I remember her teaching Hunter how to swing dance when he was twelve, so he could show off at the seventh-grade winter formal. They were in the kitchen with the radio on, laughing and twirling and knocking into the countertops. She and Hunter belong to a family where people are friendly and outgoing and happy, where they wonder how they got stuck with people like me and Dad.
“If you hug me now, I promise not to move away,” I offer.
She looks at me and smiles, then gets up and tentatively puts her arms around me. Most awkward hug of all time. I stay very still, to prove I’m not gonna freak out, and then I hug her back, burying my face in her soft neck. She smells like the snow and her skin is chilled, but I feel warm and loved, like I belong to that parallel family she has with Hunter, like I’ve always belonged, and I hold on tight.
When I wake up the next morning, a new painting on my wall greets me.
A beautiful rendition of Monet’s water lilies.
WITH HUNTER AT HIS FRIEND ADAM’S THE PAST FEW DAYS, the house has been quiet. Maybe we should get used to it; he’ll be off to college in a few months and the three of us will have to deal.
Children’s Home Rule number four: Children will maintain good relationships with their brothers and sisters.
But what if one of them has left?
On Christmas Eve day, I get checked out by the doctor, who removes my splint and tells me I’m healing nicely. I can grip a pen now and write really sloppily.
I think about texting Ricky the good news, but it’s not fair of me to contact him. I’m the one who broke things off.
Hunter shows up in time for dinner. He was gone nearly a week, and he looks better now. Well rested.
“Greetings, Brother,” I say with a shaky smile. My Children’s Home Rule.
“You okay?” he asks me.
“Thanks to you,” I say.
He nods, shortly.
For Christmas, I get three Bleak House–related items. I wish I were making that up. CliffsNotes in my stocking, the Scully-from-X-Files version on DVD, and a download of the Books on Tape edition for my iPod. I’m surprised the freakin’ Chipmunks don’t have an adaptation. My family claims they made these purchases independently, but I smell a conspiracy.
There are also plenty of Christmas cards under the tree from relatives and friends of my parents. Grandmaster Huan and all the kids at Glenview Martial Arts sent me one, too. Grandmaster wrote, “We are very excited to have you back in January.”
I go through the cards again and again, wondering why there isn’t anything from Shelly. She hasn’t sent a single postcard from New York. I could write her an e-mail asking how she’s doing, but if she wanted me to know, she’d have sent a postcard by now. I bet life in New York is amazing; she probably went skating at Rockefeller Center and saw the huge Christmas tree.
But I don’t blame her for forgetting about me, especially since we’d barely made up when she left.
The day after Christmas is my meeting with Officer Jenkins. I go to the bathroom three times before we leave the house because I’m petrified I’ll have to pee just from walking into the police station.
Dad assumes he’ll be going in with me, but I need to do this by myself. I ask if he doesn’t mind coming back to get me in a half hour.
“Are you sure?” he says.
“I’m sure.”
I take my time, slowly winding my way up the stairs to the station.
In the lobby, Christmas and Hanukkah decorations are strewn about and there are garbage bags overflowing with Styrofoam cups and tattered wrapping paper leaning against the wall. They didn’t even get yesterday off, but maybe they had a little party between shifts. I remember reading somewhere that incidents of drunk driving and domestic violence go up around the holidays.
I picture the cops’ families at home last night, sitting around a fire and opening stocking gifts, all the while worrying about their spouses or moms and dads being on duty.
I have trouble taking my coat off. I shouldn’t, because I have use of both hands now, but my arm is stuck in the sleeve and I wriggle self-consciously, trying to fling the damn thing off, when someone comes to my assistance: it’s the female cop who looked out for me last time I was here. She holds the back collar of my jacket in place, which allows me to tug my sleeve off.
I swallow and hang my jacket on the hook.
The female cop is looking at me. “Tough year, huh?” she says.
I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak without crying. Not because I’m sad, but because she’s so kind. It’s the smallest gestures from a stranger that get to you sometimes. “Thanks,” I whisper.
“You’re here to see Officer Jenkins, right? He’s running a bit late, but he’ll be here soon. Take a seat wherever you like.”
I nod again and perch on a chair. When I thought I’d be getting this over with immediately, I felt okay about it, but having to wait has thrown my self-assurance out the window.
My nonheart is frozen solid, unmoving, so the pulse points in my wrists and throat are amplified. I pick at my lip and stare at the clock.
My pulse points and I sit there for ten agonizing minutes before Officer Jenkins arrives and leads me to his desk.
He’s younger than I remember, maybe in his thirties, and slim but hard, like he has a lot on his mind. His short, choppy brown hair has gray flecks mixed in; maybe the gray is a recent addition.
He drinks a glass of water like he wishes it were a beer, and then he seems kind of at loose ends, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He rests them on his knees and then clasps them awkwardly in his lap. A badge sits on his desk, but he’s not in uniform. Just plain pressed pants and a button-down white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves.
I feel small in the chair across from him. I’m glad he’s not wearing his gun holster.
“We’re a lot alike, I think,” he says. “We both want to help people. My objective that day was to keep as many people alive as possible. I wish it’d gone down differently, but what’s done is done.”
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say. I don’t even know the difference between a sergeant and a detective.
“Mrs. Hamilton said you already have your black belt. Which explains the shiner I got last time we met.”
My face feels warm and pink. “Sorry about that. Sorry.” Should I have brought him Dunkin’ Donuts as an apology?
“I didn’t get my black belt until I was twenty-six,” he says.
“What martial arts did you take?”
“Some judo, hapkido, karate. It helps me when I have to cuff people, get ’em in the car.”
“But you still carry a gun,” I point out.
“It’d be great if no one did, but the criminals do, so I have to, too.”
“Is it true if you hurt someone and the cops find out you’re a black belt, you can get in more trouble?” I ask, thinking of my laminated ID card with my full name and photo.
“Sometimes. It’s called excessive force. If you do more than you need to in order to subdue someone. If you go overboard.”
“So why doesn’t it work the other way? Why don’t I get in trouble for not doing something when I should have?”
He leans in, propping his head up on his hands, his eyes squinting slightly as he regards me. “It’s not that simple.”
“But he wasn’t going to shoot her, was he,” I point out. It’s not a question.
“No, I don’t think so. But we can never know for sure. He was high, he was unpredictable, he was pointing the gun at anyone and everything, including us.”
“What did it look like, when I got out from under the table?” I ask. I think I have everything pieced together, but I want to hear it from his perspective.
“He raised his gun, and he pointed it at you. We yelled at him some more and moved in closer. He turned the gun on us, on three armed officers, and that’s a death wish. Have you heard the term ‘suicide by cop’?”
I shake my head.
“It�
��s a way to die without … It’s a tactic. He had a history of risky behavior, of reckless disregard for his own safety. And he had options, but he didn’t take them.”
“He wanted to die?”
“Looks that way.”
Suicide is selfish, I think. After you do it, everyone else has to go on living, only they’ll never be the same. His parents … his friends … do they know it was suicide?
“If I had kicked the gun away, tripped him, anything before he saw me there, he would still be alive.”
He hesitates. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“And maybe if he was still alive, he could’ve gotten better, he could’ve gone to rehab, he could’ve gotten off drugs.”
Jenkins looks dubious. “Maybe. I’m not sure he wanted to get better. And you can’t … put it on yourself. He chose to commit a felony. He chose to carry a deadly weapon. He chose to put your life, the cashier’s life, and my officers’ lives in danger. I have a family. They have families. And you’re just a kid,” Officer Jenkins says, kind of gruffly.
I can see in his eyes that the decision weighs on him, and I’m certain now it was his voice I heard. Light him up.
“There were three police officers in the room. You know how many people are responsible for what happened?” Jenkins asks.
I don’t answer.
“Four,” he says. “Daryl, and the three of us wearing badges. That’s all. We tried to talk him down, talk him into putting the gun down, but when we got the right angle, we felt we had to take it. Do you think you can understand that?”
I offer him the tiniest of nods. “I’ll try.”
A crack forms in my ice heart, thawing it to a temperature that allows it to beat again.
When he gets up to shake my hand, he bows, and I return it.
Dad picks me up right on time, and I ask him to drive me to the cemetery. We ride over in silence, no sound but the heater blasting. The silence feels comfortable, though, not charged with the usual awkwardness. He’s in a wheelchair, but he’s still Dad, and I don’t care if he walks again as long as he fights to stay healthy and strong.
He wonders if I want company, but I’d rather go alone. It’s the second thing I need to do by myself today.
My boots crunch through the thin layer of snow that’s settled on the ground. My footprints are the only ones around, winding along a path that seems to have no clear direction.
I’m not going to monologue to Daryl’s grave like we’re friends. I’m not going to throw myself to the ground and make a scene like a widow draped in black.
I just want to acknowledge my fault in what happened, and I’m pretty sure I can do it in two words.
HUNTER DRIVES ME TO HANNAH’S FOR NEW YEAR’S. MOM and Dad have plans and don’t trust me by myself at home, so they asked Hannah’s parents to babysit. Hannah still thinks we’re heading to Gretchen’s party, so when we arrive, she calls us into her room, where she’s twisting her hair into a complicated pattern and making a crownlike circle at the top. I can tell by Hunter’s wide, hopeful eyes and abrupt lack of conversation that he likes what he sees.
“Want a pop or anything before we go?” Hannah says, and then to me, “How come you’re not dressed up?”
I see a golden opportunity to make things right with Hunter. It gets pretty sappy, so here are the CliffsNotes. Expect a quiz at the end.
Me, to Hannah: “I’m grounded. Your parents are going to watch me.”
Hannah (looks down, starts to undo hair): “Well, then, I shouldn’t go to the party either.”
Hunter: extreme sad eyes.
Me: “You guys should go together.”
Everyone: Gasp!
I drag Hunter to the corner. “Go,” I tell him quietly. “Have fun. Text me photos.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because I love you, and I want you to be happy, and I’m sorry for turning your senior year into shit.”
He whispers in my ear, cupping his hand over his mouth like we’re kids making fun of Grandpa’s snoring. “Thank you.”
The next few hours are a bit surreal. Hannah’s parents, who are kind of old, serve Triscuits with Brie and watch the ball drop twice in Times Square—once at 11:00 p.m. and a second time at midnight in reruns. They offer me sparkling grape juice, but anything resembling alcohol disgusts me, fruit flavors in particular. I don’t want to spend my night celebrating another city’s New Year, so I thank them for having me, wish them good night, and head upstairs.
I lie in Hannah’s spare twin bed and stare at the ceiling. I remember lying on my back in the garage gym and staring at the ceiling that time with Ricky when he asked if I had a boyfriend, before we’d kissed or anything, when kissing was nothing more than a frightening and exciting possibility.
I wonder what Ricky’s up to tonight. Is he having a good time? Was he able to leave the house and have dinner somewhere? I hope so.
Before we broke up, I’d planned on buying him a new pair of sneakers for Christmas.
I miss his voice. I miss looking into his eyes and holding hands and kissing and being treated as if I’m precious or fragile, even though we both know I’m not. It was still nice being treated that way sometimes. It was nice being thought of as special and worthy of attention and affection. Being vulnerable with another person can be terrifying, and doing something terrifying, even though you’re scared, is brave.
I’ll never be the kind of person who kisses on the first date or has a one-night stand, and that’s my choice. But there’s nothing wrong with wanting someone to hold you or dance with you at a New Year’s party. There’s nothing wrong with feeling good. It doesn’t make you weak. It doesn’t ruin relationships or make them cheap.
I don’t like what Hunter and Shelly did, but I understand why they did it, especially Shelly. She never gave herself permission to have fun outside ballet or outside her friendship with me. She was always on schedule to be a performer, never allowing herself to have crushes or go on dates or be a regular teenager, and then she was afraid she’d be ostracized at dance school, so she tried to catch up with everybody in a single night instead of letting things happen naturally over a period of time. Maybe she went overboard, but I should never have made her feel bad for wanting to kiss someone, wanting to have sex, or wanting to enjoy herself. I guess I was scared of losing her, or of being forced to do those things, too, before I was ready.
At home the next morning I type an e-mail.
January 1st.
Hey, Shell.
(Not a nickname we ever use.)
Hi Shelly,
Hope New York is amazing and you’re having fun in school.
(What am I, her mother??)
Hi Shelly,
Hope New York is amazing and dance classes are going well. Just wanted to check in. I haven’t heard from you since you left, which I totally understand because NEW YORK!! but I wanted to make sure it’s not because of me not apologizing right. I’m sorry I ignored you. I get now it had nothing to do with me and that I overreacted. Hunter is actually not so bad a choice. I forgive you and I hope you can forgive me one day, even if I don’t deserve it.
Love, Imo
I click Send, and then I look up the Manhattan Dance Company online and find a calendar that lists all of Shelly’s upcoming performances with the Juniors Program. Then I call the florist that’s closest to her school. They’re not open, of course; just because I’ve decided to start fresh for the new year doesn’t mean everyone else has. I try 1-800-Flowers instead.
“Hi, is it possible to preorder flowers to be delivered backstage every opening night? It’d be one this month, two the next month, and two the month after that.”
“Yes,” the person at the other end replies, “but I’ll need a credit card and preauthorization form filled out.”
I check with Mom about using her card, and I pay her back for the first delivery with Grandma’s Christmas money. The rest will come from my allowance.
“How do you want to sign th
e cards?” the florist asks me.
“Keep it anonymous.”
It’s not about me getting credit; it’s about Shelly knowing she’s loved. It’s about being the friend I should’ve been when she lived here. If she figures out it’s me, cool; maybe she’ll see I’m sorry, and not just about Hunter, and not just for now. If she doesn’t figure it out, that’s okay, too.
Next thing I do is call Hannah and ask how the New Year’s party was. She got home after I was asleep, and I left in the morning before she woke up.
She and Hunter didn’t kiss at midnight because everyone blared noisemakers instead and it would’ve been weird. But he held her hand all night and opened doors for her and junk, so I tell her if she wants to, she should invite Hunter to the Valentine’s Day dance. It’s a month away but you have to plan early because it’s ladies’ choice and there’s a system.
A week before the dance, girls have to compose a valentine to the guy they want to ask, but they don’t sign it. The poem’s a clue. If the guy knows who sent it, he can approach her and say yes. If he doesn’t know who sent it or he doesn’t want to go, he just won’t respond.
Last year, Hunter got seventeen valentines.
It was a school record, a point Hannah immediately throws in my face. “Why would I set myself up to be one in a hundred?”
“Because I’m going to help you, and because he’s been pining over you since my birthday when you told him off.”
She giggles then, a telltale sign if ever I heard one. “He only likes me because I don’t like him. This’ll wreck it.”
“But do you like him a little bit?” I wonder. “Confess; I won’t get mad.”
“Fine, a little bit—but I like being pursued even better.”
We compose her poem:
I may not be there when you call
I may not buy a dress at all
You’re lucky if I dance with you
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