Finally Dad lets out a loud, slow sigh. “It wasn’t a cigarette. It was the candle. It started from a candle left burning. In the den.”
After that, no one says a word: not Betsi, not Dad, not Mom, not the firefighters or the officers, not Peter, and definitely not me. All I can hear are the garbled electronic messages coming through the police scanners of other emergencies nearby, situations that require backup and assistance. We all stand completely still for a moment that feels like an hour until Dad breaks the spell and says to Mom without looking at Betsi, “Take everyone inside and pack a few things. We shouldn’t stay in the house tonight. I’ll wrap things up out here.”
Betsi opens her mouth, her breath drawing into her lungs as if she has something else to say, but nothing comes out. It’s just her lips parted, open, waiting to explain. Instead she turns and begins heading toward the house. Peter has stayed underneath the tree this entire time, and he shines his flashlight from his book to her feet as she walks. The spotlight guides her back inside, leaves and twigs sticking to her heels, her soles dirty from the pavement.
The first day of school begins like this. My alarm goes off at 7:00A.M. because as a freshman I have the responsibility of reporting to class by 8:15 rather than 8:35. I spent most of last night staring at my clock radio, the digital numbers eventually a blur, my mind racing with thoughts of losing my way within the new halls I’d toured only once, last May. Today is crucial. With it come the pictures for our school ID, the same photo that will appear in the yearbook handed out in June. What happens today will be the image I carry with me for the rest of the school year, the rest of my high school life, maybe longer, maybe forever.
I’m standing in the bathroom between my room and the den, where Betsi has been sleeping since we returned from the cottage last weekend. I’m wearing my favorite lime-green underwear, which I just noticed has a tear around the waistband. My matching T-shirt already has sweat rings underneath the arms, even though I’ve applied three coats of deodorant, and it will just get worse when I get to school, where only one building of three is air-conditioned. I pour gobs of pink gel into my hands, then coat not just my hair but the mirror and my shoulders with a can of my mother’s White Rain. I even steal a few squirts of Betsi’s mousse in a last-ditch effort to try and make something hold. Under this recipe of so many products, my hair is limp and frizzy and wet. Even though I spent an hour on the phone with Hannah last night, none of the predetermined outfits are working. It’s too warm for my new fall plaid skirt and navy cardigan, and the backup outfit cobbled together from my summer clothes, a wraparound pin-striped skirt and the T-shirt I’m sweating circles into, feels worn and tired. I also woke up this morning with a huge red bump on my chin that’s too new to come to a head, and my makeup looks like orange paint on top of it.
It’s 7:24A.M . When I realize Hannah and her mom will be here to pick me up in under thirty minutes, I begin to cry.
Dad had left for work before I got out of the shower, like he always does, in his suit and the blue-and-red-striped tie we gave him last Father’s Day. Mom is downstairs making breakfast, not for me, because I lie and say I eat it at school. It’s for Peter, who’s starting fifth grade. He’s become the senior of elementary school and is concerned only with who he has for math and whether his eggs are scrambled hard. He came out of the bathroom just as I was waiting to go in, and I swear he had on the same blue-jean shorts he wore yesterday when he rode his bike down to the lake to “pre-read” for school. How do you pre-read for fifth grade? The truth is, I’m jealous, because I’d rather be starting fifth grade than ninth grade. There’s no rank in ninth grade. It all lies back at my middle school, where some seventh-grader has taken my place.
My high school brings together not just the eighth-graders from my old school, but those from another public school, two privates, and one Catholic. In my middle school, I ran with the in-betweens. The cool kids didn’t pick on us, but they weren’t exactly inviting us to their pool parties either. The nerdy kids worried about the cool kids, and back then, we in-betweens would offer them an occasional hello and smile because most of us went to catechism and were taught to treat others the way you’d want to be treated. The in-between isn’t a bad place to be, but when systems are combined from four or five other places, that rank could easily get bumped down a few notches. There’s only so much room at the top, and only so much room below, and it’s not going to improve my chances if I don’t figure out how to stop sweating, how to get dressed, how to move on.
Even though I’ve tried to be quiet since I started crying, I hear Betsi shuffling out of her room. It’s an important day for her as well. Dad called in a favor with a friend of his at a car dealership and set her up with an interview for a receptionist position. “It doesn’t pay much,” Dad had warned, “but it’s a start.” Her appointment isn’t until 11:30. I know this because Mom has taped reminder notes on the refrigerator, the television, even the bathroom mirror. I hear Betsi tap on the door with two quick knocks. Before I can wipe my face, she slips inside. She’s got one of Mom’s robes wrapped around her, the white silk kimono, and her cropped hair is sprouting in six different directions. She glances at me and then turns on the faucet, reaching for her blue toothbrush. We all have colors assigned to us, but Mom always keeps an extra stock of blues that mean “guest.”
“What’s wrong?” Betsi asks with her mouth full of toothpaste, foaming white in the corners. My crying has become a series of short sniffs as I point to my hair and then my chin, and Betsi says nothing but nods, spitting into the sink and tapping her brush on the side. She leaves the faucet running and grabs one of the hand towels, then gets the shampoo and conditioner from the shower stall. She adjusts the knobs and tests the water with her wrists, motioning for me to lean over the sink.
“We don’t have enough time—” I begin, but Betsi shushes me and guides my head under the water, which is exactly the right temperature, just like at the hair salon. Her fingertips work in slow circles at first, scrubbing out the overload of beauty products, her nails scratching my scalp lightly. It is just a matter of minutes before the conditioner is rinsed and she’s rubbing my head with the towel hard enough so that when she lifts it, my hair feels almost dry.
Betsi sits me on the toilet lid again with the towel draped around my shoulders. She takes a tissue and wipes off the makeup and then pulls out her floral bag from underneath the sink. It’s overflowing with slick tubes and compacts and brushes, and she rubs something on my chin that stings a bit, then a cool light cream all over my face. She studies as she paints, working quickly with small brushes and telling me to close my eyes while she blows lightly on my lids, her breath still minty. She turns me around and runs a pick through my hair to get the snags out, squeezing just a quarter-size dollop of gel into her hands, massaging it into my hair and scalp. “Don’t dry it. It’ll just get frizzy,” she says, and I nod, biting my lip so I won’t start crying again. “They still take yearbook pictures on the first day?” she asks, and I nod again. “Bastards.” It makes me giggle. “You know, Presley, I was in high school not that long ago. I mean, honestly, I bet I could get dressed and go with you and pass for a senior.” She steps back to survey her work.
“Barry’s a senior,” I say.
“Hm-mm,” Betsi says. “Okay. Good. Now, what are you wearing?” I point to the wraparound skirt crumpled in the corner. “Oh no,” she says, shaking her head. “Come with me.”
Even though I know it’s coming, I blink at the photographer’s flash, and I’m certain he has captured me with my eyes half closed. Mr. Lyndon, the gym teacher, stands guard off to one side near the exit in his blue and red tracksuit, and he hands me a numbered receipt with my name on it as I walk away. “Stay out of trouble, Moran,” he warns. No matter what school or grade, the gym teachers always call me by my last name.
Hannah is waiting for me at the door, waving with one hand and holding her books against her chest with the other. “How did that go?” she ask
s, her blond hair cascading down her shoulders, her pink sundress still perfectly crisp, as if it has just been ironed.
“I think it will make a great ‘before’ shot.”
“Oh, come on! I bet it’s not as bad as you think. You look really cute today!” she adds. I’m not so sure. Betsi did save my face and hair, but she insisted I wear one of her denim miniskirts with a black tank top. The waist feels snug, and I keep tugging at the hem, as if I can make it grow longer.
“Youlook cute today,” I tell her, which is true but not much different from every day for Hannah. “That’s new, right?” I ask, pointing at her dress.
“Yes, but it was on sale.” Hannah’s parents are both lawyers with their own firms. They live in the west end of town, where the houses are three or four times the size of those in my neighborhood. She’s an only child, like Barry, but Hannah’s parents buy her clothes as if she has siblings to receive the hand-me-downs. I don’t think most of the kids we go to school with know how well off she is, and I’m one of only a few girls who has actually seen her closets—all three of them.
“Are you coming over for dinner tonight?” I ask. Hannah eats at our house at least twice a week; she insists these are the only nights she doesn’t end up with a carton of moo-shu pork while her parents prepare for morning depositions.
“Maybe,” she says. “My mother thinks I need to be more considerate—her word, not mine—now that Betsi is staying at your house again.”
“It’s not permanent,” I explain. “I’ll see you at lunch?” We’ve compared class schedules, and besides lunch, we have just fifth-period math in common. I’ll reunite with Mr. Lyndon in gym class during the last period of the day, but Hannah is stuck with him during third.
“You’re so lucky to have gym class last,” she tells me again. “You can go to class and not worry about what you look like after—you can just leave and go home.”
I shrug. No matter what period gym class is, it’s still the class I dread the most. Today we’re on what they call an “amended” bell schedule to make time for the pictures, so I’ve got seven minutes instead of nine to get to my first class, English.
“See you at lunch!” Hannah says, disappearing into the wave of students flooding the hallway.
My English class is on the second floor in the main building, and I’m forced to walk down the hallway with the senior lockers, which are twice as wide as those assigned to freshmen. Even without the location to tip me off, the seniors are easy to identify. The girls move with a certain confidence, their shirts a little bit too tight, their lipstick bright and eyes teasing with coats of mascara. The senior boys have broad shoulders to hold up varsity jackets that glitter with championship pins, their cheeks freshly shaved and threatening to grow stubble by 2:00P.M . They also look misplaced, too old for this school but too young for suits and ties.
I’m trying to remember if my class is in room 206 or 260, neither of which seems to exist, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, Pres.”
“Hey, Barry.” He’s carrying just a blue ballpoint pen with the cap missing, and there’s a tall boy standing next to him, smirking from underneath a mop of curly brown hair.
“You talking to freshmen now?” the boy says.
“This is my cousin, asshole.”
“Oh, well, excuse me.”
“Presley, this is Jack.”
“Hi,” I say. I didn’t recognize him at first. I don’t think I’ve seen Jack since Aunt Marie’s funeral, and I remember him much shorter, with round, bulky glasses. “We’ve met before,” I remind him.
Jack says nothing, leaning against the locker, examining his fingernails.
“So who’d you get stuck with for algebra?” Barry says.
I pause. “Overwood?”
“Overwood? Who’s Overwood?” Jack barges in, laughing and picking at something underneath his thumbnail.
“Um, I mean—”
“You meanUnder wood?” He’s still laughing.
“Yeah, that’s what I meant.” I can already feel new sweat seeping under my armpits.
“Oh, man, don’t tell him you’re related to me!” Barry says, taking a light green apple out of his front pocket. He dusts it off on his T-shirt and takes a bite. There’s a group of older girls making their way down the hallway, and they throw out a collective “Hiiiii Barry!” as they approach. He grins and gives them a two-finger wave with the hand holding the apple. The tallest one in the center of the cluster stops directly in front of Barry.
“Nice tan, Barry.” Her wavy chestnut hair is tied loosely at the nape of her neck with a white grosgrain ribbon.
“Oh, thanks, Liz. Where are you off to?”
“French. I’m taking AP this year.” She’s at least four inches taller than I am. Her eyes dart to me, and I notice she’s wearing pale gold eye shadow. I look down at the linoleum floor and fidget on the heels of my sandals.
“This is my cousin Presley,” Barry tells her.
“She’s a freshman,” Jack adds.
“I can see that,” Liz says in a very matter-of-fact voice. She turns her attention back to Barry. “Give me a call later, okay?”
“Uh, sure,” Barry tells her. “See you.” The girls begin moving in their swarm again, buzzing with whispers and a sprinkling of giggles.
“Is that your girlfriend?” I ask as soon as she’s out of earshot.
Jack snorts. “He wishes.”
“More likeyou wish,” Barry throws at Jack. “She’s just a friend.” He takes another bite of his apple. “So,” he says, chewing, “Betsi still at your house?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought she was getting her own place.”
“She is…I think. Eventually. She has a job interview today.”
“She get it?”
“I don’t know. It’s not until eleven-thirty.”
“I bet she gets it. She’s like that.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say, tugging once more on the denim, which is suffocating me.
“So where are you going?” Jack interrupts again, apparently bored with his hands.
“I have English. Room two-oh-six. Or two-sixty.”
“Davidson?” he asks. I nod. “It’s over there.” Jack motions across the hall, toward a door with the number 216 above it. “We could get you a map if you want.”
“Shut up,” Barry says, and then turns back to me. “You’d better get to class.”
He waves and shoves Jack down the hallway, which is now nearly empty. As the bell rings, right before I walk into the room, I hear Jack say, “Nice skirt,” and then they turn the corner and disappear.
Class after class, it’s the same question: “Are you related to Barry Moran?”
“Yes, that’s my cousin.”
“Yes, he’s my cousin.”
“We’re cousins.”
The reactions vary only slightly.
“Well, I hope you take to algebra a little faster than he did!”
“Well, I hope you take to English as well as he did!”
“Well, I hope you pay attention to history the same way he did!”
When I get to my last class of the day, there’s a note taped to the girls’ locker-room door that tells us to report directly to the main gym. We cluster on the shiny wood floor in between the colored bars and circles that mark the basketball court. As Mr. Lyndon announces that today will be a review of practices and procedures, I spot Chris Carroll standing underneath the net with two other boys. I haven’t seen him since eighth-grade graduation last year. Hannah told me she heard his family spent the entire summer up north at their cottage, which unfortunately is nowhere near ours. He’s still tan, and he’s wearing a gray T-shirt and canvas shorts. His legs are hairy, like a man’s. He smiles, not at me but at something funny his friend says, and I gasp. His braces are off too. But then I realize this is not a class where he’s going to sit behind me and draw on my neck; in this class, Chris Carroll is going to see me sweat. Mr. Lyndon hands us a stack of
papers: a permission slip that waives the school’s responsibility in case of an injury, a reminder to buy a personal lock, a form to order a uniform. I grab a copy of each sheet as it passes and consider running from the room, from Chris, from the polyester shorts and boxy T-shirts that await me. But I’m surrounded, unable to move, and Mr. Lyndon seems to be directing every comment directly at me. “In this class, I expect a hundred percent effort, all the time,” and because I can’t escape his stare, I nod quietly and stay planted.
After the last bell, I gather up my things at my locker, shoving the papers and my math book into my backpack. Math is the only homework assigned on the first day. Mom is scheduled to pick me up near the bike racks and I wait with Hannah, who is going to a meeting about cheerleading tryouts at 3:30P.M .
“So Carroll is in your gym class this year?” Hannah says, offering me a stick of cherry-flavored gum.
“Yes. I’m doomed,” I tell her, unwrapping the silver foil and popping the piece into my mouth. “For real. Doomed.”
“Oh, Pres. I’m so sorry.” Normally Hannah takes the “glass is half full” approach, but we’re talking about gym class here—horrible uniforms, team selections, sweat. Running. Sweat. Oh God.
“Why couldn’t I have been given the gift of athletic coordination, like you? And we couldboth be going to cheerleading tryouts right now.”
“Eh, I’m probably just going to make an ass out of myself. I can barely do the splits. This team is way more serious than warming the sidelines at a middle school basketball game.” She checks her watch and grabs her bag. “I’ll call you when I get home!” she yells, half walking, half running toward the gym. Even now she looks graceful.
The Girl I Wanted to Be: A Novel Page 3
