She glanced up. “From Fred, really?”
“Yeah.” I zipped my tote and stood. “Have some. Which way are you headed?”
Her smiled died. “I’m—nowhere, I’m free this block.”
“Walk with me?”
She followed along, suddenly sullen. “So. Fred got you caramels.”
“Sweet, right?”
“Very.” She linked an arm through mine, yanking me close. “I heard you two went for a drive yesterday.”
“We did.”
“How was that?”
“Really nice.” She was clutching my arm so tight it was tingling.
“That’s great, you know. You’re friends, that’s nice.” She was squinting and staring and clucking her tongue. “I’m confused, though.”
“Why? What about?”
“Well, about Fred.”
“What about him?”
“About you and Fred. You know, dating.”
“But we’re not.”
“Right, no, I know, it’s just—he’s giving you things. You’re going for drives.”
“So?”
“So, you know how he can be.”
“Right.” I eyed her sideways. “All those girls . . .”
“I’m just trying to help,” she continued, dodging my wary glare. “I mean, you saw him the other night with your friend.” My heart dropped. “I’m watching out for you.”
Now we were face to face, hovering outside my chem class.
“Well, thanks,” I said. “For your help.”
“Yeah.” She passed back my chocolates.
“You don’t want any?” I asked, rolling the bag shut.
“I shouldn’t.” She patted her concave belly. “You, though, eat up. You’re way curvier—you can carry the extra pounds.”
25.
Lunch. Charlotte and Libby noshed on tuna sandwiches and PB&Js.
“Why aren’t you eating?”
Curvier. Curvaceous. What was that, anyway? Adina code for fat? “Huge breakfast,” I lied, crumpling Fred’s caramels into a small ball and shoving them into my bag.
“Sounds nourishing.”
“Absolutely.” I was hungry now, and irritable.
“Where are the Bishops?”
“Last lunch.” I poked my gut with my pinky.
“Any good gossip?” Libby’s mouth was full of pickles and white bread and canned fish.
“Like?”
“How’s your boyfriend?” Charlotte asked.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Sorry, your crush.”
“Who?” Libby’s smile was crooked.
I shot eyeball daggers at Charlotte. “No one.” Then: “Can you stop? Please?”
“Fine.” She looked around, then down. “How’s Liz?”
“Liz?” Libby asked.
“My mother.” Then, to Charlotte, “She’s fine, thanks for asking.”
“My mom said she wasn’t doing too great.”
I resisted the urge to reach out and slap someone. “Well, your mom is wrong. And she’s barely been by the house, so how would she know?”
“They talk.”
“When?”
“I don’t know, they talk. On the phone. Are you always around?” No. In fact, I was never around. I suddenly felt like bawling. Charlotte continued, her voice softening. “I only asked to be nice.”
I nodded, looking up.
“I like your mom.”
“Okay.”
Libby put down her sandwich and Charlotte’s face got all squishy. “I’m sorry about your dad, Alex.”
I tilted my face forward and two tears shot onto my lap, staining my jeans a darker blue. “Thanks.” I was mortified. “Can we stop talking about this now?”
Libby passed me a crumpled napkin. I dabbed my eyes, then fanned my hands in front of my face. “It’s fine. I’m fine, see? I’m just hungry.”
“I thought you said you’d eaten.”
“I—I did,” I stuttered at Libby. “I ate a ton, I did, but I’m hungry again.”
“That happens to me too,” she offered. “I’m bottomless, I swear it.” She smiled. “Want some sandwich?”
“Maybe,” I said, sniffling, drying my cheeks. “Just a bite.”
26.
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m not,” I said. I was wearing Grams’s pink padded housecoat and lying on the floor in the den.
“Seriously, you are,” Evie maintained. “I’ve called twice since Sunday.”
I clutched the phone.
“So?”
What to say? I’m pissed at you for flirting with a boy who’s not my boyfriend? “How’s Ben?”
“Great. So great. He flipped when he realized I’d spent the entire weekend with you. He’s been like, psychotically clingy since Monday.” She was chewing something. “You sure you’re not mad?”
The TV murmured gameshow noises.
“Evie?”
“Hmm?”
I’m a girl, I thought. A real girl just like you. I could like a boy, stake my claim, kiss whomever. I didn’t have to be me forever. Prim. Good. “Can I—I want to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
I sucked in a whole bunch of air. “Why—” I asked, my voice sounding shaky and thin. “Why, if you’re so into Ben, if you love Ben so much . . . ,” Was I really going to ask this? I clutched some rug, bracing myself. “. . . do you flirt with other boys?”
The chewing stopped. “What do you mean? Like who?”
I took another breath. “Like, Fred, for example. Why flirt with Fred?”
I expected attitude, a bitchy retort, but, “Do you like him?” is what she said instead.
“I dunno,” I said, softly. “I might.”
“Oh.” A beat. “Oh, Al.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, Al—”
“It’s okay.” I exhaled. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad.”
“No, I know, but, had I known—”
“What?”
“Had I known, I wouldn’t have—” She stopped. “Al, you never like anyone.”
“So?”
“So I just assumed—”
“What? That I’d never like anyone, ever? That my entire life I’d just exist in some chaste little bubble?” I pinched some back fat.
“No.”
“So, what? It’s just so impossible for you to imagine that someone might actually like me back?”
“Alex.”
“What?” My eyes stung. I muted the television.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just—that thing with Fred—that’s what I do. I feel bad about one guy and find another. If I’d’ve known . . . Al, you never like anyone.”
“You said that already.”
“No, I mean—this is like, a big deal.”
“It’s not.”
“It is. You know it is.” She paused for a second. “Have you told him how you feel?”
“I can’t tell him that.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” I repeated, “Why not? Because. It’s humiliating.”
“Hold on, okay?” There was quiet, followed by some loud crunching.
“What’re you eating?”
“Sorry. Sorry, I’m starving. Chips. Cheese sandwich.”
My stomach gurgled.
“So telling him—” She continued, mouth full, “I don’t get it—what have you got to lose?”
“Um, my dignity?”
“Your dignity? How can dignity be lost?”
“Are you kidding me?” How could she not understand? “Liking someone—so embarrassing.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I’m not.”
“How is liking someone embarrassing?”
Why was this so hard to grasp? “What if that person doesn’t like you back?”
“So?”
“So that’s humiliating.”
“How? You’re honest, you put yourself out there .
. . Take a risk, Katonah. Isn’t that what they call you?”
“It is.”
“Well?”
“Well what?” I wasn’t ready to risk anything.
Evie took another crunchy bite. “Sorry I came on to your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Jesus, Al,” she said. “Lighten up.”
27.
It was official. I liked Fred.
“Remote, please?”
We were at their place, always. Never mine. Mom was still pushing: “Shells and cheese, your twins! Invite them here, babe.” But I couldn’t.
“Catch.” Fred tossed Adina the remote. We’d been drinking wine spritzers and watching shitty TV all afternoon.
“Thanks.” She pointed it like a pistol, flipping quickly through channels. “What the hell? Why is everything court programming and news?”
I wasn’t drunk enough.
“Because it’s four thirty,” said Fred, sitting up. “Nothing’s on at four thirty.” He leaned forward, carelessly brushing my thigh with his hand. I jumped. “Katonah, hey. You okay?”
“Hmm?” I looked away from the TV. I must have looked insane, since “Jesus, what’s wrong with you?” is what Fred said next.
“Why? What do you mean?” I touched my face.
“You look scared.” He laughed. “Something I said?”
I smiled and sank back. “I’m fine.”
“More spritzer?” He picked up the pitcher.
“Thanks.” I nodded.
“Summer drinks on winter days . . .” Adina stood up. “This sucks.” She chucked the changer. “I’m getting a movie. Any requests?”
“Nothing Holocaust-y,” said Fred.
“Har, har.” She skipped toward the steps.
Fred turned to me. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” Adina was gone. “You drunk?”
He shook his head. “Weak drinks,” he said, shifting sideways. Then, quietly: “Is it Adina?”
“Is what Adina?”
“You just—you seem upset.”
“I told you, I’m not.” I was irritable and behaving crazy. Someone was lying to me. But really, did I care?
“I mean . . .” He propped himself up on both elbows. “Did she say something to you?”
Where to start? “Why’d you break up with that girl?”
“Audrey?”
Adina’s heels smacked the wide wooden staircase.
“Your call—black, white, and boring? Or creepy modern romance?” She walked forward, holding two DVD cases. “Brother, pick a hand.”
“Ah.” Fred looked from me to her. “That one,” he said, pointing left.
She shot an arm up in victory—“Creepy modern romance!”—and threw down onto the couch, wedging herself between me and Fred. “Fantastic choice. So . . .” She took a sip of spritzer. “What did I miss?”
“Not much.”
“Should I put the movie in?”
“Sure.”
She got back up. “Shit,” she said, grabbing her head. “I’m hammered.”
“That’s because you weigh, like, two pounds,” said Fred.
She smiled smugly, crouched in front of the television, and popped the DVD into the player. “This is fun, isn’t it?” She twisted around. “Us three? Together?”
“It is,” said Fred, glancing over. “Katonah?”
“Hmm?
“You having fun?”
“Oh, absolutely,” I insisted, clutching a throw pillow to my chest, wishing it was just us, me and him, alone, alone, alone. . . . “Wine spritzers and movies. What could be better?”
28.
“Cute skates.”
I blinked at Ben. “They’re rentals.”
We—Evie, me, Ben—sat on bleachers at the Katonah indoor ice rink picking baby marshmallows out of vending-machine cocoa.
“Well, they look good on you.”
They’re SKATES. How good can they look?
Evie downed the last of her drink and stood, wobbling. “Are we gonna do this or what?”
Skating was Ben’s idea. He was a pro. “Fine, I’m just—I’m not that good.” I’d taken one lesson as a kid and quit.
“Gimme your hand,” said Evie.
I did. Together we teetered toward the rink, stepped onto slick ice. “Fun, right?”
No. I was on a date with my best friend and her boyfriend. Ben yanked Evie close, tugging me along too. They kissed. He upped his pace. “Hey. Hey, guys? Slow down, please?” I dragged pathetically behind. “Guys?”
“Oh, come on, Alex, you’re doing great.”
“I’m not, actually.” I let go of Evie’s hand, grasping for the rink railing.
“Alex,” she called, frowning, waving. “Hey!” She skidded to a stop. “Come here.”
“I can’t.”
“Come. Here.” She gestured frantically with one hand.
I slid forward, slowly, leaning inward on my ankles.
“There,” she said, taking my hand again. “We’ll let Ben skate on his own.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” she said, waving a weak good-bye to her boyfriend. “I’d rather skate with you.” We locked arms. “So.”
“So.”
“How’s home?”
H-o-m-e. That word sounded so peculiar. “Which one?”
“Here, home.”
Was here still home? “Fine, I guess.”
“How’s your dad?”
“Still slutty.”
Evie gripped me tighter. “Any new news?”
“Like?”
“Oh, come on.” She pressed her nose to my nose.
“I know what you want—” Fred. “And I didn’t—nothing’s happening.”
“Well have you seen him?”
“Yeah. I mean, I see him a lot.”
“Well have you said anything?”
“No. I told you, I’m not like you. I can’t just make . . . big declarations.”
“Well, okay, you don’t have to actually declare anything”—she turned, skating backward—“but you might, like, I don’t know, kiss him?”
“No way.”
“Actions, Al.”
I rolled my eyes.
“God,” she said, and swung around so she was facing forward again. “You’re incorrigible.”
I laughed. “That’s a big word, Eves.”
“Yeah, and there’s more where that came from.” She slapped my arm, hard.
29.
Squash, apples, pecans, honey—Fred and I were back from the store with bags of lumpy produce.
“Hello?!”
“Kitchen!” screamed Adina. “Bring me my things!” She was making a sweet squash casserole for dinner.
“Here.” We unloaded onto the floor, emptying our canvas totes. “Create!” yelled Fred, pounding the granite countertop with both fists. Adina grabbed a massive knife and gave us both once-overs.
“You’re wearing Fred’s sweater.”
“Oh.” I looked at Fred. “Yeah, it got cold.”
“Cute,” she said, jamming the knife tip into the head of the squash. “You two look like a couple.” I felt my face flush, then quietly gripped the edges of Fred’s cream wool cardigan. “Katonah, you’re blushing.”
“I’m hot.”
“I thought you said you were cold.” She leaned into the knife and the squash broke in two.
“Hey,” Fred said to Adina. “You need our help or no?”
“Go play,” she said lightly, dragging a baking sheet out from under the stovetop. “You’ve done plenty already.” She curtsied and pulled a bottle of red from the wine rack.
By dinner, she was completely blitzed.
“Why don’t you sit down and eat something,” suggested Fred. He and I were eating on a checkerboard blanket in the den while Adina danced around gripping a tall glass of Bordeaux. I’d taken off Fred’s sweater.
“Adina.”
She put down her glass a
nd did one perfect, pretty pirouette. “What?” Her skirt billowed. “What’s wrong? You don’t like my squash?”
“It’s terrific,” Fred said, extending a hand. “Come sit.”
She bounced forward, collapsing with a flourish.
“Here.” He piled some squash onto his fork. “Eat this,” he said, feeding his sister.
She chewed, sitting back. “Pretty good.”
“You’re a wiz in the kitchen.”
“And on the dance floor.”
“Here,” he said, fixing Adina a small plate.
“I can’t eat all that.” The squash serving was smaller than my fist.
“You can.”
She took the plate, inspecting. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
She took three or four small, measured bites.
Fred whispered, “The trick is”—he smelled like wood smoke and candied nuts—“she’ll eat if she’s liquored up.”
I took another spoonful and looked down at my thighs. I had, easily, twenty-five pounds on Adina.
“You good? You want more?”
I set down my plate. “No, I’m stuffed.”
He pushed into me. “You sure?”
Adina let out a heavy sigh. She patted her face with a paper towel, glancing up. “You two.”
“What?”
“God, look at you both.” She wagged a finger. “Do you have to be so obvious about it?” She sipped some wine, then set down her glass. “Look,” she said, batting her lashes at me. “You know what he wants to do to you?”
“Adina,” Fred snapped. His voice was hard and low.
“Do you?” She was on hands and knees now. “You want me to show you?”
I froze. Fred froze. No one moved but Adina, who was leaning forward now, her lips parting. She pressed her mouth to my mouth. Her tongue touched my teeth and I jumped back, rattled. “Hey.”
For a second, no one said anything. Some French lady sang on the stereo.
“Jesus,” Fred spat. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Adina laughed.
Fred picked me up by my elbow. “You okay?”
I felt zilch. Nothing but shiny numbness.
“You want me to take you home?”
“I—that’s fine.” I wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened.
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