“You have?” I stiffened. “What are you doing?”
“It’s a secret,” he said.
“Tell me,” I said.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No, I can’t.”
I fumed in my seat for a few seconds while Nina ranted, “I’ll print blank pages if I have to, I really will…”
“Tell me,” I said again.
He shook his head.
“Quiet, you guys,” Anne said. “You’re missing Nina’s Mussolini act. You can see the spit-spray from here. The first two rows should be wearing raincoats.”
Right after Assembly, Nina collared me and demanded I start taking yearbook photos immediately, since I had, in fact, volunteered for the job. So that afternoon I found myself in the gym, begging the Varsity boys’ lacrosse team to please be quiet and stand on the bleachers for their team picture.
Their coach finally settled them in order, sticks in their left hands, helmets under right arms, Tom Garber front and center. As I aimed the camera at him, he flashed his brightest grin, and I wondered if future generations of girls, looking at this team picture, would be microwaved by it, through the filter of film and paper and years. Maybe Tom would microwave girls from beyond the grave, his laser-beam eyes the lasting legacy of Canton Lacrosse.
Walt sprouted up behind Tom. He smiled at me too, and looking at the two grins, one above the other, I marveled at the difference between them. Tom’s was brighter, but Walt’s was warmer, if you could make it out through the glare gleaming off Tom’s teeth. Walt patted the fluffy top of his hair, trying in vain to flatten it.
“On three,” I told them. “One, two—”
On three, Walt flashed two fingers over Tom’s head, the devil’s horns, warmly grinning all the while. Perhaps another photographer would have asked for a second shot, but I decided the first one was a keeper.
“That’s perfect,” I said. Thanks to Walt, the record had been corrected for posterity.
Girls of future generations had been warned.
The next day, I brought a shopping bag full of glasses and masks and hats to school for the Yearbook Committee photo. Jonah had asked for them, saying he had a concept for our group portrait.
Ten Yodelers gathered in the yearbook office after school for their picture. I gave Jonah the bag of props and asked, “So what’s the concept?”
“The concept is: Everybody wears a hat or something.”
“That’s it?” I said. “That’s your brilliant idea?”
“Why do we have to wear anything?” Nina said.
Jonah handed her a cowboy hat and bandanna. “It’s fun.”
“Fun?” Nina said.
“Don’t you like your cowboy hat?” He pointed her to the window so she could see her reflection. The hat gave her a saucy look completely at odds with her personality.
Nina grinned at her reflection. “Sure, I like it.”
“Okay then.” Jonah waved a rubber Richard Nixon mask. “Who wants to be a disgraced ex-president?”
“I do.” Aislin took the Nixon mask. I wore a pirate’s hat and a robber mask. Jonah chose a ski cap and plastic Halloween cat mask. The others wore wigs and hockey masks and false noses and goofy glasses.
“Is this so people won’t know who to blame if the yearbook sucks?” Aislin asked.
“No,” Nina said. “We’ll print a caption under the picture with all our names, just like we always do. Right, Jonah?”
“Right,” Jonah said. He pulled down his mask. “Everybody ready?”
I set the camera’s timer and took my place in the cluster of masked Yodelers. Nina insisted we take five shots to make sure at least one turned out okay. Then we were done.
“Why did you really want these costumes?” I asked Jonah as I packed them up.
“What do you mean?” Jonah said. “I’m the photo editor. I wanted an interesting shot.”
“No, really,” I said.
“Really,” he swore.
One night in March I started sketching plans for my art project. I’d hoped Jonah would take Mom’s role—the Anthony Perkins role—in a photo-reconstruction of the shower scene from Psycho, but he refused. Without a partner, the shower scene wouldn’t work—it required a Janet Leigh victim (me), mouth gaping in midscream, and, at the very least, a knife-wielding arm. I could ask Mom if she’d help, but I really wasn’t anxious to put a knife—even a rubber one—within her reach.
I needed a new idea, something I could pull off by myself. I sat at my desk late into the night, sketching and thinking while the radio kept me company.
Soon—in two or three weeks—we’d find out where we were going to college. Jonah had applied mostly to art schools, including the School of Visual Arts in New York. I imagined us leaving Baltimore together, driving off in Gertie to our exciting new life. New York would be perfect for us. People reinvented themselves there. You could be anybody you wanted to be in New York.
Then I remembered Matthew. I tried to imagine him in our tatty-but-cozy New York apartment, but I couldn’t see him there. I couldn’t make him fit into the picture. How would two college students take full-time care of a severely handicapped boy? Did Jonah really expect to take care of Matthew by himself?
He didn’t, I decided. He didn’t mean it. Jonah would get into art school and we’d move to New York together and we’d visit Matthew when we came home for holidays. That had to be what Jonah was thinking. I couldn’t see any other way to make it work.
The Night Light Show came on. I turned up my radio.
Herb:
I’m your host, Herb Horvath, on this icy night in early spring. Doesn’t feel like spring, does it? But warm weather is just around the corner, don’t you worry. Okay, let’s get started. First caller, you’re on the air.
Myrna:
Hi, Herb. Guess who.
Herb:
Myrna! What’s going on in Highlandtown tonight?
Myrna:
Not a whole lot, Herb. March is such a dreary time of year. I hope Dottie has shuffled off those blues, finally. I read something in the paper about that…what was it? You know, my neighbor’s an old man who never throws out his newspapers, and the other day I was helping him clear a path from his kitchen to his bathroom, and I happened to see an old newspaper article that said something about this place…It’s supposed to be the happiest place on Earth.
Herb:
Disneyland?
Myrna:
No, not Disneyland. Heavens no. This was an unexpected place, some strange place where they have lots of hairdressers…
“Iceland,” I whispered to the radio. “It’s Iceland.”
Herb:
Gosh, I can’t help you there, Myrna.
Myrna:
Oh, I know. It was Iceland! Isn’t that funny? But this article said that people who get their hair done in Iceland are very happy. The happiest people in the world. Or something like that.
Herb:
That’s very interesting. I wonder how they found that out?
Myrna:
I have no idea. But I love to go to the beauty parlor, so Iceland sounds like the place for me. What do you say, Dottie? Maybe you and me should take a little trip up there and see if it cheers you up any.
“I’ll go,” I volunteered.
Herb:
[fairy music plays] Sounds like a good plan, Myrna. We’ve got to take another call. Nighty-night.
Myrna:
Nighty-night, Herb.
Herb:
Hello, you’re on the air.
Ghost Boy:
Hi, Herb. Ghost Boy here.
Herb:
It’s nice to hear from you. How’s your little friend?
Ghost Boy:
Robot Girl? She’s fine. I’m sure she’s listening tonight.
Herb:
And what are you up to, Ghost Boy?
Ghost Boy:
Not much, Herb. Just thinking. Plotting, planning, thinking.
/> Herb:
Thinking about what?
Ghost Boy:
Oh, you know. Ghost Boy things.
Herb:
I’m afraid to ask what that means.
Ghost Boy:
Probably best you don’t ask, Herb.
Herb:
And what about this plotting and planning?
Ghost Boy:
A secret, Herb. Can’t say much about it now. But everyone will find out about it sooner or later.
Herb:
Some great project, I suppose?
Ghost Boy:
An art project. You could call it that. Of course, you can call just about anything an art project these days, right, Herb?
Herb:
[laughing] Right you are, Ghost Boy. Some of the stuff they show in those art galleries downtown…I mean, one place had a log on the floor, and that was it! A plain old ordinary log, and nothing else. I’d like someone to explain to me how that’s art.
Ghost Boy:
Me too, Herb, me too. [fairy music] Well, guess I’d better make way for another caller. I hope you all have a wonderful night.
Herb:
Same to you, Ghost Boy. Nighty-night.
Jonah’s call annoyed me. Plotting and planning? What was he talking about—his art project? I could keep it a secret, he knew I could. Instead he taunted me over the radio, sending me a cryptic message everyone could hear.
I listened late into the night, still sketching. I thought about what Myrna had said. She’d gotten the details a little skewed, but she’d obviously read the same story I’d heard on the radio, about the happy Icelandic hairdressers, and it gave me an idea.
Winter is a dead time. I sketched and sketched, searching for a way to turn the cold into a good thing. In the meantime, all I could do was wait for spring to come, for things to start happening again.
APRIL
CHAPTER 17
In the second week of April, the halls of Canton buzzed as news from colleges trickled in. My college notices were waiting in the mailbox when I got home from school on April 12. Four rejections, but I got into Vassar and NYU, so I was very happy.
I called Jonah right away. “Did you hear?”
“MICA and the School of Visual Arts.”
“SVA! New York City, baby! I’ll take photography classes with you.”
“Yay. Whoopee.”
“What’s wrong? Aren’t you excited?”
“Excited about what? More school?”
“It’s art school, not school school. SVA won’t be anything like Canton.”
“God, let’s hope not.”
“And we’ll be in New York! Together! On our own!”
“We’ll see.”
I didn’t understand his attitude. “Jonah, it’s exciting!”
“I know.”
My enthusiasm seemed to annoy him, so I tamped it down. Maybe he was right. Maybe we were all excited over nothing. Just more school. What was there to celebrate?
The next weekend, Mom and I went to New York to visit schools. The idea was for me to get a feel for college life and decide where I wanted to go. Did I want to be on a bucolic campus in Poughkeepsie? (Mom and Dad: Yes, you do. Me: No, I don’t.) Or did I want to dive headfirst into New York City? (Mom and Dad: No, you definitely don’t. Me: Yes, I really, really do.)
“I won’t be alone if I go to NYU,” I told them. “Jonah will be with me.” He hadn’t said that he’d decided to go to SVA, but I knew he would. What choice did he have? What else could he possibly do?
“Why don’t I find that reassuring?” Dad said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Why don’t you?”
He opened the refrigerator and rummaged through the bottles and jars. “Do we have any strawberry jelly?”
“We’ll go to New York together this weekend, Bea,” Mom said. “We’ll visit both schools, talk to people, and go out on the town. Just us girls. It will be fun.”
“The point is to stay with the students in the dorms,” I said. “Not to go out on the town with your mom.”
“I think it’s a great idea,” Dad said. He found the strawberry jelly and shut the refrigerator door. “You and your mother could use some time together. I’d like to come too, but I don’t want to get in the way of your girl time.”
“Girl time?” The idea repelled me. “I want to stay in the dorms. Couldn’t we go to New York together another weekend?”
“No, this is perfect,” Mom said. “It’s all settled. We’re going to New York.”
This wasn’t perfect. It was all wrong. I wanted to go alone. But they were both set on this plan, and I couldn’t change their minds.
There was a time when I would have wanted Mom to visit colleges with me. When I would have enjoyed her company. When I wouldn’t have been able to imagine making the decision without her.
She’d never been the most maternal person on Earth, but, before Ithaca, she was like a big sister or a favorite babysitter. When I was little, we used to make a tent out of blankets in the living room and have slumber parties there—just me, Mom, and my stuffed animals. In fourth grade, there was a boy at school who picked on me, so Mom made paper dolls of me and the bully and we acted out elaborate revenge fantasies. I never had the nerve to take vengeance on that boy in real life, but humiliating the paper version of him made me feel better.
Then, after we moved to Ithaca, she started acting weird—distant, like she had secrets from me. Maybe she’d been weird all along and I’d only started noticing. Whatever. Now she just felt like an obstacle I had to maneuver around, someone in my way.
We left early on Friday morning and drove to Poughkeepsie. Mom and I spent the day on the Vassar campus, visiting classes, looking at the art studios, eating in the dining hall. I liked Vassar, but that didn’t matter—I was determined to move to New York with Jonah.
We drove into Manhattan and checked into the Washington Square Hotel. Instead of taking a campus tour, we walked around Greenwich Village and stopped at an Italian restaurant for dinner. Mom had been edgy all afternoon, and by dinnertime her face was pale green. I thought maybe she was upset about me going away to college, her only child leaving home, and the trip was making my departure seem real for the first time. She’s got a little motherliness in her after all, I thought. She’s going to miss me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked Mom. “Don’t you like your linguini?”
“It’s fine.” She nibbled a piece of bread. “My stomach’s a little upset, that’s all.”
“Are you sick?”
“No. It’s from spending all that time in the car today.”
“What, you get carsick now?”
“Sometimes.”
“You keep finding new ways to get sick,” I said.
She turned greener. “I need to lie down.”
We went back to our hotel room. I had to get up early for breakfast with a dean, so I went to bed. Mom stayed up watching TV.
A few hours later, I woke up to a gagging sound. Mom’s bed was empty. The light was on in the bathroom. The bedside clock said 3:03.
More gagging. Vomiting.
I got up. Mom huddled over the toilet.
“What’s wrong? Are you sick?” I asked.
She nodded.
“What should I do?”
“I’ll be okay,” she said.
“I’ll call Dad,” I said.
I dialed home. The phone rang four times; then our machine picked up.
“Dad, it’s me. Pick up, Dad.”
I waited. Dad didn’t answer.
“Sorry if I’m waking you, but it’s an emergency. Mom’s sick.”
“Is he there?” Mom asked.
I shook my head.
“Where is he?”
“Want some ginger ale or something?”
“No. I’ll be okay in a minute.”
“I’ll try his cell.” I dialed the number, but it went straight to voicemail.
“He’s probably just sleeping,�
�� Mom said. “Dead to the world.”
Mom’s cell rang. It wasn’t in her purse, but on the nightstand next to the bed. I answered it.
“Hello?”
“Dori?”
“Dad?”
Silence.
“Dad?” I said again.
The man said. “Is your mother there?”
Who could this be? I looked at the phone, but it only showed a number.
“Mom, it’s for you,” I said. “Some man.”
“I’ll be right there.” She rinsed out her mouth and took the phone. “Hello?” Pause. “Where are you?”
Pause. Then, trying to whisper.
“What about tomorrow?”
Pause.
“Are you sure?”
Pause.
“But—”
Pause.
“I came all this way—”
She shut herself in the bathroom, muffling her words. She sounded upset. She came out a few minutes later, her face red and wet, and dropped the phone on her bed.
“Who was that?” I said.
“Oh. My therapist,” Mom said.
“I thought your therapist was a woman,” I said.
“This is a new therapist,” she said.
How to Say Goodbye in Robot Page 15
