ and ‘remember when you did that.’ You’re such an enigma.”
A mockingbird sang somewhere in the distance, and I wondered why the species evolved to mimic other birds’ songs. “MV, you asked me if I had a nickname and I said no. But back home they called me Mousie or Mousie Girl, because I’m mousy and plain.”
“But you’re not plain! You have lovely colors, like an old sepia photo, and mice are so petite and exquisite, like you.”
“MV, I may be brain damaged, but sometimes I worry that you’re clinically insane. Don’t tell anyone about the accident or my nickname, okay?”
She sighed again. “Okay.”
* * *
At breakfast with Mary Violet’s family, the kids fought over the last pieces of bacon while Mr. Holiday tried to devise a plan to share equally based on prior consumption. Mary Violet leaned over to me. “He’s such an alpha nerd. We love that about him.”
He was so different—smart, involved, and reasonable—from the other fathers I’d known that I was studying him like he was an exotic animal.
Mrs. Holiday asked me to come into her studio. She handed me a large package covered in brown paper. “It’s one of my Lady of the Wood paintings, Jane.”
I was speechless for a moment. “You’re really giving this to me?”
“Art isn’t alive unless it’s seen and loved.” She ruffled her short locks. “I hope it will bring some joy to you, Jane. Make sure to take the time to explore your inner self and learn who you are.”
She looked at me with her smoky gray eyes and I thought that perhaps she did know things I couldn’t yet understand. “I’ll try. Thank you for the painting.”
As I was leaving, Mary Violet shoved a glossy black bag into my tote. “I get all these gifts-with-purchase when I buy makeup and perfume. I put things in there for your coloring. What are you doing tonight?”
“Thanks, MV! I’m not doing anything except studying.”
“I have to go to my grandmother’s for a family birthday. Grand-mère calls me Marie-Violette and she’s always asking me about my beaux, which is French for players with trust funds.”
“Have fun. I’ll see you Monday.” Although the painting was big, it was light, and I carried it back to my cottage and propped it on the mantel. Mary Violet’s gift bag contained samples of makeup, lotions, and hair and bath products. I was so thrilled by them that I lined them up on the bathroom vanity so I could play with them later.
Then I walked down the hill to Greenwood Grocery.