You’ve got your friends and you stick to them.
I clench my fists and I navigate my way to her. She watches me as I walk to her easel but doesn’t say anything when I arrive. “Um,” I say. “Hello.”
“Hello,” she repeats. She says it with a slightly British pronunciation, hell-oh instead of hel-low.
“I just want to thank you. For English class, back on the first day of school.”
“Sometimes Hunter just needs a reminder of common courtesy. And I meant what I said. I do like your grandmother’s poetry.”
I tug at the hem of my shirt. “She’d be glad to hear that.”
I look at Serena’s easel. It’s a swirling painting of the night sky all in blues and purples with streaks of red. It looks dangerous. “That’s nice,” I say, and immediately wince. I know better than to call a painting nice. “I’m sorry. I’ve never been good at talking about art.”
“That’s okay. Neither am I.”
When I first came in, all I could smell was the studio: paint, clay, that sort of thing. But now I can smell Serena. She uses a strawberry-scented perfume or lotion that is surprisingly innocent.
“It’s supposed to be a self-portrait.”
“You aren’t going to have room for yourself in there,” I reply.
“Maybe I’ll make myself very, very tiny. Just a speck.” She leans back and glances at a mirror that is set up next to her easel. “It’s so much harder to see yourself than other people. I’d rather paint you in there. Your face has great angles.” Serena points at her mirror and says, “I don’t like looking at myself.”
“But you’re beautiful!”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I saw the picture of you. The one from the high school art competition. It was gorgeous.” Serena holds her brush above the canvas, and I look at her again. Hunter got rid of her freckles, and her smile. He made her eyes lighter and lips darker so she and Callie looked more alike. The picture doesn’t seem so beautiful anymore. It wasn’t really Serena. Or Callie. He’d turned them into interchangeable pieces.
She paints a few more brushstrokes. These are small and tentative, and I wonder if she’s working up to painting herself, bracing herself, digging for the courage. And that makes me wonder how Nonnie did it, time and time again, pouring herself onto the page. When you write your own story, you’re asking to be read. “It’s poetry,” she used to say. “You’re meant to look.”
“I might just paint over this one,” Serena says. “Start again with my face.”
I know she means she’ll treat it with a solvent or sand it down and then paint over it with titanium white before starting over, but I picture the outline of her face over the swirls on her canvas.
“Sometimes you just need to step away from it and work on something else. Anyway, that’s what my mom says. Not that she does it, but that’s what she says.”
“Is she a painter?”
I’ve always felt like everyone in town knew my whole lineage. “Yes. I remember her telling Ramona that once when she was stuck on a painting. ‘Take it off the easel. Turn it around so you can’t even see it. It’ll let you know when it’s ready for you.’”
“Ramona from this class?”
I glance around the room, but don’t see her. “I thought she had art this period, but she’s only a freshman, so I guess I got it wrong.”
“No, this is her class. I don’t think she’s here today. She’s good. Normally they don’t let freshmen in this class.” She points toward the front of the room, to a painting on an easel. It’s a red rectangle on an off-white background. A Marcus Schmidt knockoff.
“I didn’t realize she was your sister, but I can see it now.”
It feels freeing that with Serena there are new things: I am discoverable. And I feel calm in the art room—much calmer than I did when I was actually taking art class and worried my GPA was going to plummet. Now it feels like I could come in and close the door on everything going topsy-turvy outside of it. Maybe I’ll never leave. I’ll just curl up on the floor to sleep, get people to bring me my food, and have teachers send me my work. Once the world gets normal again, then perhaps I’ll come out.
Serena picks up a wider brush. “You’re on the math team, right?”
I think about lying, but if she knows, she knows. “Yeah. It’s kind of lame.”
“I don’t think so,” she replies. She hesitates with her brush above the canvas to glance at me. “I used to be good at math, and then I guess I decided it wasn’t cool or something, and then the ability just went away. It was like instant karma or something.”
“The math gods are fickle,” I say, and she laughs. I’ve never heard her laugh. It’s low and throaty. I like it.
“Maybe if I prepare some sort of ritual sacrifice, I’ll be able to pass geometry.”
“I could help you,” I say, too quickly. “I mean, if you want help, I wouldn’t mind.”
“That would be nice.” I can’t tell if she is really agreeing, or just being polite.
“Any time, just let me know.” I take a breath so I will stop sounding like a puppy dog. “Anyway, I should go. I’m supposed to be in study hall.”
“I’ll grab you sometime for math help, all right?”
“Any time,” I say again, before I turn to go. As I near the door, I glance to my right. Ramona’s painting isn’t a rectangle but a blanket—a red afghan that I recognize. The real, ratty one is draped across the back of the couch at home. That afghan was the roof of our forts, a magic carpet, the stretcher that saved Captain Honey-Dewdrop from a battle with the half-elf, half-troll warriors of the Western shore. It was the blanket we sat on at the outdoor pool, blades of grass pressing up in the holes. It is wrapped around our family memories. I want to go find Marcus Schmidt, grab him by the elbow, drag him here, and say, This is how you do it so it matters.
iv.
Ramona has taken her tie from her neck and wound it around her wrist. She tugs at the pointed end that flops down.
“Have a good day?” I ask.
“Yep.”
“Classes were good?”
“I guess. Are we going to go home or what?”
“What did you have?”
She turns from staring at her tie to look at me. “Math, English—the usual.”
“That’s interesting because I was called down to Ms. Pickering’s office and she told me you weren’t here today. I guess there must have been some misunderstanding.”
Just tell me the truth, Ramona.
“I guess so.”
“Why are you lying to me? Where have you been? She said you’ve missed a whole lot of school. More days than you’ve been.”
I know how I sound to her: my shrill voice barely muffled by the soft top of Nonnie’s Rapier.
“You know, there are lots of programs at school—I mean lots of things in the arts. There’s Drama Club and I think there’s a literary magazine and I’m sure they’re looking for people to help with that.”
“I know.”
It’s like talking to a four-year-old who has decided she isn’t going to eat her peas and carrots no matter how much you cajole.
“Where do you go?” I try to soften my tone and end up sounding like a preschool teacher.
She pivots in the seat to look out the window. “Around.”
“I lied for you. I told her you weren’t feeling well.”
“Why’d you do that?” she asks, staring back at me.
“So you wouldn’t get in trouble.”
“I don’t care if I get in trouble.”
“Clearly. Now tell me where you’ve been.”
“Can’t we just go home?”
I do not start the car. I stare at her as she looks straight ahead. Her long hair is looking ratty—inches of split ends that needed to be cut off—and she has dark circles under her eyes. “Mom and Dad don’t know,” I tell her. “I think Mom turned the answering machine off.”
“I turned it off.”
“
What? Why?”
“It was always blinking.”
I turn the key in the ignition and back out of the parking space. When we’re on the road home, I say, “All I want to know is where you go.”
“Why?”
“Because you owe me one.”
“I owe you one?” She says it slowly, as if she is contemplating it rather than being incredulous.
“Yes, Ramona. You. Owe. Me. One.” I take a hard left onto our street, cutting it a little close to the oncoming traffic. Ramona doesn’t flinch. “I sat in that office and listened to Ms. Pickering go on about looking out for you, like this was my fault, and I didn’t sell you out. So I’d like to know what I was covering up. What I lied for. Why should I cover for you if you’re not going to tell me where you were?”
“I never asked you to cover for me. I don’t want you to.”
“Fine,” I say.
“Fine,” she agrees.
I steal glances while I drive, taking in every detail of her disarray, from stained collar to her canvas shoes, which have a hole worn in the toe. She is evolving before my eyes. Sometimes when I look at her, it’s like she isn’t even there.
As soon as we get home, I march into the living room, where Mom is reclining on the sofa, of course, reading a book of Nonnie’s poems, a cocktail in her hand. “Ramona’s been skipping school,” I announce.
“I know.”
This stops me. “What?” Mom has always been kind of flaky when it comes to school, not really buying into “the whole construct of children sitting in rows and reading from the same book and writing the same words,” but she always played along.
“The school left like a hundred messages.” She waves her hand in the air. “I’m sure she has a good reason for it.”
“Mom, I got called down to Ms. Pickering’s office. I got lectured.”
“What’s that saying?” she asks. “About siblings?”
“You can’t pick them?” I suggest.
She takes a drink. “No. ‘I am not my brother’s keeper.’ That one.”
“So you’re saying I should have told Ms. Pickering that it’s none of my business? That she’s not my responsibility?”
“I’m saying don’t worry about it. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Mom, there are laws about this. Truancy laws.”
“Hear that, Ramona? You’re a truant!”
Ramona giggles.
“Mom,” I say. “This is serious.”
“Serious as a heart attack,” she says.
“She’ll fail the ninth grade. She’ll have to redo it.”
“Well then, maybe I’ll homeschool her. What do you think of that, Ramona?”
Ramona’s smile falters. “I better go hit the books.” And she walks up the stairs.
“Mom, you can’t joke about this.”
“Really, Very,” Mom says. “Don’t take this whole messed-up family on your shoulders. Live your life. Go have fun with that butcher boy. Go a little wild.”
In my family, the whole world is inside out. Like everyone else got a memo that the usual rules do not apply. Except for me, still pottering along between the lines like a sucker.
v.
The wooden stairs are worn so each step has a divot as deep as a bowl. I hold on to the railing as I make my way up to the third floor of Peterson Hall. Mom was no help with Ramona, so I need to talk to Dad. I tried his office at home first. The dry cleaning was still hanging off the back of his desk chair, and there was bunch of junk mail and magazines piled on his desk, but no Dad.
When Ramona and I were younger, my dad had brought us to his office all the time. We’d sit on the couch he had, or on the floor, flipping through his magazines and entertaining the students who came for office hours. As we got older, though, he stopped bringing us.
Lainey, the music department assistant, greets me as I come into their suite of offices. She’s worked there, behind the large desk, for as long as I can remember. “Very, how nice to see you! It’s been forever and a day.”
“You know how it is,” I reply.
“Sure do! Your dad’s in his office.” She taps her fingers on her desk, one right after another, and looks at me meaningfully—though I’m not quite sure what the meaning is. “Been working away. He says he’s really on to it this time.” She smiles. “One of these days.”
“Thanks, Lainey. I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Okay, doll.”
When I push open the door to his office, Dad seems more distracted than surprised. He looks at me for a moment before saying, “Very.”
“You busy?”
He looks at the books and computer printouts spread out over the desk. More stacks of books are on the floor, next to piles of CDs and albums, even a few cassette tapes. It is clear he is occupied, but he says, “There’s always time for you, jelly bean. Come on in. Actually, maybe you could help me out.” I sidestep a year’s worth of The Source magazines to get to the chair on the other side of his desk. It, too, is full of magazines. He waves his hand toward the mess. “I’m working on a book proposal.”
“The hip-hop history one?”
He wrinkles his nose. “No. Done with that. This is a thousand times better. I think this could be it, Very. It’s got crossover appeal. It won’t be just academic. It’s going to be controversial. I’ll be like the Malcolm Gladwell of musicology. Talk shows, NPR, the works.”
“What’s it about?” I ask, since I know that’s what is expected of me.
“My thesis is that hip-hop isn’t really a black art, it’s a white art. Economically, sure, that’s been talked about, and I’ll go there, looking at where the money comes from and where it goes. You know, seventy percent of hip-hop is bought by white consumers. But I’m looking at the songs themselves, their antecedents.”
I nod, but really I’m thinking, What’s the point? Because I know my dad isn’t trying to start some race war over music. He isn’t trying to be the white supremacist of hip-hop. He is just trying to make a name for himself, to step beyond the world of academic publishing into the brighter spotlight.
“With this book, I can go anywhere. I’ll be fielding offers from schools all over the country. NYU, UCLA. Who knows, maybe even Harvard, although I’d rather be at MIT if I’m going to be in Cambridge.” His cheeks are flushed with excitement, and it hits me: he wants to get out. I, he said. Me. Not us.
Ramona knew.
As soon as she dies we’re selling, we’re gone. You and me and Mom will be living in some condo somewhere and . . .
It’s a mistake, coming here for help. I see that but I press on. “Have you, I mean, how do you think Mom’s doing?”
“Well, you know, as well as can be expected given the circumstances.”
I wonder if it would be possible for him to spew out any more platitudes.
“I’m worried about her.”
“Uh-huh.” He picks up one of the printouts. There is girly writing on it in green ink. The handwriting is so bubbly it looks like the i’s should be dotted with hearts.
“And I’m really worried about Ramona.”
He reaches across his desk to pick up a Vanilla Ice CD. “Garbage,” he mutters. “Still, I can’t decide if I should talk about white rappers or not. Do they deserve a place in this or are they a special case?”
He isn’t talking to me. Not really.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
He looks over an article: Elvis Presley. God, at least he could choose a less obvious path. I mean, everyone already knows that Elvis made black music safe for white audiences. “I think Ramona needs your help.”
“Uh-huh.” He circles something with his pen.
“Dad,” I say sharply.
He looks up. “I’m sorry, jelly bean.”
“Are you even listening?”
“I get so caught up in this stuff. I don’t want to lose my momentum. This is it. This is my big idea, and I don’t want to lose it.”
If it
is such a great, big idea he shouldn’t have to worry about losing it.
“Can this wait?” he asks.
The bobbleheads on his desk dance back and forth.
“I’m not sure.” I don’t really know what “this” is. “I don’t think—”
His phone rings, and, after he looks at the display, he picks it up with a smile. “Hello, Kaitlin.” He glances up at me and then immediately looks away. “Just working on the book proposal. Thanks for the articles, by the way. My daughter’s here. Very.”
I look down at the table. There is no one in the music department named Kaitlin.
I let my gaze travel around the room. The shelves are full of music theory books and mementos: framed concert tickets, a small drum, a signed Mos Def poster. There are, I realize, no pictures of us.
“Yeah, definitely,” he goes on. “It wouldn’t be a music book without Lester Bangs, would it?”
I tap my fingers on the table, and he looks up at me with pursed lips. Annoyed. He is annoyed with me. I came here to let him know that his wife and daughter are both losing it, and all he cares about his stupid book idea. “I’m going,” I say.
“Hold on,” he says into the phone. “Very, this will just take a minute. Then we can finish our conversation.”
“No.” I shake my head. “You’re busy.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks, Very.” He goes back to his conversation, telling this Kaitlin person that he would love if she came over later to help him organize his resources. When I reach the door, he says, “Thanks for stopping by, Very. We’ll talk soon.”
“That’d be great,” I say. I can lie almost as well as him now.
The one thing I was sure of was that he loved my mother. Another certainty slips away. I charge down the hallway and almost run right into Professor Winslow. “Veronica,” he says. “You look like a girl who could use a butterscotch candy.” He puts his hand on my back and guides me into his office, which I know well from my failed attempts at learning the piano. That same piano is still in the corner, its music stand holding one sheet of music.
Professor Winslow takes the top off of a glass canister on his desk and pretends not to notice as I wipe furiously at my eyes. He hands me two golden candies and then sits down on the piano bench. “These are hard days for you,” he says.
Very in Pieces Page 20