“Well, ’tisn’t easy seeing a loved one like that. Besides,” she adds gently, “it’s not like you’re plannin’ to be a nurse, dearie. Nurses do the dirty work, God bless their souls.”
True. But I’d only walked into Mom’s room. Would it have been easier if it’d been a stranger, not my mother, in that bed?
Nonny, all of a sudden, understands. “Shawnie. You’re not thinkin’ of not going to medical school, are ye? Why, what else would ye do?”
Be an artist. Create beauty. Avoid blood and gore at all costs.
Surround myself with passionate, creative people. Not starchy eggheads with calculators for brains and some twisted desire to control life and death. Even obstetricians can’t avoid death. Dad, I know, sees his share of dead babies.
The words dissolve on my tongue, unspoken. I trust Nonny, true. But not enough to trust that this whole conversation won’t find its way back to Dad.
Charles yips and dances, his signal to go potty. I rise and gratefully kiss Nonny good-bye. “Don’t worry. I’m cool. Maybe I’m having, you know, an identity crisis or something.”
I snap on Charles’s leash and lead him outside. Nonny’s gaze follows me, slit-eyed and unconvinced.
73
Dad’s home. Julie has clothes on. Both of them wait for me at the door.
“What?” I stop dead, half expecting to see Schmule gagged and duct taped to a chair.
Dad ruffles my hair the way he used to do. “Two pieces of news, honey.”
Julie extends her left hand, palm down, wrist arched. An almond-shaped, and yes, almond-sized diamond sparkles on her finger. “You guys are engaged?”
Julie nods blissfully. “Are you surprised?”
Dad’s marrying my ex-nanny?
“When?” I ask feebly.
“As soon as possible,” Dad says—just as Julie says, “Next year, we hope.”
They look at each another.
Uh-oh, I think.
“What do you mean, next year?” Dad uses his trying-so-very-hard-to-be-pleasant voice.
“What do you mean, as soon as possible? Jack, we have to plan this—”
“What’s to plan? I asked you to marry me and you said yes, so . . .” He slings a cozy arm around Julie’s noticeably taut shoulders. “Let’s do it!”
“Jack, this is my first wedding! It’s not something we can do on a moment’s notice. We have to find a church, and a hall. The hall alone might take months. And I have so many relatives I’d like to invite—”
Dad forces a chuckle. “I know you want a nice wedding. But can’t we do the church thing later?”
Dead silence.
“Later than what?” Julie asks coldly.
Oh, man, Dad. You blew it.
“Yeah, Dad. What’s the rush?” I know what the rush is. But I want to hear it from him.
Dad realizes I’m still in the room. He cuts his eyes at me in a way that would normally make me flinch. It doesn’t work this time. “Maybe you’d better go upstairs.”
“I’m not rushing this,” Julie says before I can argue my civil rights. “Jack, you know I love you—but I do not want two weddings!” She notices Dad glaring at me and steps in front of him. “Forget Shawna. Talk to me.”
Dad looks from me, to Julie, to me, and back to Julie. At last, he admits, “Yes, I’d like us to be married as soon as possible. Weiss thinks it’ll look better if this whole, uh, situation gets dragged out in court. He says a two-parent family stands a much better chance. Not that I’m worried we won’t win,” he clarifies. “Julie, I love you. And yes, I want to marry you. So if we’re going to do this, let’s do this now.”
I’m sorry I’m here. I’m sorry I have to witness Julie’s rapidly changing expressions. Confusion, disbelief, hurt, anger—an emotional kaleidoscope—and then, unbelievably, understanding.
She slides her arms around Dad. “He means so much to you. Doesn’t he, Jack?”
I can’t see Dad’s face. But I see his nod.
Your father’s a user, Shawna. He uses people the way bakers use dough. Pumping them up and then smashing them down. Twisting. Shaping. Mashing them into a ball. Then he leaves them alone in the dark to rise up on their own. Or not.
Dad notices as I move in disgust toward the door. “Wait, honey. There’s something else. There’s a hearing next week, but I’m hoping it’s just a formality.” As he kisses Julie’s temple, Julie sends me a beatific smile. “If everything goes according to plan, Sam will be coming home.”
Something ripples inside me. Maybe excitement, maybe dread, or a combination of both.
“Schmule,” I say quietly. At Dad’s bewildered look, I add, name is Schmule, Dad.”
74
Dad asks me to stay home from school on the day of the hearing. “We have to stand together as family,” he insists when I remind him about a trig exam. “How could you miss this? It’s unacceptable, Shawna.”
Unacceptable? Deal with it. I’m not sitting in the same courtroom as Fran so I can see her face when the judge tells her Schmule’s going home with the Gallaghers. Arye, no doubt, will be there, too. If someone tried to steal my brother, I’d be there.
Then again, is it stealing if Mom stole Schmule first?
Who does he belong to? Us? Or Fran?
Both, I guess.
So, in that case, can’t Schmule decide?
75
All through trig I count the minutes till eleven, the time of the hearing. Then I count every minute that ticks by after. I’m so busy imagining what might be going on that I forget to work the problems on the back of the page. I notice too late, after Mr. Clancy announces, “Time’s up, people.”
How, how could I have blown this test? I stare helplessly at the rows of unmarked circles, and then reluctantly zing it into Mr. Clancy’s basket. It lands backside up, and Arabic Guy—whose own paper, I’m certain, is perfectly filled in—lifts his brows in disbelief.
Yeah, dude. Shawna blew a test. Bummer.
At lunch, Susan slips up beside me as I’m studying the yogurt section. Only cookies and cream? No fruit? “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“You take that trig exam yet?” I nod. “How’d it go?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Damn! I have it after lunch. Hey, you know”—Susan reaches for a yogurt, too—”I was wondering, maybe we could—”
“Diarrhea alert,” LeeLee warns behind us. She rips the yogurt cup from my hand and squints at the label. “Do you ever, like, look at these dates?”
“Excuse me,” Susan snipes, “but Shawna and I are having a conversa—”
LeeLee barks one of her more graphic Spanish insults. Susan, who takes French, not Spanish, gets the basic gist. She glares as LeeLee prods me across the cafeteria with her own junk-food-loaded tray. I notice Rosemary Wong’s perplexed look as we pass her table. LeeLee answers her with a cryptic nod, then drops her tray on another table and rips into her milk with her teeth.
“I didn’t buy anything,” I point out.
LeeLee points to her monumental pile of fat, carbs, and chemicals. I select the least offensive item in sight—a soft brown banana—and peel it diligently. We haven’t said much to each other since that day in her room. My skin prickles as I remember how that ended.
“Are you friends with her again?” She nods toward Susan, now plunked between Alyssa Hunt and Brittany Giannelli. Paige Berry’s new place of honor is at Devon’s table, planted happily in Jake Fletcher’s lap. Devon, cuddling with a ditzy, redheaded junior whose name I don’t know, shows no signs of heartbreak over Paige’s defection. I watch Jake pop a potato chip into Paige’s mouth while Susan, two tables away, smolders into her outdated yogurt.
I refocus my attention. “No, but she called me a while back.”
“What for?”
“Oh, you know. Life’s short, blah, blah, let’s make up.”
LeeLee sucks milk through her straw. “Kind of the same thing I was just gonna say myself.”
Wonde
rment washes over me. She should hate me for what I did that day.
“I guess we kind of misunderstood each other,” she goes on. “I don’t feel bad about it. Do you feel bad about it?”
I pick a yellow string off my banana. “Yes.”
“Well, maybe it’s good we get this out in the open, then.”
I shrug. “I got drunk. What can I say?”
“I know.” She mashes a Dorito with her thumb. “But I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“You didn’t,” I lie.
“Yeah I did.”
She touches my fingers. One second later a balled-up brown bag almost knocks the banana out of my other hand. A chorus of howls floats over from Devon’s table.
“Dykes!” Devon whoops through cupped hands. Jake slaps him on the back. Paige shrills with laughter.
LeeLee, typically the one who can’t resist the bait, yanks me back as I start to rise. “Not worth it, chica. Screw him. Sit down.” Knees watery, I sit. “And screw that sister of his, too.”
“She had nothing to do with that.” I can’t believe I’m defending Susan, of all people.
“Are you going to make up with her?”
“. . . I don’t know.”
LeeLee snorts. “Great. She treats you like shit for years, you’ve been mooning over her forever, and now that she wants to make up, you—”
“I don’t moon over girls,” I snap. “You moon over girls.”
“Sor-ry. Wrong word.”
“Are you jealous that I might give Susan another chance?”
“Jealous?” she hisses. Ha, how does she like that word? “Are you out of your skull?”
I hunch forward. “Then what’s your problem?”
“My problem is, I was never your first choice for a best friend. It was always Susie and Shawna, Susie and Shawna. You were only civil to me after Susan dumped you for that bitch. And yes”—she steamrolls over my interruption—”I do know the difference between loving a friend, like you, and loving someone like—” Clamping her mouth shut, she fumbles savagely at a Ho Ho wrapper.
A lo-o-ong silence, and then I finish the sentence. “Like Tovah.”
Nodding, LeeLee spits out a fragment of cellophane. “I meant to tell you, I got accepted at NYU. I’m moving to New York after graduation.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. And I’m moving in with her.”
“Oh.” I pick up a napkin and, finger by finger, wipe the banana slime. “Wow.” She watches me twist the napkin into a knot. “Well, that’s good, right?”
She smiles a tiny smile. “Yeah.” Her smile explodes, lighting up her face like a thousand candles. “God. I’m so happy.”
“Me too.” How could I not be? Just look at her!
The relief on her face almost makes me want to cry. “Thanks, chica.”
I hesitate. “So are you, you know . .. ready for all this?”
“Totally. I even broke down and told my family.” LeeLee snickers. “My dad freaked out and busted a hole in the wall. Mom ran off to church. I don’t think she’s been home since.” She inches her hand closer to mine; then, changing her mind, she lets it fall. “The point is, my life didn’t come to an end. Everyone’s pissed. But they’ll get over it.”
I hope so. I picture Fran at her lavish holiday dinner, surrounded by friends—but, other than her aunt Rina and the boys, not one member of her family. Arye said he never met his grandparents, or his aunts. “I think they like it that way” is what he’d told me.
I don’t want this to be LeeLee. I don’t want LeeLee’s family to hate her.
“Okay. Be honest.” She pops half a Ho Ho into her mouth and asks around crumbs, “Are we friends again? Or will you be, like, too embarrassed to talk to me, in case anyone around here thinks you’re my girlfriend?”
“Yes, we’re friends. And, no, I won’t be embarrassed. Then again,” I add sternly, pointing at scattered bits of her Ho Ho, “there’s this issue about your table manners, LeeLee . . .”
LeeLee loses it, spewing more crumbs than ever. I laugh with her, not caring who sees.
76
Cars jam the driveway when I get home, so I park on the street. As soon as I open the back door, I see it’s party time at the Gallaghers’. Apprehensive, I drop my books and wander to the living room. Dad, beaming in a joyfully deranged way, shoots me a thumbs-up and thrusts me a glass of champagne.
“We did it!” he declares. Then he hugs me—hard! Champagne sloshes out of my glass. “Sam’s here. He’s upstairs.”
The yammering adults—my handful of relatives, and dozens of Dad and Julie’s friends—pat me, hug me, and deliver congratulations as I ease toward the stairs.
Happy, I tell myself. You’re supposed to be happy.
I ditch the champagne—I’ve had enough alcohol this year to last me the rest of my life—and trot upstairs. The door to what-used-to-be-called-the-guest-room stands open, and yes, there’s Schmule. Poised in front of the TV, he aims an uncannily realistic gun at his Xbox, or Wii, or whatever it is. POW! POW! POW! Swinging the gun muzzle back and forth, he effectively destroys every monster on the screen.
“Hi, Schmule.”
Beep, beep, beep! Game over. How apt is that?
Without acknowledging me, he drops the gun and reaches for the TV remote.
“I haven’t seen you for so long. You got, well, big.” Oh-h, is this the best I can do? My Nonny imitation?
“Most male Homo sapiens reach seventy-five percent of their adult height by the time they’re ten,” Schmule intones, zipping through channels. “I’m four feet nine and a half inches tall. I’m in the upper end of the fiftieth percentile on the growth rate chart. So if I continue to grow at an average rate, how tall will I be by the time I’m eighteen?”
“Male Homo sapiens?”
“Guys, duh.”
“I know what it means.”
“Well?”
I fidget, revving up my mental calculator. “Um, what’s the average growth rate?”
Schmule’s mouth pulls down. “You’re not so smart.”
What did I expect? That he’d jump into my arms?
I take one uneasy step in. “Schmule. Are you okay?”
He faces me for the first time. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the same expression I saw on Fran that day she heard me call her a dyke. “The name is Sa-am.”
“No, it’s not,” I assure him.
“Huh. Tell that to my dad.”
I want to hug him. I want him to know I love him, that I want him to love me back. But Schmule, aka Sam, punches a button, and Harrison Ford swings across the screen at the end of a rope.
“Schmule?” I begin, praying he’ll understand, though I have no idea how to explain what I’m feeling. “Listen, I’m really sor—”
Music thunders as Schmule presses the volume control, bruising my eardrums, drowning out my voice.
I take the hint and reluctantly back out again.
77
The party lasts all evening. I hide in my room, alternately memorizing the Krebs cycle for Mr. Twohig and sketching more pictures for my collage. Charles drools into my comforter, emitting snores. At midnight, jittery from nerves and hunger, I go back downstairs, where the crowd has thinned and nobody sees me sneak by.
Julie’s loading the dishwasher. “Where’ve you been hiding?”
“I wasn’t hiding.” I think of Schmule’s hateful expression. “I don’t feel much like celebrating.”
“Aw. Everything will work out.” Julie stacks another greasy plate into the rack. “Sam’ll get used to us and hopefully open up. Your dad thinks we should leave him alone for a while.”
“Really? Is that why he invited a zillion people over tonight?”
“Can you blame him for wanting to celebrate?” she counters.
I counter her back with, “Did Schmule know he was coming here today? Or did you guys, like, drag him out of the courthouse kicking and screaming?”
“If you’d been
there,” she says snippily, “you’d have seen it was nothing like that.”
“I had a test.” Which I flunked.
“Well, your father was pretty disappointed in you.”
“So what else is new?”
This stops her cold. “Shawna. What’s happened to you lately?”
Oh, Julie, do you have a few hours? Pull up a chair. I’ll spill my guts.
As I shake honey-wheat pretzels into a bowl and dig up a bottle of mineral water, Evil Shawna asks slyly, “So when’s the wedding? Or is there a wedding? I mean, he got what he wanted, right? Maybe he doesn’t need you anymore.”
Julie pales. “Is that what you think?”
Another idea occurs to me. “On the other hand, maybe you’d better hurry up and do it, in case Fran decides to take it to the Supreme Court or something.”
“Your father and I had already planned to get married.” But her eyes bounce nervously toward the sound of Dad’s laughter. “Whether or not Sam stays here has nothing to do with it.”
“If you say so.” I’m egging her on, and helpless to stop.
“Look, Shawna. I know you’re probably feeling a little left out now—”
“Actually, I’m glad everyone’s leaving me alone for a change.” Except her, of course.
“—but you have to understand what this means to your dad. For a while he’ll be very wrapped up with Sam. Getting acquainted, helping him adjust. But he loves you, Shawna. You’re so moody lately.” She bumps the dishwasher shut with her knee and cranks the knob. “I think he’s afraid you’re having second thoughts about med school.”
“Who told him that?” Nonny? I’ll kill her.
Julie’s round cheeks pink up. “Well, you know how he opens the mail. And I guess some art school sent you a brochure.”
Calmly I say, “I get stuff like that all the time. If he was so bent out of shape, why didn’t he say something to me?”
“I asked him not to. I know how he can—” She stops. I nibble a pretzel, feigning nonchalance. “Are you thinking about art school?”
“If I were, do you think I’d tell you? So you can run right back to Dad?”
Say the Word Page 17
