My stomach felt all jittery inside. I smiled at him and tilted my head seductively. “I’m sorry I’m so bad at chemistry.”
“I wouldn’t want any other partner,” he said flirtatiously. He reached over and grabbed my lab book. “Let me show you.” He lingered close, his arm rubbing against mine. As his fingers punched the numbers on the calculator, his elbow bumped the small white pastry box and the lid cracked open just a sliver. Just enough to release a puff of lemon-scented air.
Lemon pound cake. Like my mother. The mother who wouldn’t be there to help me in my strapless gown. The father who wouldn’t walk me down the aisle. The baby who would never know her grandparents.
I pushed him away from me. “I can’t do this.”
“Sure, you can, Em. Here, let me show you.”
Outside the window another plane was flying over the river. “No, I really can’t do this!” I dropped the calculator and it clattered noisily on the table.
“Look,” he said calmly. “Really, if you break it down, it’s just simple multiplication . . .”
I had to get away from him and the lemon cake that was overwhelming and distressing me. “YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND!” I wailed, no longer recognizing my own voice. It was loud, and high-pitched, and frightening. I backed up quickly, my chair falling over behind me.
Anthony bolted upright with a look of panic. Not a panic like, Oh, no, what’s wrong? Can I help you? More like, Where the hell is the emergency exit? That thought made me think of a plane, which made me think of my parents, and I started to wail all over again.
“JUST GO!” I shrieked, flailing my arms like a crazy person, trying to shove him out of his chair.
“But . . .?” He looked so confused.
He wouldn’t leave and I needed him to leave. So in a frenzy I picked up the beaker and smashed it down onto the kitchen table. The glass shattered everywhere, and the white crystallized powder spilled onto the table.
“Holy crap! Our compound!” Anthony panicked and frantically began scooping the compound into his hands. He cut his pinky finger on a glass shard and traces of red blood stained the white powder.
“LEAVE!” I screamed because the lemon fragrance was everywhere. “GO!” But he was concentrating too hard on saving our compound.
What happened next will compete with any of Georgia’s SOAPnet storylines for craziest, most thoughtless, most insane moves ever. But I was desperate for Anthony to leave and for the memories to stop. So without thinking, I leaned over and with all my might, I blew the pile of crystallized compound like I was blowing out candles on a birthday cake. The room was completely silent as the powder exploded into a mushroom cloud of dust.
I will never forget the look of horror in Anthony’s eyes. Or the sad way he turned and left, leaving his books and bag at my table. And I was left alone with tiny specks of crystals flying all around me like I was trapped inside a New York City snow globe.
chapter seven
“SERIOUSLY, GEORGIA, I was in full-on ugly cry mode. It was mortifying. Anthony probably thinks I’m nuts. Like certifiable.” The phone was slippery in my hand. I was nervous about calling Georgia after our last phone call ended awkwardly, but Georgia acted as if everything was normal.
“So you really smashed the beaker?” Georgia asked.
“Uh-huh.” I sighed.
“And blew the compound. You actually blew?”
“I know. It’s humiliating.”
“But you really think he was about to kiss you?” Georgia asked.
“What does it matter now? Unless I have a split personality for explanation, he’s never going to speak to me again.”
“Did he do the tilt-and-lean? Were his lips together or apart?”
“I’m not sure, but it was just a feeling. He had this penetrating look and I felt like I saw right through his honey brown eyes all the way into his soul—”
“Honey brown?” Georgia interrupted. “I thought he had green eyes. Remember,” she mimicked, “Honestly, they’re like emerald green.”
“That’s Owen,” I said.
“And this was . . .?” Georgia asked.
“Anthony.”
“I thought you liked Owen. Who the heck is Anthony? Jeez, when you lived here, you couldn’t even talk to Steve McCaffity and now you’re juggling two guys?”
“I am not juggling! I do like Owen. Owen is amazing and beautiful and sends shivers up my spine. Anthony is just a friend. He’s my lab partner, remember?”
“Your chem labs are a little more hands-on than ours,” Georgia said.
“Shut up. He probably had no intention of kissing me. I don’t know what I was thinking. We were talking about our parents, and that stupid lemon pound cake kept prompting memories. I’m such a mess.” I tried not to cry. “And now I’ve screwed up one of the only friendships here that I really felt comfortable with.”
“Look,” Georgia said, “just explain to him that all the talk about your parents made you a little crazy. Anyone with an ounce of compassion would understand.”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking back to our conversation. “Anthony thinks I never tried to understand Mom’s apology. He said I was afraid.”
It was silent on the other end.
“G?” I asked.
“Well, do you think maybe he has a point?”
I started to resist but stopped myself. I recalled the three months of numbness and inactivity. Was I subconsciously trying to avoid something that could possibly upset me?
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. But isn’t it too late? I can’t go back and ransack the house now. I don’t know how to begin to look for an answer.”
“Have you thought about asking Jolie?” Georgia asked. “They were sisters. And friends.”
“Right,” I said. “I guess that would be a start.” But my stomach turned just thinking about it. I sighed. “So what do I do about Anthony? How do we explain to the teacher why we no longer have our compound? Oh my God, he’ll probably lose his scholarship for destruction of school property. This is a nightmare.”
“I know,” Georgia said. “Good luck.” We hung up.
I sat on the bed and stared at the phone for a while. Both Georgia and Anthony thought I was avoiding Mom’s apology. I went to the living room and waited for Jolie to come home.
“Hey,” Jolie said, coming through the door and placing a pizza box on the table. “Did you get your lab done?”
“Not exactly.” I walked over and sat at the table with her, glancing around to be sure I’d cleaned up the spill well enough. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” Jolie took a bite of pizza and handed me a napkin.
“Do you have any idea what Mom’s apology meant?”
Jolie froze, a strand of cheese dangling from her lips. I guess she wondered why it took me almost four months to ask. She wiped her mouth, put her pizza down, and sat up a little straighter. “No,” she said. “I wish I did.”
“Oh,” I said, sounding defeated. For a moment I thought how nice it would be if the answer was here all along. “Did you keep our old address book so I could maybe call some of Mom’s friends? Or do you remember the name of her college roommate?”
Jolie looked at me unblinking. “What’s this all about?”
I drew circles with my finger in the remaining dusty compound debris on the kitchen table. “I’m just thinking about trying to find some answers. I mean I never really tried . . .”
Jolie’s voice sounded stiff. “Em, we’ve worked so hard to move on and you’re making great progress. I think digging for answers is a step in the wrong direction.”
“Don’t you want to know what she meant?”
“Of course I do.” Jolie’s voice softened. “I just don’t know how we would ever be able to solve this mystery. I thought I knew everything about your mother, but some secrets are sacred, I guess.”
I nodded slowly. We finished our meal in silence.
THE NEXT MORNING, I lugged Anthony’s backpack to h
omeroom, but Anthony wasn’t there.
The bell rang, so I lugged both bags on to history. Just when I decided he had dropped out of school to avoid me, I saw him slip in the door and quickly take his seat in front of me.
“Hey,” I whispered over his shoulder. “I have your bag. I’m really—”
“Thanks,” Anthony interrupted, and turned to grab it. Without making eye contact he swung back around and started scribbling furiously in his history notebook.
I’ve really screwed this up, I thought as my stomach dropped.
Anthony sneezed.
I said, “Bless you,” but he didn’t thank me, just nodded once.
It was obvious that he was still upset at my behavior. Who wouldn’t be? I thought. I acted like a lunatic and I jeopardized his grade. Oh, yeah, and practically shoved him out of the apartment while screaming.
The bell rang and Anthony jumped up and raced down the hall.
My next four classes dragged. I couldn’t concentrate on any lectures; instead my mind swarmed with possible options of how to explain to Anthony why I smashed the beaker. I could tell him the truth, but I didn’t want anyone to think of me as the old tragic Emily with poor coping strategies. I wanted only to be the new Emily.
Sixth-period chemistry class finally arrived, and I decided I would simply apologize. No extraneous details, just, I’m really sorry. But Mrs. Klein split us into groups, and I had no interaction with Anthony. By the day’s end I realized that there were a zillion ways to apologize to someone, but none of them mattered if you never opened your mouth.
chapter eight
AFTER MY EXHAUSTING and unsuccessful day, I was outfitted in an old pair of velour sweatpants and planted on the couch with my laptop open and two frosted blueberry Pop-Tarts. If I couldn’t rectify the Anthony situation, maybe I could unearth some answers about the apology. I started with a simple Google search. I typed in my mother’s name, and four links popped up. A Columbia University alumni page, school board, and school PTA pages, and her name listed with a time for the 5K Turkey Trot. A lump formed in my throat. I stared at the screen. 24:08. That’s how many minutes it took my mom to run the 5K. For some reason, seeing my mom in four little numbers made my heart hurt.
I started to feel dizzy so I threw myself onto the couch and turned on Oprah.
Jolie came through the door a few minutes later. “Pop-Tarts?” She thrust a white bag toward me. “Don’t eat Pop-Tarts; I’ve got Joe Jr. burgers.” She put the bag on the coffee table, then pushed a gray object over and sat on the table too. “What are you looking up?” she asked, peering over toward the laptop screen.
I shut the computer before she could see my Google search. I changed the topic. “What is that?” I asked, pointing to the gray thing I had never noticed before.
She picked it up and spun it in her hands. “It’s an ashtray.”
“An ashtray? You don’t smoke.”
“I know, but isn’t it just fabulous? Every coffee table deserves a great ashtray.” She admired it. “Plus, when your mom was working at that art gallery so many years ago, she kept bugging me to come to a show, but I’m not really into art.” She extended her hand toward the blank walls.
“How very minimalist of you,” I teased.
She laughed. “So one day your mom said they were having some kind of domestic-exotic sculpture exhibition, and I thought, that just might be my thing. And that’s where I found this.” She handed it to me.
I held the heavy ashtray, running my fingers over the smooth surface, thinking that one day my mother held it too. I thought about her life at the art gallery and realized that I always imagined my mother as the happy homemaker on Arbor Way. I never really knew about the person she was before I arrived. That part of her was as unfamiliar to me as this cold, angular object in my hands. “I Googled her,” I said.
“Who?” Jolie asked.
“Mom. I Googled Mom. I just . . . didn’t know what else to do. What should I do?”
Jolie got up from the coffee table. “I think you should move on, that’s what I think you should do.”
“What if I can’t move on, Jolie? What if this big wave is hovering over my head, ready to crash and I physically cannot move from this place until I understand her apology?”
I looked out at the Hudson. The waters were calm, but all I could see was the image of that plane diving for the water. I waited for Jolie to say something, but she didn’t.
“You don’t want to help me understand Mom’s apology? FINE!” I screamed. “I’ve asked for nothing from you and the one time I ask you for help . . . Well, forget it. Go back to your nails and your makeup and live your life like I never interrupted it!” I grabbed my purse off the kitchen table and headed for the door. I heard Jolie calling my name as I slammed the door.
I burst through the lobby door to the street and started aimlessly walking, my mind racing with thoughts. Was Jolie right—was a search for answers useless? I looked down and realized I was still holding the gray ashtray. All at once, I knew where I wanted to go. I put the ashtray down next to the small landscaped pansy garden and tried to figure out how to hail a cab. I walked toward an intersection and awkwardly stuck my arm out. A yellow cab pulled up and I climbed in. The cabdriver looked over his shoulder at me for instruction, but I couldn’t remember the name of the art gallery where Mom worked. I knew it was in an area called Museum Mile, and I thought I would recognize the building from when she had pointed it out to me several years ago.
“Museum Mile, please,” I said.
“Where on Museum Mile?” he asked.
“Um, I’m not sure.” My heart fluttered with embarrassment. Why did everything have to be so complicated here?
He gave me an impatient look.
“Just . . . anywhere on Museum Mile,” I said.
We battled Midtown traffic, then soared up Park Avenue—it was the first time I’d seen the famous street. The polished-looking white buildings and quaint corner cafés looked quiet and serene. The driver turned a corner toward Central Park and pulled up in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
“Oh, yes. This will do fine.” I paid, then walked several blocks north until I saw the familiar stucco facade and the arching window details and knew I had found the correct gallery.
Inside the gallery there was a beautiful winding staircase with an ornate wrought iron banister. I could envision my mother floating down the stairs, Scarlett O’Hara style. I wandered around not knowing what I was expecting to find, but trying to channel any details of my mother that I had never explored.
I was on the second floor, staring at the diamond-patterned floor and wondering why my mother gave up a career she loved, when a groomed man with a cleft chin rounded the corner and stopped. I looked up and met his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, running his hands through his thick, wavy brown hair. “I . . . I thought I recognized you.”
“Oh,” I said. The relentless news coverage. The magazine exposés. I turned and ran down the stairs, out the door, and didn’t stop until I collapsed on the cold, concrete steps in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The massive pillared building was a playground for hordes of tourists and school groups. As the visitors stepped past me, no one registered recognition. Like static or white noise, they bustled around me in a blur. No one knew me as the girl whose parents died or the girl whose mother left an unexplained apology. To them, I was just another visitor eager to soak in the beauty of art. I embraced the anonymity for hours. The numbness helped me stay calm until the sun started to sink and my fleece sweatshirt no longer kept me warm.
WHEN I GOT HOME, the apartment was dark. I walked down the hall. The radiant light from the TV in Jolie’s room sparkled like a kaleidoscope on the dark hallway wall. The volume was set to mute. Through the open door, the flickering TV lights turned Jolie’s face blue, then silver in a dizzying, fragmented pattern. Trent was sitting by her side on the bed, his arm draped over her shoulders. He was saying somethi
ng with an unfamiliar serious demeanor. The TV brightened and I saw tears on Jolie’s cheeks.
I walked closer to them, their backs to me.
“I thought it was the right thing,” Jolie whispered. “She doesn’t need any more grief, right?”
Trent rubbed the back of her hair.
“This is so hard!” Jolie whimpered. “Am I trying to protect her too much? Should I encourage her to look for answers? I don’t know what to do. I’m not cut out for this mother stuff.”
Trent pulled her hair back playfully so she was looking into his eyes. “It’s true,” he said. “You know squat about how to cook and you know nothing about how to raise a teen. You’re clueless about how to mend that little girl’s broken heart, let alone your own. But Jo, sweetie, the threads of your sister remain in Emily. So by God, you better figure it out.”
Jolie’s head dropped.
“It doesn’t have to be Martha Stewart perfect,” Trent continued. “Just be the grown-up.”
I stood there, frozen, unsure what to feel. I was touched by Jolie’s desire to take care of me but also felt like a burden for requiring it.
I watched Jolie’s petite shoulders quake. Then I turned and ran down the dark hallway and crawled into the still-unfamiliar bed. I pulled the blankets over my head to block out this new world—a world where a girl could live her whole life and never really know the truth about her own mother.
chapter nine
I DROPPED MY BAG down on the shiny marble floor and plopped into a seat at our usual lunch table.
“Why the grumpy face?” Andi asked. “Aren’t you excited about tonight?”
“Tonight?” I asked, racking my brain. It was October 10th. Nothing registered.
“Tonight,” Andi said. “The Team and Squad party at Owen’s? Aren’t you excited?”
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