Why Can't I Be You

by Melissa Walker

  “A surface wound,” I say. My dad says when you hurt your head it bleeds a ton because there are lots of blood vessels close to the skin there. “Nothing to worry about. The towel, though. I’m sorry it—”

  “Oh, the cleaning lady will get it, don’t worry,” says Mrs. Foley. “I just want to be sure you’re all right.”

  I nod and swallow hard. “Really,” I say. “I’m fine. We can keep swimming.”

  Brianna’s mom clucks her tongue. “I don’t think so,” she says. “Claire, I’m going to have to call your mom—she should know what happened.”

  “Don’t, Mrs. Foley,” I plead. “She’s working, and she can’t come get me. Really, I’ll be okay.” Then I think maybe they don’t want me in the water because of the blood. “I’ll stay out of the pool, I was done swimming anyway.”

  Brianna’s mom smiles at me. “Okay, I won’t insist that your mom come get you, but I’m going to give her a call for the heads-up anyway. And you promise to let me know if it starts hurting more.”

  “I will,” I say.

  “Keep this on it.” Brianna’s mom hands the ice back to me after she wraps it in a fresh towel. “It’ll help control the swelling.”

  I nod. “Thanks.”

  She goes inside with the bloody towel, and I lean against the soft yellow-striped pillow of the chair. I close my eyes.

  “Maybe we should dry off and watch a movie,” says Brianna.

  “What? I didn’t even get to swim yet,” says Eden.

  I keep my eyes closed because if I didn’t they would roll all the way up into my head. If it were up to me, Brianna and I would go inside and Eden would stay out here. Forever.

  Brianna’s voice goes all singsongy. “We can watch the newest Star Girls.”

  I open my eyes. That movie was just in theaters, like, a month ago.

  Brianna looks at me. “My parents got some TV package where almost everything is on demand now,” she explains like it’s no big deal.

  And then we go inside and they take me down a set of stairs that weren’t part of the tour. When Eden said “basement,” I pictured a cobwebby space filled with boxes. But no. This place is all white walls and soft blue carpet. The big room is set up like a movie theater, and the screen takes up almost the whole wall. There are two speakers on either side of it, and a big, comfy, U-shaped couch, so we each get a long space to stretch out on.

  “Wow” is all I can say. It comes out kind of whispery.

  Brianna grabs the remote and finds the movie right away. Then she puts in a password and, voilà, we are watching the new Star Girls.

  When her mom comes down and says, “Are you girls ready to order pizza?” Brianna shushes her while nodding.

  I find myself half watching the movie and half watching Brianna and Eden. What they laugh at, how they look back and forth at each other. Brianna looks at me sometimes too, it’s not like she’s ignoring me. But something feels off. She doesn’t ask about my nose, even though I keep adjusting the ice pack.

  Is it because of this new house? The pool? Or is it because Eden is here with her dazzling curls and her fancy cover-up and gold nails? I had fun swimming with Brianna, but Eden scrolling through her phone really put me in a bad mood.

  A little while later, Mrs. Foley brings down a large pizza with extra cheese and a two-liter bottle of soda, plus garlic knots and dipping sauces. Eden and Brianna don’t turn away from the screen, but I make sure to whisper, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Claire,” she says quietly. Then she hands me a new ice pack and mouths, “You okay?” I give her a thumbs-up sign and hand her the old pack. I put the new one on my nose, but when she leaves I take it off. My face doesn’t hurt much anymore.

  I fill up on pizza and garlic knots, plus three glasses of soda, before the movie ends. When the credits roll, I stretch and yawn, and I see Eden staring at me.

  “Your face is so messed up,” she says.

  “Ooh, Claire, does it still hurt?” Brianna chimes in.

  “A little.” The ice pack was cold but it did make my nose feel better. I stand up to go into the bathroom, and when I turn on the light and look in the mirror, I see what they’re saying.

  There’s a black-and-blue ring forming under my left eye, and my nose itself has a bright-red cut right at the top. It’s not even a place where any shape of Band-Aid could fit, so I guess I have to walk around like this. Unless I want to put a paper bag over my head.

  I splash some water onto my cheeks and then I smile at myself in the mirror. I can laugh this off.

  “I guess I need a paper bag to wear over my head,” I say when I walk out, and Brianna laughs but Eden kind of cringes and nods, like she really thinks that would help.

  Later when they drop me off, I promise Mrs. Foley that I’ll ice my nose some more tonight and that I’ll give her best to my mom. Then I wave good-bye to all of them but before I can leave the back seat, Brianna tries to hug me. I give her a half hug and pull away.

  Inside my living room, I unload my backpack and take a deep breath as I look around. At the flowered couch covered with a knit blanket my mom’s mom, Grandma Lou, made when I was born. At the window in the kitchen, small and round—the only round window I’ve seen in Twin Pines Park, which always made it feel extra special. At the bright-red toaster Mom bought last summer for “a pop of color” while she saves up for one of those heavy ceramic pots that come in bright shades. At the narrow hallway that’s lined with Mom’s framed puzzles and photos of our family, including one of me, Mom, and Dad when I was first born. The hall leads to the bathroom, with its bright-blue tub, and two bedrooms—the perfect size for Mom and me. It’s always been our home.

  But right now, in this moment, it doesn’t feel special at all.

  Chapter 13

  The sun is setting by the time I spot Ronan walking toward his trailer. No one answered when I knocked earlier, but I thought I saw Mr. Michaels slumped on the couch. It’s weird how he doesn’t come to the door, but honestly, if Ronan’s not home I don’t want to have to talk to his dad. So I walked around and checked out Mrs. Gonzalez’s garden instead. The tomatoes were still pretty green, but I could see tinges of red starting to spread. There was a new low fence around her plot too, and I noticed that it was the same style as the pen Mr. Brewster built for Rocky—sturdy and nice looking, made from dark wood.

  I need to talk to Ronan. While I was waiting, I kept thinking about the time this winter when Mom and I drove some girls home after basketball practice. In the back seat, Josephine Pritchard whispered a joke about all the cleaning supplies in my mom’s car, and I heard. But I didn’t get upset. I turned around and said, “I’m not embarrassed by it. My mom works hard.” It was that simple. Josephine didn’t say anything more. Mom said that me being okay with me makes other people okay with me, and I’ve found that to be true.

  So why did today with Eden and Brianna feel different? Today, so much about me felt not okay.

  I hear a branch snap and look up to see Ronan carrying his fishing rod and a small Styrofoam cooler. Right. The selfie.

  Rocky is jogging next to Ronan.

  “Hey,” I say.

  When Ronan looks up, his jaw goes slack. He drops everything in his hands and rushes toward me.

  My nose. I forgot.

  “Claire, what happened? Who—?”

  I put up my hand. “It was the pool,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Brianna’s pool. It attacked me. Came right up and took a chunk out of my nose and left me with this black eye too.” I smile to show him I’m okay because he still looks upset.

  “Must be a pretty tough pool,” he says, sounding skeptical. He squints at me. “Are you sure it was just . . .”

  “Ronan, it was the pool.”

  “So that’s where you were?” he asks. “At Brianna’s?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Sorry I didn’t tell you.” It’s not like I have to let Ronan in on all my plans, but maybe me being gone without a wor
d was kind of rude.

  He starts walking away. “Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles.

  “Well, let’s hang out now,” I say, following him. Ronan walks up to Mr. Brewster’s trailer to open the dog-pen gate for Rocky. I check to be sure Mr. Brewster’s car isn’t here and then I say, “Hey, did I tell you that I saw Mrs. Gonzalez and Mr. Brewster leaning over their porch rails to talk to each other the other day? And look at her garden plot!” I point toward the tomatoes. “I think he built that new fence for her.”

  Ronan shrugs. “So?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, letting my arm drop. “I mean, they’re kind of the same age . . . they both live alone . . .”

  “You’re being gossipy, Claire,” he says, locking Rocky’s gate and heading back to get his rod and cooler.

  “Fine.” I sigh loudly and change the subject. I’m stalling because I don’t really know how to bring up what I want to talk about. “Did you catch anything?”

  “Just some sunfish, which I threw back,” he says. “I did get one smallmouth though. It’s in here.” He taps the cooler, and I nod like I want him to open it up and show me, so he does.

  The fish has a green-gold shine to it, and the one eye I can see stares blankly as it lies on the ice. I watch its last breaths going in and out, in and out.

  “Close it,” I say, turning away. I feel like I’ll cry if I keep looking at that fish.

  Ronan shuts the cooler.

  “How was the pool?” he asks as we head over to my porch steps and sit down side by side. “Aside from the . . .” He gestures at my nose.

  “It was . . . weird,” I say. Ronan and I are sitting really close together because the steps are narrow, so I look out at a scrawny pine tree between our trailers. If I turned my head I’d be talking pretty much straight into his ear.

  “Weird how?” asks Ronan.

  I stare at the flecked bark on the ground. Suddenly I feel like maybe telling Ronan all about my feelings is going against Brianna. I could talk to her about it, right? But when I think of actually doing that my stomach clenches. What would I say? “Um, I feel bad that you’re rich now and have all these cool things and I don’t.”

  “I don’t know . . . ,” I start, and Ronan gives me space to keep going. So after a minute, I do. “Have you ever noticed how Brianna has everything? How she gets everything?” And once I’ve said that, I can’t stop talking. “I mean, anything that comes into her mind will suddenly materialize in front of her, like she has her own magic genie to answer every wish! She has new jewelry and shoes and two dens and her own bathroom that’s just for her and a polka-dot pillow in her window where she can sit and read or be on her phone or whatever. And it’s not only the house. First we’re out by her pool and then we’re watching a brand-new movie on her big TV and having pizza and soda and even garlic knots.”

  Ronan doesn’t say anything. He’s looking at his trailer door, which is partly open. I see a flicker of TV light.

  I swat his arm. “Hey, you’re not listening to me,” I say, standing with a stomp of my flip-flop.

  “I heard you, Claire,” he says, standing up beside me. “But yeah. I mean, duh. I’ve always known that other kids have things that I don’t.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you?” I ask.

  “Yes!” he says, his voice a mad whisper as he glances back at his trailer again, and now we’re standing here in front of my doorway like we’re in a fight. “I’m mad every day that I don’t have a different life!”

  “Is that why you posted that selfie?” I ask. “‘On the lake’? Please, Ronan, you were at the brook. And whose phone did you use, anyway?”

  That gets him. “How did you see that?” he asks.

  “Eden follows you,” I say. “She showed us.” Then, because I see the question in his eyes, I say, “Don’t worry, I didn’t tell them you were lying. But I’m sure Brianna knew.”

  “Maybe I wish I could get to the lake,” he says. “Besides, who cares? It doesn’t hurt anyone.”

  He’s jealous. Like I am. But I’m not lying about stuff. “Them being able to go to the lake, and having money . . . it doesn’t make them better,” I say, thinking about Justin and Daniel’s post, and coming back to what I know to be true, what has to be true. I’m saying what I wanted Ronan to say to me. I need to be reassured, but that’s not happening.

  “Maybe I just wanted to pretend for a minute!” Ronan’s voice is quiet but he still sounds mad, like he’s boiling under the surface. He picks up his fishing rod and cooler and starts to walk toward his door.

  “But the brook is so great,” I say, thinking of our cool rock on a hot day. “You don’t need to pretend you’re somewhere else.”

  “Maybe you don’t need to pretend you’re somewhere else!” He looks over his shoulder as I follow him. “You don’t get to say what I need!”

  I feel a tremble coming in my lip, but I hold it still. I will not cry.

  We’re in front of Ronan’s door now, and he turns to look right at me. “I’ll tell you what I don’t need, Claire. I don’t need you telling me how much Brianna has that you don’t! You’re complaining about her not knowing what she has? You have plenty, all right? God, you can be so stupid sometimes!”

  I’m stunned. It’s like he slapped me. I wait for him to take it back, to say he’s sorry, to at least soften his face, which looks meaner than I’ve ever seen it—all hard angles and sunburn.

  But he doesn’t do any of that. He just opens the screen door and leaves me there.

  “Ronan!” I shout. He turns to me, and I open my mouth to . . . I don’t know. Stop him, make him understand me.

  “You look like a caught fish with that open mouth, Claire,” he says. So I close it again.

  And then I turn around to go home, and on my way I kick up the dirt in the raised bed outside Ronan’s trailer, which is filled with nothing.

  Chapter 14

  “Claire, do you have the Lysol?”

  “Yeah!” I head downstairs to the kitchen to bring my mom her can’t-do-without cleaning product. People like to be fancy and eco friendly, but Mom always asks if she can use some of her own supplies for especially hard-to-clean areas. The less harsh stuff doesn’t work as well.

  “Put it on the counter, thanks,” says Mom, and she sticks her head back into the oven to fight the grease of a chicken that got roasted at the Skyler residence. Even though they’re gone for most of the summer, Mr. Skyler is home a few days a week for work, and he still wants Mom to “keep things spick-and-span,” at least that’s what his note on the table says.

  When I was little, Mom held me in a carrier as she cleaned, and later she brought a playpen that would fence me into one area. All of her clients welcomed me, because if they didn’t, they didn’t get Mom as their cleaning person. And she’s the best.

  When I do a job with her, Mom pays me five dollars an hour, and she has me put the finishing touches on rooms after she’s done the deep clean. Right now I’m working on the upstairs hall bath at Gemma’s—straightening the hand towels, doing a mirror inspection, rinsing out the soap tray, and adding a new fancy bar that’s shaped like a swan.

  I lean close to the sparkling-clean mirror to inspect my face. My left eye still has a purple bruise underneath it that’s fading to yellow, and my nose is scabbed a bit, right at the top. Mom made a little noise when she first saw it, like it looked worse than she thought it would. Brianna’s mom had called her, but I guess she didn’t get the full picture. “Does it hurt?” she asked me. And I said no truthfully. It really doesn’t. Unless I press on it or something. And my sunglasses cover both the eye and the bridge-of-nose issue, so I’ve got them with me.

  It’s good to earn a little money, maybe for something I’ll need before school. I tell myself that’s why I came to work with Mom today. But also, I didn’t want to be home when Ronan knocks. If he knocks.

  I still don’t understand what happened, why he got so mad. I went to him feeling bad about Brianna, but I left our conver
sation feeling much worse. Like completely upside down. I keep hearing him say, “You can be so stupid sometimes!” I thought Ronan would understand how I felt about Brianna’s new house. I thought he would be the only one who’d understand.

  Since the Skylers are gone, I decide to poke around a little bit. When I was younger, Gemma and I would play in the backyard tree house for hours while Mom cleaned. It’s big enough to hold a toy kitchen and multiple sets of doll bunk beds, so we usually ended up playing a game we called Restaurant in a Hospital. Gemma’s little brother, Sam, mostly uses it now, and when I peeked up there this morning I saw a set of train tracks running across the floor, a Darth Vader poster on one wall, and a cardboard box filled with packages of crackers and cookies in the corner. I smiled at that because Gemma and I were never allowed to eat up there; I’ve heard that second kids get away with more.

  But I didn’t come for the tree house. I came for Gemma’s room.

  I know the oven is going to keep Mom busy for a while, so I walk out of the hall bath and through the next door on the right.

  Mom already cleaned Gemma’s bedroom—queen-size comforter tight and straight, pillows fluffed, rug vacuumed. A bulletin board, newly dusted, holds drama programs from middle school, pictures of Gemma’s friends, birthday cards. She has a TV on one wall with a sleek set of speakers underneath it. Her comforter has a country theme—covered bridges and grassy areas and farmhouses are gathered together in little scenes. I think there’s a word for this fabric pattern but I don’t remember it.

  I’ve always loved the black-and-white family photos clustered on one wall. In the pictures the Skylers are all dressed in white—on beaches, in front of big houses, even one where they all seem to be on top of a mountain, still completely in white. Or maybe they’re wearing pastels and I can’t tell because of the black-and-white thing.

  The pictures seem like something from a movie—the perfect happy family. At least, that’s how I always saw them before. Today, the images aren’t making me calm like they used to. I have questions. I look into Gemma’s eyes. I want to figure out what she’s thinking, which is hard to do with a photo, but I try anyway. Did she know that she was lucky to be at the beach, or skiing, or staying in a big vacation house? Did she care?