The List

by Siobhan Vivian

  “Abby!” Mrs. Warner scolds. “Don’t be so crass.”

  “What, Mom? Don’t you think it’s weird that Fern is, like, obsessed with Mr. Timmet? That she runs to his room every day after school, even though he’s not her teacher anymore? I’ve never seen her talk to the boys in her class.” Abby cups her hands around her mouth and fake-whispers, “I think she’s into older men.”

  Fern bolts from the table. Abby smiles as Fern’s footsteps pound up the stairs and down the hall.

  “Abby, please. Leave your sister alone.”

  “You know Fern isn’t as outgoing as you are. She feels more comfortable around adults.”

  “That’s because she’s a social reject!” Abby screams, hoping her voice will lift up through the ceiling.

  After adding another day to her punishment, her parents retire to their respective offices.

  Abby takes her time loading the dishwasher, sliding the plates in the cage so they nestle perfectly. She wipes down the countertops and the table and sweeps the floor. When the kitchen glistens, she flicks off the lights and the radio and glumly climbs the staircase.

  When she reaches their room, Abby stands in the doorway and stares at her sister while Fern gets dressed to leave for the movie. With her oversize T-shirt, Fern barely looks like a girl.

  Abby could help her. She could show Fern how to flatiron her hair, help Fern pick out better clothes. Maybe Fern could meet a cute nerdy boy at the movie tonight, someone who liked those stupid books as much as she did.

  But Abby won’t. She won’t ever help Fern after what Fern has done to her.

  As far as she’s concerned, they are no longer sisters.

  andace is dropped off at Lauren’s a few minutes early. She stands on the sidewalk and stares at the old house, white paint peeling from the shingles, bushes overgrown and shapeless, dead leaves blanketing the grass. She thinks with deadpan sincerity, This is the girl who has stolen all my friends. She reaches for the flowers in her backseat and prunes away any wilting petals.

  It is her mom’s habit to show up with a small gift for the hostess. Candace has never done it before herself, even though she’s eaten dinner a million times over at her friends’ houses. But this invitation is different. There is a mission at hand.

  “My mom wants to meet you,” Lauren had said when she’d called yesterday. “Can you come over for dinner tomorrow? Please.”

  “Why does she want to meet me?”

  “She’s …” Candace could practically hear Lauren’s brain firing as she chose her words, “very protective.” Then Lauren sighed. It made a staticky sound, the phone pressed too close to her mouth. “And she won’t let me go to your party unless she meets you.”

  Candace bit her lip. She wasn’t entirely sure if she did want Lauren at her party. The girl was nice and all, but the invitation had been more about making peace with the rest of her friends. “What’s in it for me?”

  “If I don’t go, none of the other girls will, either,” Lauren said matter-of-factly. “So, will you come? Tomorrow night?”

  Candace rubbed her eyes. At times, Lauren was totally clueless, like a girl raised in the wilderness. And then, at other times, she seemed to know exactly what was going on.

  “A Friday night? I’m supposed to meet up with some people.” Candace whined, mainly to show Lauren what a sacrifice this was. She didn’t have plans. “Fine. Sure. I guess I can go out afterward.”

  After Candace had hung up, she was surprised to feel flattered. Though the invitation had been one of desperation, Lauren still trusted her to act as a representative of her friends, despite what the list had said about her, and all the mean things the girls were certainly filling Lauren in on.

  So Candace decided to really do it up. She’d wear a nice skirt and a cardigan sweater. She’d bring flowers.

  And anyway, Candace had been curious about Lauren’s home life and she wanted to see for herself. She still wasn’t convinced that the girl wasn’t in a weird religious cult. And, for the life of her, she couldn’t understand what it was about Horse Hair that had made her friends fall head over heels.

  At exactly a minute before seven, Candace rings the bell.

  Lauren brightens when she opens the door and sees the flowers. It’s cute. “These aren’t for you,” Candace says, pulling the bouquet back. She glances past Lauren and gets a quick look at the living room. One floral couch with a sag in the middle of each cushion, a heavy oak coffee table, a gold lamp that Candace decides is the ugliest she’s ever seen. There are no photos or candles or pretty little vases like there are on Candace’s fireplace mantel. It smells bitter and lemony, like cleaning fluid. The curtains have been drawn open, but there is weatherproofing plastic on the old windows, sealing the stale air inside.

  Mrs. Finn comes out of the kitchen, an even paler version of Lauren. Everything about her seems tired, from her flat hair to her dull pants and stale blouse to the tips of her toes striped by the dark seam of her panty hose.

  Mrs. Finn is so different from Candace’s own mom. She wears no makeup, and is dressed more like a grandmother. That said, Candace hates when her mom borrows one of her tops to wear out on a date with Bill. But at least her mom tries to look good. Mrs. Finn could maybe be pretty with a little effort. But it seems like Mrs. Finn gave up on herself a long time ago. Candace doubts Mrs. Finn has been on any dates in a long time.

  “Hello, Mrs. Finn. These,” she says, presenting the flowers, “are for you.” Lauren beams at Candace, and Candace gives her a look to quit it. She’s nervous enough as it is.

  Mrs. Finn nods, and motions for Lauren to take them. “Dinner’s running a little late,” she says. “I’ve just started at a new job, and, well …”

  “Timing got away from us,” Lauren says. “I know you said you have plans later. Is that okay?”

  Candace doesn’t want to stay any longer than she has to. But she smiles and says, “Sure. No problem.”

  The dining room is set for a formal guest, with tap water poured into crystal goblets. Lauren can’t find a vase, so she puts the flowers into a tomato sauce jar and sets them in the middle of the table. “I’m going to help my mother in the kitchen,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay,” Candace says, and sits alone for what feels like an eternity. She thought this dinner was supposed to be about getting to know her, and here she is, sitting in a dark room by herself.

  Finally, Mrs. Finn brings out a pot of spaghetti. Lauren serves everyone, smiling like a robotic housewife.

  “So, you grew up in this house, Mrs. Finn?” Candace says, just to get the conversation going.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you go to Mount Washington High?”

  “I did. Though it looks much different than when I was a student.”

  “I’m sure a lot of things are the same,” Candace says, thinking of the musty library couches, the dusty old trophy cases, the impossibly uncomfortable auditorium seats.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Mrs. Finn says.

  It only takes one bite for Candace to know that the spaghetti hasn’t been fully cooked. She sets her fork down and concentrates on the garlic bread.

  “So, tell me about yourself, Candace.”

  Candace takes a sip of water and folds her hands in her lap. “Well, I’m a sophomore, like Lauren. I live on Elmwood Lane, across town, with my mom.”

  “What does she do for a living?”

  Candace lights up. She likes telling people about her mom’s job. Ladies, especially. They always press her for secret beauty tips. “She’s a professional makeup artist. For the local nightly news.”

  Mrs. Finn looks surprised, but not exactly impressed. “My. That’s not the kind of job you hear about every day.”

  “She used to work at a makeup counter at the department store,” Candace explains. “And she did a makeup consultation for one of the newscasters. Like a makeover, you know? Anyway, the lady loved it and recommended Mom for the job.”

&
nbsp; “That’s very nice,” Mrs. Finn says. And, before Candace has a chance to pick up her fork again, she adds, “So what kind of books do you like to read?”

  “Sorry?”

  “What kind of books do you like to read?” Mrs. Finn repeats. “Lauren loves to read.”

  Lauren nods. “I do.”

  Candace hadn’t read a book in months. Not even the one her English teacher had assigned, Ethan Frome.

  “Ethan Frome,” Candace says.

  “I love Ethan Frome!” Lauren cries. “It’s so romantic and sad. I mean, can you imagine being forced to live with your wife and the mistress you’ve unintentionally crippled?”

  Candace smiles stiffly. “No. I can’t.”

  “What else have you read recently? For pleasure?”

  Candace takes a sip of warm tap water and sets down her glass. “Ummmmm …” she says, drawing out the m sound as long as she can.

  “Mom,” Lauren says, a little quieter. “You’re putting her on the spot.”

  “I guess I read a lot of magazines. More than I do books.” Candace lowers her eyes. “It’s bad, I know.”

  “It’s not,” Lauren says, defending her. “Magazines are great. I love magazines.”

  “Lauren tells me that you have a lot of friends in your class. What do you think attracts people to you?”

  At this moment, nothing. “I really don’t know. Maybe because I’m honest?”

  “Honesty. I like honesty. That’s good, because I have an honest question to ask you. And it’s not if you are enjoying the dinner, because you are clearly not.” Mrs. Finn laughs, but Candace and Lauren don’t. They just stare at each other nervously. “I’d like to know why you think everyone is suddenly gravitating toward my daughter.”

  Candace surprises herself with her answer. Instead of saying that Lauren is pretty, she chooses “Because she’s nice” instead.

  “Thank you so much for doing this,” Lauren says, walking Candace to the door. “I hope it wasn’t too terrible,” she adds in a low whisper. Lauren herself looks tired, drained. Like this wasn’t any fun for her, either.

  “Not at all,” Candace says, even though she feels completely awful about herself. Mrs. Finn wasn’t interested in getting to know her. She only wanted to prove she wasn’t worthy of her daughter’s friendship.

  Don’t worry, Candace wants to shout over her shoulder. We’re not friends. Not even close.

  Lauren’s hand touches her shoulder, gentle. “I know this has been a hard week, but the girls will come around. And I’ll put in an extra good word for you with them.”

  “Thanks,” Candace says. She means it, almost too much.

  On her way down the front walk, something comes over Candace, and she slows her pace. She thinks about asking Lauren if she wants to come hang out with her for a bit. First off, Lauren could use a couple of hours away from Mrs. Finn. But also, Candace has this sudden, urgent need to talk to her. She wants Lauren to know she’s not a mean girl. She wants to apologize for being a bitch in the bathroom on Tuesday, when Lauren had only tried to be nice. She wants to rewind tonight, start dinner over and perform better in front of Mrs. Finn.

  She turns around, but Lauren has already started to close the door between them. Before it slams shut, she calls out, “Have fun tonight, Candace.”

  Oh, right. Her fake plans.

  “I’ll try,” Candace says, even though she won’t.

  ennifer counts fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty Mississippi seconds, and rings the doorbell for the second time. And, for the second time, it doesn’t open.

  She hasn’t visited Margo’s house in four years. Not officially, anyway. She’s driven by every so often, for no real reason other than to see that it was still standing. Jennifer leans over the side railing and peers up at Margo’s bedroom window. The glass is dark, reflecting only the spindly limbs of a bare tree in the front yard and the slack wires stretching from pole to pole.

  Jennifer presses her ear to the front door and rings the bell for the third time. She strains to hear the chime, but the bell is either busted or buried underneath the music and the laughter of the people inside. She knocks a few times. Then pounds her fist. Shadows move around behind gauzy window curtains.

  There used to be a key hidden under the doormat. Margo was always forgetting hers and getting locked out, and she’d show up at Jennifer’s house a few minutes after having said good-bye on the corner to watch cartoons or talk shows until someone came home to let her inside. That was in eighth grade, before things started to get weird. Margo eventually convinced her mother to leave a key under the mat. Margo hardly ever came by after that.

  Jennifer crouches down and lifts the wiry grass mat. There’s nothing but brittle bits of dead leaves and dirt underneath. A minivan drives down the dark street. The driver glances at her, before turning into a nearby driveway.

  Jennifer fights off shivers. What if she accidentally alerts a neighbor to the party and gets Margo in trouble?

  She digs through her purse for her cell phone. As soon as she touches it, Jennifer realizes that she doesn’t remember Margo’s number. No one bothered to give her Dana’s or Rachel’s. All Jennifer got were instructions to show up at eight.

  The guest of honor lets out a deep breath.

  Was it a real invitation? Or did they just pity her?

  Does it matter?

  Then again, it is a quarter to nine, so she is late. They could have thought she’d backed out. Margo was probably hoping.

  It had taken Jennifer longer than she’d thought to fix her hair — half up and done in loose barrel curls. She’d worn it exactly the same way in her prettiest picture, taken when she was nine at her grandparents’ anniversary party. Margo had gone with her, and when someone wheeled out a sheet cake, the two girls sang a verse of their wedding song in front of everyone. They’d practiced for the moment all summer long. In the picture, both girls were in spring dresses, standing together on the low stage in the church basement, mouths open. The picture stayed up on the mantel in her family’s living room, even after their friendship ended. Jennifer wanted it there, a reminder that she had been pretty once. Back when looks didn’t matter.

  Jennifer’s voice was much nicer than Margo’s. Everyone at the party had said so, not only her grandparents.

  Anyway, when Jennifer had asked to borrow the family car for the night, she’d felt good. She’d spent the afternoon at the mall, trying on armfuls of clothes before settling on the tight black sweater and purple wool pencil skirt that Rachel and Dana had suggested she buy.

  “Where is this party?” Mrs. Briggis had asked.

  “Margo’s house.” Her parents had both looked up, but Jennifer waved off their concern. “It’s fine. We’re over that now.”

  “You’re a good girl, Jennifer.”

  When her father and mother kissed her good-bye, neither noticed the bottle of vodka tucked in her purse.

  Despite the timing snafu, there is still a detectable flutter in her chest, anticipation of how wonderful this night could be. It doesn’t matter if four years on the ugly list is what finally got her here. She is here now and she is going to make the best of it that she can.

  If only to prove Margo wrong.

  Driveway gravel crunches behind her. Jennifer spins and faces a pair of headlights. The engine quiets, and the brightness clicks off a moment later, leaving two white stars in her eyes. When they fade, she sees Margo.

  Margo’s hair is damp from a shower. She isn’t dressed up, either. Just a pair of jeans, a fitted cheering T-shirt, a cardigan sweater, and her Keds. She takes two plastic grocery bags from the backseat.

  “Why are you standing outside?” Margo asks with the sort of cold laugh that older sisters are good at. Full of knowing better. Before Jennifer can answer, Margo steps past her and twists the doorknob. The front door is unlocked.

  Jennifer steps inside. It is warm inside, muggy, and it makes Jennifer’s fingers red and stingy. It’s brighter than she’d thought th
e party would be, bright as a high school classroom. No dim lighting, no candles for ambiance. She peers past the coatrack into the formal living room. It looks the same as she remembers, gray walls with white trim, identical couches facing each other in front of the fireplace, and a maroon oriental rug with fringe. She takes a second look. No. The rug is new. There are kids sitting on the couches, on the floor, and also perched on coffee tables and slanted against the bookshelves.

  The front door closes behind Jennifer, and everyone who notices her smiles hello. But there is no one posted at the door checking the backs of people’s homecoming tickets to make sure they’d voted for Jennifer, as Dana and Rachel had promised there’d be.

  Jennifer follows Margo into the kitchen. Dana and Rachel are sitting up on the center island, drinking fruit punch out of plastic champagne glasses. They share a cigarette.

  “Margo!” they shout. “Did you get snacks?”

  “Yup,” she says. She unpacks one bag and stuffs the rest in the cabinet that Jennifer remembers used to hold cereal. “We’re hiding these from the boys. Pigs.”

  “Hey, Jennifer,” Rachel says, almost like she’d forgotten Jennifer was coming. “Glad you made it!”

  “Do you want a drink?” Dana asks. The upper part of her lip is stained red. “We invented this stuff called Punchy Punch. It’s pretty sweet, but it’s better than the nasty cheap beer the guys buy. And it gets you drunk way faster. Here, Margo. Get Jennifer some.”

  Margo pours herself a glass, and then one for Jennifer, half-full. She hands it to Jennifer, but does not make eye contact.

  “Oh. I brought this.” Jennifer pulls the bottle from her purse. “I don’t know if it’s any good,” she says shyly.

  Dana takes the bottle and checks the label. “Nice. It’s great, actually.” She smiles. “Thanks, Jennifer.”