by Yvette Clark
Dear Mum,
I miss you every single day. When I can’t get to sleep at night, which happens a lot, I think of three happy memories of you—I’m not even close to running out of them. Memories that make me feel safe and cozy. Here are the three I thought of last night.
The time I was home from school with chicken pox, and you painted little dots of red all over your face, and then we laughed until we cried at the look on Dad’s face when he got home.
That morning in the garden at Kate’s house when we made a daisy chain so long it could go around both our shoulders and still reach the ground. We wore it like that all through lunch, entwined in the white petals with their sunny little faces and green arms and legs.
The time when you let me do your hair and makeup before we went out for pizza, and even though Imogen said it looked awful and it did, you left it on and grinned at me all evening across the table through the blue eye shadow and bright-pink lipstick. You looked so beautiful.
I love you so much. I miss you so much.
Kitty xxx
I wipe my tears, fold the paper as many times as I can until it is a tiny square, and tuck it at the very back of my desk drawer. Exercise one is complete.
Chapter Eighteen
Gluten-Free Granola
“Come on, girls. We’re going to be late for brunch.”
“Why do we have to go all the way to the West Village for brunch?” asks Imogen.
“It’s nice to try new places,” says Dad.
I don’t like trying new places, particularly when the best pancakes I’ve ever tasted are five blocks from this sofa. The restaurant we’re going to is called Founding Farmers. I usually love a business with a pun for a name—“The Mane Event” hair salon, “Freudian Sip” coffee shop, and “A Walk in the Bark” pet store are some of my personal favorites—but I don’t see why we need to walk for forty minutes to get brunch.
“The friends we’re having brunch with said this place has the most amazing pancakes, Kitty.” Dad smiles at me.
“What friends?” I say. “Someone from work?”
“A friend of mine named Jen. She’s bringing her son, Dashiell. Everyone calls him Dash.”
“Dash?” I say. “What kind of name is Dash? He sounds like a reindeer.”
“Says the girl named what a toddler calls a cat!” says Imogen. “But seriously, Dad, who even are these people?”
“Just friends,” says Dad. “Come on. We’re late. We’re going to have to get a cab now.”
As soon as Dad takes off his coat and hands it to the server, I notice he’s wearing new jeans and a new sweater, both unusually tight-fitting.
“Are they skinny jeans?” I ask him.
Imogen leans down to inspect his legs.
“Dad, we talked about this. No skinny jeans over forty. Also, you need a straight-leg jean with your thighs. That is not a good look for you. Not a good look at all.”
I almost feel sorry for Dad until I notice a tall woman standing a few tables away from us. She has shoulder-length caramel-colored, wavy hair and holds her hand up in greeting. Dad waves back and starts weaving his way between the tables to reach her and a little boy who is sitting on a booster seat, smashing a toy car repeatedly into the salt and pepper shakers.
“Imogen, Kitty, meet Jen and Dashiell.” Dad stands there looking awkward, and nobody speaks for about a minute.
“Hi, girls,” says Jen, dazzling us with her impossibly straight white teeth. I can’t help but compare them to Dad’s. His teeth are a bit crooked and resemble a before photo, which could adorn the wall at Jen’s orthodontist. He’s also grinning in a frankly idiotic way. “It’s so great to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you both!”
When did she hear so much about us both? Imogen and I exchange loaded glances as we take our seats on either side of Dad, unconsciously boxing him in.
“Dash, can you say hi to Imogen and Kitty?”
“Where’s the kitty?” he says in a high lispy voice. Imogen snorts.
“I’m the kitty,” I tell him. “I mean, I’m Kitty. It’s my name.”
Dash looks at me skeptically, apparently too young to have registered that he’s named after Santa’s second favorite reindeer. He studies me for a moment longer before going back to destroying the salt and pepper shakers.
“So,” says Imogen, leaning forward in the manner of an investigative journalist. “You guys work together?”
Jen and Dad exchange glances.
“Actually, no. We met through friends,” Dad says.
“Who?” I ask.
“Nobody that you know,” he says in a weirdly high-pitched voice, not looking at me. “Now, let’s order. I’m starving.”
“Your dad says you love pancakes, Kitty. You have to try them here. They’re yummy, right Dash?” says Jen.
“I want pancakes,” he says.
“No thanks,” I say, “just coffee for me. I’m not hungry.”
Dad raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on the fact that a) I have never drunk coffee in my life, and b) I always dramatically gag at the smell when he makes it at home.
“Well, I’m starving,” Imogen says. “French toast for me please.”
So much for sisterly solidarity. Obviously, I’m hungry too, but I’m protesting about having to have brunch with this mysterious woman and her annoying child. I glare at my sister for not joining me in my mini hunger strike, but she is totally oblivious and has started chatting with the kid. She’s probably hoping his mum will ask her to babysit. She told me a girl in her grade gets twenty dollars an hour for looking after a neighbor’s kid.
Dad orders a spinach-and-feta egg-white omelet, and Jen has gluten-free granola and an iced almond-milk matcha latte. I have no idea what that is, but it sounds ridiculously pretentious.
“Why aren’t you having eggs Benedict, Dad?” I ask loudly. “You always have eggs Benedict.”
“I’m trying to cut down on nitrates.”
“What’s a nitrate?” asks Dash.
“It’s something super unhealthy they put in bacon and ham to make them last longer,” says Jen.
“I don’t like nitrates,” Dash announces to the table at large.
I roll my eyes at him. The waiter pours me a muddy-looking cup of coffee and asks again if I’m sure I don’t want to order anything to eat. He clearly thinks Dad is a terrible parent allowing his kid to drink coffee. I try not to gag at the smell.
Dash’s stack of pancakes has arrived, and he’s drowning them in maple syrup. Clearly, Jen has been reading so much about nitrates she’s missed the articles on the dangers of sugar. The smell of bacon coming from the kitchen is making my mouth water. I should have ordered a plate of bacon, a whole dish of nitrates.
“So, Kitty, how do you like school? Dash goes there too. He’s in junior kindergarten.”
Well, I suppose that solves the question of which of Dad’s “friends” recommended the school.
For the next forty-five painful minutes, I pretend to drink my coffee and try not to stare longingly at Imogen’s French toast, which she’s drenched with syrup, berries, and whipped cream. I guess the Glow-Up Challenge must be over. She probably won. My stomach rumbles angrily, and Dash giggles and points at me. I sit there sulking and wishing I’d ordered something to eat while everyone else chats cheerfully. Eventually, Dash drops his trucks on the floor and has a complete meltdown.
“Sorry,” says Jen, picking him up. “He gets tired and cranky right about now.” Dash rests his curly head on her shoulder and sticks his thumb in his mouth.
“I know the feeling,” I mutter as everyone bustles around, gathering their things, and we head out of the restaurant.
The early October breeze is whipping up hundreds of little white peaks on the surface of the Hudson River as we walk home. I look across the water and try and fail to remember the name of New Jersey’s capital. Imogen’s droning on about a party she wants to go to on Friday evening and why her curfew should be midnig
ht. Well, if she’s not going to ask, then I will.
“Who was that?”
“It was a friend of Dad’s named Jen and her son, Dashiell,” Imogen says. “You’re not the sharpest tool in the box, are you, Kitty?”
“Don’t be mean, Imogen,” Dad says. “Actually, it’s pretty interesting how we met. We met online, on a parenting forum.”
“Flying Solo?” I ask, without stopping to think.
“How on earth do you know about Flying Solo?” says Dad, turning to look at me in astonishment.
“I’m a member. Ages ago, I was checking your computer for dating websites. It was after that night you and Dominic talked about you getting married again.” Dad’s face has gone from surprised to annoyed in the space of ten seconds, but I continue. “Anyway, I didn’t find any sketchy websites, well, I didn’t think I had. I thought Flying Solo was for bereaved parents, not a . . . a hookup site.”
Imogen lets out a snort of laughter at me calling it a hookup site, and Dad lets out a deep sigh and gazes out across the river. I suspect he’s counting to ten in his head.
“Kitty, how many times do you have to be told not to snoop? If you must know, yes, we did meet on Flying Solo. I was looking for advice about New York, and Jen was extremely helpful with suggestions.”
I bet she was.
“What was she doing on there, anyway?” I ask.
“Jen’s husband died in a car accident before Dash was even born. As you should know, given you’ve visited Flying Solo, it’s a forum for parents who’ve lost their partners and are doing their very best to raise their children alone.”
“So she’s not your girlfriend?” I ask, relieved.
“No, Jen is not my girlfriend!”
Thank goodness for that. We walk on in silence.
That evening I go to Flying Solo to delete my account. I’m pretty sure Dad won’t ever post here again now that he knows I come on the site, so there’s no point in having an account. I scroll back through his old posts. The last ones were posted from London, when he was looking for advice about the move to New York. My eye falls on one of the responses to an earlier question of his. I remember noticing it the first time I logged into the site. “D’s dad died before he was born and I’m sure I talk about him way too much. D seems to love hearing stories about his dad, but he’s only four. I’ll see how it goes as he gets older. Good luck. JDNYC.” JDNYC must be short for Jen and Dash New York City. It feels bizarre to be able to put a face, actually two faces, to her post. I think about searching on her username and reading more of her posts, but that seems wrong, like a grubby thing to do. I go to the admin page to shut down my account, the cursor hovering over the Delete Account button. I don’t check the box but close the window instead. I’m not ready to be flying solo.
Chapter Nineteen
Trick or Treat
Halloween is huge in New York. Everyone seems to go trick-or-treating, and even pets wear costumes. Ava’s dog, Diva, is dressing as the pope. When I tell Gran about this, she says it is sacrilegious for anyone but the pope to wear a papal costume, let alone a dachshund.
“Diva looks adorable in it. She even has a little miter headpiece,” I say to Gran, but I can tell, even though we’re not on FaceTime, that she’s frowning.
Pets aren’t allowed at the Halloween dance. Principal Carter had sent parents an email containing the rules for the evening. Unfortunately, the families of students are invited to the dance and encouraged to join in the fun with their own costumes.
Imogen is going trick-or-treating with her friends dressed as an improbably attractive zombie bride. I had suggested she go as a superhero with an extending ponytail armed with scrunchies, but she looked at me like I was crazy. Her nod to her living-dead status seems to be a darker-than-usual smoky eye, pale-blue lipstick, and a shredded veil.
“Shouldn’t you have pieces of flesh falling off and things?” I ask as I watch her perfect her dewy skin. “I’m pretty sure that zombies don’t wear highlighter.”
The decorating committee has been working around the clock. Parent volunteers have transformed the hallways and gym with dozens of fuzzy paper bats, cutouts of black cats with arched backs, spooky skeletons, cauldrons, and jack-o’-lanterns. I saw Jen from a distance one day but didn’t go to say hello. She was pinning up witches’ hats and broomsticks. Someone has hung long, white chiffon ghosts from the branches of the trees around the playground. The ghosts sway elegantly in the October breeze. The whole scene looks less like a school dance and more like a spread in Vogue, which makes sense given that Ava’s mum is in charge of the decorating committee, and she used to be a magazine editor.
“Is it always this big a deal?” I ask Henry before class starts.
“Yup. Halloween, the Winterfest, and School Spirit Week are all totally over the top. Winterfest is the worst because glitter gets everywhere.”
I consider telling Henry about the grief glitter that Gran had talked about as we walked down the hill in London all those months ago. The image has stuck in my mind. I still find grief glitter all the time. I thought I might have left enormous silver piles of it behind in London, but I still discover specks of it every day. Instead, I ask him about his costume.
“Same as last year,” he says.
“I wasn’t here last Halloween,” I remind him.
“Oh, that’s right. Well, I’m always a vampire because it’s easy—black cloak, fangs, and some fake blood. I keep forgetting you’ve only been here for a few months. It feels like you’ve been here forever. In a good way, I mean.”
I raise an eyebrow, and he blushes a little.
“How about you?” Henry asks.
“A rabbit,” I say, embarrassed, but there’s no time to explain as Ms. Lyons walks into the room. It’s Henry’s turn to raise an eyebrow, and I blush, a lot.
Ava has used her significant powers of persuasion to convince a group of girls in the seventh grade to dress as characters from Alice in Wonderland. Ava has the most amazing Queen of Hearts costume, and the rest of us are just along for the ride. Maddie, who has long blond hair, is Alice, and Lulu is the Mad Hatter. Ava said I could choose between the White Rabbit or the Cheshire Cat. I chose the rabbit, because it seemed like an easier costume. I’m wearing bunny ears, one of which keeps drooping over my eye, a blue jacket of Dad’s, a white scarf, and have attempted to draw whiskers on my face with Imogen’s favorite eyeliner. I also have a gold-colored pocket watch bought for $6.99 from a costume shop that sprang up on Broadway near Dr. Feld’s office. It is the most effort I’ve ever put into a costume, but Ava is taking the whole thing incredibly seriously. I just hope it will be good enough.
That evening the playground is packed with little unicorns, Pokémon, cats, and witches, all charging around hopped up on sugar. I see four kids dressed as sushi rolls and two as tacos.
The teachers are kept busy confiscating lightsabers, swords, plastic caveman clubs, and other weapons. Apparently, their parents didn’t read that part of the memo, and a few Luke Skywalkers are having complete meltdowns, which is hardly appropriate behavior for a Jedi Knight. When we get to the gym, we find Dash, dressed as Yoda, sobbing as the junior kindergarten teacher takes away his blue lightsaber.
“You can have it back at the end of the dance, Dashiell,” the teacher says kindly.
Jen looks ridiculous dressed as Princess Leia with a brown wig complete with plaited buns on each ear. Dad is dressed as a pirate and gets his cutlass confiscated, much to Jen’s amusement.
“Don’t worry, Rob. You can have it back at the end of the dance,” Jen tells him.
I roll my eyes and move on, still suspicious of Dad having an attractive female friend. I feel self-conscious dressed as a white rabbit out of context, and when an eighth-grade boy asks me if I’m supposed to be dressed as a Playboy bunny, I go to look for the rest of Wonderland. I find the girls huddled together gossiping about Henry’s dad, who has just strolled in with his latest model girlfriend in tow. He’s dressed as the Bi
g Bad Wolf, and his girlfriend is a less-than-wholesome-looking Little Red Riding Hood.
“He’s wearing that wolf mask so he doesn’t get photographed,” says Ava knowingly.
“Well, his girlfriend is dressed as if she wants to!” says Lulu.
She’s not wrong. James Davenport’s girlfriend is wearing white over-the-knee socks, a minuscule red gingham dress that looks like she might have repurposed it from an Oktoberfest costume, and the ubiquitous little red hood. Principal Carter, who is dressed as a Minion, is looking nervous and sweaty. Perhaps he’s worried he’s going to get complaints from parents about sexy Red Riding Hood.
Ava and the rest of Wonderland are in the middle of the dance floor, swirling around and singing the lyrics of a song I’ve only ever heard coming from under the door of Imogen’s room. I feel self-conscious enough in my costume, and there’s no way I’m going to start leaping around in front of everyone. I’m a fish out of water, or a rabbit out of its warren. I wonder how long we’ll have to stay. Dad is happily chatting with Principal Carter and Ava’s mum, who is wearing a brilliant Maleficent costume, which looks as if it came straight from the movie. It probably did. I head over to tell Dad I’m going to the loo and wander off, away from the noise of music, laughter, and a few tears—probably the mini–Luke Skywalkers still mourning the loss of the best part of their costumes. There’s a long line for the bathrooms nearest the gym, so I go upstairs, even though it’s off-limits during the dance.
The second-floor hallway is dimly lit, deserted, and blissfully quiet. The idea of going back downstairs is overwhelming. It won’t do any harm to disappear for half an hour or so. Then I can go back to the gym, find Dad, and it will be time to go home. I slip silently into the library. It’s a bit dark and spooky in there, but I can see well enough to find a book and take it to the bathroom to read. A rustling sound ahead stops me in my tracks; someone or something is in here! The rustling noise happens again, definitely too big to be a rat. Maybe it’s another socially awkward individual trying to escape the mayhem of the gym. Either way, I don’t want to see them, so I begin to tiptoe back to the door. Suddenly a light appears in the direction of the noise. It’s Henry, lying on the beanbags usually occupied by the kindergarteners during story time and pointing the flashlight on his phone right at me.