“Oh, yeah, never enough these days,” Chris said.
“It’s mostly crap, and you know it,” Matt said. He leaned out to look at me. His curls hung down to his eyes, and even though he was glaring at me, I didn’t care. “You do know that it’s the drunk’s job to get it together, right?”
I had to look away from his eyes. Especially because I thought he might be a little bit right.
Jenna was at Mother’s Beach with the usual crowd that hung there.
She skipped over and got in, handing a pot of lip gloss into the front. “Try this,” she said. “Peach Blossom.”
I could smell the sickly sweetness of it, and I gagged quietly. Liz stuck her finger in it and smeared it over her lips.
Jenna stuck the pot under my nose. “No thanks, I’ve got my own.” I reached into the glove compartment and put my own color on. I checked myself before we backed out. Just right.
“That’s your color, Claude,” she said.
“I know.” Actually it was Mom’s, but it worked on me.
The mall was exactly what I wanted: the three of us acting like kids in a commercial. We were laughing, happy teens. Giddiness was a strange feeling, sort of like being tickled. I loved it and dove right into the part, following where Liz and Jenna went and laughing at the things they laughed at. We put on headphones at the music store and danced in the aisles.
And then I saw Mom’s favorite store, Deja’s. A gauzy Indian-print shirt hung outside the store. Her favorite song played inside. I took down the shirt and followed the sound of the Grateful Dead into the cramped room.
“Can I try it on?” I asked, holding it up for the clerk to see.
“Oh, Claude, come on,” Liz said. “This isn’t you; you’re jeans and a T-shirt, khakis and a polo. What else, Jenna?”
“She’s a ponytail.” She put her hands on her hips.
I went into a dressing room anyway. The smell of vanilla musk oil and the light touch of the material was like a kiss from Mom. I held the shirt to my face and breathed. Tears pooled behind my lids, but I blinked them back. “Mom,” I whispered.
A pair of hip-huggers with a fringe belt appeared over the top of the door, and Liz said, “You might as well go all the way.”
“Thanks,” I said. I stepped out of my own pants, pulled up the hip-huggers, and tied up the belt. When I picked up my pants, a silver anklet fell in a knot at my feet. Mom’s anklet.
“What was that?” Jenna asked.
“I’ll be right there,” I said. I fastened it around my ankle, the opposite foot from the one with the toe ring, and stepped back to take in my reflection. “Excellent.” I pulled the curtain back and stepped out.
Liz and Jenna went white and looked at each other. Their mouths opened and then closed. “It’s too creepy,” Liz said.
“What’s wrong?” I said, smoothing the shirt. “Everything fits perfectly.”
“Too perfect,” Jenna said.
“Yeah, you look exactly like your mom, Claudine. Exactly.”
I went into the dressing room again and looked. I felt right and serene. “I’ll get it all,” I called out. “And I’ll wear it now.”
While I paid, Liz and Jenna waited outside the store. We were supposed to be seeing a movie, but it had already started.
“Let’s get going,” I said.
“No, wait,” Jenna said. “The movie. We haven’t missed that much.”
Liz nodded.
“I’ve got stuff to do still,” I said. “And school tomorrow.”
“Who are you, Cinderella?” Jenna asked.
“Come on, Claude,” Liz said. She did her sad face for me.
“I’m beat,” I said, and began walking. They stayed a few steps behind me, heads together, whispering.
We drove in silence, except for Jenna’s chatter to Liz and Liz’s grunts back. As I passed the sign for Deep Cove, my stomach began to tighten and I felt the anklet heavy around my ankle.
After I dropped them off at Liz’s house, I drove to the beach and parked at the seawall. The air was thick with salt and cooler than it had been during the day, but I left my sweatshirt in the car. Waves slapped the shore at half tide. I stood on top of the cement block wall, shook my hair out, and spread my arms wide, letting the breeze touch me. Gauzy waves of Indian print rippled against my skin, making me smile. Strange, I thought, I’d always hated this look.
Dear Mom,
It’s the middle of the night, and I woke up on my hands and knees on the bathroom floor! I don’t remember getting there, but when I woke up, I was reaching out behind the toilet. Gross, huh? I got the broom and swept back there, and you know what I found? A necklace of yours. It was the blue stone dragonfly necklace on the leather thong. I put it on and it goes perfectly with the outfit I bought at Deja’s. I think of you whenever I look at the shirt. You’d love it.
Now I’m awake and I can’t sleep. I think I’ll bag up all my ugly clothes and take them to a Goodwill.
—Claude
11
LIZ STARED AT ME DURING POETRY CLASS. When I looked back, she looked away. If she was mad about not going to the movie, she didn’t say. I moved my chair over and wrote a list of chores I needed to do and covered it with my hand. There was actual dirt on my sheets, and I had to change them. I mean, that was disgusting. Moonpie had brought in half the garden.
“It’s good to see someone taking notes,” said Mr. Springer. “It’s not a bad idea to write something down if it resonates with you.”
I looked down at the list of household chores and giggled.
A pencil poked me in the back. “Brownnoser,” Matt said.
I wrote Liz a note and slid it over to her. Let’s meet in the library after school to work on your health report. I have some ideas for you. C.
“Claudine, anything you’d like to share?” Mr. Springer asked.
“No, it’s personal,” I said, turning the page of the notebook.
Mr. Springer began passing out yellow three-by-three Post-it pads. “Take the packet I made for you of American poets and the Post-its.” He moved to the board, where he’d written the title FIGURATIVE SPEECH. Below were columns for metaphor, simile, alliteration, onomatopoeia, etc. “Find examples of these in the poetry. Copy them with the author and name of the poem on the back and put your own name on the front. Stick them in the appropriate column, your name out.”
The class moved as one mass up to the board. Packet pages flipped frantically and pencils scribbled as they competed to fill the columns. Above their heads I could only see the tops of the columns. With a blast of clarity that only happens when I’m very focused, I saw what I needed to do. I sucked in my breath with a loud, “Oh!” and heads turned to see me staring at the wall graph. Instead of figurative language, I saw my life laid out on the board. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, etc. Below each day I would list the daily chores.
“A revelation?” Mr. Springer said.
“Maybe,” I said.
The idea was huge. I’d use different-colored Post-its for different days of the week. Each chore would have its own sticky note, and I’d put them on the cupboards in vertical columns so I could follow my daily progress. This idea was going to make an incredible change in my whole life. I could even designate another color for long-term projects like home repairs, winterizing, spring cleaning. This was doable. It would fix everything. I would have clean hair every day, my lunch would be packed, and the cat would be fed. I would even coordinate my grocery list with a menu plan.
Why hadn’t I thought of this earlier? If Mom and I had used an organizing tool like this when I was growing up, I wouldn’t have scrambled every morning to clean up and make sure she was awake and eating. I would have remembered to check the fridge for beer and dump it out before school instead of later, in the middle of a party when she was already smashed. I would have been able to make the bus on time and been focused in class instead of worrying if Mom had gotten up that day. A Post-it system would have given her a structure to follow every day and one
for me, too. A wave of despair overtook me, and I began to sob uncontrollably. I turned my back on the class and forced myself to breathe the dark panic away.
The slapping shut of notebooks and moving of chairs brought me back to the room. I wiped my nose and sat down to pack my books. Mr. Springer handed me some papers.
“Thanks,” I said, glad to have something more to do.
He waited beside my desk.
“Those were the wrong notes, Claudine. You must have meant them for something else.” He handed me the letter I’d written to Mom about stealing things from the MacPhees.
My heart thudded in my chest and my cheeks burned as I ran through my lists. How’d this even get out of my binder? “It’s personal. I thought I mailed it.”
“Maybe you mailed the biography notes to your mom.” He looked down at me and waited. “It’s okay, Claudine. I didn’t read it.” The classroom was clearing, and I felt the familiar panic rise in my throat as I tried to remember the notes and passing the letter in to him. He was right—I must have mailed it to Mom. I searched for something to hand him. “Here. No, that’s not it.” I dug deeper. “It’s buried under here somewhere, I’m sure. Shoot.” I shrugged. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have the assignment?”
“It must be in the mail. Someone at Jackson Heights is reading something very interesting.” I smiled like it was some sort of funny mix-up.
“Pass it in by Monday.”
Frantic fists pounded inside my chest. This was my best subject, and I was messing up.
“I’ll have it for you. Don’t worry.”
“Frankly, I am a little worried, Claudine. You aren’t yourself, and I know why.”
I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on the floor.
“You look exhausted, and I know you must be worried about your mother. A lot of people understand what you’re going through. You’re not alone.”
Ah, the magic words. Code words. He’s one of us. Oooo. Maybe there’s a special handshake, too. The recovery process had seemed the thing to do when I needed to help Mom, but now I wasn’t so sure. At least not when it involved me.
He walked out the door and down the hall with me.
My plodding feet and racing heart were out of sync. I breathed through my nose and willed my heart to slow as he walked beside me. Kids poured from classrooms and rushed to get to their lockers.
“Let’s go talk to Ms. Frost.”
“No. I’m fine. I have an appointment with her later—about the scholarship.”
“Oh, the scholarship. Congratulations on your nomination.” He smiled and clamped his hand on my shoulder. “She’s a good listener, too. Can I write you a hall pass?”
We were standing in front of her closed door.
Watch everyone putting their books away, I told myself. See the guys fooling around at their lockers? Keep your eyes on them. Focus. Hear the coach chewing out his quarterback? Focus on this moment and breathe. Go through your list: Did you take out the trash? No. Did you feed Moonpie? Yes.
If I’d thought of the Post-it Plan earlier, this never would have happened. I would’ve had everything under control.
“Claudine, I care about you and your future. Let me know if you feel overloaded.”
I gave him a quick smile and said, “I have to do some work at the library.”
He nodded. And I left him in the hall.
The school library had a chair in a back corner beside a window that looked out onto the field where girls were practicing field hockey. Sports seemed like such a waste of time when there were so many important things to finish. At the same time, a miniature of myself, one deep inside, wanted to see what it would be like to be one of the normals. I’d be a good runner if I ever tried. I had “legs up to here,” people always said. I brushed that image away as I whipped out my list. Liz was at the top of the list and she was late. I might have to cross her off.
The double doors opened, and I looked up at the sound. Liz, with Jenna close behind, came in, giggling. They went to the librarian and whispered something, and then left, muffling their laughter in the rush. That was me last week, I thought. List tight in my fist, I rushed after them, but they were gone when I reached the hall.
Mr. MacPhee was on both knees, planting bulbs along his brick path. He waved me over.
“Hey-hey, Claude!” he called.
“Is Liz here?”
“She went to the movies with Jenna Carver, the one they missed last night,” he said, resting an arm on one knee.
My mouth went dry. She didn’t tell me that. They left without asking me.
I barely heard Mr. MacPhee talking to me. He took a step forward. “How about taking this one for your mother’s garden? I’m beat. I can’t do another thing.”
I don’t think Mom had ever owned such a huge bulb.
But there it was again, another MacPhee hand-me-down. “No thanks, it’s a little early for bulbs,” I said.
“So Liz tells me that your mother is still at Jackson Heights?” He set the bulb down and dug a hole for it.
“Yup, still there,” I said. I started to walk away.
“I’m looking into Jackson Heights, too.”
I turned around. I didn’t know where to go with this.
He picked the bulb up and handed it to me. “Your mother’s doing the right thing. This could be a coming-home gift.”
I took the lumpy bulb. It was heavy for what it looked like. I smiled and said, “Thank you.”
When Liz and Jenna came out of the theater, I was standing where they’d bump into me.
“Hi, how’s it going?”
Their mouths opened and they looked at each other.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Surprised?”
Jenna began, “You missed it again.”
Liz said, “Man, Claude, you didn’t show up, so—”
“So you went without me. And now I’m going to see it.”
They said nothing.
“I would’ve come today, you know.” I squeezed between them and bought my ticket. I didn’t look back.
Hunkering down in my seat, I sat in the darkened theater with my hands tucked into my sleeves and shivered. The place was a germ factory. The movie was stupid. A girl and a guy get caught on an island. What will they do until they get rescued? Duh.
I left before they were rescued and drove home with the bulb from Mr. MacPhee on the seat beside me. I reached for an antibacterial wipe from the glove compartment and wiped my hands while I steered with my elbows. Then I wiped down the steering wheel, the bulb, and the seat. Everything was better already.
Moonpie was waiting on the steps, and Linwood was parked in front of the trailer. He hopped out of his truck and came toward the car. His smile turned into a glare when I looked up at him.
“What the hell, girl?”
“What?”
“Your mother know you got her stuff? Her car?”
“Yeah,” I said, fiddling with the keys.
He motioned to the door. “Locking the door now?”
“I lock it when I leave,” I said, turning the key. “That’s what normal people do.”
“Serena never locks it,” he said, following me in.
“I rest my case.”
I put my backpack on the counter and frowned when he set a six-pack down beside it.
“She’s not here, Linwood.”
He whipped off his sweatshirt, and the odor of baitfish wafted up. I took a step back.
“What’s all this?” he asked, motioning to the Post-its with an unopened beer.
“Reminders,” I said. I thought of my new idea and the colorful columns that I’d make.
“Reminders for what?”
“For my life, what do you think?”
His beer hissed open, and it all came rushing back in a nauseating second. How much I hated him, how he had sabotaged Mom’s recoveries. How she’d let him come back every time they broke up.
It was pretty simple: when Linwood was a
round, Mom drank more; when Linwood was gone, Mom drank less.
“Linwood, you could use a few reminders yourself, like: ‘Get a life’ or ‘Be nice,’” I said. “Or, ‘Take a shower, you smell like a bait barrel.’” I crossed my arms over my chest.
He chuckled to himself. “You’re cold, girl, cold as your mother is, but I like you anyways. And you look good in her clothes.” He jutted his chin out at me. “And her jewelry, too. Looks good.”
“You pig.”
He took a haul off his beer and slammed it on the counter. “I can’t believe she didn’t say nothin’ to me. It ain’t like her.”
“Get out, Linwood, and take your nasty-smelling sweatshirt with you.” I moved toward the beer, but he scooped it up.
His lips turned down. “I thought she’d at least call.” He stood up. “Tell me where she’s at,” he said. He took a giant step forward. “I’m gonna go see her.”
“No!” The smell of beer was making me sway, bringing nausea with it. The image of Mom white-faced, a drained beer bottle beside her, appeared in my mind. “Get out!” I screamed.
“Jeezus! Okay, okay, I’m outta here.” He grabbed his sweatshirt and six-pack.
I ran for the bathroom and retched in the toilet bowl.
When I stood again and faced myself in the mirror, it was my mother’s face I saw. This was her after a rough night—gray, shaky, scraggle-haired. I couldn’t shut my eyes to this. I turned on the shower and undressed. I was disgusting again. I let the spray prick my skin with hot beads of water while I kneaded the puff into a lavender-scented lather. It’ll be okay in a minute, I thought. I used the nailbrush on my fingertips, but it took more than a few minutes to get off the dirt from the day. It was a day where so much had changed. Liz had changed, and Linwood wouldn’t stay away. Even Mr. Springer was different. It would take a long time to make this day clean.
I sat in front of the silent television and wrote Mom a letter.
Dear Mom,
I have a great idea. It’s so great that you need to know about it before you come back. It’ll make life sooooo much easier. You can come home and slide right into your new routine. I know how hard you’re working in your recovery. You should be supported.
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