Girl on the Verge

by Pintip Dunn

  She didn’t like this feeling. Which meant she had to do something to fix it. No more playing around this time. She had to do something big. Something even more definitive. She had to claim what was rightfully hers.

  Kan’s life.

  Chapter 30

  “You’re not going,” Khun Yai says, her hands on her creaky hips, the fire of battle in her eyes. My mother sits behind her at the kitchen table, working on a cross-stitch of a barnyard scene that will one day hang on our kitchen wall. It’s one of her rare mornings off. Normally, she picks up every shift she can at the hospital. She claims that she’s just being a team player, but my theory is that she’s trying to work herself to death. That way, she won’t have to suffer through life as a widow anymore.

  I want to pound my head against those rooster-covered walls. Grab my mother’s perfectly even stitches and toss them out the window. Maybe then, Mae would weigh in on our conversation. Instead, she seems enthralled with getting the duck’s webbed feet exactly right.

  I take a deep breath. I proposed what I thought was a perfectly acceptable outing. I need a good excuse to be out of town, so that they can’t expect me to come running home should they call. Besides, Khun Yai likes Ethan—at least she’s starting to warm up to him. It’s Saturday. She should have no problem with me tagging along to cheer him on in one of his dance competitions.

  It’s just an excuse, of course. I’m planning to go to Shelly’s hometown to see what I can find out about her background, but I can’t exactly tell Khun Yai or my mom this. They’ll just accuse me of going on a witch hunt to villainize poor Shelly.

  “What could you possibly have against me going?” I ask. My mother switches to the green thread and moves on to the pond. Those lily pads, you know. They’ve got to take priority over your child’s well-being. “The competition’s during the day. We’re not sleeping over anywhere. There’s going to be an entire gymnasium full of dancers supervising us, for god’s sake.”

  “You just met this boy, Kanchana,” Khun Yai says. “What would people say if you were already going out of town with him?”

  “What people?” I shove my hands through my hair. These mysterious, faceless people again! They’ve been keeping me from doing things my entire life, whether it was hanging upside down on the jungle gym or wearing a slightly transparent nightgown to bed. Maybe I shouldn’t get this worked up over a fake excuse, but it’s the principle of the matter. I’m responsible. More trustworthy than every last kid at my school. Why can’t she see that?

  “I went with Ash last summer when we took the ACTs,” I say. “We drove two hours to Pittsburg, took the test, had lunch, and then came home. What’s the difference?”

  “Ash is a girl. Ethan is a boy.”

  “So?” My eyebrows climb my forehead. “I could have sex with her just as easily in the backseat as I could with him.”

  “Kanchana.” Finally, my mother looks up from her cross-stitch. “Do not speak to Khun Yai that way.”

  “What way? She’s not being logical. I’m simply pointing that out to her.”

  “I don’t need to be logical,” Khun Yai says, her lips tight. “I am your elder. I make the rules. You follow them.”

  “I follow your rules when they make sense.” I rise on my toes, as if that will make her more likely to hear me. “This one doesn’t. Would you want me to blindly follow a rule I don’t agree with? Shouldn’t I use my mind and make the correct decisions for myself?”

  “It’s called authority,” Khun Yai roars. “It’s called respect. It doesn’t surprise me you’re not familiar with either, you and your American ways.”

  “Well, at least in America, girls are raised to think for themselves.”

  Khun Yai’s face turns red. I can see every wrinkle and every crease. “I was right not to give that necklace to you. You are not a good Thai girl. You would disgrace the family heirloom.”

  My heart twists. That necklace means everything to me, but I won’t pretend to be something I’m not. “I don’t want it, anyway. Not if it means I have to be a subservient drone.”

  Mae gets in between us, the damned cross-stitch still in her hands. “Stop it, both of you. I have to leave for the hospital soon, and I’d like to spend my last few minutes in peace.”

  She looks between us. My arms are crossed. Khun Yai is breathing hard, as though she’s just run her first race in decades.

  “I’ll settle this,” Mae continues. “Can you both agree you will abide by my decision?”

  We nod, more from surprise than anything else. Mae rarely involves herself in household affairs. In fact, I can’t remember the last time she disciplined me—or attended any of my school events, for that matter.

  “You both have valid points, but neither of your arguments are relevant.” She places a hand on my shoulder. “The truth is, Khun Yai isn’t doing well. She keeps forgetting her heart medicine, and as a result, her body’s been working too hard. We went to the doctor yesterday. He says we need to keep an eye on her for the next few days.” She takes a breath. “I’m sorry, Kan, but I need you to stay home this weekend.”

  “I do not need a babysitter, Som,” Khun Yai says stiffly. “The doctor cleared me, so long as I remember my medicine. And I will.”

  “Well, I haven’t cleared you.” She pauses. “I had a dream last night. It’s a bad omen. I feel . . . uneasy about this weekend.”

  “You’re not supposed to believe in superstitions, Som. You, with your Western medicine and your modern education. You would not advise your patients like this.”

  “You are not my patient.” Mae stands up straight, tucking the cross-stitch under her arm. “You are my mother. As your oldest daughter, as well as the first in our family to become a doctor, this is my decision. And it is final.”

  She sweeps out of the room, her head held high, putting an end to the argument. It’s a neat trick. Something I clearly need to learn.

  “Khun Yai,” I say softly, putting my hand on her arm. Her sagging skin is cool and wrinkled. I want to twirl myself in the long fabric of her sarong skirt, the way I used to as a little girl. But I tower over her now—me with my American bones and my American diet—and I could more easily envelop her than the other way around. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?”

  She closes her eyes, as if suddenly tired.

  “It is my job to worry about you, luk lak. Not the other way around.”

  “On the contrary, life is a cycle,” I say, repeating her own words back to her. I thread my hand through her arm and lead her to the living room. “Parents care for their kids when they’re young, so that the kids can care for their parents in their later years.”

  “Only when they are old.” Her eyes flash bright, even as she allows me to help her onto the sofa and place her legs on the ottoman. “I am not old.”

  “No, you’re not. But you can get sick, no matter what your age is.”

  “I will be fine, Kanchana,” she says tiredly. “Go ahead, go to the dance competition with that boy. But no kissing, no handholding, do you hear? I am trying to understand your life. But you must try, too.”

  I take her hand, touched and surprised that she relented. But I’m not sure I want to go anymore. My investigation into Shelly can wait. Anything can wait if Khun Yai is ill. “We’ll play cards. Pai pong,” I say, referring to the Chinese cards she likes. “You’ll have to remind me which characters go with which, but I’m sure it’ll come back to me after a few rounds.”

  “Your mother is overreacting. Compensating for the times she isn’t here. The doctor said I would be fine if I remembered my medicine. I’ve set an alarm, see?” She holds up her phone to show me. “I’m not completely senile, despite what your mother might think. Besides”—she looks at me conspiratorially—“if we do not, as she says, abide by her decision, do you think she’ll ever know?”

  “Never.” I grin. “She’ll be too busy working.”

  “Exactly. So run along now. I have soap operas to watc
h.” She adjusts her spectacles and picks up her iPad from the coffee table, where her latest favorite Thai soap is cued up.

  “I’ll watch with you,” I insist.

  “Fine,” Khun Yai says, smiling a little, as if to say, We’ll see how long you last.

  I settle down next to her. The actors are as beautiful as always, and the drama is as intense as always. But pretty soon, I lose track of the many subplots, which Khun Yai expects. I begin to nod off, as she expects. When she once again urges me to leave, I reluctantly agree—also as she expects.

  Except what I leave her to do is the last thing she would expect.

  Chapter 31

  I drive to the community college. The ballroom dancers are already there, loading their gear into the team vans. This part, I wasn’t lying about. They really do have a dance competition a few hours away. I just won’t be going with them.

  I pull into a parking spot next to Ethan, who is sitting on the hood of his car. I get out of the bug, and we look at each other awkwardly, not sure where we stand. Finally, he hands me a thermos. I unscrew the top and take a sip. Hot chocolate and coffee mixed together. My favorite.

  “How did you know?” I gesture with the cap.

  “Khun Yai mentioned it during dinner, when you were in the bathroom,” he says. “She said when you were a little girl, you were desperate to drink coffee like her. So, she would dilute her coffee with hot chocolate until it was sweet enough for you. The taste stuck with you.” He brings his own thermos to his lips. “It’s kinda sticking with me, too.”

  “I call it choffee.”

  “Yes. She mentioned that, too.”

  I take another sip. The bittersweet liquid swirls around my tongue, and my heart swells, for so many reasons. Because Khun Yai told him the story. Because he cared enough to prepare me the beverage. Because he’s drinking the same thing, too. In different ways, and in varying degrees, they both mean so much to me.

  Shelly threatened that. In fact, she almost ruined my relationship with Ethan.

  I won’t let her, I vow. I’ll find a way to move past this betrayal that Shelly tricked him into. I’ll uncover her secrets and get her out of our lives. I won’t let her do any more harm, to me or anyone else.

  A horn honks.

  “Hey, Ethan!” Jules yells. Her hair is wrapped in hot rollers all over her head. “Kissy kissy, and get a move on!”

  He searches my face. “Be careful today, okay?”

  “I’m just going to talk to a few neighbors,” I say. “I won’t be in any danger.”

  “Still.” Hesitantly, he brings his hand to my face. “I worry about you. We’ll be back late tonight. Too late for you to wait up.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then.”

  The horn sounds again, low and long. “Ethan! We’re leaving in thirty seconds. With or without you.”

  “Better go.” He hops off the hood and looks at me uncertainly. “Thanks for coming to see me off.”

  “Is this a first, too?”

  He pauses. “If you kiss me good-bye, it will be.”

  What the hell. We have to start over somewhere, and it might as well be here. I rise on my toes and press my lips lightly to his. It lasts all of two seconds, but it is as sweet as a first kiss. As aching as a final good-bye. Will we ever get back to the emotions in between? Those light, nonsensical laughs. The easy, insignificant conversations. Or did Shelly take that away from us, too?

  “I’ll call you,” he says. “No matter how late it is.”

  * * *

  The memory of our kiss and the thermos of choffee cause the hours to fly by. I still feel hurt, betrayed. But it’s not his fault, and if anyone’s worth making the effort for, it’s Ethan. And so, I sip the delicious beverage he prepared for me and smile as I make the drive.

  The smile fades as soon as I enter the town of Lakewood. It was a simple matter to get the name of Shelly’s hometown from the many news articles surrounding Sheila Ambrose’s death.

  And once I had the hometown, it only took a bit of digging and a couple paid reports to find Shelly’s exact former address. Using the GPS on my phone, I navigate to the right neighborhood and park in front of her old house.

  There’s a Realtor’s sign in the front yard. The grass has been recently mowed, and the shutters gleam with what looks like new paint. The driveway, however, is empty, and the lights inside the house are off. Clearly, a new family hasn’t moved in yet. Even if they had, they probably wouldn’t know anything about the Ambroses.

  But her neighbors will.

  I sit for a minute inside the car, taking a sip of the now cold choffee for strength. This is way out of my comfort zone—approaching strangers, asking for information that is ostensibly none of my business. But you know what? Having a girl impersonate me and sext with my boyfriend is out of my comfort zone, too.

  Squaring my shoulders, I get out of the car and walk to the house across the street. I practice a smile and try to look friendly. I’ve never been the kind of girl whom people rush over to help. Maybe my eyes are too squinty; maybe my skin is too brown. And maybe I’m just going to have to get over whatever complex I have.

  I ring the doorbell, and a chorus of barks fills the air. The door cracks open, and a man’s hand waves me away. “Not interested, sorry.”

  “I’m not selling anything,” I squeak out. “I just want to talk. Ask you a few questions about your former neighbors. . . .”

  One dog sticks its nose through the crack, and another shoves its ear and half its head below it. I see several more dogs at the window. Nails scratch against the tile. Hundreds of scratches. Just how many dogs are inside, anyway?

  The hands grab the collars of the two dogs and pull them back. “Sorry. I don’t know my neighbors. And I don’t like questionnaires. Or strangers. Bye, now.”

  Before I can respond, the dogs yelp as though they’ve been kicked in the stomach, and the door closes in my face.

  I swallow hard. No problem. If he doesn’t know his neighbors, he wouldn’t be able to give me any information, anyway. And with a house full of dogs, who can blame him for not being more sociable?

  At the next house, however, I get the same response. This woman doesn’t have pets, but she crosses her arms and crowds in front of the door as though I might dive inside and steal the silverware.

  “You have the wrong house.” She looks me up and down, from my dark blue jeans to the fitted T-shirt I hand-painted with geometric shapes. “I didn’t order any Chinese food.”

  I take a deep breath. Do not be insulted. Nothing good will come out of being insulted. “Ma’am, I would love to talk to you about your former neighbors across the street. The Ambroses. Shelly Ambrose goes to my school now.”

  “The Ambroses?” A muscle ticks at the woman’s temple. “They weren’t real neighborly. I brought Sheila a casserole once when she broke her foot. Did she return the favor? Nope, even though I lived across the street from her for years. I never got the casserole container back, either. It was one of those disposable plastic ones, but still. I reuse ’em, and it was only polite that she bring it back. When I brought it up, though, she just looked at me like she didn’t know what I was talking about. Her daughter goes to your school, you say? Maybe you can ask her for my container.”

  I blink. “Sheila Ambrose died, you know. I don’t think anyone cares about a disposable plastic container.”

  She huffs out a breath. “Which is why I stopped bringing casseroles to my neighbors.”

  Another door closes in my face. Wow. With neighbors like these, no wonder Shelly’s a little creepy.

  Exactly how much remains to be seen.

  At the third house, an older woman with a streaky gray bun opens the door. She has a widow’s peak, and when I mention Shelly’s name, her forehead relaxes.

  “I used to babysit her,” she says. “She was real quiet. Kept to herself. A little strange. After that girl moved in with the Ambrose family, she got even stranger.”

  I
raise my eyebrows. “Girl? What girl?”

  “I think she was a friend of the family. She came to live with them a few months before Sheila died.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Well, I’m not really sure,” the woman says, her eyes sharpening. “Why do you want to know? Is Shelly in some kind of trouble?”

  “Not yet. But she could be.” I take a deep breath. I’ve got to give this woman something, or she’ll shut me out just like the rest of them. “I think Shelly’s gotten in a little over her head. She’s been impersonating some of the girls at my school. And, um, sexting with their boyfriends.”

  “Oy.” She shakes her head. “You know, Shelly was always a sweet kid. If she’s gotten involved in some bad stuff, I blame that entirely on Riley’s influence.”

  “Riley?” I ask.

  “The girl who moved in with them. If Sheila Ambrose wasn’t so high all the time, maybe she would’ve put a stop to their friendship. Riley’s not the kind of girl you want for your daughter’s best friend.”

  I go perfectly still. The BFF necklaces in Shelly’s room. The ones that look just like keys. They had two halves of a heart, each bearing the inscription, R & S, best friends forever.

  Riley must’ve been the R in that inscription. She must’ve been Shelly’s best friend . . . until something happened. Whatever that was, one thing is clear.

  They’re not best friends anymore.

  Chapter 32

  Shelly wore jeans. Not her normal jeans, but the tight, designer ones that were Kan’s. She paired them with the white wrap-around shirt Kan had made her and slouchy brown boots, which she had filched from Kan’s closet.

  When Kan wore an outfit like this, it looked so easy, so effortless. As if she pulled it together in a matter of minutes.

  It had taken Shelly a good two hours to decide on this precise combination.