“Sure,” I say shortly. “Nice seeing you again.”
If Julie notices the ice in the air, she hides it well. She blows both of us a kiss and disappears into the night. When the front door closes, I tilt my head to meet Dad’s eye. Instantly he dissolves back into his frown of perpetual irritation. “What?”
“That was freaky. After all these years?”
“She heard about your mother. It was nice of her. Funny, I’d forgotten”—his frown melts uncannily into something like delight—“how much fun she could be.”
Uh-oh, I’ve seen that look, too. Is he joking? Julie wasn’t that much fun as a nanny.
“What do you think of her, Shawna?”
Well, this is a first. Dad never asks my opinion of his fawning floozies. “Why? Are you planning to propose? I did notice the way she was gazing at you . ..”
“Knock it off,” he grumbles. “It was a dinner date, nothing else.”
Now that I’ve ticked him off, I might as well go for the gold. “Dad. Did you really have Fran evicted from her house?”
Confused by the subject switch, he stalls by moving to the bar to mix himself a drink. “Evicted?”
“Well, not evicted. But you did make them move.”
“No-o, I asked Ms. Goodman”—I love how he calls her that—“to purchase my share of the house—”
“Your share?”
“Yes, Shawna. Half of the brownstone was in your mother’s name. She left everything to me, remember?”
Yes, in the will she never changed after she moved in with Fran.
“I did that woman a favor. She’d never afford those mortgage payments on her own. She doesn’t even have a job, as far as I know. Your mother supported her.” Dad rattles a shaker and splashes the contents into a glass. “And this, Shawna, is a perfect example of what happens to people who never learn to be self-sufficient.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem fair,” I say, against my better judgment.
“How do you know about all this, anyway?”
I hesitate. No fast-enough lie pops into my brain. “Arye told me.”
“Who the hell is Arye?” As if he doesn’t know.
“Fran’s son. You met him at the hospital? He came to Mom’s funeral? He said he and Fran are moving back to Cleveland Heights.”
He peers, steely-eyed. “Have you been talking to that boy?”
“Um, well, we e-mail occasionally . . .”
“I forbid it.”
“Dad!”
“You heard me. I forbid you to have any more contact with, with, whatever his name is.” I stay silent. “Would you like me to cancel our Internet service?” I shake my head. “Then stop e-mailing him. And I want you to block his address.”
“What have you got against Arye? It’s not his fault his mom . . . I mean, that Mom and his mom . . .” I trail off. There’s no delicate way to put it.
Dad smacks down his glass and heads for the stairs. I hate when he does this. As if he thinks that by refusing to acknowledge me, poof! I disappear. I no longer exist.
“Dad!” I stomp my foot. “I want you to tell me why.”
Because I’m normally not a foot-stomper, Dad halts in disbelief. “Why what?”
“Why are you selling the gallery? Why are you making them move? If Fran had time to find a job, maybe she could make those payments, and—”
“Because I can, Shawna. That’s all there is to it.”
34
Since Dad’s not one to make idle threats, I think twice before e-mailing Arye back. Dad could cut me off from the universe with one click of a button. Plus, if he opens my snail mail, there’s good reason to suspect he’s not above snooping through my hard drive in search of deleted messages.
So there I sit for, like, thirty solid minutes trying to decide if it’s worth the risk.
Finally I hunt for, and find, Arye’s original e-mail. My fingers hover, hover, and then I hit REPLY: I talked to my dad. True. I didn’t get a straight answer. Lie. I’m sorry. True. But there’s nothing I can do. Also true.
And no, I can’t fix it. I wish I could.
35
Nonny, Poppy, Aunt Colleen, and Uncle Dieter stop by after church the following Sunday. I endure the usual dysfunctional family madness, topped off by Poppy, who takes a dump in his pants at the table. So much for our cozy family dinner.
Aunt Colleen freaks. Klara hides; the time and a half Dad pays her for weekends doesn’t include combat duty. Nonny withers with humiliation. Dad, who evidently considers this a “woman’s problem,” makes no attempt to assist. Instead, he takes this golden opportunity to inform Nonny that it’s time to throw Poppy in a nursing home or hire a full-time nurse.
Maybe he’s right. But how could he say this in front of Poppy?
It’s up to me and Uncle Dieter to drag Poppy into the bathroom while Aunt Colleen zooms to the drugstore for a bag of Depends. Uncle Dieter holds him up while I, um, wipe. I am beyond grossed out. I’m not used to other people’s bodily functions—heck, I don’t even babysit—and now I’m scrubbing diarrhea off an eighty-five-year-old man. A man who can’t stand up by himself. A man who may not even remember that I’m his granddaughter, which might be a blessing.
Perfect Shawna diligently performs the task, keeping in mind that this is the same grandfather who used to be a brilliant physician, who taught her to play chess, who once took her to Ireland.
Pathetic Shawna gags as she tries not to stare at his wrinkled butt and dangling scrotum.
And Evil Shawna wants to shriek at her dad: He’s your father! Why aren’t YOU scrubbing his shitty ass?
Later, I share these scenes with LeeLee as we wander through Macy’s in search of the perfect dress for the Snow Ball.
“How’re you gonna be a doctor if somebody’s butt grosses you out?” she asks.
“You’re missing the point. This was my grandfather’s butt.”
“Seen one, seen ’em all. Ya know, old lady Pfeiffer’s right,” she adds fiercely. “You ought to go to MassArt. Then you won’t have to look at anyone’s balls. Unless you want to, ha-ha.”
I sigh. “LeeLee . . .”
“I know, I know. Med school. The Peace Corps. Saving lives, blah, blah. I can’t believe you’re letting your dad twist your arm like this.”
“Nobody’s twisting my arm. This is—my—choice! How many times do I have to say it?”
LeeLee glances heavenward. “Whatever. Let’s go buy you a dress.”
Two hours later I’ve tried on a total of sixteen formals, all of which end up back on the racks. Dress number seventeen is sexy and vivid red, but LeeLee insists it makes me look like a firecracker. Number eighteen I can’t zip, although it says it’s a six—and I’m not moving up to an eight. Number nineteen: stunning on the hanger, hideous on me.
Finally I get to number twenty. A strapless and silky midnight blue, it swishes snugly against my legs with a delicious rustle, though I’m not so sure about this no-strap thing.
LeeLee squeals, “Perfect!”
I pluck at the bodice. “I don’t have a strapless bra.”
“So? What do you have to hold up?”
“And the skirt’s kind of tight . . .”
“That’s a safety feature.”
I pitch number nineteen at her head. She catches it with a grin. Then her smile kind of fades as she stares at my dress. Is she sorry she’s not going?
“It’s not too late to change your mind,” I remind her.
LeeLee wrinkles her nose. “I’d rather stay home and scrape jam out of my toenails. Hey, what’s up with Devon? Did he call you yet?”
I hesitate. No, he hasn’t. You’d think after inviting me to this shindig, Devon might pay a bit more attention to me. No phone calls, no notes in class, and the dance is next week.
“No,” I admit.
“Don’t you wonder why not? Or why he barely talks to you in school?”
“He talks.” Well, he asks me for pencils.
“Bull. Look, don�
��t get mad,” LeeLee warns, “but I have to ask you something. Why do you feel you deserve to be treated like a piece of crap?”
“He’s not treating me like crap.”
“Yes, he is. He asks you to this dance, then he doesn’t call you a single time? Something’s fishy here, chica. And I mean it reeeeks of fishiness.”
Stomach in knots—why does she want to ruin this for me?—I snarl back, “You’re full of it. Nothing’s fishy. Maybe I’ll just call him myself.”
LeeLee points to my cell phone on the fitting room chair. “Go for it.”
“What, now?” I bristle when she nods. “Maybe I’d like some privacy?”
“What do you need privacy for? You’re not phoning the White House.”
“I don’t know, LeeLee. Maybe for the same reason you had to call Tovah in the middle of the night?”
LeeLee stiffens. “Fine. Call him.” Out of the dressing room she storms.
Omigod, she is so on my last nerve. I yank off the gown, pull on my jeans and sweater, then sit down on the padded bench with my phone in hand.
Yes, I do it. And yes, Devon answers. I hear music in the background and a slew of chatter. “Hi, it’s me. Shawna.”
Pause. “Oh! Hey, ’sup, Gallagher?”
“Are you busy?”
“No, ya know, just hangin’ out.” The music fades. “I, um, we have some relatives over, so I’m kinda tied up now, so-o . . . ’Sup?” he repeats idiotically.
I say slowly, “Well, I haven’t heard from you. We’re still on for the dance, right?” Do I sound like a groveling loser?
“Yeah we are! I’ve just been, you know, busy and all. In fact, I was gonna call you tonight. Wow. You must be psychic.”
I can smell the fish. In fact, I smell the whole ocean. “You were?”
“Yeah, I, um, I wanted to know what color your dress is. For the corsage.”
Thank God I found one tonight. “Midnight blue.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s, like, dark blue, right?” Is he even paying attention? “Okay, cool. What time should I pick you up next Saturday?”
He doesn’t mention a limo. I wonder if he plans to take me to the Snow Ball in his Jeep Wrangler. “Well, it starts at seven.”
“Okay. See you at seven.”
“No, I said it starts—”
“Hey, gotta go. Sorry! See you Monday, Gallagher.”
“Shawna,” I say, but he’s already hung up.
Now I’m really having visions of Carrie: a bucket of pig’s blood slopped over my head in front of a belly-laughing audience. Not only do I smell the whole Atlantic Ocean, I sense fish gills springing out all over my body.
As much as I hate to admit it, LeeLee might be right. Maybe he is a phony and a loser and a total horn dog . . . but no, no, no, I am going to this dance! What’s the worst that could happen? I won’t have a good time? Dad hurls Devon to the ground and frisks his pockets for condoms?
Oh-h, God. Think positive! And the positive part is that Devon could’ve asked anyone, but no—he asked me.
I snatch up the dress and march out of the fitting room.
36
A last-minute inventory of Shawna Patrice Gallagher:
• Skin: not bad, after quick dose of bronzing spray.
• Hair: squeaky clean, newly trimmed, and sprayed into shape.
• Jewelry: sapphire earrings and necklace.
• Makeup and nails: perfect.
• Perfume: a spritz of D&G Light Blue.
• Purse: black-sequined Marc Jacobs clutch.
• Shoes: black stilettos with a rhinestone-studded ankle strap.
• Underwear: a lacy black thong, and nothing else.
• The dress itself: breathtaking!
As I sit primly on the edge of my bed and watch the clock, Dad raps on my door. “So where is this young man?”
“It’s not seven yet.” Three whole minutes to go.
“Well, let’s see the dress.”
I drag myself up and twirl, faking delight as Dad examines the goods. “Wow! Very, very nice—”
I break into a relieved grin. “Thanks, Dad.”
“—but don’t you think it’s a bit snug?”
Can’t he just toss me a compliment and leave it at that?
I twitch one shoulder and pretend to fuss with my hair in the mirror. Dad, with a funny look at my reflection, adds casually, “Julie’s right, you know? You do look like your mother.” He turns before I can tell if this pleases him or not. “Make sure he comes to the door, Shawna. I don’t want him honking the horn.”
Devon doesn’t honk. At one minute past seven, through the triangular panes of my bedroom window I see an elegant white limo pull up in front of the house.
“Surprise!” Devon greets me when I fling open the door. He slips a blue carnation onto my wrist—and then, unexpectedly, kisses my lips. “Wow, Gallagher. You look amazing!”
I reel with joy. “So do you.” No, he looks more than amazing in a regal black tux with a dark blue cummerbund the same shade as my dress. “Wait, my dad wants to say hi.”
Holding my breath, I drag Dad out of his office. He extends a surprisingly friendly hand. “Nice to see you again, Devon.”
“You too, sir.” Devon drips with respect.
“How are your mom and dad?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Still playing hockey? Season should start pretty soon, eh? I remember when you were this big, running around the neighborhood with a stick and your bicycle helmet . . .”
Devon and I squirm in unison, and Devon masterfully interrupts with, “Yes, sir. Um, what time would you like me to have Shawna home?”
Well, damn. He does know my name after all.
“At a reasonable hour,” Dad says genially, without any mention of sex or condoms. “You two have a good time.”
I hustle Devon out of the house while we’re ahead of the game, then stop in dismay. Looks like we won’t be going to this big bash alone. Guess who’s waiting in the limo?
Susan Connolly and Jake Fletcher.
And Paige Berry, with her own date, Brad Kilbane.
Oh. My. God. Devon brought his sister on our date?
Everyone chirps hi, and Susan adds, “Surprise, Shawna!”
“Surprise” isn’t the word.
“Oh. Hi.” I climb in with leaden feet.
“Your dress is gor-geous,” Paige declares with a serpentine smile.
Brad scooches over to make room for me. “Yeah, baby. You look hot!”
“Hey!” Paige digs him with an elbow. “You’re my date tonight. No drooling over the competition.”
Competition? As if. Brad’s IQ borders right around room temperature.
“She does look hot,” Jake says, though Susan’s elbow is within striking distance as well.
Susan Connolly and Jake Fletcher. Paige Berry and Brad Kilbane. What the hell am I doing in a limo with them? More important, why didn’t Devon warn me?
Brad slides a silver flask out of his jacket. Waggling his brows, he passes it to me. “One for the road?”
Maybe I should be glad it’s not a joint, or a line of coke. It’s jarringly surreal to see everyone out of their school uniforms, and I can tell they’re already more than a bit lit. I shiver as the liquor burns my esophagus. Teeny sips, Shawna, teeny sips. Still, by the time we reach the country club, I’m enjoying a comfy, well-deserved buzz of my own.
The chaperones include Mr. Twohig, in tweed, and Miss Pfeiffer in one of her less frumpy getups. Twohig’s dentures almost drop out of his mouth, and Miss Pfeiffer demands, “Why, Shawna, is that you?” They’re either astonished by my attire, or astonished I’m here. Both, no doubt.
Yes, we look stunning: the guys in tuxes, Susan in bubble gum pink, and Paige in white, with obviously no underwear. I spy Danielle and Melanie, who approach me with the caution of a couple of zookeepers.
“What’re you doing with them?” Melanie whispers in horror.
“It just happened,”
I confess.
“I thought you hated her. That one, I mean.” She points to Susan.
“I never said that.”
Did I? Well, even if I did, I don’t. Besides, by the end of tonight we might be friends again. Now, as for the winged monkey . . . I eye Brad’s squat hand, fingering Paige’s curvy butt through her sausage-casing gown. Well, Paige Berry may very well be knocked up by midnight.
Danielle chimes in, “Devon looks hot, and so do you.” She spins me around. “Gawd, is this really our Shawna? Where’s your lab coat, ha-ha?”
I see Devon gesturing madly, almost possessively, so I hug them both. “Have fun, you guys.” If that’s possible, considering they came without dates.
After a few closer-than-close dances in the swanky ballroom, Devon hauls me outside to meet up with the rest of our group. Brad’s flask reappears. With a cautious eye we pass it in a circle, huddled on the slushy pavement in the shadow of the building. Strangely enough I’m, yes, having fun! We laugh. We flirt. We crack jokes. We alternate between dancing inside and sneaking back out to take a hit off the flask. Repeated layers of snow on my skimpy pumps turn my feet into Popsicles. My ear canals fill with spit, thanks to Devon’s persistent tongue.
On our fourth trip out, Miss Pfeiffer goose-steps around the corner. Just like in school we lapse into immediate silence.
“Are you drinking out here?” Her beady eyes dart like a radar beam.
“Us?” Jake squeaks in such a funny way that I double over with laughter.
Miss Pfeiffer hammers me with a look. “Well, well. You, of all people.” She points to Paige’s hastily discarded cigarette. “Is that yours?”
“Of course not,” I say indignantly. Devon splutters. I give his hand a warning squeeze.
“Actually, Miss Pfeiffer,” Susan interrupts, “we were all just leaving, so . . .” Taking this cue, we dash through the snow toward the still-waiting limo.
“God, she’s soo lame,” Paige squeals, landing half on top of me.
“She likes Shawna, though,” Susan says. “Shawna’s, like, her pet.”
“I am not,” I argue, though I probably am.
Brad yanks Paige into his lap. “Better watch out. I swear she’s a dyke.”
Say the Word Page 8
