Spirit Level

by Sarah N. Harvey

  I laugh. “That’s what I said. Why is it we always say Edmonds is too far to go?”

  “Because it is,” she says. “Alex seems like a lovely person.”

  I nod. “Except for being Meredith’s bitch.” The words pop out of my mouth like jawbreakers from a gumball machine.

  Mom’s eyebrows go up again. “They’re obviously very close,” she says. “Have they been friends a long time?”

  “Since they were little kids.”

  Mom nods. “Hard to get in the middle of that, I would imagine.”

  “She hates me,” I say.

  “I’m sure she doesn’t hate you, Harry. Maybe she feels threatened by you—it’s pretty clear that Alex likes you.”

  I shrug and feel myself blushing. “Maybe.”

  Mom laughs. “Maybe? It’s to his credit that he wants to be a good friend to Meredith too.”

  “Not if he never stands up for himself.”

  “Give it some time,” Mom says. “You only just met. Maybe if she understands that you won’t take him away from her…”

  I’m about to say, But I’d sort of like to when Alex appears on the porch.

  “We’re going to take the bus. Don’t want to inconvenience anyone. See you tomorrow, Harry,” he says. “Nice to meet you, Della.”

  “You too, Alex,” Mom says.

  I’m suddenly so upset, all I can bring myself to say is “Bye.” Maybe I should just go back to the café and flirt with Nate. It would be so much simpler.

  On the drive home, I sit in the backseat and listen to Mom and Verna dissect the evening: the house (gorgeous, but the taxes must be huge), the food (delicious, especially the cake), the garden (wonderful, but a lot of work), Angela and Nori (delightful and tough, respectively), Lucy (cute and talented). When they get to Alex and Meredith, there’s a long pause before Verna declares, “He’s a peach, but I’m not sure about her. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  “I think Harry would agree with you about that,” Mom says, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

  “There’s something peculiar about her,” Verna continues. “I thought so when she came to the salon. And before you start lecturing me about being judgmental, Della, tell me you don’t agree. I saw the look on your face when she was talking about that shelter in Boise. Do you think she ever worked there?”

  Mom sighs. “No, I don’t. The woman who runs the shelter is very outspoken about peer volunteers. She’s against them, for various reasons. But why would Meredith lie? That’s what puzzles me.”

  Verna says, “Who knows? But she’s troubled, that’s for sure.”

  “But still, why lie?” I lean forward and ask. “Because she wants people to like her?”

  “Maybe the reality of her life is too difficult,” Mom says. “Didn’t you say she’s estranged from her family? And she’s not having any success finding her donor?”

  “Do you always have to play sociologist?” I ask. “Maybe she’s just a shitty person. End of story.”

  “It’s never the end of the story,” Mom says. “You know better than that, Harry.”

  “So nobody’s a jerk for no reason?”

  “Not usually,” Mom says.

  “That’s such bullshit.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you, Harry.”

  “Yeah, you’re the one with the PhD. I forgot for a minute.”

  “Stop it, you two,” Verna says. “We don’t know Meredith well enough yet to know what motivates her. But I hope Angela and Nori keep an eye on Lucy. She’s clearly very impressionable.”

  Mom nods. “I agree. But Meredith is Harry’s half-sister too, and I think we need to give her the benefit of the doubt. For now.”

  “Are we even sure she’s my half-sister?” I say. “She doesn’t look anything like me or Lucy or Ben or Adam.”

  “Just because you don’t like her doesn’t mean you’re not related,” Mom says.

  Even so, I wonder how you go about testing DNA. It looks so easy on TV: a hair here, a fingernail clipping there. I pull out my phone and Google DNA sibling test. Turns out that for two hundred dollars, I could find out whether Meredith really is my half-sibling. I wouldn’t even need a cheek swab (which is the preferred method). DNA can be extracted from all sorts of gross things: used chewing gum, Band-Aids, dental floss, toothpicks. Of course, it would be a total invasion of her privacy, but at this point I’m not sure I care.

  EIGHT

  I’M AT THE SALON, sweeping up hair, when I get a text from Alex: Have to cancel walk with Churchill. Something came up. Sorry. Talk soon.

  “Shit!”

  “Language,” Verna says, even though there are no clients in the shop.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Alex canceled our date.”

  “Your date?”

  “Yeah. Dog walking. So romantic, right?”

  Verna laughs. “Could be, I guess. Depends on the dog. And the boy. But there’s no point getting upset. He probably had to work. He told me last night that his shifts are unpredictable. And he seems very responsible. Maybe he’s saving up to take you somewhere nice. Ever think of that?”

  I shake my head. She may be right. Of course he can’t pass up a shift. He pays rent somewhere, buys his own food, pays bills. I have no idea what that’s like. But why wouldn’t he just say he had to work?

  I text back. No problem. Another time.

  Then I text Lucy. Wanna hang out this afternoon?

  I don’t hear back immediately—maybe she’s in a dance class—and the salon gets busy. By the time it slows down, around one, she still hasn’t responded, so I head home for lunch and an afternoon of transcribing. I have the house to myself, which I usually like, but today I can’t settle to anything. The case file I’m working on doesn’t hold my attention. Or maybe I just don’t want to think about all the unhappiness in the world. I don’t know how Mom does it. She seems to have endless compassion for the girls she interviews. Mine is starting to wear thin already. I only get halfway through an interview with Jessica, a girl from a rich family who just wants to get high and piss off her parents, both of which she does with great efficiency. Until they kick her out. Her ambition is to set herself up as a high-end call girl (she has the right wardrobe and really likes rich older men—hello, daddy issues). In the meantime, she’s crashing wherever she can find a guy to take her in. Lots of guys are happy to do so. I don’t like her. She sounds manipulative and shallow, not like the other girls in the study.

  I try to read a novel Mom thought I would like—something about a woman doctor who goes to the Amazon—but I fall asleep reading it. My phone pings at about five o’clock. Lucy.

  Just got your text. Went to EMP with M & A. It was amazing. Thought you had to work.

  I love the Experience Music Project, even if it is kind of touristy. Mom took Byron and me there for my birthday when I turned twelve. Then we went for lunch at the Space Needle. Also super touristy, but when you’re twelve, you don’t care. You just want the Lunar Orbit sundae. Byron and I went to EMP a lot after that, sometimes just to mess around in the sound booths, making up dumb songs and pretending we were rock stars. I haven’t been for a while. I would have loved to go. It takes a minute for me to wake up enough to realize that someone—I can guess who—told Lucy I couldn’t go with them. And that Alex has chosen my sisters over me. It also occurs to me that there’s no point taking it out on Lucy.

  I text back, Hope the Hendrix show was still on. It’s awesome!

  Before I can hit Send, my phone rings. I look at the screen—Alex’s number. I dismiss the call, send my message to Lucy and shut my phone off. I need to think. Mom’s motto is When in doubt, write it out. She believes that most problems can be solved, or at least understood, by working through them on a piece of pa
per. Not on a computer. You have to use lined yellow legal paper and a pen or it won’t work. It has something to do with the physical act of writing and how that affects your brain. I have watched her do it many times. Usually wine is involved, and swearing. Maybe now is the time to try it myself. Minus the wine.

  I grab some paper and a pen and sit at the kitchen table. The only thing I can think of writing is a chronology of events, followed by a list of things I know about Alex and Meredith. I leave Lucy out of the equation—I don’t have a problem with her. And I’m not really sure what my problem with Meredith and Alex is.

  When Mom comes home an hour later, I’m still sitting at the table. I have about five pages of scribbled notes, which I’m reading over. I think Mom’s method may be working, because I’m beginning to put some things together.

  Things I know about Alex:

  • He met Meredith in Montana, when he moved there from Texas in first grade.

  • He’s 18.

  • He doesn’t talk about his family.

  • He works at a restaurant and volunteers at an animal shelter.

  • He always wears gray plaid shorts, button shirts, Vans.

  • His voice is quite soft. He laughs easily.

  • He likes me (or at least I thought he did).

  • He does whatever Meredith wants.

  Things I don’t know:

  • His last name.

  • Where he lives.

  • Where he works.

  • Why he likes Meredith so much.

  Things I know about Meredith:

  • Her last name is Leatherby.

  • She comes from Missoula, Montana.

  • She says she has danced in Denver and worked at a shelter in Boise.

  • Meredith is estranged from her parents and wants to find her “ father.”

  • Her clothes look like costumes.

  • She is manipulative (Lucy’s hair) and super sensitive (arm grabbing).

  Things I don’t know:

  • Where she lives.

  • Where she worked on an organic farm.

  • How she can have done all the things she says she’s done.

  • Why she hates me.

  • Why she has such a hold on Alex.

  Questions:

  • Is Meredith a liar?

  • What will I do if (when) I find out she is? Is it important to find out why she’s lying (if she is)?

  • Should I tell Lucy what I’m doing? Should I tell Mom? Should I call Alex back?

  “You okay, Harry?” Mom asks as she pours herself a glass of wine. “You were sighing.”

  “I was?”

  She sits at the table across from me. My notes are still in front of me. She can probably read upside down, but she doesn’t seem to be trying to. All she says is, “If you ever want to talk…”

  “I know where to find you,” I say. And we both laugh. We’ve been saying that for years. She knows I’ll talk when I’m ready. This time, I’m not so sure I’ll ever be ready. I doubt whether she’d approve of my plan to spy on Meredith.

  “I did some transcribing today,” I say. “Really didn’t like the girl. Jessica.”

  Mom nods. “She’s a tough one, I’ll admit. Not exactly a kindred spirit. But still homeless.”

  “If you count shacking up with assholes as homeless.”

  “I do. You may not approve of her coping mechanisms, but she still deserves my attention. And a proper home.”

  “But she’s not the same as the other girls,” I say. “Like Annabeth. She’s got real talent, and she’s so smart and optimistic, but her life is really hard. Jessica just wants to party and have someone else pay for it.”

  “You’re awfully judgmental today. What’s going on? I thought you were seeing Alex.”

  “He bailed.”

  “That’s disappointing.”

  “He and Lucy and Meredith went to EMP. Without me.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Big ouch.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  I shake my head. “He called. I didn’t answer.”

  “Maybe you should give him a chance to explain.” Mom takes a sip of wine and then gets to her feet. “I picked up some stuff for burgers. Could you fire up the barbecue? And organize the fixings?”

  “Sure.” I take my notes to my room and turn on my phone. Alex has called three times and left one voice mail. The voice mail is in his dopey Churchill voice. “That idiot Alex canceled today, and I missed you. Can you come tomorrow? I want to lick your face. I want to hear you whistle. I want to sniff some other dogs’ butts. Can you bring treats? Alex sometimes forgets. He says he’s very sorry about today. He says wires got crossed, whatever that means. Maybe wires are like leashes. I hate leashes, especially if they get crossed. I’ll be waiting at the bus stop at two o’clock. Drooling.”

  I laugh in spite of myself. Maybe Mom’s right—I should give him a chance to explain. Before I go downstairs to help with dinner, I text Alex. Hi, Churchill. See you tomorrow. I missed you too.

  After dinner, Mom and I watch a great documentary about backup singers (which makes me think about Annabeth and all the opportunities she’ll probably never have), and then I head up to my room to start my research. The Leatherbys of Missoula, Montana, are ridiculously easy to find. I am deeply grateful that Meredith’s last name isn’t Smith or Jones. In five minutes I have the address and phone number of a Barbara Leatherby, who I assume is Meredith’s mom. I could phone her right now if I felt like it, but I’m not sure what I’d say. Hi, my name is Harriet. Could you please confirm that your daughter is a pathological liar? I dig a little deeper. There’s a Mark Leatherby in Missoula as well. I note his address and phone number too.

  I put Barbara’s address into Google Street View. Her house is a large gray-and-white rancher with a two-car garage, a big yellowing lawn and beds of what look like roses lining the walkway. There’s a beige sedan in the garage. Next door is an almost identical house, minus the roses. Ditto across the street. Bland and boring, not at all what I’d expected. For some reason, I’d pictured Meredith living in a crappy trailer park, with a battered pickup truck out front and beer cans littering the yard. No way had I imagined Suburbia, USA. With roses, no less.

  Mark Leatherby, whoever he is, lives in a heritage house on the other side of town. Beautiful paint job. Late-model Subaru Outback in the driveway. So far, so good.

  I’m starting to feel all Harriet the Spy, except that my spying will have to be done online. I wish I could go to Missoula, but it’s an eight-hour drive and no way would Mom let me go there on my own. Especially if I told her why I was going. Before I go to bed, I make a to-do list of all the things I need to check out: Missoula newspapers, Denver dance companies, that shelter in Boise.

  I’m in bed, reading an online article about dog training, when my phone pings.

  I miss you. B.

  Even a few weeks ago, a text like that from Byron would have destroyed me. And for sure I would have seriously considered texting him back. Right after he left, my sadness clawed at me, devouring me, day by lonely day. Since I met Lucy, I’ve only felt the occasional twinge, like when you bite the inside of your cheek. Painful for a minute but forgotten almost right away. I do miss him but not the way I did before. Mostly I wish I could talk to him about everything that’s going on. I wonder what he’d think about my new siblings, about Alex. And does it make me shallow or fickle that I look at his text and wish the B was an A? I turn my phone off, roll over and go to sleep.

  The next day when I’m getting ready to meet Alex, I try not to worry too much about what I’m wearing. White shorts, a plain blue T-shirt, runners. Hair in a French braid. No makeup. Well, mascara,
but that hardly counts. I always wear mascara. I want Alex to see me as I really am: no costumes, no games. Just plain old levelheaded Harry.

  But when I’m on the bus to the shelter, I start to panic. My T-shirt has stains under the arms. My shorts are frayed. I’ve had these runners since ninth grade. What was I thinking? But then, there he is, a big grin on his face as I step off the bus. And suddenly I’m sure he doesn’t care what I’m wearing, any more than I care that he’s got on the same old gray shorts, wrinkled shirt and beat-up shoes. Churchill is at his side, drooling, as promised.

  As soon as I’m off the bus, Churchill starts dancing around me, pulling hard on the leash and barking like crazy.

  “You know I brought treats, don’t you, buddy?” I say. “You’ll have to sit.”

  He continues to prance, and I say “Sit!” in a stern voice. Miraculously, he obeys, and I reward him with a biscuit from my pocket.

  “He won’t always sit for me,” Alex says. “You clearly have the magic touch.”

  “And the treats. Treats are key.”

  We set out for the dog park, Churchill straining on the leash. Alex keeps trying to get him to heel, but Churchill keeps pulling.

  “Let me try,” I say, taking the leash from Alex, who looks skeptical.

  “He’s really strong,” he says.

  “So am I.”

  I make Churchill sit again, reward him with a treat and then, when we start walking, step in front of him every time he starts to pull. We make slow progress, but after a couple of blocks he’s pulling less and less.

  “Where did you learn that?” Alex asks. “You’re like the Dog Whisperer.”

  “Hardly,” I say. “Just experienced. I walk dogs in my neighborhood. Not all of them come to me well trained. So I learned a few tricks.”