“Al—”
“Okay. Enough.” I threw my hands up in quick surrender. “I don’t want to talk about Caroline anymore. All right? I’m sorry I brought it up.”
Dad cut the engine on Grams’s gravel driveway, pulled the emergency break, and got out of the car.
Mom was waiting on the porch steps. She wore Grams’s winter coat over a thin, sleeveless nightgown. It was freezing out. She looked ridiculous. Hungover, sleepy, and sexed-up.
“Babe.” She kissed my cheek, looking past me, at Dad. “Go inside, okay? I’ll be up in a bit.”
From my bedroom window I watched. My view, perfect, if I leaned out the window and a little to my left.
Dad made a joke, gesturing broadly. Mom laughed, then cried. She put her head on Dad’s chest. He touched her shoulder, she touched his shirt, and within seconds they were kissing. They kissed and they kissed and then Dad pulled away. “Liz,” he said, and Mom wailed. She screamed and cried and kissed him again.
“Liz, stop.”
I pulled away from the window.
The screen door slammed shut.
15.
Carbonara. Anne Frank on DVD. This was Bishop ritual.
“Which blanket?” I asked, digging through a wood trunk in the Bishops’ downstairs guest room.
“The poofy one with the ducks,” hollered Adina, poking her head through the door. “That one, yeah.” She was balancing three steaming bowls of spaghetti. “Hurry up. Movie’s starting.”
I tugged on the tattered, faded duvet and followed Adina into the den. Fred was on the floor fluffing pillows. Credits rolled on a tiny TV. Dreamy music. Seagulls. Adina loved this movie. The old version—the black-and-white one. She said despite the ending, she found the story comforting. She liked the idea of being locked away.
We huddled together in front of the sofa. Adina took small bites of carbonara and yanked the comforter up to her chin.
“Is your dad back yet?” I asked.
Egg Roll hopped onto Fred’s lap. “Yeah.” Adina fed him a strand of spaghetti from her bowl.
I looked around. “He’s here?”
“He’s working.” Fred said.
“Tonight?”
Adina paused the movie. “Katonah, don’t talk.”
“Oh. Sorry—”
“You talk and it wrecks the mood.”
I put down my bowl of pasta.
“Hey,” said Fred. “No big deal.”
Adina shot him a look. “It is a big deal. It’s tradition.”
“It’s fine.”
“It not.”
“It’s a fucking movie, Adina, chill out.”
“Hey,” I said, “I’m really sorry—”
“Don’t tell me to chill out. And it’s not just a movie. It’s our thing.”
“Adina,” I said again.
She whipped around. “What?” Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were wet.
“I can go.”
She paused, considering my offer.
“You’re not going,” Fred said, putting a hand on my thigh. Adina glanced down, to where Fred’s fingers lingered, right above my kneecap. “Hey, D,” Fred said. “Apologize.”
She looked at me, her mouth settling into a thin, hard line. “I didn’t mean you weren’t welcome,” she said.
“No, I get it,” I said. “I’ll shut up.”
She smiled then, a small smile. “It’s just really great, the movie.” She sat back, rubbed one eye, and smeared her mascara. “But if you talk you miss all the good parts.”
Fred moved his hand. I glanced quickly at him, then back to Adina.
“Finish your pasta,” she instructed, her mood leveling off. “It’s fine,” she said, making gosh-golly eyes at Fred. “Fight’s over.” She picked up the remote and aimed it at the television. “Any last words before we restart the show?”
16.
“So, stuff’s okay?”
Evie hadn’t called me in a week and a half. “I mean, yeah, stuff’s great, why?”
“What do you mean, why?” I’d called her.
“No, nothing, I don’t know.” She exhaled. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing. School. Liz. I’ve been over at the Bishops’ a lot lately.” I stuck a hand under my mattress and mashed my face to the bed.
“The Bishops?”
“You know. Fred. Adina.”
“I don’t.”
“The twins? Oh, Eves, you’d freak. Their house is huge and they barely have parents and Fred dresses like a”—I laughed— “hot old man and Adina eats, like, air, I swear. She’s a twig, you’d hate her. But actually, maybe you’d love her.” I waited for Evie’s response. Dead air. “Eves?”
“What?”
“Are you listening?”
“Sorry. The twins.”
“You okay?” I wondered what she’d done all week. If she’d been miserable like me. “How’s Ben?”
“Fine.”
“Stuff’s still good?”
“Why would you ask me that?” Her voice had an edge.
“I don’t—” I stopped. Had I screwed up? “I called because I missed you.” Then, quickly: “You’re gonna stay mad forever?”
“I’m not mad.”
“You are.”
“I’m not, Alex, I’m really not.” She sounded so tired. “I just don’t know what to say right now.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Stuff’s different. Don’t you think?”
“With us?” I took three short, hysterical breaths.
“Are you crying?”
I was.
“Please don’t cry.”
I couldn’t stop.
“Please, Al, you’re making me feel guilty.”
I wondered how everything had changed so fast. At the start of the year, Evie was my world. Mom and Dad were together. I had a dog. “I’m sorry I called.”
“Don’t be like that.”
I wiped my nose on my sleeve. “Well how do you want me to be?”
“I don’t know. Don’t be upset.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Al.”
“Yeah?”
“Take a breath.”
“Why?”
“It’ll calm you down. Come on, inhale deep—”
I did.
“—and hold it.”
17.
I spent most of my free period outside, high up, legs dangling off the edge of the brick wall by the science wing. Twenty minutes spent catching up on leftover lit reading; the other twenty, obsessively moping over Evie. I’d been trying to pinpoint the exact moment things went wrong with us—me leaving Katonah? Evie uniting with Ben? My lackluster reaction to their scorching affair?—when Fred approached carrying a small paper sack.
“Hey, Polar Bear.” He tossed me the bag, then scaled the wall. “Aren’t you cold?”
I nodded, thrilled to see him.
“For you,” he said, gesturing to the sack, settling in.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
I looked inside. Chocolate. Heaps of black, glossy, misshapen chocolate.
“They’re caramels.”
I pulled two from the bag, grinning. “Here,” I said, handing him one. I ate the other. Sweet, sticky, bitter. “Oh wow.”
“Right?”
“No, these are, like, amazing.”
He watched me. I touched my lips, covering up. “Don’t stare,” I said, chewing, beaming. “How’d I get so lucky?”
He looked away. “I just . . . felt like giving you something.”
“You sound like Adina.”
“Do I?”
“You talk alike,” I said. Fred’s head was cocked. I flashed on him kissing loads of girls: girls from my lit class, girls from my old school, Audrey Glick, Anne Frank. Fred with . . . “Anyways.” Fred with me. “Thanks. A lot.”
“Don’t thank me.” He ate his caramel. “Can I look at you now, or no?”
“Wait.
” I wiped my top lip. “Sure.”
He glanced up. Smiled. “So.”
“Mm?”
“Speaking of Adina . . .”
“Oh. Yeah. The other night, right?” Humiliating.
“I’m so sorry about that.”
“No,” I stuck my tongue between two molars, trying to loosen a bit of stuck caramel. “I mean, that’s fine. I’m over it.”
“You did nothing wrong. You know that, right?”
I shrugged. “I do that sometimes—talk too much?”
“No, you don’t.”
I pulled another caramel from the bag and handed it to Fred.
“Thanks.” He squished it between his thumb and pointer finger. “She’s just—” Anorexic and moody? A liar? A saint? In love? In crisis? “She’s got a lot going on.”
“Oh yeah?”
He popped his second caramel, continuing, “I mean, she’s amazing.” He looked at me. “Really loyal.” Then looked away. “She’s just—she’s got some shit she’s working on.”
I tried to catch his eye again. “Like what? What’s she working on?”
“I don’t mean anything specific, just issues. Everyone’s got shit they’re not proud of. Don’t you?” He looked up, finally. “Or are you perfect?”
“Yes,” I said mindlessly. “Perfect.”
He smiled. “Thought so.” He ran his tongue over his left incisor. Then: “Will I see you later?”
“You’re going?”
“I just wanted to give you those.” He gestured to the brown paper bag. “You have plans later on?” He hopped off the wall.
“Nope.”
“Wanna walk to Chester Hill? Get sandwiches?”
“Bagel sandwiches?”
Fred laughed and looked at me crooked.
“What?” I said, feeling psychotically giddy. “I like bagels.”
“Three fifteen?” He was jogging backward toward the building. “Meet here?”
“Three fifteen.” Then, “Wait, Fred!” I hollered, waving one tacky hand. He stopped, treading air. “Thanks again.” I shook the bag.
“Anytime,” he said, saluting. He reached for the door.
One forty-five p.m. Between blocks.
Adina grabbed me on my way to world lit. “Katonah—”
“Hey!” The promise of bagels. I was still maniacally peppy.
“Your jeans.”
I glanced down. Adina was on her knees now, wiggling her finger through a tiny tear at my knee. “They’re holey.”
“I know.”
She stood up, squinting. “You never wear dresses.”
“I’ve got one.”
“I’m going to Goodwill after school,” she said.
“Oh, uh-huh.”
“I’m going to look for something lacy. Wanna come?” She poked at a smear of dried paint on my thigh. “I’ll buy.”
I laughed, flattered and a little afraid. Alone time with Adina? She’d either cuddle me or kill me. Tempting, but . . . “I would, I’d love to—but I’ve got plans. With your brother, actually.”
“Plans with Fred?”
“Yeah.”
“Today?”
“Mmhmm.”
She looked pale and pissed, so I said, “You should come,” but didn’t mean it.
“I can’t.” She grimaced. “I just told you. Goodwill.”
Okey-doke. “I’m gonna be late,” I said, pointing down the hall, toward lit. “What about this weekend?” I asked, making up.
“What about this weekend?” She curtsied and did a little pivot, heading off.
I waited till quarter to four. I waited by the wall, freezing and swearing and scanning the courtyard for Fred. I jumped in place to keep warm, checked my watch twenty times, tried Fred’s phone twice (direct to voicemail), then circled the building, hoping I’d been wrong about our plan. Had I misunderstood? Should I check the bathrooms? The infirmary? I ended up at my car, clutching my keys too tight and trying him one last time. “Hey,” I started after the beep. “It’s Alex. We were meeting at the wall, weren’t we? By the science wing? It’s ten till now, I’m headed home. If you get this, call me?”
18.
Deirdre Kincaid.
“Honey, pass the cheese, will you?”
Deirdre and Mom sat side by side, lapping up heaps of linguini and casserole. Charlotte was next to me, picking at her dinner.
“What is this?” Charlotte asked, cautiously nibbling at a forkful.
“It’s a casserole,” I said, annoyed, passing the bowl of grated parmesan to my mother. I’d spent an hour and a half salting, rinsing, assembling, baking.
“No, I mean, what’s inside?”
“Tomatoes, ricotta, and eggplant.”
“Tasty,” Charlotte offered, taking a timid bite. She looked nothing like her mother, who was skinny, with short, sensible hair and glasses. Charlotte’s hair was long and loopy. Her boobs were big. “Cook much?”
I dropped my fork.
“Alex makes really good banana pancakes. Right Al?”
I nodded at Mom. I was ready to break something. Charlotte’s veiled insults, Fred’s vanishing act—
“Char.” Mom again. “Do you and Al see much of each other at school?”
“Alex spends most of her time with the Bishops.”
“Oh, right! The twins.”
“Hettie Whitmore’s kids,” Deirdre whispered.
“Oh.” Mom nodded glumly, then sucked back some wine.
“Who’s Hettie Whosiewhatsit?”
Deirdre smiled at me. “The mother. Hettie Bishop. Whitmore was her maiden name. Your mom and I went to school with her.”
“She died, when? Ten, twelve years ago?”
I looked at the mush on my plate, picturing two lonely babes. I felt sad, then mad, remembering I’d been stood up. “Bathroom,” I said, getting up. Time to check my phone. “Be back.”
I darted up the steps to my room, bolting for my cell. One missed call. From Fred. I dialed back.
“Hey!”
“You’re alive.”
“Alex, I’m so sorry. I just got your message—”
“What happened to you?” I was panting from the run upstairs. “I waited till four.”
“Adina got sick. She threw up last block and begged me to take her home.”
“Oh,” I said, relaxing slightly. A sick twin. “Is she okay?”
“Apparently. She’s downstairs making gingersnaps.”
Or not. “So . . . So why not call?”
“I did. I texted. Or, I had Adina text you from her phone on the drive. My cell died.”
“I didn’t get any text.”
“I saw her send it.”
“I didn’t get any text,” I repeated. I flashed back to Adina’s pissy, pale face in the hallway at school. She hadn’t looked sick to me. “She puked, huh?”
“Yeah.” He paused. “I’m really sorry, Katonah. Seriously. I feel like an asshole.”
“No, don’t. It’s okay,” I said. I was relieved. I’d been screwed over, clearly, but not by Fred. “I have to go. The Kincaids are here.”
“Who?”
“Charlotte Kincaid. And her mom.” I sighed. “Charlotte’s mom and my mom . . .”
“Right.” He was silent for a bit. I pictured him with the phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, assembling a cigarette: a dusting of tobacco, one tight roll, a lick.
19.
Late afternoon. Dark already. Sitting on a towel in Grams’s garage going through boxes of crap from Dad’s house: old photos and books. Random kitchen equipment (a bread maker, a Cuisinart, a set of Cutco knives). Plastic containers stuffed with summer clothes, baby clothes, Mom’s cream lace wedding dress. And found, in the back corner, between Mom’s car and my bike, a box labeled alex, filled with diaries, yearbooks, letters from Evie. Folded notes written on loose-leaf. Who’d packed this up? Me? Mom? I picked a letter out and read the first few lines.
Hi. Can I copy off your worksheet? Can we bake som
ething later on? A pie? A cake? A block of brie? Can we swim? Too cold or no? What’s Shapiro wearing? An ascot? What the fuck’s an ascot anyway? I crack myself up.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” I’d called. I couldn’t help myself. My heart was heavy with weepy nostalgia. “What’re we doing?” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, come down. Eves, please?”
“Now?” she asked.
“No, I don’t know. Next weekend, maybe?”
“I mean . . .”
“Eves, I’m in Grams’s garage. I found all these letters.”
“What letters?”
“In a Ziploc. Stuff from, like, Western and Eagle Hill.” Junior high. Grade school.
“Well, what do they say?”
“I don’t know, just—come down. We can look together.”
She paused.
“You don’t want to?”
“No, I do.”
“You’re sure?”
She took a quick breath. “I mean, I want to. I just—”
“What?”
“If I come, we’re gonna fight.”
“We won’t.”
“We might.”
“No, we’ll swear on it. Now, okay? No fighting.”
“Promise?”
Easy. “Yes.” Our troubles, done.
“Okay.” Her voice was high now.
“Come Friday?”
“All right.”
“Bring clothes for two nights.”
“You’re sure?”
“Mm. It’ll be great. We’ll do something fun.”
“Meadow Marsh has fun?”
“Oh, barrels full,” I joked. “They sell it by the crate on exit ramps off Ninety-Five.”
20.
Ten a.m., Sunday.
Hovering in front of the fridge, shoveling yogurt into my mouth while searching the veg bin for something more—black banana? I grabbed it, then bumped the fridge shut with my hip.
Ding-dong, the bell. Seriously? Who was here? Mom was upstairs, asleep still. I slid across the floor in socks and tugged the door open. “Adina.”
“Hi,” she chirped. She was wearing a yellow peacoat, red lipstick, and had her hair pinned back in a wave. “Can I come in?” She rubbed her mittens together. “So cold!”
Her and Me and You Page 4