Say the Word

by Jeannine Garsee

  LeeLee no longer acknowledges my existence. Worse, she told Melanie and Danielle the truth, and then asked them the same thing: did they still want to be friends? Danielle said yes, because nothing fazes Danielle. Mel, on the other hand, was too flabbergasted to answer. LeeLee, no doubt, counted that as a no.

  Now that our foursome has permanently turned into a lopsided party of three, it hits me how few real friends I have. True, I “know” a lot of people. I talk to them all the time. But I’m so far down on the social food chain, I feel teeth snapping at my tail.

  Next year it won’t matter. College, everyone says, is nothing like high school. New people, new surroundings. A new chance to make friends. Next year at this time I won’t even be thinking about Wade Prep. Hopefully I’ll no longer feel like the biggest loser in the universe.

  Every single person won’t always like you. And if they’re not “real” friends, then who needs them? Think about it, Shawna.

  So is it better, or more noble, to spend your life in a vacuum instead of surrounding yourself with people who don’t give a damn about you, Mom?

  Then, of course, there’s the stuff going on at home.

  Dad’s been on the phone every night with Mr. Weiss. I listen in whenever I can because dad tells me next to nothing. Yes, he got a court order for a DNA sample from Schmule.

  Tonight, the results are in.

  Mr. Weiss shows up late to deliver the news in person. Dad doesn’t invite me down to share the moment. I hear the news from the top of the stairs.

  A split second later, a champagne cork pops.

  It’s official. Shawna Gallagher is no longer an only child.

  I hug myself, joy and relief pulsating through every vessel in my body. Then, slowly, inexplicably, both emotions trickle away. All that’s left is a clawing sensation, the toenails of a rat scrabbling against the lining of my stomach.

  I huddle on the staircase, my cheek pressed against a mahogany spoke, and listen to Dad and Mr. Weiss exchange good-byes.

  I want the joy back. And I want to share it with my dad.

  So I wait for Dad to call up: Shawna! Great news! Come on down!

  Nothing.

  Or maybe run upstairs and stop in surprise: Oh, there you are! I suppose you heard? Well, let’s celebrate!

  Still nothing.

  The rat in my stomach scampers off, replaced by mounting fury. Now that Dad found his son, has he forgotten he has a daughter?

  And how are the Goodmans “celebrating” this news?

  Dad, back in the den, makes phone call after phone call. My anger at his silence dissolves into pain. With Charles squiggling in my arms, I escape the house without notice.

  I have to see Fran. And Arye.

  And my brother, Sam.

  65

  I sit in the dark with my cell phone, my car engine humming. The windows at Fran’s house blaze like bonfires, shadows dancing in the motionless flame. Charles hops around, smearing doggy slime on the car window, wondering why we haven’t climbed out yet.

  Because I’m afraid to?

  I want to see my brother. And I want to see him first, before Dad, before anyone. I toy with my phone, knowing I couldn’t have picked a worse time. But if I can get to Schmule before Dad, maybe I can explain . . .

  Explain what, Shawna? How you took those pictures you knew Fran didn’t want you to see? How you showed them to your dad? How you planted the idea? And now what do you want to do? Apologize?

  Why should I apologize for helping find my brother?

  Yes, you found him. And you see how anxious your dear father was to share the news with you.

  “Shut up!” I say out loud. Charles blinks at me.

  After a few deep breaths I tap the number into my phone. I’ll ask for Arye. Better he cusses me out than Fran.

  Rina answers. I have to jump-start my vocal cords. “Can I speak to Arye, please?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Shawna.”

  Click.

  Maybe I should’ve lied.

  Tossing the phone onto the dash, I jump out and quickly shut the door. Charles yaps in betrayal as I make my way, in utter dread, to the Goodmans’ front door.

  What the hell are you doing here, Shawna?

  I don’t know, Mom. And will you please, please shut up for one frickin’ minute?

  The door opens and Fran’s aunt Rina eyes me coldly. “You’re not welcome here, Shawna.”

  “I know. But I need to see—” She waits, and I add helplessly, “Arye.” I’m afraid if I say Schmule she’ll gun me down where I stand.

  “Arye doesn’t want to see you. Go home.”

  “But—”

  Rina shakes her head and calmly shuts the door.

  66

  As I rush around gathering up my books in the morning, I hear Dad whistling merrily in the kitchen. Funny, I have no memory of him whistling before. I’m surprised he knows how. Plus, he’s not dressed.

  “Aren’t you going to work?” I ask as I let Charles out to pee, placing mental bets on how long it’ll take Dad to mention Schmule.

  “Nope, not today, honey. I’m taking a well-deserved break.”

  “Where’s Klara?”

  “I gave her the day off, too.”

  Outside, Charles whimpers to come in. He shoots off through the house before I can wipe his damp paws, and Dad, still whistling, pays no attention. He tosses water into the coffeemaker and flips down the lid. I watch with astonishment.

  Suddenly I find I have a whole list of “firsts”:

  1. Dad took the day off.

  2. Dad’s whistling.

  3. Dad made his own coffee. Who taught him that?

  4. Dad called me “honey” in his first sentence of the day.

  5. Dad freed Klara from her chains for no particular reason.

  6. Dad didn’t freak out over Charles’s dirty paws.

  All this in less than ninety seconds.

  “What’d you have for breakfast?” I ask. “Magic mushrooms?”

  Dad chuckles instead of splattering me with a look. “Nothing, honey. This is a natural high!” Inhaling deeply as the aroma of coffee permeates the air, he turns around and clamps my shoulders. “And you are the one I have to thank for this!”

  He crushes me to him, jamming my face into his fleecy robe. Too astonished to respond, I stand there and try to enjoy this shocking moment, because:

  7. Dad just hugged me out of the blue.

  I breathe in a waft of yesterday’s aftershave—he didn’t shower last night?—and a hint of old liquor. Plus one other, less familiar scent: a “Dad” scent, one I haven’t noticed in years because we haven’t been this close to each other in years. Feeling my own smile, I let him hug me another second; then, before I can lift my arms to return the hug, he holds me back out. Well, it was nice while it lasted.

  “So, are you ready for the good news?” His grin illuminates the whole kitchen.

  “I heard,” I admit, stifling a renewed surge of resentment.

  “You did?”

  “You were, like, trumpeting it all over the universe.” To everyone but me, that is.

  “It was late. I thought you were in bed.” He sounds ridiculously sincere. “Well, I apologize. I did want to give you the news myself.”

  “No, you didn’t. You weren’t even thinking about me.”

  Dad reddens. “That is not true. I was excited, dammit. My God, do you know what this means? You have a brother, Shawna!”

  I step back as he reaches for me again. “Great. Now you can put me up for adoption and make your life complete.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Nothing!” I fling my arms up and stalk off. “I’m talking about nothing.”

  I’m shaking so hard, it’s a miracle I make it to school in one piece. My day passes in a painful blur—and the pain skyrockets into agony when, after school, I spot LeeLee lounging around at Rosemary Wong’s locker near the main doors, jabbering with her the w
ay she used to jabber with me.

  Crazed, I stumble toward the exit, reach for the metal bar—and find myself pushed flat into the door. Devon grinds his hips insinuatingly into my rear, and whispers, “Change your mind yet, Gallagher?”

  Two simultaneous thoughts whiz through my brain:

  1. I’m being sexually assaulted right here in plain sight.

  2. I’m so sick of this crap. Who does he think he is?

  I ram my elbow back, striking his ribs hard enough to send a bolt of lightning into my fingers. “Get off me!”

  He grunts, recovers, and slides a steel arm around my waist to drag me closer. “Hey, c’mon . . . play nice . . .”

  “Hey!” someone shouts.

  Behind us, LeeLee and Rosemary descend like a pair of rabid Dobermans. Devon, outnumbered, releases me with a petulant shove. His nasty smirk, however, vanishes a split second before my seemingly disembodied hand whacks him hard in the face.

  “You bitch!” he roars, but by then I’m well out of his range.

  67

  I drive maniacally, weaving in and out of traffic, queasy at the memory of Devon rubbing the back of my skirt. Yet the stinging of my palm makes me feel even sicker. Can he press charges? Have me arrested for assault?

  Dear Miss Gallagher: We regret to inform you that because of your criminal record we cannot accept you into the medical program at Case Western Reserve University . . . or Duke . . . or Purdue . . . or . . . Yep, that’s one letter Dad’ll be sorry he opened.

  No, I’m safe. Devon assaulted me first, in front of witnesses, no less.

  But I don’t feel safe. I feel alone, and hunted.

  Betrayed.

  Out of my mind.

  I veer into the lot at Arye’s school and watch a wagon train of yellow buses line up, one by one. A bell rings, sending kids spilling through doors in a raging exodus. I climb out of the car and tug my jacket closed over my vest with the gold Wade Prep emblem. Amid this laughing, jostling mob of baggy pants and ball caps, I look like a creature from outer space in my plaid skirt and knee socks. How I’d love to join in, to laugh and scream with them, just to shake this disturbing sense of not belonging anywhere, to anyone.

  I almost spot him too late, and shout his name. Arye twists around, openmouthed, and then approaches warily. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I have to talk to you.”

  “About?”

  “Uh, can we talk in the car?”

  “Are you stalking me?” he asks without humor.

  “Please.”

  Silence. Then he nods and follows me to my car, where I find a pink warning slip already stuck to the windshield. Faculty space. I crumple it up and slide in. Arye joins me, but he doesn’t look happy about it.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as the passenger door slams.

  Arye scoffs. “Not as sorry as I am.”

  I nod miserably.

  “I mean, it was bad enough when your old man made Mom sell the gallery. Penny loved that gallery. Mom put a lot of work into it, too. It should’ve gone to her.”

  “. . . I know.”

  “Then you make us move, right? So then my mom has to take, like, the first crappy job that comes along so she won’t have to live off Aunt Rina the rest of her life.”

  “My dad did that,” I say. “That old will he had . ..”

  “I know all about the will,” Arye snaps. “Did you think it was fair?”

  No. It wasn’t. And Dad easily could’ve helped out Fran if he’d wanted to. It’s not like we needed that stupid money.

  “Now this,” he finishes bitterly. “This is so fucked up. You know he’s going after my mom for custody, right?”

  I nod, twisting my fingers. “So now what?”

  “We go to court, that’s what, which is stupid. It’ll cost money, it’ll put Schmule through hell, and your dad’s gonna win, Shawna. So what’s the point?”

  I don’t trust myself to speak. Anything I say would be a lie. Of course I don’t want Dad to lose. Schmule’s my brother! Am I crazy for wanting him?

  “You know what else? Did you ever think of this? All this lesbian stuff’s gonna come out, too, and everyone’ll know about our moms. My mom’ll probably lose her job—who wants some lesbian in a Catholic school contaminating their kids? Never mind what your priests have been doing all these years.” Arye kicks the bottom of my dash. “Your dad already said he’d go to the media if Mom gives him a hard time.”

  What? No. Dad would never do that, never make all this public!

  Oh, yes he would, Shawna. Make no-o-o mistake about it.

  I stir uncomfortably. Can Arye hear Mom, too? Maybe he senses it, because his gaze darts, left and right, without meeting mine.

  I whisper, once again, “I am so, so sorry.”

  My hands fly up because I know I’m ready to cry, but Arye unexpectedly jerks them down. Now he looks at me. I shrink under his hot contempt.

  “Sorry about what? That you took those pictures? That’s what started it, right?” I twist one wrist away. He clenches the other one more tightly. “Mom knew what you did, before she even found them under the couch. I don’t know why she didn’t call you on it. She never even told me, till she heard what you said about her that day.”

  “I didn’t mean that!” I plead. “I—I was upset about LeeLee.”

  He flings my arm aside. “Wow, you’re just full of excuses.”

  “I’m not making excuses! Look, I don’t know how this happened, and you’re right, it’s fucked up. But it’s not just me, okay? You can’t just blame me.”

  Arye takes a hard breath. At least he doesn’t argue.

  “I don’t know why my mom did it, why she pretended Schmule wasn’t hers. But your mom went along with it. Right?” No answer. “Arye, did you know? All along? Or did they lie to you, too?”

  Ignoring my question, Arye scoffs again. I absolutely hate it when he makes that sound. “Don’t pretend you’re not happy about this. I’m not that stupid.”

  If I argue, he’ll know I’m lying.

  Hunched, rigid, he stares at the buses rolling out of the lot. “At Penny’s funeral, all those things Schmule said? Yeah, they were true. But she wasn’t all that hot. She always went off and did her own thing, and hardly saw us half the time. My mom,” he adds gruffly, “was always Schmule’s mom. Penny never even tried, so just remember that, okay? And tell it to your dad.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I remind him. “Did you know, too?”

  “No,” he says hoarsely. “I didn’t know. Neither did Schmule. Not till the day they came and stuck a Q-tip in his mouth.”

  “Wait!” I catch his sleeve as he fumbles for the door latch. “Can I drive you home? Can I just stop in and see him?”

  Arye whips away from me. His poisonous stare splinters my thudding heart. “He doesn’t want to see you. He hates you, okay?

  Can you, like, get that at all?”

  “But if I can just see him for a second, and maybe explain—”

  “Explain?” he shouts. “Explain what?.” He wrenches open the door, and spits back, “Anyway, you’ll get to see him soon enough. When the police come by and drag him out of our house!”

  68

  Up till this moment I’d forgotten about the last of LeeLee’s sangria, tucked under my seat since Mom’s funeral. I find it only after I’ve driven what feels like a hundred miles, around and around, no goal in mind. I drop my cell, which I forgot to turn on this morning, when I brake at the last second at a flashing red light. The bottle rolls out from under the seat and clanks into my cell. I squeal into a Wendy’s lot, snatch up the bottle, pop the cork, and take a few grateful swallows. Yes, in public, in semi-daylight, with my engine running.

  My cell rings the second I turn it on.

  “Shawna!” Dad bellows. “Where are you? It’s after six!”

  Well, so much for his jolly mood this morning. “It is?”

  “What the hell are you doing? I’ve been calling you for two
hours!”

  “Just driving around . . .”

  “Well, drive your ass right back here, young lady. A friend of yours called to see if you’re all right”—LeeLee, of course; why does he pretend not to know her name?—”because you got into an altercation with Deb Connolly’s boy after school today?”

  Thanks, LeeLee. “Sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  I nestle the phone between my ear and shoulder. How do I tell Dad what Devon did to me? I can’t, I can’t say it, and I don’t know why. Partly, I’m embarrassed. After all, who made out with him after the Snow Ball? Who let him feel me up and see me half-naked? What Devon did this afternoon was nothing compared to that.

  So what’s the difference? I wasn’t “asking” for it today?

  “Shawna,” Dad barks. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. I’m just having some issues with him, and, um . . .”

  “What issues?”

  “It’s personal, okay? I’m not giving you the details.”

  Good girl, Shawna! Don’t let him push you around.

  Dad roars all in one breath, “You don’t bother to come home after school, or answer your phone, and you’ve been driving around for three hours, only God knows where, and you say it’s because you have ‘issues’ with that Connolly kid—and you don’t feel the need to give me the details?”

  Evil Shawna pricks at my periphery. I take another long, delicious sip from the bottle. “No, Dad. I don’t feel that need. I don’t feel you have to know every fucking detail of my life.”

  “WHAT?” The phone practically shatters in my hand.

  “If I wanted you to know, I’d tell you. But it’s personal. Personal!” My voice rises and rises, paining my ears in the stuffy enclosure. “So leave me alone for once. You don’t give a shit about me anyway!”

  The cell phone cracks against my windshield, clatters off the dash, and lands back on the floor. I’m sobbing, sobbing, and I never felt it coming. Like stepping on a land mine, tears explode without warning. Blowing me to bits. Hurtling pieces of me everywhere.

  I screech back onto the road, gulping wine as I drive. I don’t care that people can see me or that I’m doing this in Cleveland Heights, a city renowned for a brutally efficient police force.