I shook my head, my throat filling with something—relief or sorrow, I didn’t know which. “You’re still my mom.”
“In title, maybe. Not in practice.”
“That’s not true—”
“Alexa.” She gave me a look. “You barely talk to me anymore if you can avoid it, let alone tell me anything about your life. It’s like pulling teeth just to get the most basic information out of you.”
She was right, of course. She was spot on, and there was no point in denying it. “Well…” I said, swallowing hard. “I’m talking now, aren’t I?” I picked up the first communion album and placed it on her bedside table so I could sit on the bed. “I’m sitting, aren’t I?”
She nodded, tearing up a little.
We stayed that way for a long time, both of us quiet, until I finally blurted, “I haven’t really been taking a dance class.”
“You haven’t?”
I shook my head.
My mother sighed. “I guess that explains why those leotards I bought you are still sitting on the end of your bed.” She hesitated. “Do you want to tell me what you have been doing?”
“It’s kind of a long story.”
“Well,” my mom said. “I’ve got time.”
On Sunday afternoon, I went to New Haven to volunteer at the community soup kitchen. My mother’s church did this once a month. Every time she asked me to join her before, I’d made up some excuse. Now—as a peace offering—I was coming. I’d discovered over the past two days that it doesn’t take much to make my mother happy. Just getting in a car with her, talking about boys for an hour, can make her day.
I told her everything about Theo, but of course, she still brought up Ryan. “Have you tried talking to him, honey?” she asked. “Have you given him a chance to make things right?”
I sighed. “There’s nothing to make right, Mom. He’s moved on. I’ve moved on.”
“You could turn the other cheek,” she suggested. “Try being friends.”
“I don’t want to be friends with Ryan.”
“Why not?”
I threw up my hands. “Besides the fact that he cheated on me? … Why do you care if we’re friends? … ‘Turn the other cheek,’” I muttered. “What is this, some kind of Bible lesson?”
“No,” my mother said, smiling a little. “It’s not a Bible lesson. I just thought you were sweet together.”
“Yeah, well. We’re not together anymore,” I said. “And I think it’s pretty ironic that you want me to ‘turn the other cheek’ with Ryan, when just the other day, when I told you I made up with Taylor, you acted all miffed.”
“I wasn’t miffed,” my mother said.
“You were miffed.”
“No—I suggested that you proceed with caution.”
“What does that even mean?”
She sighed. “Oh, honey. Female friendships are complicated…. There’s jealousy … competition….”
“Here we go,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”
“I’m not going to get hurt,” I said. “Anyway, Taylor’s still grounded. We barely get to see each other…. Can we please just drop the subject?”
“Of course,” my mother said. “We’re here, anyway.”
She pulled into a spot in the parking lot and cut the engine. Then suddenly, as if stung by a bee, she yelped, “Oh!”
“What?”
My mother squinted into the rearview mirror. “Sharon Dano. She’s on the soup kitchen committee.”
“So?”
“So…” Her voice trailed off, and she motioned for me to look.
I peered into the mirror. There, across the parking lot, getting out of their black SUV, were Ryan and his mom.
“Mo-ther,” I said, my voice rising.
She held up both palms. “I didn’t know. Honestly … Do you want to go home? I can just run this food in and—”
“No,” I said firmly. “I came here to serve soup. And that is what I am going to do. Serve soup.”
I didn’t have to talk to Ryan. I’d successfully ignored him for the past eight weeks. I’d successfully ignored him for the past half hour, both while greeting his mother and while peeling potatoes in the church kitchen. Why start talking now?
But here he was, standing at the bread station—with his gelled-down hair and his look-at-me, I’m-such-a-good-citizen blazer—and something just compelled me to choose the butter station.
I went to stand next to him. I watched his body stiffen as though he sensed that I was there and wasn’t sure what to do.
“Hello, Ryan,” I said. Cool. Polite.
“Oh … hey, Lexi.” As if he was surprised to see me. As if he hadn’t noticed I was in the same room with him this whole time.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not going to throw any plates.”
He shot me the old crooked grin—the one that used to make me weak in the knees—but this time I felt nothing.
“You look nice,” he said.
“Thanks.” Out of habit, I reached up to straighten my hood, but then I remembered it wasn’t there. I was wearing a cardigan, for my mom. So I swung my hair in front of my face instead.
“Would you like some bread?” Ryan asked our first customer, a wispy-haired lady with earmuffs, shuffling along with her tray.
“Well,” she said, blinking up at him, “aren’t you handsome.”
“Butter with that?” I asked, holding out two foil-wrapped packets.
“Bread?” Ryan said to a man in a stained, orange hunting jacket.
“Butter?”
It was all very civilized. Two exes, dressed in their Sunday best, putting aside their differences to serve the greater good.
Ryan was blissfully unaware of what was coming.
“Bread?” he said to a man with stubbly cheeks and a big, red nose.
“Butter?” I asked. Then, casual as can be, as though I were inquiring about the weather, I turned to Ryan and said, “How can you live with yourself? How can you defend those assholes?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,” he muttered, dropping a slice of bread onto the next plate.
“Why? Loyalty to the Brotherhood?”
“No,” he said low. He sounded mad, but he kept his composure. “Because you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about,” I hissed back. “Everyone on your team is calling her names…. She got tripped in the hall today. You think it’s cool, what they did? You think they’re big studs?”
“Yeah,” Ryan said sarcastically. “That’s what I think.”
“It’s a class D felony, you know. Voyeurism. This could go to court.”
“Well, it’s not really any of your business,” Ryan muttered.
“But see…” I dropped two pats of butter onto the next plate. “That’s where you’re wrong. It is my business because Taylor’s my friend.”
“You’re friends again?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he said.
For a second I was speechless. “Good?”
“Why wouldn’t I want you to be friends again?”
“Why wouldn’t you want us to be friends again?”
“Is there an echo in here?”
I shot Ryan a look. “If you cared about our friendship, even a little bit, you never would have hooked up with her.”
“Come on, Lex,” he muttered. “I already apologized. We really don’t need to rehash it.”
I felt stung.
We really don’t need to rehash it. … We really don’t need to rehash it? That night put me in the hospital! That night changed my life! How could he be so offhand about it, like what happened was just some annoying incident that we should put behind us?
“Bread?” Ryan said, smiling at a tired-looking woman in a turquoise tracksuit.
“You have beautiful
eyes, sweetheart,” she said.
He shrugged modestly. “Thanks.”
I took a deep breath as I held out two packets of butter. I decided to concede the point, even though it hurt. It wasn’t what mattered now.
“I thought you were different,” I said softly.
“Yeah,” he said. “I thought you were, too.”
There were four packets of butter in my hand, warm now from the heat. I didn’t have to squeeze very hard to make those shiny yellow bombs explode.
“What are you doing?” he said, jumping back, staring down at his blazer.
“Oops. Sorry.”
“Are you crazy?”
“I already apologized, Ryan,” I said. “We really don’t need to rehash it.” Then I turned to the man in front of me, whose beard was as white and fluffy as new snow. I smiled and said, “Would you like some bread and butter?”
“I know,” I told my mom on our way to the car. “I know it was rude. I know it was immature. I know it was not proper soup kitchen etiquette.”
I could feel her eyes boring into me.
“Although believe me,” I added, “Ryan deserves a lot worse than he got.”
I opened the passenger door, getting ready to explain everything, when I heard my name.
“Lexi!”
Crap.
“Wait!”
He’s going to squirt me with butter.
I turned around and sure enough, there was Ryan, still wearing his blazer and sprinting straight toward me.
Double crap. He’s going to beat me up.
“What in the world?” my mother murmured.
“Hey,” Ryan said, screeching to a halt in front of me. “Don’t you wonder who it was?”
“Huh?” I said.
“Principal Levitt,” he said. “Coach Donovan … Who do you think gave them those names?”
“How should I know?”
“Think about it,” he said. Then, “I’ve done some fucked-up things in my life, Lexi … I probably deserved this”—he paused, pointing to the grease spot on his lapel—“but I’m not a complete asshole.”
While Ryan turned to my mother—“Sorry, Mrs. Mayer”—my mind worked overtime to understand what he was saying.
“Oh my God,” I murmured. “You’re the snitch?”
He looked me in the eye, holding my gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Ryan,” I said softly.
He shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I understood then, it was like The Princess Bride—like Westley and Buttercup. Ryan was saying one thing while telling me something else entirely.
“Oh my God,” I repeated.
He held my gaze a moment longer. Then he said, “See you in trig,” turned, and walked away.
It took a long time to explain everything to my mother.
At first, she didn’t react. When she finally did, it was like she hadn’t heard a word I said. “Squirting people with butter, Alexa, is not how I raised you to behave. There are other ways to express your frustration. More socially acceptable ways.”
“Yes,” I said, “I know that.” I felt myself getting mad at her again, but I willed my voice to stay calm. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to be the girl you raised me to be. Kind, sweet, polite … all those good qualities. But sometimes…” I hesitated, choosing my words. “Sometimes a girl needs to squirt butter on people … or throw ice cream at the wall or a plate across the room … and it’s not that she’s proud of this behavior … it’s just … well, she needs to flip out once in a while. To relieve the pressure.”
My mother shook her head, trying to make sense of this.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it.
She nodded slowly.
“You should try flipping out some time,” I said. “It’s kind of fun.”
For the first time since we got in the car, she smiled, and I could tell that her disapproval was lifting. When she reached out to pat my knee, I thought how weird it was that we could go from fighting to making up in the same conversation. I wondered if it was like that for all mothers and daughters.
Turning the key in the ignition, my mom asked if I wanted to pick something up to bring home for dinner. We could swing by Illiano’s on our way. Salads? Sandwiches? Pizza?
I looked at her, surprised. “Pizza?” The last time my mother let me eat pizza I was twelve. Since then, I only got to eat it at other people’s houses, when she wasn’t watching.
She shrugged. “Why not?”
“Okay,” I said. “Pizza then.”
As we pulled out of the parking lot, it occurred to me. The whole time I was talking and my mother wasn’t listening, she might have heard more than I thought.
Just Happy Not to Be
Barfing My Guts Out
“LOOK AT YOU with your bad self,” Heidi said a few mornings later. “Showing up without a hood.”
“Uh-huh.” I kept jogging, my eyes on the track. “I needed some peripheral vision so I could see your technique. Which rots, by the way. Get your elbows in. You want to move forward, not sideways…. And lower your shoulders. You’re hunching.”
“Sir, yes sir!”
I rolled my eyes. “Do you want my help or not?”
“Yes,” she said, adjusting her form.
“Better.” This time I gave her the thumbs-up, reminding myself that a little praise goes a long way with Heidi. She likes to act all tough and cynical, but really, underneath that crusty exterior, she’s as soft as they come.
“We’re going for two today,” I said.
“Two?” Heidi stared at me. “Are you insane?”
“A little bit … yeah.”
“I can’t run two miles!”
“That’s what you said about one, remember? And you did that.”
“Barely,” she muttered. “And it was torture.”
“But you felt great after, right?”
“Sure. Like you feel great after the stomach bug, when you’re just happy not to be barfing your guts out.”
I shook my head and sighed. “Keep moving, Sunshine.”
As we ran, I marveled once again that the two of us were here together. Me and Heidi Engle, running. Cracking jokes. We never planned for it to happen; we just both kept showing up at the track in the mornings, and now … well … I guess you could say we’re workout partners.
It’s funny how your whole life can shift. How friends can become enemies and enemies can become friends. How the guy you thought you loved turns out to be a jerk—and then, against all odds, tries to redeem himself. And the guy you thought was a jerk turns out to be someone you can’t stop kissing.
Yesterday at the boxing gym, Theo did the weirdest thing. After we hit the bag, he led me around the whole building, introducing me to people and telling me about their injuries. There was Carl, a plumber, and his friend Tyrone, a hospital orderly, who had both broken their noses so many times they barely had any cartilage left. Lyle, who lost half an ear in a street fight. Steve, a baseball player for Fairfield U, who got hit in the eye with a line drive last season and has the glass eyeball to prove it. Did that make him quit baseball? Hell no. He still plays second base—and he boxes middleweight.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” I murmured as Theo grabbed my hand, leading me over to three guys jumping rope.
“What?” he said innocently.
“Don’t play dumb with me.”
“I’m not playing dumb. I’m making introductions.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m not making introductions?”
I shook my head. I couldn’t put into words what I was feeling. I wanted Theo to know what this meant to me, how touched I was that he would even think to do what he was doing. After a long pause, I said, “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”
Theo leaned over and, gently pushing back my hood, he kissed my hairline. “I know you are,” he whispered. “But what am I?”
&nb
sp; I could feel myself smiling, just thinking about it, as Heidi and I stood on the fifty-yard line doing our cooldown.
“What’s so funny?” she demanded.
“Nothing’s funny.”
“You’re smiling.”
“So?”
“So…”
“Maybe I’m just happy not to be barfing my guts out.”
“Uh-huh.” She narrowed her eyes at me.
“What?” I said. “Stop staring.”
“You know,” she said musingly, “I actually like your face better now than I did before.”
I snorted. “Of course you do.”
“No, it’s not an insult.” She pulled on her foot for a quad stretch. “You’ve always been beautiful and you still are. But before, you were kind of … bland beautiful. Vanilla beautiful.”
I opened my mouth, full of defensiveness, ready to lash out, but then I changed my mind. “What am I now?”
“Now,” Heidi said, “you’re interesting.”
“Uh-huh.” I nodded. “I’m interesting, all right.”
I thought about my graft, how it wasn’t as hideous as it used to be, but it was still bad. Instead of purplish red, it was pink. Instead of two millimeters higher than the rest of my face, it was one.
“Look at it this way,” Heidi said. “You’ll always have a story to tell at cocktail parties.”
I gave her a funny look.
“What? Everyone needs a good cocktail-party story. Taylor’s mom taught me that.”
We both got quiet for a moment, thinking about Taylor.
“She won’t be grounded forever, you know,” Heidi said.
“You sure about that?”
“It’s not until summer anymore. Her dad said Christmas.”
“I know what he said. I just don’t trust him.”
Heidi shrugged. She bent down for a hamstring stretch, then popped right up again. “Did you see what those guys wrote on her locker today?”
“No, what?”
“Open 24 Hours.”
“Imbeciles,” I muttered.
“Will they ever run out of insults?”
“Probably not.”
Heidi shook her head. “I feel so bad for her.”
“I know.”
My Life in Black and White Page 22
