I shook my head violently. How was I supposed to explain to them when I didn’t understand it myself? It was as though I’d discovered a hidden door inside my own home, one that led to a dank and cobwebbed basement I’d never known about. Only the door was in my head, and the basement was a side of me I’d never seen—a selfish, sneaky crawl space.
“Now, now,” Dad said as I began sniffling again. “I’m sure things aren’t as dire as they appear. Friendships have survived worse.”
I couldn’t tell him that in my world, friendships were brittle things that could be shattered with a few words. How lowering to think I’d alienated all my friends for the second time in the span of a few months. Not to mention Alex.
“There’s something else,” I said. “Someone else.”
I felt Mom stiffen beside me. “Another boy?”
“The same one,” I sighed. “Alex. I kind of . . . threw him to the wolves.”
“How so?” Dad asked.
“I let my friends think it was his fault. The kissing. Like I was just an innocent bystander.”
For several endless moments, the only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock. “That was unfortunate,” Mom said at last.
“I know! And I feel terrible about it.” I raised my head far enough to glance hopefully at my parents. “I sort of confessed the truth on the way home.”
“To your friends,” Mom clarified. I nodded.
“And your fellow?” Dad asked.
I shook my head, not bothering to point out that he certainly wasn’t my fellow anymore—if he ever had been.
Mom took a meditative sip of tea. “You know, Mary, there is no version of this story where you don’t make mistakes.”
“What story?” I rubbed my forehead to smooth the lines I could feel forming. I’d probably wake up with gray hair, too. “My first dance, you mean?”
“Your life,” she corrected. “It’s the nature of existence. To err is human. We screw up, and then screw up some more.”
“But I don’t like being in the wrong.” I jabbed a hand at my midsection. “This is the worst feeling in the world. I hate it.” Dad’s warm hand landed on the back of my head. I took a deep breath before continuing. “I tried really hard not to do all the dumb things you’re not supposed to do, and I still messed everything up. It’s not fair.”
“We all have to face our fallibility at some point,” Mom said. “If we didn’t, it would be too easy to turn into sociopaths.” Dad cleared his throat, their private shorthand for take it down a notch.
She took a deep breath before continuing. “Remorse forces us to take a hard look at ourselves. It gives us the strength to grow, and the courage to do the right thing next time—or at least try. Speaking of which.” Mom sat forward, smacking the arm of the sofa with an open palm. “I think you know what you have to do now.”
I scowled at her. Unlike my mother, I couldn’t flip the switch from despair to resolve at the drop of a hat.
“Sometimes we have to admit our mistakes,” she went on, brimming with conviction. “However painful that may be.”
Dad and I gave her matching come again? looks.
“What?” she asked. “It’s good advice.”
“Yes,” Dad agreed. “Although a bit . . . mmm.”
“If you have something to say, I wish you’d say it.”
He coughed. “I suppose I was thinking . . . ‘physician, heal thyself.’”
Mom started to puff herself up like a turkey.
“It’s true,” I said quickly, relieved to be discussing someone else’s flaws. “Apologies are not your strong suit.” We all knew when she was sorry; there was a very particular look her face got, sort of chastened and uncomfortable. But it was always implicit. She wasn’t one to say the words.
“Nonsense.” Mom made a shooing motion with her hand. “I’m woman enough to admit when I’m wrong. It just doesn’t happen very often.”
“Or ever,” Dad said, not quite under his breath.
“That’s ridiculous. You just don’t recall.” Dad’s faulty memory had long been her argumentative ace in the hole.
He set down his mug. “By all means, refresh my memory.”
“I can think of one right now.” She gave him a smug look. “On our second sabbatical in England, when we took that side trip to Yorkshire.”
“I remember the trip,” Dad said. “We carried the twins in packs on our backs.”
“Then you should also remember the argument we had about visiting Haworth. I said it was too late in the day to set out and we’d never make it in time, because it was the off-season and they were sure to be closing early. You insisted we go anyway.” Mom crossed her arms. “The rest is history.”
“I’m afraid I don’t recall the argument,” Dad said mildly. “It was a lovely afternoon, though. Didn’t we stop for a cream tea afterward?”
“Exactly.” Mom inclined her head. “Because you were right, and I was wrong.”
His brow furrowed. “And you acknowledged that fact, in so many words?”
“Of course!” She gestured at me. “Mary heard me.”
“I wasn’t born then,” I reminded them.
Mom cast her eyes to the ceiling. “I’m talking about right now. I believe my exact words were ‘you were right, and I was wrong.’”
“Just to be sure I’m following,” Dad said, “you mean to tell us that this evening you apologized for something that happened twenty years ago?”
“More like eighteen,” she corrected. “I was pregnant with Cam at the time. Which is probably why I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
Dad nodded slowly, lips pressed together as he tried not to laugh.
“There’s no need to be petty,” Mom huffed.
“Certainly not,” he agreed.
“You see, Mary, it’s never too late to put things right.” Mom smoothed the hair at my temples. “Finish your tea, take a nice bath, and get some sleep. Things will look better in the morning.”
I sincerely doubted that. Then again, the thought of waiting two decades for the situation to right itself was not particularly appealing.
The phone rang in the front hall. After a quick look at me, Mom rose to answer. “Yes,” I heard her murmur. “She’s here. No. It’s fine.”
I held my breath as she walked back into the living room. “That was Cam,” she said. “Making sure you got home safely.”
The last ember of hope died. Of course it was my sister. Who else would be calling me, ever again?
Dear Diary,
I’m not going to write anything down because I will never ever want to remember this time in my life.
Maybe I should just throw you in the fire.
No offense.
M.P.M.
Chapter 28
If there was any justice in the world, I would have caught a dramatic illness on my dash through the freezing rain. Then at least I would have an excuse to spend the next few months lying pale and wasted in my frigid garret, coughing spots of blood into a lace hankie. Instead, I woke with nothing worse than a headache and swollen eyelids to betray my inner turmoil.
Overnight the precipitation had turned into a solid layer of ice, coating branches and sidewalks. Or so it looked through the window of my bedroom, where I spent most of the day. I would have taken to my bed on a more permanent basis if I thought I could get away with it, but my mother didn’t believe in malingering. There was no way she’d let me skip school just because I’d laid waste to my entire existence in a single miserable evening.
Thus it was that on Monday morning I dragged myself out of bed and dressed in an appropriately gloomy brownish-gray sweater.
“You look very Winter of Our Discontent,” Van commented when I walked into the dining room. Jasper watched this exchange with interest, no doubt waiting to chime in with a helpful observation of his own.
“Don’t forget your father and I are having dinner with the provost,” Mom said, casually stirring a pat of butter into her hot
cereal. “There are leftovers in the refrigerator.”
On cue, my siblings began arguing about who got the lentils and who got the stew. I suspected the diversion had been deliberate, especially when Mom flashed me an encouraging smile. Which was all well and good, except that the real challenge was yet to come, and unless I could think of a way to bring my mommy to school with me, I’d be facing the rest of the day on my own.
* * *
There was no dramatic confrontation. I avoided my friends, and assumed they were doing the same. Even amid the noise of the hallways, silence surrounded me, slowly thickening until it felt like a solid enclosure, cutting off air and light.
This was how it happened to a fallen woman: once your transgressions came to light, you were walled off from polite society. Invisible. Forgotten. They might as well set you on the SS Disgrace and shove you out to sea. By the end of the week, I could count my social interactions on one hand.
Monday, someone in my English class asked to borrow a pencil.
On Tuesday, I was so hungry by the last bell (having skipped lunch for the second day running) that I found myself detouring to Tome Raider on the way home. Every time a car passed I stiffened, forcing myself not to whip around and check whether it was Arden’s. The balance tipped back and forth between wanting to see them and dreading the possibility. What if they cruised right past me, pretending I wasn’t there—the cut direct? Or gave me dirty looks and whispered behind their hands? Or maybe they would mournfully shake their heads, regretting every second they’d wasted in my company.
“Hello, Mary,” Doug called as I stepped inside, stomping the slush off my feet. “Table for four?”
My bottom lip quivered. “Just one today.” And probably forever. But no, that wasn’t fair. Maybe I could send my former friends an anonymous note, deeding them the rights to Shaggy Doug’s. I would hang out at home instead. In my room. With the curtains drawn.
“No problem,” he replied, a little too heartily. “One is fun!”
I attempted a smile as I slouched across the room. Judging by Doug’s anxious expression, it wasn’t a success.
“I’m doing my Anne of Green Gables menu,” he said, wiping his hands on the towel tucked in his waistband.
All I could think of was ipecac, which Anne gives to some sick kids to make them throw up their phlegm, thereby saving their lives. That was where I’d learned the word expectorant.
“Raspberry cordial,” Doug said, filling the silence. “And mousy pudding. It’s a marzipan mouse. From the scene where Miss Stacy comes over for dinner and the mouse accidentally gets into the dessert?” He looked hopefully at me.
“Sounds great,” I said bleakly, pulling my backpack onto my lap. “Do you mind if I eat my lunch first?”
“Go ahead. I’ll just”—he pointed behind him—“be in the kitchen.”
I inhaled my sandwich so quickly it gave me the hiccups, which made me think the ipecac might not have been such a bad thing.
“Here we are.” Doug bustled over to the table, handing me a goblet of dark pink juice. I swigged the whole thing at once, hoping to rid myself of the hiccups.
“It’s just juice,” he said uncertainly. “Nonalcoholic. Not like in the book.”
He was referring to the scene in which Anne and Diana, her best friend, accidentally get drunk on what they think is fruit juice. Diana’s mom blames Anne, forbidding the girls to see each other. It’s one of the worst tragedies of Anne’s life—losing her dearest friend.
To my horror, my eyes filled with tears. Then I hiccupped. Loudly.
Doug tactfully looked away. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Why, have you been talking to my parents?”
He shook his head. “I simply noticed that, ah—”
“I’m alone?”
“Yes, that and also—”
I closed my eyes. “I look like I’ve been crying.”
“Er, no. Well, yes. But it’s more than that. You seem . . . blue.” He gestured to an empty chair. “May I?”
We sat in silence, Doug with his hands threaded in front of him on the table. I would have liked to eat the apple in my lunch, but it seemed rude with an audience. Also, I was still hiccupping.
“Here’s the thing, Mary. I’m not going to tell you it gets easier, or pretend you ever stop missing them,” Doug said. “Because it’s miserable to be alone. We both know that.”
“Uh, okay.” I wondered if that was the extent of his pep talk.
“But you have to keep hope alive. Like me and Noreen.”
This wasn’t the first time Doug had brought up his relationship woes in front of me, but usually one of my parents was around to serve as a buffer. I thought of reminding him that I was barely sixteen but had a feeling it wouldn’t make much difference.
“I made up my mind a long time ago to stand firm. Keep the dream alive. Whatever it takes, that’s what I do.” He sniffled and I desperately hoped it wasn’t a precursor to tears. If he started, I was sure to crumble, and I still had to walk the rest of the way home.
“Like what?” I asked, hoping to shift the conversation onto less mawkish ground.
“I wrote her a letter. Put my heart on the line. Told her I’d be here, faithfully, waiting.”
Many people would have been swayed by that level of devotion. Sadly, Noreen was not among them. In my experience, displeasure was pretty much her defining characteristic. “What did she say?”
He became very interested in a crusty blotch on his half apron. “Don’t know. I’m still waiting.”
“How long has it been?”
Doug sighed. “Coming up on six years.”
* * *
Wednesday it snowed all morning, big fluffy flakes that blanketed the world in white. Unfortunately for me, there wasn’t enough accumulation to cancel school. On the way to third period I caught a glimpse of Arden in the distance, wearing a burgundy scarf I’d never seen before. It clashed wonderfully with her hair. I would have loved to tell her so, instead of concealing myself behind a bank of lockers until she passed out of sight. Had she and Lydia mended the breach in their friendship? Perhaps they’d united against a common enemy. Namely: me. I would probably never know.
Later that afternoon, I was slipping along the haphazardly shoveled sidewalks of my neighborhood when a door closed on the opposite side of the street. Dropping to a crouch, I peered around the bumper of a parked car as Alex exited his piano teacher’s house. He paused to adjust his winter gear. Had everyone in the universe gotten a new scarf except me? His was black. Like his mood, perhaps.
A breeze swirled icy crystals into the air, and his cheeks reddened in the cold. Suddenly I thought of Anna and Vronsky on that winter evening before their affair began, when their train stopped in the middle of nowhere and they found themselves alone in the snowy dark, staring longingly at each other.
Not that Alex was looking at me.
He stopped suddenly at the bottom of the stairs. I shrank farther out of sight, hunching down until I was practically squatting in the snow. Had he sensed my attention? Or was he thinking about the fact that my house was down the block? Maybe today’s piano playing had been suffused with melan-choly grandeur, a storm of angry notes with an undercurrent of yearning? Holding my breath, I risked another peek. A sign, however small, that he hadn’t forgotten me would mean so much.
Frowning, Alex glanced behind him. Then he looked down, shuffling through the stack of music books in his hand. Near the bottom of the pile, his brow smoothed.
Apparently he’d found what he was looking for.
* * *
Nothing happened Thursday. Not a blessed thing—unless you count dwelling on unhappy thoughts as a pastime.
By evening, the loneliness was suffocating. It shouldn’t have been possible to feel that way in a house full of people, but I wasn’t just at-home Mary anymore. I’d had a taste of another life, and it was this version of me—the one with my own friends, separate from my family—that was starv
ed for contact. Did that Mary still exist, or was I a tree falling in a forest with no one to hear?
After everyone else went to bed, I crept into my parents’ office and booted up the desktop computer. It was hard to say what I hoped to find: a peek at my friends’ lives? That they’d continued the Scoundrel Guide without me—or worse, taken it down, erasing all trace of our shared existence? A shard of ice lodged in my chest.
No, there it was, loading at last. I stared at the screen, questioning the evidence of my eyes. How could there be a new entry, without me? It felt like a betrayal, even though I knew I had no right to complain. Why should they leave it frozen in time like a sad memorial to our past? It was obvious they didn’t need me anymore; they didn’t even miss my presence. Their lives had carried on, as if I’d never been part of them.
Even as these thoughts crashed over me in sickening waves, my brain skimmed the text. It was about Miles; I knew that much. It hadn’t been so long that I’d entirely lost track of their affairs.
Another Way to Break a Heart, read the scrolling cursive at the top of the page, superimposed over a black-and-white photo of a girl staring through a rain-streaked window. Off to one side there was another caption, in a different font:
When they decide extracurriculars matter more than you do, because no one is going to give them a trophy for being a good boyfriend.
Ouch. Did Miles know about the Guide—and if so, had he recognized himself? Then again, he might not be sitting at home digging for crumbs of information about what Arden and her friends had been up to lately.
I scrolled down a little farther. There was a picture of a book, lying open on the ground in the middle of a forest. A single black feather had fallen onto the page. Holding my breath, I read the final note:
Maybe there’s a story like that. It’s impossible to know, when the person you trusted to tell you those things is gone, and everything you thought was true turns out to be an illusion.
With shaking hands, I closed the browser and logged off.
By the Book Page 23