Her mother had been wrong about one thing though. Not since she bounced on her father’s knee had she worried about the scope and grandeur of her birthday parties. Instead, the mandatory frills made her cringe the way watching the boys tag-team wrestle sometimes could. Getting propped up in lace so that all her parents’ friends could drink imported beer and pinch her cheeks wasn’t exactly tickles and giggles. Were Hassan or the twins celebrating a birthday, it would have been cause for a nighttime extravaganza filled with sweat-laden dancing, underage drinking, and fornicating teens. No, she’d get to spend her day with up and coming politicians, middle-aged power women, and men desperate to slip away for the Notre Dame Boston College game.
“I’ll try it on for you,” Edy offered.
She draped the dress over an arm, took a sip of the lassi she knew to be for her, offered what she hoped to be a reassuring smile, and took both the drink and the tapestry of horror with her to the bathroom.
Once there, Edy wrestled with zippers and cursed over buttons before slipping the rustle of crinoline over her head. She fastened the eyehooks as best she could and inhaled. Who knew? Maybe when she looked, a stunning and grandiose princess would stare back at her, as glamorous and swoon-worthy as the girls who caught Hassan’s eye, and who apparently spent nights with him.
Edy turned to face the full-length mirror draped over the door.
What stared back at her was preposterous. A grotesque burlesque of absurdities in fashion. A high-throated Victorian neckline, Regency sleeves, and an empire waist. Fabric that would have been beautiful as a sari looked garish as a gown. Her eyes began to water. She looked ugly. Like, hysterically ugly. Her only consolation was that she needn’t worry about any friends seeing her, as she had none to begin with. As usual, the boys would never breathe a word of what went on in their world, while any other kid who happened to be there wouldn’t dare risk their reputation by admitting to it.
Sandra Jacobs would never look like this.
Edy stilled the quiver within with a deep breath, grabbed her lassi, and stepped out into the hall. A deep drink followed another, during which she reminded herself that there were things more important than looks, that to worry about looks over feelings was to be as shallow as the runway girls of South End High. Never mind that you look like a fool, she told herself. Never mind that the boy you’re in love with thinks of you as a sister. Never mind that not even in your dumbest daydreams could you look half as perfect as the perfection he wanted.
The lassi found her mouth again and she drank as she walked. Ali had always adored her and she him. If Edy couldn’t do this small, distasteful thing for him, then she wasn’t much of a—
The cup flattened in her face, crunching and splashing blueberry from nose to waist and wall to wall.
“Oh crap!” Hassan cried. He reached with both hands for her, then withdrew, before whirling in place as if something would appear to aid him. His hands flailed. “Jeez, Edy. I’m sorry. I just—” He flinched at her dress. “Oh, man.”
Ali stepped into the hall. He looked from Hassan’s cringe to Edy’s wide-eyed one and registered the dress only last.
“Hassan,” he said.
“It just happened,” Hassan said. “The second I hit the corner we collided.”
“But you are reckless, always reckless! Running around as if all of Boston is a football field. You could have hurt her.”
Ali softened the second he turned to Edy. “I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done for the dress, my dear. Bring it to my wife later. Perhaps she can salvage it. And in the meantime, you’ll have to find something in your mother’s closet to wear.”
He shot his son a final scathing look and barreled downstairs in a huff.
“Edy—” Hassan said.
“Thanks for the save. The dress was atrocious.”
She started back for her room.
“Edy, wait. About what you saw—”
She ducked in her room.
When Hassan’s mouth opened, she slammed the door on his answer and locked him out. What could he say to assuage the raw and pulsating wound of her heart? He couldn’t know the way she ached for him or how he stabbed her anew every single day. What apology could fix that? What could he possibly say? That he was sorry she wasn’t more attractive? Sorry he didn’t want her?
Edy leaned against the door, soaked in blueberry yogurt. She let the tears fall on her fifteenth birthday.
An eternity passed.
“Edy,” Hassan said. “Open the door. Please. You’re killing me.”
Had he really just sat there and listened to her cry?
It didn’t matter. In the larger scheme of things, it didn’t matter what he did or whom he did it with. A chasm divided them, deepening and widening every single day. She could accept that. She would have to.
Edy stood up straight. She wiped her tears with the hem of her gown and only succeeded in smearing blueberry across her face. A hiccup-laugh tore from her, making her choke in the throes of it. She was positively a mess. And it was all because of Hassan Pradhan.
~~~
Edy’s morning was filled with hidden gifts as part of another, much more tolerable tradition. Among her stumbled-upon presents were Nike ballet slippers from Ali, a salwar kameez, or a pink, Punjabi-style pantsuit, an earring and bracelet set from Hassan with dangling, silhouetted ballerinas on both, and a monogrammed organizer from her mother. The last, of course, hadn’t been hidden at all. It sat in plain view of breakfast alongside a note that read:
Business at the office.
See you at the party.
-Mom
Edy had no idea why she stared at the note so long. Or why she compared it with the three-page, rose-scented letter from Rani, stuffed inside the folds of her gift. Simple things were in the writings from Hassan’s mom, reminisces about the first time she’d pressed Edy’s hair, the first time she’d seen her dance ballet. She reminded Edy of a trip to Mumbai, where they’d sat through three showings of Kaho Naa . . . Pyaar Hai on the night of its debut. She fussed over how fast Edy had grown, how old she’d become, and called her “her beauty,” promising that she was already the thing she wanted to be: beautiful. As was always the case, when comparing Hassan’s mom with her own, Edy found there was no comparison at all.
At a stone’s throw past five, Edy met Wyatt in the middle of the street. She wore a simple, long-sleeved black sheath dress from her mother’s closet—simple except for the hint of skin exposed at the crocheted abdomen. She’d partnered it with low heels—the only kind she could maneuver, and the flaring, dramatic Michael Kors jacket that her mother loved. Edy gave herself thirty seconds of scrutiny before stepping out of the door. As she walked, she told herself that the designer clothes were just a byproduct of shopping in her mother’s closet; she had no special preference for them. Likewise, the burst of confidence she felt while wearing them had absolutely nothing to do with egotism, even if Wyatt did look at her that way.
“What?” Edy said.
“Nothing.” Wyatt continued to stare. “Just . . .wow. That’s all.”
Edy touched her hair, pressed and swept up into pin curls by Rani, and took her hand away at the thought that it was something the “it” girls would do.
“The dress is a little big,” Edy said. “Mom fills it out much better.”
Her cheeks heated on reflection. Why had she chosen those words?
Edy glanced down the street, toward the Dyson house, hoping to distract him from her invitation to see how well she did or didn’t fill out her mother’s dress.
“Let’s just go,” she said and started off, leaving Wyatt to follow.
“You look incredible,” Wyatt said. “I’m gonna pay hell for showing up with you.”
Edy paid him a look, stride picking up as iced, eye watering wind cut through her ensemble.
“So, you admit it now,” she said, touching her hair again. “Before you were all Don Corleone on me. Now you sound like Freddy.”
&
nbsp; Wyatt blinked. “Who’s Freddy?”
Edy stopped. Took him in. Started again. “Hassan would have got that. Or Lawrence and the twins. Anyway, it’s a Godfather reference. Me and the boys have seen it a lot.”
Wyatt fell instep alongside her. “Is Hassan bringing a date, too?”
She could have kicked his ass for that. Such an innocent question. Yet, it brought a flood of emotion and the image of Sandra Jacobs tumbling out his window and down their tree, god damn her. Edy braced herself, fists clenched, nails digging, before flashing Wyatt her politician’s smile. Having a politician for a mother was worth something after all.
“I doubt he’ll bring a date,” she managed. “It’s really a casual sort of thing.”
“Yet, you have one,” Wyatt said. “You asked me.”
“Changing the conversation now,” Edy said.
They continued to walk.
“So, this party is something you do every year?” Wyatt asked.
“Yeah.”
“Since you were a baby?”
“I guess.”
Edy inspected her wrist. Not all the dancers on her bracelet from Hassan were exactly the same. Some were mid-pirouette, others mid-leap. She liked the leaping ones best.
“So, the Dysons have been throwing you a birthday party since you were born?”
“No. Just as long as I can remember.”
She found a dancer doing a handstand in a tutu and squinted at it.
“They’re pretty popular guys. Hassan, too.”
They halted at a stop sign and waited for a cherry Bentley to breeze by. The driver sounded two lyrical honks for Edy before running the intersection altogether. She waved in response.
“You know that guy?”
“Yeah.” Edy started off across the street, dress fluttering in the wind. She punched a bit of skyward fabric in impatience and touched up her curls again. “He’s Brock Maddow, an old teammate of Lawrence’s dad when he played for the Raiders.”
“His car is incredible.”
“It should be. He’s rich.”
A mint green Audi and black Jag followed Brock in quick succession. Like him, both honked. Edy waved.
“Jeez, Edy. It’s like a car show with—”
“Look.” She whirled on him so suddenly they almost collided in the street. “If you’re going to be doing that all afternoon, you might as well go home now.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting green. Like the sky above and the ground below impresses you.”
Wyatt’s mouth worked as his cheeks flushed irretrievably. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I—I’m sorry.”
Edy cringed. Had she really yelled at him? Chastised her friend for lacking the privilege she took for granted? Her insides turned gray and putrid with the thought. She sucked. And that was all.
“I’ll behave,” Wyatt continued. “You’ll see. I can act like I’m one of you guys. Although the clothes aren’t likely to fool anybody.” He opened his trench coat to reveal a wash-worn, peach polo, straight-legged jeans, and thick, white sneakers. But instead of him blushing at the ensemble, Edy did.
Shame. Shame like a canyon, swallowing her whole.
Edy turned away. When the wind battered her eyes, drawing tears in her punishment, she accepted it readily enough. “Promise me you won’t do that again,” she said.
“Do what?”
“Contort yourself into whatever you think’ll please me. You’re good enough as you are. Whoever doesn’t think so can suck it.”
Wyatt howled with laughter. “Suck what, Edy?” he said as they started off again.
She stole a look. “You know.”
“But I want you to say it. I dare you to say it.”
Edy laughed. “Leave me alone. I can’t. You know I can’t.” She looped an arm through his as if it were a consolation prize.
He accepted it with a broad mouthed smile.
~~~
The Bentley and Audi were just primers for the Dyson house, and Wyatt’s eyes threatened to leave his skull at the sight of it. A three-story corner lot that swallowed most of the street, it was newest of the homes in their neighborhood and by far the most opulent.
Shimmering gold in its rush skyward and flanked by sweeping porches, its boastful bay windows jutted elegance, its trimmings exquisiteness, as gables and spires and marks of another time blotted out the sun. People at South End High only faked this kind of wealth, the sort that came from multi-million dollar NFL contracts, piles of endorsements, and an ultra-successful franchise. Still, the Dysons were indifferent to it all. Only outsiders really cared about their net worth. Outsiders and Edy’s mom, of course.
Edy led the way up a sweep of gold steps to a double pair of walnut doors. They were stopped at the entrance by two boys in jackets that read “Dyson Gyms.”
“Names,” one blurted as he scrutinized a list.
Edy snorted. “Same as last year, Evan. Same as every year.”
He didn’t bother to look up from the clipboard.
“I don’t care if I know you. I still need you to say it.”
“Mother Teresa and Pope John Paul. Now move.” She shoved between the two.
But Wyatt stayed behind. The boys looked from her to him.
“You better not try that, too,” Evan warned.
They were big boys, defensive football players who were among the best in state. As part of a program the Dyson boys’ dad, Steve, ran, they received free memberships at his gym, plus mentoring. Needless to say, they were loyal to him.
“Move,” Edy said and folded her arms. “Or I’ll say that the two of you touched me.”
They parted wide for Wyatt. He looked at one, then the other, before following Edy in silence. But he stopped at the foyer. Creamy marble flooring, ivory walls were trimmed in gold. Spiral stairs on the left and right ventured upward to vaulted ceilings and beyond.
“Ballroom’s in the east wing,” Edy explained and veered in the direction of pulsing hip hop music.
“Ballroom?” Wyatt mumbled and touched his polo.
“Yeah,” Edy said. “This way.”
She could lead him in the dead of the night, blinded. How many times had she run down those same gilded halls? In patent leather Mary Janes, in rubber-soled jellies, barefoot and wet from the pool? There were nicks in the house, little things that the grownup eye would never see. Marks of five childhoods spent there. A miniscule drawing of soldiers in the corner of an alcove—one for each Dyson boy plus Hassan. A hole at the baseboard that separated Matt’s room from Mason’s—remnants of a failed effort to facilitate communication through the walls. Names carved on the belly of the south side porch—each of theirs and Edy.
It had always been that way. Each Dyson boy, Hassan, and Edy.
But “been” was a past tense word.
She shoved open the doors to the ballroom and a roar of greeting met them.
The boys, over near the food, noticed her in an instant. Tessa Dyson, clan mom, already made her way over. Other guests, probably after a faint tug of memory reminded them that they were there for Edy, managed to speak, too. Edy offered them a half hearted wave.
Pink and turquoise balloons drifted toward the ceiling, accented by the lilies at every table, centerpieces all around. Steve Dyson stood at one end, fussing at a massive wood-burning fireplace and grill. Broad-shouldered and powerfully muscled, he handed a rack of meat to Lawrence and waved him away. An elaborate spread of food lay out to one side, towering stacks of delicacies and deserts, rows of deliciousness. At the center of the display stood a three-tier birthday cake, high enough for Edy to count the candles from where she stood.
“Look at you,” Tessa said and wrapped arms around Edy. “So grown up and pretty.” Lower and in Edy’s ear, she added. “Did you and Hassan fight? He’s been here since breakfast, doing the work of three men.”
As Tessa pulled away, Edy shook her head slow, discreet. Tessa Dyson pursed her lips in a show of disbelief, before
returning for a second embrace.
“Fine,” she said. “Be secretive. Oh, and F.Y.I., I’ve already heard an earful about your date.”
She pulled away to face Wyatt.
“Pleased to meet you,” Tessa said, and turned a pageant smile on him.
Wyatt looked as if his mouth had filled with dust. Tessa Dyson, the one-time head cheerleader and former University of Georgia homecoming queen, had no doubt stolen his ability to speak. Not that it surprised Edy. As a little girl, it was her glamour that Edy had tried—and failed—to emulate. Now an aerobics instructor, the mother of the rambunctious Dyson brood had to be every bit as tight and firm as her years in college, belying the natural births she’d endured for all four of her children: the twins, Lawrence, and her youngest, Vanessa, that kept indoors mostly.
Edy exchanged introductions and excused herself to make the rounds.
“How’d I do?” Wyatt said.
She took in his shaky exhale and smiled.
“Great,” Edy said. “Don’t change a thing.” She bopped a finger off his nose and earned herself a grin.
“Let’s make the rounds,” Edy announced. “I’ll introduce you to people you’d foam over if you only cared about sports 30 years ago.”
Already, scores of people milled about, some with wine in hand, others with beer or soda. They steered far and away from a gaping Hassan, Lawrence, and the twins, who stood by the food, unimpressive in a pack of men who were equally big and bigger.
They passed the only two other teens seemingly mandated to be in attendance: Jessica Wilson, an upperclassman who hadn’t spoken a word to Edy in five years, and Alyssa Curtis, a cheerleader whose dark eyes scorched a perpetual threat in the general direction of the twins. Both had an unceasing habit of attaching themselves to Matt and Mason. And for what? To bawl in the girls’ bathroom? To curse and claw the next catch wrenched out from underneath them? Still, they rode the rollercoaster of madness with those boys on again and off again endlessly, ever enthusiastic for the next thrill.
Some girls, it seemed, never found the exit.
Love Edy Page 10