The Word for Yes

by Claire Needell

  “Right,” agreed Ms. Jensen.

  “I know,” said Erika. “But I don’t think she’ll ever talk to me again if she finds out I said something.”

  “Well, you did the right thing,” Ms. Jensen said. “Someday, Melanie will realize that.”

  Mom lifted her head and looked at Erika. Her look was sad, almost crumbling. Erika wondered whether Mom was disappointed in her for not keeping a better eye on Melanie. “Maybe I should have stayed closer to her at that party. I didn’t know about the punch. I mean how drunk people were getting from it. Now, people are saying even worse stuff. Like a bunch of guys from uptown had these drugs, and that lots of girls got drugs in their drinks. But I don’t think that’s true. I didn’t see anything else like that going on.”

  “I don’t want you to think for a second that this is in any way your fault, Erika.” Mom now seemed actually angry, though she was saying Erika wasn’t to blame. Why, then, was she speaking so harshly to her? Erika felt her eyes fill with tears and her throat tighten.

  She tried to remember what Ms. Jensen told her to do when she felt confused or upset with how someone was speaking to her. She counted in her head to five and thought of a calming image. She often thought of sassafras plants at times like this, because they had a nice smell, and odd, mismatched leaves. But now she found herself thinking of other things, like the freckle-nosed girl from Brown. She didn’t think about the kiss the girl gave her, just the girl’s bright eyes, and the way she had laughed about it all afterward. It was a laugh like chimes, like a xylophone. Erika liked that sound and wished her mother’s voice rang with those high, light tones now. Thinking of that girl’s voice seemed to help, at least for now, since Mom’s brows were no longer coming together in a V and she was reaching out to pat her knee. Mom wasn’t angry, Erika realized. She was upset.

  “But you didn’t see a boy leaving the room before you went in? There was no one with her during the party? One of the boys from uptown, maybe?” Ms. Jensen asked.

  “I don’t know who she spoke to at the party,” Erika said. “The only boy we saw when we found her was Gerald. He was getting sick in the bathroom.”

  “Gerald?” Mom asked.

  “Yeah, down the hallway near the room where we found Melanie, Gerald was in that part of the house in the bathroom.”

  “And were there other kids in that part of the house?” asked Ms. Jensen.

  No, Erika explained, there hadn’t been. That was why it had taken them a while to find Melanie. Most of the crowd was in the kitchen, where the punch and beer were, or dancing in the living room. The room Melanie was in was undisturbed. It had felt like maybe it was supposed to be off-limits to the partygoers.

  “Well,” Mom said, and sighed. “That would explain why she hasn’t been hanging around after school. For weeks she’s been coming straight home. I haven’t heard her mention Gerald once.”

  “And that’s unusual?” Ms. Jensen asked. The room felt tense, and Erika now felt a part of that tension—the feeling of her mother’s emotions being directed at her had left her. Now, it was like the three of them were working together, solving the mystery: it was Gerald. Of course, that much she already knew, had already discussed with Morris and Binky. But the adults had to reach the conclusion on their own. She’d had to guide them to it, but the conclusion was theirs.

  “Will Gerald be arrested?” Erika asked, and suddenly all eyes were on her. She could feel her mother’s emotions radiating out toward her again, only this time Ms. Jensen was also staring hard at her. At first, no one spoke.

  “I don’t think that needs to be the next step,” Ms. Jensen said. “We really don’t know what happened, no one knows, until Melanie can say. And it does seem like Melanie was very drunk. That complicates things a bit.”

  Erika noticed then, to her horror, that her mother had started to cry—not noisily, but tears appeared on her cheeks and her eyes were red-rimmed. What had she done? Now, even Mom seemed more confused than helpful. She’d risked Melanie’s fury, and yet nothing, it seemed, was going to be done to solve the problem, to make it clear what had happened, to punish the wrongdoer. She wished her loud, blustery father were here. The situation, Erika began to think, called for someone who didn’t care about either anger or tears, just the truth. “Maybe you should talk to Dad,” Erika said, feeling that finally, perhaps, she’d said the right thing, had led them toward a worthwhile conclusion.

  But Mom stood up and put her sunglasses on, speaking softly to Ms. Jensen. “I think,” she said flatly, “it’s time for me to have a talk with Melanie.”

  18

  The boy in the dream had a triangular-shaped torso, with very broad shoulders and a trim, flat waist. She couldn’t recall his face, but she knew, even when she was dreaming, that she did not know him. She placed her hands around his back and he pulled her into an embrace. She could feel the texture of his jersey—a silky green football shirt—and she enjoyed the feel of that cool, slippery fabric against her bare skin. Why, she recalled thinking, can I feel this real shirt, if this is only a dream? Then, she was kissing him, tilting her head back until it ached, because he was so tall. There was something gentle yet formidable about this dream boy; he was too tall for her, but he bent down deliberately and sweetly, to touch her. She felt a deep yearning for him, and at the same time that she recognized her own desire, the boy’s face morphed into recognizable form. She began to smile at him. He was so goofy, and so tender—it was absurd that Edward would be this way.

  She woke to a feeling of embarrassment and disappointment, a lonesome ache in her loins. She often had dreams from which she was disappointed to wake. But this one was different. The boy was clearly Edward merged with Gerald from the night he wore his football jersey to the party. Her own mind was taunting her. “Fuck,” Melanie muttered. She hit the snooze button hard. She hit it hard enough that the little plastic button felt loose under her finger.

  “Damn,” she said to no one. “Goddamn.”

  It was Saturday, and she’d forgotten to turn off the stupid alarm, and now she’d squandered the opportunity to sleep in. Anyway, she was too agitated by the thought of dreaming about Edward/Gerald to find any temptation in rolling over and going back to sleep.

  Melanie pulled on a pair of sweatpants, a hoodie, and her Tom’s slip-ons. She loved padding around on a Saturday morning in her pajamas, not calling or texting anyone, not bothering with her hair, which stuck up at odd angles. Usually, she liked to get Julia to buy her something to eat from the farmers’ market—cider doughnuts, or fresh eggs, which tasted so much better in an omelet—but she was barely speaking to her mom. She was definitely not talking to Erika. The question was not how to get through the next year and a half, until Erika went to college, having nothing whatsoever to do with her stupid sister; it was how to somehow slip away from Mom’s sudden, exhausting scrutiny.

  Melanie’s entire life was about damage control.

  It was bad enough that people had seen Mom at school, being escorted back to Ms. Jensen’s office. What was worse was that Ms. Jensen herself had walked into tenth grade English lit and tapped Gerald on the shoulder, requesting that he come with her. Melanie had felt her face redden. Later, she’d heard from Jess that a few of the guys—Gerald’s friends, guys from the basketball team—had begun to refer to this incident as Gerald’s “perp walk.” Gerald, the dumbass, had evidently told someone what had happened and now the news was spreading. There had been gossip right from the beginning about the party, of course, but the tide had now turned against Gerald.

  New York City private school kids traveled in a tight circle. There were kids who knew other kids from Hebrew school, church groups, community service programs, summer camp, hockey, and soccer. A junior girl had asked Jess how she could hang out with someone like Gerald. When Jess had asked what she meant, the girl had lowered her voice. “You know,” the girl said. “A perv like him. Aren’t you afraid he’ll slip something in your drink, too?” Jess had told the girl off, b
ut it was no use. Everyone was saying the same thing—that Gerald had gotten his hands on some date-rape drug and had used it on his friend, Melanie. There were even rumors about where he had gotten it, and how some people had seen guys who were clearly plainclothes officers down by the river where lots of people bought drugs. It didn’t matter if this were true or not. Everything anyone saw now became part of the story—her story.

  That tap on the shoulder from Ms. Jensen was the end—it had turned the crisis, at least publicly, from Melanie’s crisis to Gerald’s. She recalled how Gerald had glanced her way. How his mouth had twisted like a little kid’s who was trying not to cry. Melanie had shaken her head “no,” as he glanced back at her, but she wasn’t sure he’d seen her. Why would he ever think she’d say anything to Ms. Jensen? How ridiculous was that? It was just how the gossip had flowed—at first there had been the post tagging Melanie as a drunk hoe, but then something else had gotten started. It wasn’t about the people in the story anymore. It was about whoever was telling the story.

  “Good morning, sweetie.” Mom looked up from her computer. She was typing furiously when Mel walked in, so she must have been working, which was a good sign. It was good to see her mother preoccupied with her own life.

  “Do you want to take a walk? Go get some breakfast? Erika’s still sleeping. I think she was up late playing that game of hers, so if you want just the two of us could slip over to Trina’s.” Julia spoke without looking up from her computer screen.

  Trina’s was the bakery/cafe that was the rage in Tribeca for brunch. But it was actually early enough for the two of them to get a table. Despite Melanie’s reluctance to be alone with her mother, the idea of sneaking out on Erika and getting a delicious basket of warm croissants was tempting. The idea of buttery bread gave her a slight lurching feeling in her stomach—she was really starving. “Sure, but I’m going like this, if that’s okay.” There was no point in wearing a cool outfit to go to Trina’s with her mother.

  “Of course!” Julia stood up so quickly from her work, Melanie almost regretted her decision—Mom definitely seemed to still be in near-panic mode, judging by how quickly she’d seized on the opportunity to get her alone. She wasn’t sure why, if Mom thought what had happened to her at James Jamison’s Halloween party had shattered her entire existence, a basket of warm bread would be particularly beneficial, but at least going to Trina’s wouldn’t totally suck.

  Mom scrawled a note to Erika, promising to bring her back her favorite scones and jam, and the two of them left with Maxwell scratching and whining at the door behind them.

  “He knows it’s not a school day and he thinks he should be coming,” Melanie said.

  “Well, if I ever start bringing my dog in a purse to Trina’s you have my permission, Melanie, to shoot me in the head.” Melanie laughed. It’d be fun, actually, to bring Maxwell to Trina’s, but she could see why Mom would hate herself for being that type. Mom was always saying stuff like that, like if she started wearing pants that fell so low they showed her butt, that she should shoot her in the head and put her out of her misery. Melanie always thought that was an exceptionally unmotherly sort of thing to say.

  It was a beautiful morning and they had to weave through the early crowd at the farmers’ market to work their way up Greenwich Street. Why, Melanie wondered, were people always killing themselves in Tribeca to be first in line for everything? First in line for hot cider, for a basket of pears? But fortunately, Mom didn’t stop to talk to anyone. Mom knew half the world, and she’d even talk to the other half if they happened to be in line for something ahead of her.

  Then just as they were walking into Trina’s, Julia suddenly stopped in her tracks. A strange man who was exiting Trina’s on the opposite side of the steps grabbed Julia’s arm. “Hey, you!” he said. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the pooch!” The guy had thin silverish hair and wore a sort of string bracelet, the kind that was supposed to signify something—serenity, Buddha, yoga. He didn’t look gay, though, like some guys who wore jewelry. He had on jeans and a loose flannel shirt that was untucked. He carried an iPad under his arm, which he patted as he spoke to Julia. “Funny to see you, actually, I was just reading your column!”

  “Really?” Julia seemed truly surprised, and Melanie began to get an unsettled feeling about him—why would some random guy be reading her mother’s column? Who was this guy? “Yeah, my sister’s big five-oh is this week and I thought I’d check out available advice on what to get a woman for her fiftieth. I liked your idea about the movie library—though I’d quibble over some of your suggestions. I mean, Thelma and Louise—seriously?”

  Melanie looked at her mother, waiting for some sort of explanation, but Julia was blushing and chuckling like a schoolgirl. “Oh, well, that’s the beauty of the idea—you get whatever movie classics work for you—the point is to get a lot of them, so it’s like a real library. And to get things you know the other person wouldn’t necessarily buy, but they’d watch. You know. Like Saturday Night Fever. Something that induces shame.”

  Induces shame? That was the flippant way Julia spoke at home, to them, to Dad, not the way she spoke to men Melanie didn’t even know. Her parents had been separated just since the summer, only a few months. Could her mother possibly have begun dating? The idea actually made her want to cry, in the way that a childlike sob would sometimes catch in her throat unexpectedly, a force within her that was almost alien, decidedly out of her own control. Melanie put her hand on Julia’s forearm. “Come on, I’m starving.” She practically had to pull her mother into the restaurant. Mom turned around and looked at Melanie with a faint air of surprise. It was as if for just a second, in spite of all the drama going on with her, Mom had forgotten Melanie even existed.

  “So what was that all about?” Melanie had wolfed down her first croissant and was starting to feel calm again. Trina’s was large, with lots of small tables on one side, and then another side with big soft banquettes. It was early enough for them to have been seated on one of those plush banquettes, even though it was just the two of them. Waitresses walked by in Trina’s trademark blue button-down shirts with crisp white aprons. Everyone who worked there looked to Melanie like they were born in Vermont or Wisconsin—someplace where people still milked cows with buckets and learned to knit or weave.

  “Oh, his name’s Scott. I met him at the dog run.” Julia leaned over and took a sip of her latte. She still had color in her cheeks—either from the cool air, or her excitement at running into Scott. She looked younger again, strikingly different than she had only an hour before when hunched over her laptop. But she didn’t look young in a good way; she looked young, perhaps, because she was seeming a little foolish.

  “Did you go out with him?” Melanie asked, her voice catching. She hadn’t intended to be so forthright; the question seemed to pop out fully formed.

  “Out?” Julia asked. “Oh, I wasn’t out with him.” She laughed in a way that made Melanie feel transparent, and small. “We ran into each other with the dogs by the Latin café—actually on Halloween—and we sat down and had a drink. . . .” Julia’s voice trailed off. That had been the night of Melanie’s disaster, and she could see in her mother’s face that, as she spoke, she recognized the fact that while she, Julia, newly single, and perhaps eager to meet someone new, drank wine with this strange man, she had been at James Jamison’s now infamous party, a few miles away.

  Everyone close to Melanie was acting as if they knew what had happened that night, better than she did. Now here was her own mother, half admitting to having her own secrets, perhaps covering her own tracks. There was no way she was opening up to her now. It was somehow more impossible than ever. Her mother was like a girl, just another overeager girl, at least where boys and men were concerned. Blushing and lying like she was, she seemed untrustworthy. Melanie yearned suddenly for her father, for his stupid no-nonsense ways, for her parents’ old marriage, which had kept them so preoccupied with each other’s faults it had s
hielded her from parental probing.

  Anyway, it was only Gerald who could really say what had happened, and she had refused to talk to Gerald. She had refused even when Ms. Jensen and her mother pleaded with her. She had refused when that pudgy little therapist her mother sent her to, Pat Landau, pursed her lips together and cocked her head and asked, “But weren’t you and the boy in question friends?”

  Since the perp walk, she doubted Gerald would talk to her. What could she do about the fact that other girls had claimed Gerald had tried to give them drinks that tasted odd—sodas from the soda machine in the cafeteria, as if that made any sense at all? A friend of Lani Elliot’s, Susan Somebody, had even spit on Gerald in the stairwell. Jess had seen it herself, and other kids had laughed, while Gerald turned beet red and wiped the top of his head with his shirt sleeve. Louis Finke had been there too, Jess said. He’d called out, “Yo, these bitches are out of control,” and Ms. Regelman, the assistant principal, had been down the hall, and had called Louis over to her. Jess didn’t know what happened with Louis, but he didn’t show up in math until halfway through the period, and he didn’t look happy.

  It was like the whole grade was at war, boys against girls. But it wasn’t Melanie’s fault. There wasn’t anything she could have done to stop her idiot sister from blabbing. Anyway, she wasn’t even friends with Lani and her crowd of followers. Those girls were about the drama, and drama was the last thing Melanie was looking for at school. Still, she wondered if Susan would get in trouble for spitting, or if Ms. Regelman was maybe taking the side of the girls. She wondered when the whole thing would end. When would people move on?

  Julia put down her coffee cup and eyed Melanie. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she said.

  “Sorry for what?” Melanie asked, wondering what her mother might know about the absurd situation she was in at school—how she half wanted to defend Gerald about the dumbest accusations, just to get everything back to normal, or at least back to where she could control her own stupid story.