by Yvette Clark
Dad had told us that Jonathan had died in a car accident before Dash was born. This seemed like too intimate a thing for me to know about Jen, but then I realized she must know all about my mum, given that she and Dad had been chatting on Flying Solo. I don’t want her to know about my family’s deepest darkest moments, but I do feel sorry for anyone who has lost someone they love, whether shockingly quickly on a dark, icy road or agonizingly slowly in a bright hospital room.
Death is death, and grief is grief. I shake my head to dislodge the unwelcome images.
One of the best things about today is that there are no Mum-associated memories. We won’t all be sitting here thinking “this time last year” like we will at Christmas or New Year’s or birthdays. In England, Thanksgiving is just another Thursday in November. Jessica will be doing her homework. Kate and Matt will still be at work. Sam will be with a patient in his office. Cleo, who has Gran’s next-door neighbor popping in to feed her, will probably be napping.
“It all looks very festive, dear,” says Mrs. Allison, setting down the apple crumble she made in our kitchen this morning along with a container of homemade custard and a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the counter.
“You’re the cake lady,” Dash says. “I’ve seen you on TV.”
“The cake lady? I like that. I could use that for the title of my cookbook. Aren’t you a clever boy? Let’s try these cookies later and see if they’re half as sweet as you.”
“I’m clever and adorable,” says Dash, smiling winningly.
Mrs. Allison is officially a television star. She was voted fan favorite on the BBC website at the end of her season of The Great British Bake Off, and is a “hot commodity,” according to Barry, the agent who now represents her. Barry also manages numerous C-list celebrities’ careers, most of them from reality TV shows like Big Brother and The X Factor. Mrs. Allison has appeared on a handful of morning television programs and is in the middle of writing a cookbook of her favorite recipes. Her season of The Great British Baking Show, as it’s called here, is now on American TV. Dashiell wants to take her into school for show-and-tell.
“I’m hoping the BBC will invite me to be on Strictly Come Dancing. Barry says it’s a real possibility. Apparently, the public finds me very relatable,” Mrs. Allison says.
“That episode you made me watch was dreadful, Elizabeth. I don’t know why you’d want to go on it. There isn’t even any baking, just a bunch of washed-up celebrities and former politicians making fools of themselves doing the fox-trot and the cha-cha. Are you sure you can dance? Don’t forget, I’ve seen you at Zumba.”
“We have that show here, but it’s called Dancing with the Stars,” Jen says quickly as she tries to gloss over Gran’s Zumba insult. Maybe Dad warned her about Gran and Mrs. Allison’s bickering.
“Well, there were certainly no stars on the version I saw,” mutters Gran.
“It’s a brilliant way to lose weight. All the celebs look marvelous by the end of the season. I’d be the envy of the Zumba girls,” says Mrs. Allison. “Mind you, I’m not going to worry about my waistline just before this scrumptious-looking lunch.”
“Henry told me his dad was asked to go on that show,” I say without thinking.
“Who’s Henry?” asks Mrs. Allison.
“It’s Kitty’s boyfriend,” says Imogen. “His dad is that famous actor, James Davenport.”
“James Davenport is a bit of all right,” says Mrs. Allison.
“He really is,” says Jen. “I’ve seen him at school a few times. Very handsome, especially if you like brooding vibes.”
“Henry is not my boyfriend!”
“Well, if I ever were to consider having another man in my life, he would be on the list. I swore off men after Mr. Allison broke my heart,” she explains to Jen.
“He’s a bit young for you, Mrs. A.,” says Imogen.
“Age is just a number, dear.”
“Henry is not my boyfriend,” I repeat, wishing I’d never mentioned the Davenport family. I should have known Imogen would jump at the chance to embarrass me.
“Whatever you say, Kitty,” says my sister, with a smug look on her face.
“Bon appetit!” says Mrs. Allison.
After an enormous lunch, I’m beginning to think I’ll need to go on a ballroom dancing show. I ate a pile of turkey, a mountain of creamy mashed potatoes, three types of stuffing (sausage and apple, chestnut and cornbread, and sage and onion), a weird-looking but delicious-tasting green bean casserole that was precisely the same color as Henry’s eyes, buttery sautéed carrots, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, and a slice of Mrs. Allison’s apple crumble with custard. I did say no to a chocolate chip cookie.
“The average Thanksgiving meal is a whopping three thousand calories,” says Dad, leaning back in his chair. “I think I ate twice that. Thank you so much, Jen, for a delicious lunch and for inviting us to join you on this special day. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!”
Dad raises his glass of red wine, and Jen, Gran, and Mrs. Allison do the same. Imogen and Dash toast with sparkling apple juice, and after a poke in the side, I raise my glass too.
“Hear, hear!” says Mrs. Allison. “Rob, I thought your trousers looked tight before we even started eating. I’m surprised you were able to fit a big lunch in there.”
Dad looks embarrassed. “They’re skinny. It’s the style.”
“That might be the in thing, but I came prepared to enjoy my lunch by wearing an elastic waistband.” Mrs. Allison twangs the elastic playfully, winking at Dad, who looks mortified, while Jen tries not to laugh.
When the dishwasher is humming away and the immaculate kitchen is even more immaculate than it was when we arrived, Jen turns on the American football game, apparently a Thanksgiving tradition even though nobody seems interested in watching it. Gran and Mrs. Allison are dozing in armchairs, Imogen is glued to her phone, and Dash has fallen asleep on the sofa, his head on my dad’s lap. I suddenly feel a pang for the father who never got to meet his little boy. He should be here cuddling up with his son on the sofa after Thanksgiving lunch. Instead, there are five random people from England celebrating a holiday that isn’t theirs with his wife and child. I wonder if Jen is thinking the same thing.
There are photos of her husband, Jonathan, dotted around the house. A few are taped onto the fridge, and others are framed on the walls. He has the same dark eyes, olive skin, and soft-looking curls as his son. There’s a picture of him and Jen in front of a waterfall, both of them grinning from ear to ear. Another photo is taken on a beach with impossibly white sand and a sea so blue it looks photoshopped. Jen is wearing a cream strappy dress with a pink-tinged orchid tucked behind one ear, and Jonathan is in a pale-blue shirt and linen trousers. Both of them are barefoot and perfect.
“Our wedding day,” she told me when she saw me looking at the photo.
When Imogen and I discuss the photos later, she is adamant that Jonathan’s appearance should put my mind at rest about any future romance between Dad and Jen.
“Did you see how good-looking her husband was? She’s definitely out of Dad’s league.”
“He’s not any better-looking than Dad,” I say loyally. “Jonathan’s just a different type.”
“Yeah, the hot type.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ponytail Girl Strikes Back
A week after Thanksgiving, I’m sitting at the kitchen table studying for a science quiz when Imogen flounces into the apartment and marches through to her room, slamming the door so hard that a picture on the wall wobbles. Dad and I share a “teenagers, what are you going to do” shrug, and I continue with my homework. Dad calls out a few times to tell Imogen that supper is ready, but when there’s no response, he sighs and apologetically sends me into the lion’s den to fetch her. Her bedroom is in darkness, but I can see her outline on the bed; she’s lying on her side facing the wall.
“What’s up, Imo?” I ask, sitting down. Surprisingly, she doesn’t tell me to leave like she usu
ally does. “Did someone spit on your shoes again?”
“No,” she says in a shaky voice and throws a ripped-up Polaroid of Josh over her shoulder and bursts into tears.
“Girls,” shouts Dad from the kitchen. “Supper, now!”
“Hang on,” I tell Imogen and slide back down the hallway to the kitchen.
“Dad, we have a situation back there—Josh drama, I think. It’s an emotional code red. I’ll call you for backup if I need it.”
“What about supper?” Dad says.
“You eat. Imo needs me.”
I feel unusually competent as I swish back to her room. Imogen, reluctantly at first, agrees I can switch on her bedside lamp, and with much sniffing tells me that Lily texted her to say she’d spotted Josh in Starbucks with Scarlett Wilson after school.
“The one in Belsize Park, Kitty. Our Starbucks!”
I wonder what Josh and Scarlett ordered, but as Imogen bursts into a fresh round of sobs, I decide that it doesn’t really matter whether they had tall hot chocolates or venti caramel Frappuccinos.
“Did they have the drinks to go?” I ask instead.
“Kitty, what has that got to do with anything?”
“Well, if they got them to go, then they could have just run into each other there.”
“Well, they didn’t get them to go,” she says in a little-girl voice, which I think is supposed to be an impression of me. “They sat down at the table by the window. That’s how Lily saw them. Everyone will have seen them. It’s so embarrassing. And they had cake pops!”
Again, it enters my head to ask what flavor, but that is definitely irrelevant, so I just pat Imogen’s shoulder and try and fail to think of something helpful to say. My brief reign as an eloquent and empathetic supporter of my sister is over as quickly as it began.
The patting must be getting annoying since Imogen pulls away from my hand.
“Just go, Kitty,” she says, the sound of heartbreak cracking her voice.
I tiptoe out of her room, closing the door as gently as I can.
The next morning there’s no sign of Imogen in the kitchen when I go through for breakfast, yawning and rubbing my eyes. She’s usually showered, fragrant, and perfectly dressed by the time I drag myself out of bed.
“Has Imo already gone to school?” I ask Dad.
“She’s not feeling great. I said she could take a mental health day.”
“Did she tell you about Josh?”
“She did. I saw her light on late last night, so I went in to see her. She was crying, poor love. She’s far too good for him anyway.”
I feel a wave of fondness for Dad. The indignation that someone would dare to betray his daughter has him bristling with outrage.
“I’ll go in and say goodbye then.”
I knock gently on Imogen’s door, but there’s no answer. I peek into the room and see that she’s fallen asleep with a book in her hand and the light still on. I tiptoe in to pick it up and lay it down on her bedside table. The story is one we both cherished when we were small, The Little White Horse, by Elizabeth Goudge. Our copy is well thumbed, the cover faded and velvety to the touch from dozens of readings. The story of Maria Merryweather and the magical Moonacre Manor is as familiar to me as a long-lost friend. I know that for Imogen, reading this will have been like a warm bath to help her sleep. I’m sure she wouldn’t want me to know she’s been reading it. It’s too babyish. I didn’t even know it came to New York with us. I wonder where she keeps it and what other books she brought with her. I imagine a box at the bottom of her closet filled with comfort books starring brave and resourceful girls: Heidi, Pippi Longstocking, and Katy. Imogen reads for comfort the way someone else might binge on ice cream, or I might open tester jars of paint. I turn off the lamp and tiptoe out of the room.
The next day Imogen drags herself back to school, but her usually gleaming hair is pulled into a dull, messy bun, and she has dark circles under her eyes. Dad looks helplessly at me as Imogen pushes a piece of toast around her plate before shuffling off to the subway station.
“How long is she going to be like this?” I ask Dad.
“I’m not sure, Kitty. This is one of those times I feel totally useless. Mum would have known exactly what to do.”
Dad saying that makes me think of his WWLD online self, looking for advice.
“Did you google it?” I ask.
He hadn’t, so we do, and scan articles about teen breakups: “Ten Dos and Don’ts when Helping Your Brokenhearted Teen.”
“Oh, great,” sighs Dad, reading the don’ts section. “I think I did all these things. Don’t say, ‘You’ll get over it soon.’ I did. Don’t make it about you—I told her about Charlotte Carter.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“I was fifteen. It was devastating.” He continues reading. “Don’t dis the ex, well I did that!”
“Oops, I did that too. I called Josh a loser,” I admit.
“Well, he is a loser! I’m not sure about this advice, Kitty. I think all we need to do is listen.”
“I can actually hear Mum saying that to you. ‘Just listen, Rob. You don’t need to fix this, just be there.’”
“Gosh, you’re right.”
Dad heads off to work muttering his new mantra, “listen, be there, don’t fix, listen, be there, don’t fix,” under his breath. Dad and I seem to be figuring out WWLD together.
Early that afternoon, I track down Henry during our free period. He grins when he sees me approaching. We haven’t chatted much since before Thanksgiving, but he’s just the person I need to help me cheer up Imogen.
“Henry, I need a favor.”
“Sure, what’s up? Considering that you get better grades than me in almost every subject, I hope it isn’t homework.”
“It’s not. It’s an art project. Would you mind doing the drawings for a story I’ve written for my sister? I want it to be a comic strip, but I can only do the words, not the pictures.”
Henry looks intrigued, so I sit down next to him and explain Josh/Scarlett-gate. I talk him through the Ponytail Girl story line, and his smile broadens with every word.
“Cool idea. Of course I’ll help.”
Henry brings Ponytail Girl to life in all her glory. He uses colored pencils to draw Imogen/Ponytail Girl’s gleaming golden hair. Scarlett Wilson is portrayed with frizzy red hair; she always claimed it was strawberry blond. She also has terrible split ends and a simultaneously sulky and smug expression on her face.
“Wow, it’s as if you’d met her!” I tell him.
I pull up a picture of Josh on Instagram, and Henry perfectly captures Floppy Hair Boy, who Ponytail Girl has to rescue after he and Scarlett fall backward into a surprisingly deep duck pond in Regent’s Park while taking a selfie. As a bedraggled Josh sits looking dejected on a park bench with pondweed in his hair, Scarlett is chased into the distance by a flock of angry geese. Ponytail Girl walks off into the sunset, alone but not lonely and absolutely magnificent. It’s a work of genius. I ask Henry to scribble his initials next to mine in the corner of the page. Creating a comic strip wasn’t in the dos for helping someone get over breakups, and it doesn’t fit in with the “just listen” plan, but I have a feeling it might make Imogen smile. Maybe not today, but soon.
“My turn to ask you for a favor,” Henry says.
“English homework?” I ask.
“Nope. Hair dye.”
“You want me to dye your hair for you?”
“No, dummy. I want you to help me pick out a color.”
“Me?”
“Yes, Kitty, you. Will you, queen of all colors, accompany me on a treacherous journey to a magical kingdom called Duane Reade? There you will help me select a potion to transform this London Stone,”—Henry ruffles his hair—“into a wondrous shade of green.”
“You’re kind of a dork,” I tell him, not unkindly.
“I know,” he says, smiling. “All the best people are. See you by the gate at three-thirty.” And he strolls off dow
n the hallway.
I go into the bathroom to think about whether Henry or anyone else would consider a trip to Duane Reade to choose green hair dye as constituting a date. Having spent my entire life at a girls’ school, I’m not used to having boys as friends. Ava is friends with tons of the boys in our grade, but they hang out in a group, not in pairs, plus they’ve known each other since they were about four. Dylan and Mimi are the only official couple. Everyone calls them Milan or Dimi, which they strangely don’t seem to mind. I don’t want to be called Kenry or Hitty.
As I wash my hands, I examine myself in the mirror. My bob has grown out, and the ends of my hair almost brush my shoulders. My face is thinner than it was; my chubby cheeks have melted away over the last six months, revealing a hidden feature of my mum’s beneath them. It turns out that I have her cheekbones. My nose still has its distinctive bump that I wish I could shave off. I touch the smattering of friendly freckles that stay there year-round, even when their summer cousins have long since faded away, and consider what Imogen would do. If she wanted to go and help a boy pick out some green hair dye, she would, and she wouldn’t care what anyone thought about it. Fine, I’ll try the Imogen way. I swish my nonexistent ponytail and head to class.
Despite my attempts to be cool and not care if anyone sees me with Henry, I am a nervous wreck until we get safely inside Duane Reade. I decided the best plan would be to race out of school ahead of anyone else and hope Henry came out quickly. Miraculously, he was already at the gates when I got there, and we managed to get the five blocks from school to Duane Reade without spotting anyone we know. Maybe he didn’t want to be seen with me either.
Henry navigates expertly to the aisle for hair color. There are hundreds of shades to choose from. Most of the boxes have pictures of women on the front, but it doesn’t seem to bother Henry. I see a box with a photo of a girl who looks a lot like Imogen on the front. The blond color is named California Dreamin’. It annoys me that they have dropped the g. I’m about to comment on this to Henry, but decide I might sound like a geek, so keep it to myself.