I faked a yawn. “It’s a really long story. I’ll tell you everything another time.” And with that, I picked up my bag, waved goodbye, and headed to my next class, leaving them with their mouths slightly open, an expression of surprise written all over their faces.
I’ve told lies before, of course. Yes, Dad, I took the garbage out, or, No, Georgia, I didn’t forget to TiVo Rhapsody in Rio. But this lie tasted different. It left a cool minty feeling coursing through my veins that made me feel energized. But why? Why couldn’t I just look Andi and Lindsey in the eye and tell them, No, I didn’t have a boyfriend?
It was just too addictive being the new me.
When I got home from school, I called Georgia in the safety of my room.
“Hey,” Georgia answered on the first ring. “I was totally just thinking about you.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’ve been dying to tell you what happened in history today.” Georgia went on to explain in elaborate detail how Mr. Peterson’s lesson had sweeping parallels to last season’s Rhapsody in Rio cliff-hanger where the Rodrigues family plotted revenge against the Santos family.
I listened silently.
“What’s wrong?” Georgia asked.
I didn’t know what to say. I missed my parents, I missed Georgia, I even missed Mr. Peterson’s stupid history class. But I didn’t say that. Instead I said, “I don’t fit in. I mean, I do fit in, but that’s the problem. I fit in because Jolie makes my zits go away with hemorrhoid cream, and Trent gave me highlights, and I have an interesting story to tell. But if any of these people met me four months ago, he wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
“Who’s he?” Georgia asked.
“I meant they.”
“You said he.”
There was silence.
“Okay,” Georgia said. “I’m not even going into why you’re using hemorrhoid cream, but I detect a Freudian slip, and I want to know who HE is.”
“Well,” I said, “there is this guy, Owen. He’s tall and has these amazing green eyes and his skin is golden . . .”
“Sounds like he goes tanning. I mean, come on, it’s almost October.”
“Shut up!” I said. “Seriously, his eyes, they’re like emerald green.”
“Colored contacts?”
“Quit it! I’m serious. He’s beautiful. And he actually seems interested in me.”
“And why is that so hard to believe?”
“Because the girls here are beautiful and I’m just afraid he’s only interested because I’m the new girl. In a few weeks I’ll be like old stale bread and then I’ll have no one.”
It was quiet for a second on the other end, then Georgia spoke. “Em, you just lost your parents. It was a major shock and I think it’s normal to be afraid you’re going to lose everything, to feel alone. But you don’t have to worry, because I’m always here. Besides, stale bread makes the best pudding. Just channeling my grandma for a sec.”
“I know, I know,” I said, maybe a little too sharply. “But Georgia, I need friends here. I need to start over. I don’t want to be Emily of the accident anymore. And Andi and Lindsey seem to like me, but G, these girls are flawless. And they’re super-rich.”
“That doesn’t make them especially interesting,” Georgia said with a subtle bite.
I sighed.
“Come on, Em. We didn’t bond talking about eyeliners and designer clothes. Maybe these girls aren’t the kind of friends you need.”
“We met when we were six,” I snapped. “It was different.”
“Okay,” Georgia said softly.
We hung up, and for the first time ever I felt like Georgia just didn’t understand. Everything had changed.
Everything had changed forever.
chapter six
“SO WHEN IS HE COMING?” Jolie asked. It was a brisk evening in early October and she was wrapping a luscious black cashmere scarf around her neck while looking at me with worry in her eyes.
“Fifteen minutes,” I said, putting my chemistry lab book on the kitchen table. “Anthony’s totally going to regret asking me to be his partner when he realizes how useless I am at this stuff.” I thought about how that comment would have irritated my mom because she always preached the power of positive thinking. But Jolie just laughed.
“I remember chemistry. Ugh!” Jolie shuddered as she grabbed her keys. “You’ll be okay? I don’t have to go.” She paused in the hallway, guilt flashing across her pretty face.
“Just go,” I said. “You haven’t been to a party in like five days!” I teased.
Jolie smiled and touched my cheek. Her dangly earrings sparkled. She looked so pretty when she was going out, it made me feel even worse that my presence had deprived her of that for so long. “I won’t be out late. Call if you need anything.” As Jolie opened the door, she collided with Anthony, a white bakery box in his hand.
“Anthony?” Jolie asked.
“Yup,” he answered.
“What’d you bring me?” Jolie asked, nodding toward the box.
“Donuts,” he said, unraveling the string and opening up the box.
“I like you already,” Jolie said, scooping up a Boston cream. “The chemistry queen is awaiting your arrival.” She waved goodbye, then left.
Anthony walked in. “Was that your aunt?” But without waiting for a reply, he stepped into the living room and said, “Wow, nice place.” He went over to the window. “Great view.”
I walked over toward him and followed his gaze. Looking through the oversized windows made you feel like you were in a bird’s nest amid the copper and rust leaves, observing the Hudson River Park bike paths and piers. I could see the appeal to others, but for me, the Hudson was a constant reminder that I was no longer in Pennsylvania. The water was rough and impersonal here, with barges passing slowly through all hours of the night and day. At home the river was lush and relaxing; here it was lined on both sides by concrete, and the impersonal skyline of New Jersey stared back from the other side.
“The only view I have,” Anthony said, “is into Mr. and Mrs. Delafonte’s apartment. And believe me, you don’t want your eyes to wander there.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Well, first, Mr. Delafonte’s not too shy with a knife and fork, if you know what I mean. So, he’s pushing three hundred. And he has a habit of walking around in his briefs.”
“Eeeew!” I said.
“I know,” Anthony said, “and on one really unfortunate occasion, I witnessed him flailing his arms and legs around while watching a kick-boxing video.”
“Oh, get that man some blinds!” I said, letting out a big belly laugh.
“Good God,” Anthony said in response to my outburst.
I recalled one night when my mom and I were watching Saturday Night Live and I let out a hearty laugh. A strange, almost nostalgic look passed over her face. That laugh, she had said, out of someone as tiny as you. I’m surprised you don’t break a rib.
“I know,” I said to Anthony. “I laugh like a man.”
“A man?” he teased. “Sounds more like a flock of geese just flew by, honking and snorting.”
I let myself laugh again, realizing it had been too long since I was amused. “Come on, let’s tackle this lab report.”
We sat down at the kitchen table and I grabbed two donuts, shoving them in my mouth.
“You eat like a man, too!” Anthony teased.
“I don’t always eat this way. Just when I’m stressed.”
“Don’t be stressed,” he said. “It’s not that hard. I’ll help you.”
I dusted off my hands and pulled out my notebook. I opened it up to the first page, which had one calculation printed in pencil at the top of the page. I had worked for over an hour on that problem, but now it seemed inadequate, filling up only two lines on the page.
Anthony tried to suppress a smile, but the corners of his mouth quivered. He opened his canvas backpack, pulled out the beaker containing o
ur mystery compound, and placed it next to his lab book and chewed-up pencils on the table. He reached again into the bag.
“Oh,” he said. “I almost forgot.” He pulled out a smaller white pastry box and placed it in front of me. “This is my specialty. It’s the best.” He smiled and pointed his finger at me. “Only when we finish this lab will I let you sample my masterpiece.”
I shouldn’t have opened it. But even if I hadn’t, the smell would have given it away. Subtle lemon. I lifted the lid. A rectangle slice of lemon pound cake with a smear of sugar glaze on the top. Just like my mother’s. My mother’s lemon pound cake was like a secret bond between us. She knew one slice could jostle me out of any funk.
“What’s wrong? Are you really that bad at chemistry?” Anthony joked. “Emily?” he said. “Seriously, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Forget it.” I shook my head and reached for a pencil.
He opened the lab book and flipped through a few pages. “Allright, so the compound we began with had a molecular weight of . . .” His words sounded far away like they were in a tunnel. He put his pencil down and waved his hand. “Hello? Hey, are you okay?”
“My mom . . .” I said, clutching my pencil until my knuckles turned white.
He nodded, waiting.
“My mom . . . she was a lemon pound cake junkie.” I pointed to the white box.
“Oh,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.” He put his hand on the box, almost as if he was trying to cover it up.
“You didn’t know,” I said. I was quiet for a beat. “It’s just that I finally started to make progress in my life, but all these little memories keep creeping in. And then I remember that my parents are gone, and my mom had some big mystery secret that I still don’t understand, and I feel sad all over again.” Do not cry! Do not cry!
Anthony had a crease between his eyebrows that made him look confused.
“You saw, right?” I asked, blinking rapidly. “About my mom, and her message on the tray table?”
He bit his lip. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Yes.” His crease grew deeper, and his eyebrows came so close together they almost touched. “Are you saying that you never figured out why your mom was apologizing?”
I shook my head and looked down at my two lines of calculations.
“Did you look?” he asked. “For an answer, did you look?”
It felt slightly accusatory. I sat up a little straighter. I thought back to the three months I spent lying horizontal on the couch, ingesting carbs and channel surfing.
“Oh,” he said.
“Oh—what?” I asked, looking back up at him and seeing his brown eyes filled with, what? Pity? “WHAT?” I said again more aggressively.
“Never mind,” Anthony said, picking up his calculator.
I grabbed the Casio out of his hand and smacked it down on the table. “No,” I said. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
There were fifteen seconds of silence.
Anthony looked me square in the eyes. “Well, if it was me and my mom left me an unexplained apology, I would ransack everything until I got an answer. Did you search the house? Rummage through drawers and closets? I mean, did you even Google her? It just seems like maybe you don’t want to know the answer.”
“Google her?!!! And what do you think it would say? Jill Carson, PTA superstar!” I felt all my blood rushing to my face. “What makes you think you know anything about me, or my mom, or her stupid apology?” My voice was shaky but loud. “In the three months since my parents died,” I smacked down his calculator three times for emphasis, “I’ve had to pack up all my things, say goodbye to all my friends, move to a new place, start a new school, and try to make new friends. OH! And squeeze in shrink visits Jolie made me go to because in addition to everything else, I’m trying to get over the fact that my parents are DEAD!” I threw his calculator across the room and slammed my hands down on the table. It didn’t really hurt, but I burst out crying.
Anthony reached over and grabbed my hands. He looked at them, but since there was no obvious injury other than a red splotch, he awkwardly dropped them and sat back in his chair. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m such a jerk. I should mind my own business.”
My face was hot and wet. I felt exhausted, and my lungs burned like I had just climbed a mountain.
Anthony sat next to me, patiently, as if waiting to dispel another outburst.
We weren’t touching in any physical way, but in my state of emotional breakdown, I felt this unexpected connection to him. Not like the electric sparks that fired between Owen and me, but something smaller and less intense. Like an electric blanket slowly heating up and enveloping me in a haze of warmth. It was comfort. I felt comfort.
In a move very uncharacteristic of me, I leaned over and rested my cheek on Anthony’s shoulder. I worried he thought I was insane, but instead of fleeing, he softly leaned his head over and rested it against mine.
I have no idea how long we stayed like that, Siamese twins joined at the scalp. It might have been just a few minutes, or it could have been a lot longer, but he never pulled away. My mom always said, Never be the first one to leave a hug, and all I could guess was that Anthony’s mom said that too.
Anthony finally lifted his head and broke the silence. “What were your parents like?”
I pulled my head up and smiled a half smile. I thought for a moment. “Mom was available.”
Anthony raised his eyebrows. “Available?”
“I mean, she was always there for me. Like, when I got up in the mornings, she was already up, making breakfast. And when I came home from school, she wanted to know about my classes, and my friends, and tennis. She liked to cook. She listened to books on CD all day long while she did housework. Dad said those stupid earphones made her deaf, and she couldn’t hear thunder.”
Anthony laughed.
“She was a bit volume-challenged,” I said. “My dad, he was an engineer, kind of quiet, very organized. He would buy duplicates of things he liked. When he found a pair of sunglasses he liked, he’d buy ten pair of them. Every night he’d come home and empty the change from his pockets. Then he’d stack the coins into neat piles on his dresser. It used to drive my mom crazy, those stacks of coins. He would always surprise me.”
“Surprise you? Like how?” Anthony asked.
I thought for a minute. “Well, one day we were eating dinner and we got on the topic of things we love. I said I loved jeans with a little bit of stretch, and I loved when I hit a back-hand stroke right down the line. Mom said she loved movies that made her laugh and cry at the same time. I’m expecting Dad to say he loved a perfectly grilled steak or season tickets to the Eagles, when he said, I love streets where the trees bend over and canopy the road. And I love Emily’s laugh. My mom got teary-eyed and said, Yes, I love that too.”
“Your parents sound like they were really great people.” Anthony got up and retrieved his calculator off the floor. He looked at me with a hint of a smile. “You surprise me.”
“Oh, yeah?” I asked. “How?”
He smiled sort of a secret smile. “You’re different than most of the girls this side of Houston Street. You’re honest and, I don’t know, just a little bit crazy.”
With horror, I felt a lump in the back of my throat. I looked away. “So, tell me about your parents.”
Anthony leaned on the table and rested his chin in his hand. “Mom’s a hard worker—never complains about anything except her weight. She wants that gastric bypass surgery, but she says she can’t get it because it would hurt business. She thinks people wouldn’t buy from a skinny baker. She calls me. Constantly. Now she’s discovered how to text. It’s a total nightmare. She texts me jokes all the time. Whose mom does that?” He chewed on his pencil for a minute. “My dad was a firefighter.”
“Was?” I asked.
Anthony nodded. “He died when I was five. He pulled a woman out of a burning building in Woodside, then went back to get the dog.
He never came back out.”
He said this matter-of-factly. I’m sure there was pain, but he was able to control his emotions as if we were discussing the weather. Maybe time does heal all wounds, I thought.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” I said reflexively, even though I hated it when people apologized for my parents’ death.
“It was a long time ago,” he said. “I was really young, but I remember how hard it was. How unexpected—our total lack of preparation. Everything was so fresh, every detail available for scrutiny. You think it’ll be that way forever—but here’s the thing—life just keeps on going. People are forgotten and details get fuzzy. You have to work really hard to both let go and hold on.”
I nodded, realizing that perhaps this was why I instantly felt so comfortable around Anthony, because we had experienced such similar things.
“I look at Dad’s picture,” Anthony said. “And that helps me remember his smile. But I can’t hear his voice anymore.”
I wondered when the scrawled writing on a tray table would become a distant memory and no longer pierce my heart daily. “Well, maybe it’s better,” I said suddenly.
Anthony wrinkled his forehead.
“Maybe it’s better that you lost your dad while he was still a hero in your mind.” I blinked back tears. “You grow up thinking everything is all perfect, but really everyone’s just one horrible news flash away from finding out their parents are harboring secrets and lies.”
Anthony leaned in close to me and put his hand on my shoulder. His eyes glistened with honey speckles, and I knew that at that minute he was understanding me better than anyone else. I felt a little exposed, and I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. It was like he had a rope and was pulling me toward him. He leaned in a little closer, and I think I saw him tilt his head a little.
The moment seemed almost orchestrated, like if we were in a movie, we would kiss. It would be a soft, fragile kiss. Suddenly, as if a montage clip in a movie, snapshots of scenes flashed through my mind: Anthony and me kissing, leaning against lockers. Lying on a couch. Waving goodbye as he drops me off at college. Long-distance letters. Late-night phone calls. An unexpected visit to my dorm room. A small square box. A large square diamond. Picking out china. Picking out an apartment. A wedding at the beach. A strapless gown. A honeymoon in Paris. A new home. A little pink line. A crying baby. Anthony placing her in my arms.
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