We Are the Goldens

by Dana Reinhardt

  Anyway, my goal wasn’t to defend Mom and Dad, it was to commiserate with you, to remind you that you could talk to me.

  But you were texting.

  “I don’t think I want to be a junior,” I said.

  You looked up. “What?”

  “I don’t ever want to be a junior.”

  “Why?” You went back to texting, a little annoyed.

  “Because it seems too hard. Too much work and pressure and stuff.”

  You shrugged. “Don’t worry. You’re smart as shit. You’ll do fine.”

  Strike one.

  “It just sort of seems like your year is off to a bad start. Usually you’re more excited about school.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said. Translation: Please leave me alone so I can concentrate on this text.

  Strike two.

  So I decided to follow a wisp of suspicion I hardly knew I had.

  “What did you do last Saturday after the game?”

  You didn’t look up from your phone. “Huh?”

  “After the soccer game at the Polo Fields last Saturday. Where did you go?”

  “The de Young.”

  “With Liv?” Schuyler wouldn’t be caught dead at an art museum.

  “No.”

  “Schuyler?” I asked, incredulous.

  “No.” You shoved your phone in your bag and looked at me. Daring and confident. “With Mr. B.”

  “You went to a museum with Mr. Barr? On a Saturday?”

  “Shhh.”

  “What, is it a secret?”

  “No, you’re just really loud.”

  I was definitely using my outside voice.

  “Wow.”

  “What?”

  “That’s weird, is all.”

  “What’s weird? He’s my art teacher. I’m taking a painting seminar and there was an Impressionist show at the de Young.”

  “Did anyone else go with you?”

  “No. So?”

  “So that’s weird.”

  “You’re weird.”

  You opened your bag, dug around for the phone you’d just put away, and went back to staring at the screen. I’d rattled you.

  You could have lied to me. Told me that you’d gone to a museum or a movie or the beach with Schuyler or Liv and I’d have believed you. But you trusted me. It was a test balloon of sorts—to say out loud that you spent the afternoon alone with a teacher who has a reputation.

  And I shot that balloon right out of the sky.

  I’m sorry for that. I really am.

  I tried telling myself maybe it wasn’t so weird. City Day is a place where students are given special attention and unique opportunities to learn and grow, and blah, blah, blah.

  But your neck got red. You took off your sweater. You were hot and rashy, which happens when you’re caught in an uncomfortable situation, and I know because it happens to me too. When I saw the color creeping up to your face I should have backed down. I’m your sister, and I want more than anything to be on your side.

  As I sat and watched you text with angry fingers, all I wanted was to get off the bus and back on your good side.

  So I decided that you, like most girls at City Day, had a harmless crush on Mr. B. I decided I was reading too much into everything, as usual. I should let it go.

  We were on our way to Dad’s. It was a Friday night and we had no plans. I still liked these sorts of nights the best, when it was just you and me at home with some version of our family.

  We hopped off at 24th and Church. I offered to carry one of your bags. You let me—accepting my olive branch.

  We played Bananagrams until midnight. Sonia begged off early because she had a brief she had to work on over the weekend. You and I should have followed her, considering our game the next day was at nine against one of the strongest teams in the league. But prudence, especially while in Dad’s care, is not our strong suit. Between you, Dad, and me we finished a pint and a half of Mitchell’s Grasshopper Pie ice cream, after an extra-large deep-dish calamity from Paxti’s Pizza.

  I went to bed bloated but happy. Dad stood on the threshold to my room and said, “Good night, Monkey Number Two.”

  That’s always been Dad’s nickname for me because you are Monkey Number One.

  “Good night, Pops.”

  “Sleep well.” He kissed the top of my head.

  “I’ll try.”

  I closed the door behind him and turned around to find the Creed brothers sitting on my bed.

  You ate too much, huh? Parker nodded sympathetically.

  You’ve got a game tomorrow. You should be taking care of your body, Duncan said.

  I stood and stared at them. Trying to convey with a look that they were on my bed and I needed to get in it, like, immediately.

  Do you want us to go?

  I was so, so tired.

  They stood up and I climbed under my covers, turned out the light, and closed my eyes.

  Nell, Duncan whispered in the dark.

  I put a pillow over my head but it didn’t block the sound of his voice. Her neck was creeping red.

  I’M SURE YOU THINK I tried out for the fall play just to get nearer to Sam Fitzpayne.

  Sure, when I walked by the drama room and saw his name on the sign-up sheet it lit a fire under me and I wrote my name up there too, but it wasn’t only Sam. You were changing. Pulling away from me. The survivalist in me must have known that I needed something other than soccer, other than being N. Golden, Monkey Number Two. I needed to do something for me, and yes, you’d worked on the musical your freshman year, but I wasn’t following in your footsteps. I wanted to be onstage, not behind the scenes, and anyway, you know how I love me some Shakespeare.

  I didn’t know that Ms. Eisenstein planned on rewriting Hamlet to set it in present-day San Francisco.

  I talked Felix into trying out too. He’s got a natural flair for drama, and I told him it was a way to meet new people. When he still looked at me skeptically, I reminded him that we’d do this together.

  “Okay. Fine. But only because you’re making me. Sheesh. You’re such a dominatrix.”

  I patted him on the head. “Good boy.”

  “But I’m so not kissing you, so you’d better not try out for Ophelia.”

  We were sitting in the cafeteria. The only day of the week our lunch period overlapped was Wednesday, so we had a lot of catching up to do in forty-five minutes.

  “For one thing, I’m not sure Hamlet ever actually gets to kiss Ophelia in the play. For another, I’m not going to try out for Ophelia because I’d never get the part and I don’t like to set myself up for failure. I’m a winner, not a loser, got that Felix? And finally: you will not be Hamlet because Sam Fitzpayne will be Hamlet, because that is the way the universe works.”

  “Sam Fitzpayne? What’s so special about Sam Fitzpayne?”

  I just stared at him.

  “Oh my God. You have a crush on Sam Fitzpayne.”

  “I do not.”

  “Yes you do. And why wouldn’t you? He’s so dreamy.”

  “I thought you didn’t know what’s so special about him.”

  “I was fishing. Trying to get you to admit you like him. I was just setting a trap. And you stepped right into it.”

  “You’re mixing your metaphors.”

  “It’s okay. Hunting and fishing go hand in hand.”

  We took a pause to actually eat some of our organic, locally sourced lunch. I took a look around the room.

  “How come nobody sits with us?”

  “Because we’re boring.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “I mean we’re boring when we’re together.”

  “I reject that. We’re not boring. At least, I’m not boring.”

  “Prove it.”

  I spied Hugh Feldman across the room. “See the guy over there in the green and blue striped sweater?”

  “The preppy one?”

  “Yeah. Him. I’ve seen his
penis.”

  Felix put his hands over his ears. “Oh God. Please. I’m eating my lunch.”

  I picked up a green bean and flung it at him, then stood and collected my tray.

  “Meet me in the drama room. Three-fifteen. Bring your flair.”

  He grinned. “I never leave home without it.”

  I had to go talk to Coach Jarvis because tryouts for the play conflicted with soccer practice. If I got a part, I was pretty sure I could swing both, considering whatever role I got would be minor. Soccer ended in early November. We’d put on the play in December before break. I had a speech prepared, but I didn’t need to deliver it because Coach just said, “No problem.”

  “Really?”

  “You’ve got to follow your passions, N. Golden. I’m not in the business of getting between kids and their passions.”

  “But …” I stopped myself from saying something as pathetic as Don’t you need me?

  “No buts. Other than yours, which you should get to the practice field pronto after knocking ’em dead at tryouts.”

  Kids make fun of Coach Jarvis sometimes because she’s like the textbook girls’ PE coach: bad tracksuit, bad haircut, tendency to bark orders faux–military style. But she’s really a big softie. At least, this is what I chose to believe instead of the version whereby she didn’t give a crap whether I showed up for practice or not.

  I saw you in the hall that afternoon and told you about my plans. I wanted your approval, of course, but there was also a part of me that wondered if maybe you’d decide to try out too. Maybe for once you’d follow me into something.

  “You’ll be great, Nell. I know you will.”

  “I don’t know … maybe. It just sounds like fun. And it probably won’t hurt on my college applications either.”

  “Don’t worry about that stuff yet. Just do what you want to do.”

  “Why don’t you try out too?”

  You laughed. “To be or … NOT.”

  “C’mon.”

  “No thank you.”

  “Pleeeease?” How could I go out on that stage in front of an audience with lights blazing down on me and not have you nearby?

  “No,” you said firmly. “Acting isn’t my thing. You know that. And anyway, I don’t have the time.”

  “What is your thing, then? Art?”

  I know I sounded pissy, though I wasn’t sure why.

  Your face fell. “Good luck today.” You walked away.

  Sam got the part of Hamlet and I was cast as one of Ophelia’s friends. I know, I know, Ophelia doesn’t have any friends in Hamlet, but this was Ms. Eisenstein’s version. So that meant I got to be one of Ophelia’s bitchy high school friends who thinks Hamlet is a big waste of her time. This truly tested my acting talents, considering we were talking about Sam Fitzpayne.

  You would have made a killer Ophelia.

  I just thought you should know that.

  Anyway, I didn’t sign up just to get closer to Sam, though that’s exactly what happened. I wondered at first if he’d start dating Isabella Jones, his Ophelia, because that’s how it goes with movie stars—people fall in love when they play people in love.

  But I guess I was imposing a Hollywood version of falling in love onto a high school where there really isn’t much use for love, or even dating. There’s hookups and people who hang out and all sorts of variations, but the actual boyfriend/​girlfriend is a rare breed at City Day.

  There’s Brian Belsen and Katie Hulquist, who’ve been together since they were sophomores, and if the frequency with which I’ve seen him shoving his tongue down her throat is any indication, I can believe they’re in love. I’d heard that Hugh Feldman had started dating a freshman named Ava Price, though I couldn’t confirm that, because I didn’t know Hugh well enough to ask, despite the fact that I’d seen his nether regions.

  Sam and I didn’t get close right away. First of all, I was with Felix all the time, and I’m pretty sure Sam thought Felix and I were a couple. Everyone always thinks that. It’s just part of having a boy for a best friend.

  The truth is I think I did have a crush on Felix at first, but I was in fourth grade and it was hard to sort out my feelings back then, not that it’s much easier now.

  All I know is that when Felix came to school as the new kid, I did everything I could to get near him. He was shorter than me by a half foot and skinny as hell.

  I know this sounds cheesy, but he just crackled with life. He never stopped moving and he was always fun to be around. As he used to say: There ain’t no party like a Felix party cuz a Felix party feels good!

  Felix is still funny, and he still crackles with life, but now he doesn’t feel the need to win over the room.

  Felix got a great part in the play—Jess, Claudius’s sidekick, who was Ms. Eisenstein’s reimagining of the classic court jester, a spot-on role for him.

  Since Felix and I were in about five scenes total we spent a lot of time in the back of the auditorium whispering in fake Shakespearean dialect and plotting our rise from bit players to leads in the life of the school.

  Now that I’d admitted my obsession with Sam Fitzpayne, Felix had vowed to help me make some headway.

  “Thou mighteth beginneth by the removal of thy peasant’s head from my most regal lap,” I said.

  Felix was resting on me like he often does.

  “ ’Tis all right, milady,” he said without moving. “ ’Tis besteth he believeth he dost have competition for thy royal heart.”

  What I said next I couldn’t translate into our Fakespeare because it was hard enough to find the words in my native language.

  I leaned in close. “The problem is,” I whispered. “I think he’s sort of in love with Layla.”

  “Pffff.” Felix waved his hand in my face.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You think everyone’s in love with Layla.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Does Layla like him?”

  “No. She thinks he’s a boy.”

  “He is a boy.”

  “No, I mean she thinks he’s a little boy.”

  “Has she seen his abs?”

  “I doubt it, but now I have to ask: do you have a crush on Sam Fitzpayne?”

  “No, I’m just jealous of his abs. How can she call him little?”

  “I think we’ve lost our thread.”

  “My point is, Nell, that if Layla doesn’t like Sam, then who cares if he has a thing for her. It’s not gonna happen, and eventually he’ll realize that and go after someone he has a chance with.”

  “Wow, you sure know how to make a girl feel good.”

  “Is that my job?”

  “Sorta. Yeah.”

  He sat up and leaned back against the wall next to me. He draped his leg over mine and nudged my foot.

  “You’re every bit as awesome as Layla. It just takes someone with some vision to recognize that.”

  “Honestly, Felix? You suck at this.”

  “Would it help if I said I think Sam is looking at you?”

  I shielded my eyes from the stage. “You’re lying. You’re just trying to slap a Band-Aid on a wound.”

  I glanced up through my fingers at Sam, who was holding Ophelia’s hands and staring directly into her eyes.

  “Patience, Nell,” Felix said. “We’re just getting started. By the time we’re done with the play, we’ll all know each other inside and out. That’s what happens with things like school plays. And, well … to know you is to love you. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

  “So … the play’s the thing?”

  He nodded. “The play’s the thing.”

  “Oh, my liege.” I rested my head on his shoulder and took his hand in mine. “You are most gentle and most kind.”

  IN MIDOCTOBER YOU STARTED LAYING the groundwork for ditching our annual girls’ weekend with Mom and Gramma. First you blamed it on soccer. We had a game that Saturday, like we always do, but you’d never minded missing one before, so th
at argument didn’t hold up.

  Then you said you had too much homework.

  I know when you’re trying to get out of something you don’t want to do. But it made no sense that you’d want to miss our trip to Big Sur—we loved that trip—and so against my better judgment I accepted your homework excuse.

  There are so many reasons to love our weekend with Mom and Gramma. For one thing, it’s a ritual, and in a life as fractured as ours, I treasure something that’s a constant year in, year out. I assumed you did too. For another thing, that hotel kicks ass. The sheets. The bathrobes. The breakfast spread. I could go on.

  When we first began our annual girls’ trip, we went camping. That was when you and I were younger, and Gramma was younger, and the allure of pitching a tent beneath the towering redwoods was stronger than the hands of Manny, who gives us our massages at the resort we traded up for a few years back. I’m all about nature, breathing in the scent of pine and listening to the crashing surf, but I prefer to do so from the deck of our two-bedroom suite.

  You’re even more of a spa whore than me. You took to the idea of someone rubbing orange-scented exfoliant onto your face and coconut oil on your naked body way more quickly than I did. That first year we went to the resort, I stayed in the room and watched pay-per-view while you and Mom and Gramma got pampered, but whatever hang-ups I had have vanished. Nowadays I say: bring on the treatments.

  I asked, “Why can’t you just bring your homework?”

  “I don’t want it to ruin the vibe.”

  Let me give you two reasons this weekend should never be jettisoned for anything as mundane as homework:

  We spend weekends with Dad, but this is the one time Mom gives over her Saturday and Sunday entirely to us. You say Mom is selfish, that she’s more concerned with landing a husband than hanging out with her daughters, but you can be too hard on her. So this is our weekend with Mom. Don’t call her selfish or complain she’s too busy and then make up some lame-ass excuse for why you can’t come.

  I hate to beat a dead horse, but this is a ritual, okay? That means it takes precedence over everything. And you know why we do it. We go every year on the anniversary of Gramma’s mother’s death. And even though we never knew her, it’s like this time when we’re supposed to feel the thread connecting the women of our family across the generations or something, and maybe that’s bullshit, but who cares? It’s important.