by Katrina Leno
“If you want jam, it’s in the fridge. I got strawberry and blackberry,” Ann Marie said, as if this were a normal morning, as if she’d been making breakfast every day for the past six months, as if it were perfectly reasonable for her to be awake before Magpie, and dressed and sober.
Magpie sat down without getting the jam, and her mother sat across from her and cut into her omelet.
“It’s beautiful outside,” Ann Marie said, placing a square of omelet onto her toast and biting into it. All Magpie could see was the perfect dental cast her mother’s teeth had made in the slice of sourdough. Ann Marie chewed and swallowed. “I thought we could do something after school? Go to the mall, maybe? I’m sure you could use some summer clothes. You haven’t had anything new for a while.”
Ann Marie’s credit cards were maxed out within an inch of their life, so Magpie was a little confused about where her mother thought the money to buy her daughter something new would come from.
Ann Marie had a job—sort of. She worked at the perfume counter in the only department store in Farther’s pathetic mall. But she had been demoted from full-time to part-time in March because she called in sick (drunk) too much, and Magpie hadn’t seen a paycheck delivered to their mailbox in a while.
As if Ann Marie had guessed what her daughter was thinking about, she said quietly, “I called the store this morning. They’re letting me have a few shifts this week. I told them… I told them that things have been a little rough around here. But that I’m ready to pick up the pieces. I can’t sit and wallow forever, can I?”
Magpie had actually thought that this was exactly what her mother was planning on doing, but she didn’t say that aloud. Instead, she said, “Sure, Mom. We can go to the mall. If you want to.”
“I would love that so much,” Ann Marie said.
At school Magpie concentrated on being a ghost. Hither was sometimes there and sometimes not there, and Magpie thought it somehow used itself as a cloak to hide her from prying eyes. At any rate, Mr. James didn’t talk to her before English, and none of her teachers called on her, and nobody called her a slut in the hallways, and at lunch not even Clare or Ben seemed to notice her. Except Ben slid his coffee over to her and she drank it gladly, and when they walked to history together afterward, the cloak was lifted, and Ben nudged her arm with his.
“How’s your mom?” he asked.
“She’s much better,” Magpie said. “I’m sorry that you…”
But she didn’t know what she was sorry for. That he saw them? That he had yet another glimpse into the mess that was Magpie’s life? First the rumors at school and now this, her mother drinking so much she had to be carted away with flashing lights and sirens.
“I didn’t know if I should bring it up,” Ben admitted. “But I was worried about you, of course. I almost texted you last night, but… I don’t know. I’m just here for you. If you ever want to talk about anything. Okay?”
“Thanks. Honestly, I’m okay.”
Magpie was thankful that they had reached history by then, and she settled into her seat and let the cloak settle over her once again. She took out the yellow notebook, the one Hither said she didn’t need anymore, the one she had pulled out of her bureau drawer that morning because she couldn’t bear the thought of being away from it, and she uncapped the impossible pen and—just to be safe—she wrote:
My mother never drinks until she almost dies. She never ends up in the hospital with blue skin and bruises from IV needles. She holds a job. She takes me shopping. Everything is fine.
She closed the notebook and placed her hand palm up on the desk.
A tiny, impossible thing crawled into it.
Hither looked up at her and winked.
What a curious feeling.
Magpie hadn’t felt it in so long that she almost didn’t recognize it for what it was.
The feeling of safety.
Now it was something she could pick up and hold.
NEVER TO BE TOLD
On Friday Mr. James sat at the desk across from Magpie and folded his hands in front of him, and she realized that she had not done what he’d asked. She hadn’t written an essay.
Instead, every day she had practiced becoming invisible, and every night she had gone into Near and had dinner with her Near-parents, her Near-sister, and then she had come back to the real world exhausted with the effort of keeping her world-size secret.
She had gone to the mall with Ann Marie on Tuesday.
They had not bought anything.
Ann Marie had, true to her word, gone in for shifts at the perfume counter on Wednesday and Thursday, and would go again that night.
They gave her the shitty shifts, she said, because she had a shitty track record as an employee.
And then she had laughed, as people laugh when they say something hard that is also the truth.
Magpie felt herself shrinking underneath the glare of Mr. James even though he hadn’t said anything yet, even though he only stared at her with the disapproving stare all teachers must be taught in graduate school before they’re allowed inside a classroom.
“Margaret,” he said, then he employed a dramatic pause. This, too, was taught. Magpie was very familiar with the dramatic pause. She had learned to zip herself up against it. She was immune to its power.
“My mother was in the hospital,” she said. “That’s why I was out on Monday.”
Mr. James softened only the tiniest smidge. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Margaret. Is everything okay now?”
“She’s a diabetic,” Magpie said, not knowing exactly where the lie had come from, only that it had sprung fully formed to the tip of her tongue.
“That must have been very hard for you.”
“Well, yeah,” Magpie said. “It was.”
“If you had come to talk to me about it, I certainly would have given you some leeway.”
“It’s not easy to talk about.”
“I can understand that. Of course I can understand that. But given your situation, and given the fact that it has been months since you have done anything resembling schoolwork—”
“I read that story,” Magpie interrupted. “The one about Connie and Arnold Friend.”
“Right, and we had agreed that you were to write a paper on it.”
“But my mother…”
“I am not an unforgiving person, Margaret. I apologize if it seems like I am. I am not without sympathy. But I cannot let you continue to sit in my classroom day after day doing nothing. So your last chance is this: The paper is on my desk on Friday, a week from today, and it’s a good paper. It has a word count now. Two thousand. Double-spaced. The whole nine yards. It’s on my desk on Friday, or you fail English. I want to be very clear here, Margaret. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I understand.”
“I am giving you a full week. I know this hasn’t been an easy year for you, Margaret. I understand that. But it’s time to show up.”
It’s time to show up? Who does he think he is?
Hither juggled English textbooks in a corner of the classroom. It wore—for some reason—an overlarge dunce’s cap. Magpie watched it out of the corner of her eye, then she remembered it was her turn to speak.
“I understand,” she repeated. “I’ll write the paper. I promise.”
Another withering, quiet stare, and he left her—finally—alone.
At lunch Clare suggested that they do something fun that night, the three of them: Magpie, Ben, and her.
“It’s been a shitty week,” she declared, setting her tray down heavily on the table. It consisted of a bowl of apple slices and a chopped salad that actually didn’t look half bad.
“What happened?” Ben asked.
“Just a load of homework. Like—there are two weeks of school left. If I don’t know how to figure out a compounded interest rate by now, I’m probably never going to.”
“It’s actually not that hard,” Ben said.
“Shut up, math nerd,�
� Clare retorted, rolling her eyes. She threw one of her apple slices at Ben; it bounced off his shoulder and landed on the floor.
“What kind of something fun?” Magpie asked.
“Like—okay, hear me out—but the bowling alley does this thing called Galactic Bowling every Friday night. They have disco balls and super-loud music. Sounds just weird enough to be amazing.”
“Sounds like you’ve been there before,” Ben said. “Wait—are you a bowling nerd? Are you a bowling nerd who’s calling me a math nerd? When bowling has no practical application in life and math does?”
“I hate you,” Clare said. “You’re uninvited. Mags?”
Magpie shrugged. She didn’t have any plans. She didn’t have anything against bowling. And three nights of going into Near had left her tired. Worn out in that confused way she felt after giving blood. Plus, she could always go there after if she wanted to. “Sure, I could do that.”
“Wow, don’t fall over yourselves,” Clare said, rolling her eyes.
“Somebody’s in a mood,” Ben said.
“I told you, it’s been a shitty week! And I just want to throw a heavy ball down an aisle at some pins, okay?”
“I believe it’s called an alley,” Ben said.
“You really are a jerk,” Clare snapped.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’d love to go bowling with you, Clare.”
“Great. Galactic Bowling starts at ten. We can meet there.”
“Do you have your own ball?” Ben asked, needling her.
“Yes,” Clare admitted. “And I’m going to use it to bash your face in.”
In history Ms. Peel gave the class some time to work in their pairs for the final project. Ben and Magpie pulled their desks together, and Ben spread out some notes. He waited a minute, but Magpie produced nothing; she hadn’t done the research they’d both set out for each other at the beginning of the week.
It wasn’t that she hadn’t meant to. Because she had. And she felt terrible watching Ben shuffle his papers around, pages and pages full of handwritten notes and printouts and articles diligently highlighted with neon-yellow ink. She felt so terrible that she couldn’t think of what to say—what was that thing you said when you did something you shouldn’t have done? What was that word for when you’d spent an entire week disappearing into a secret world instead of doing even the barest minimum of work on a group project?
“I’m sorry,” she said, coming up with it at last, the words tumbling out of her in one quick bunch, spilling on the desk in front of her, dirtying Ben’s perfectly white papers with their guilt.
For one horrible minute she thought he would imitate the disappointed silence of Mr. James. She shrank smaller in her chair as Ben’s face melted into an expression of concern.
“Mags. It’s completely fine. I know what you’ve had to deal with this week.”
“I swear I meant to,” Magpie said quickly. “I was going to, I promise—”
“Don’t even mention it; I completely understand. I should have offered to do your part.”
“No, Ben, that’s not what I want at all.”
“I know you’re not tricking me into doing more work, Mags. It’s really fine.”
Ben looked earnest. Magpie searched his face for a hint of resentment, but she couldn’t find any. She felt an uncomfortable writhing within her; it wasn’t his job to be there for her. It wasn’t anybody’s job.
It’s sort of my job, Hither corrected, walking by their desks while balancing a stack of history books on its head.
“I’ll work on it this weekend,” Magpie replied. “This week just got away from me.”
“I’ll do some extra work over the weekend to get us back on track. You just be there for your mom and take care of yourself, okay? Do you even want to go to this bowling thing tonight? You can totally bail; I’ll deal with Clare.”
“No—I want to,” she said. “It sounds kind of fun.”
Ben looked relieved. He reached his hand across the desks and touched Magpie’s fingers. A part of her liked it; another part of her felt nothing much at all.
The bowling alley was in the next town over; Magpie left her house at nine thirty and rode her bike through the dark streets while Hither bounded alongside her, ignoring all rules of gravity, flying through the air like a giant shadowy bird.
She reached the building—a big neon sign on the roof proclaimed STRIKEOUT LANES—just as Ben was locking up his bike at the bike rack. Magpie noted again what nice things the helmet did to Ben’s hair, especially when he ran a hand through it.
She was feeling all right—the bike ride had been nice, invigorating, and now here was Ben with his funny half smile and his funny stuck-up hair and his funny way of watching her as she locked up her bike next to his, as if it were the most interesting thing he’d seen all day.
When she straightened and turned to face him, he looked away quickly, and if it had been lighter out, perhaps she would have seen him blush.
“After you,” he said, gesturing to the front door.
What a gentleman.
Clare had gotten there before them and rented the lane already. She had changed from school; she wore a very short black skirt and a midnight-blue sparkly top. The three of them exchanged their shoes for the clownish rentals they had to wear, then they headed to lane thirteen.
“Teddy keeps asking about you, by the way,” Clare told Magpie.
“Really?” Magpie said. She had a vision of Ringo, in Near, holding a red ball.
“Where’s the pretty girl, Clare; I want to see the pretty girl again.” Clare laughed, rolling her eyes. “You are pretty, don’t get me wrong, but he’s such a little twerp.”
“Speaking of twerps, you invited Jeremy, right?” Ben asked.
“Yeah, he should be here any minute,” Clare confirmed.
“Who’s Jeremy?” Magpie asked.
“My boyfriend. Didn’t I tell you? He goes to Edgewood High.” Clare frowned. “I didn’t tell you? At my house? Gosh, I’m such a space cadet.”
Double date, Hither whispered in Magpie’s ear; she turned around quickly, but it was already gone.
“No, I didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” Magpie said.
“God, you’re lucky. For the past three months and twenty-seven days it’s all I’ve had to hear about,” Ben said.
“I don’t talk about him that much,” Clare said, swiping at him. “Look, Mags didn’t even know!” Clare let a dreamy expression take over her face. “But yeah, you’ll meet him tonight. He’s pretty great. Like, okay, he’s really pretty great.”
A double date.
Magpie had prepared herself for her date with Ben at the movies a week from today. She had even prepared herself for the required one hour Clare insisted they spend at Brandon Phipp’s party beforehand. But she had not prepared herself for tonight being a double date. She had not even considered it, and now she felt tricked.
Clare stood up and began fiddling with the computer. She put Ben’s name in as Shitbrain.
Ben sat next to Magpie. He seemed sheepish, a little guilty.
“She only told me she was inviting him after school,” he whispered, so Clare wouldn’t hear. “I didn’t mean for this to be—”
“I’m not mad,” Magpie said quickly.
“It’s not the worst thing if he’s here, right? I mean, it’s not like… Well, it wasn’t totally out of the question, right? Because we’d talked about going to see a movie…?”
“I just wasn’t expecting it, but it’s totally fine.”
Ben looked crestfallen, unsure of how to respond.
You’re being a big bitch.
“I’m being a big bitch,” Magpie repeated.
“No, not at all,” Ben said.
Like, it’s totally fine. I just would have worn a nicer shirt.
“It’s totally fine. I would have… It’s fine. I’m sorry if I seem weird.”
“Not any more weird than usual,” Ben said, smiling.
Clar
e entered Magpie’s name as Prettygirl. She entered her own name as Queenface. She entered a fourth name, Jeremy’s, as Hunkbutt.
As if called into being by such an embarrassing moniker, a boy Magpie could only assume was Hunkbutt himself waltzed into her line of sight. He snuck up behind Clare and threw his arms around her, kissing her neck a mile a minute.
“This is what they’re like,” Ben said, rolling his eyes. “Welcome to the Claremy show.”
“Claremy!” Jeremy exclaimed, pulling away from Clare. “That’s amazing. That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. You must be Mags.” He high-fived Ben, then stuck his hand out for Magpie to shake. She did. “Claremy! That’s very funny.”
“It’s not that funny,” Clare said. “Did you meet Mags?”
“I just met Mags. She seems very nice. I’m hoping she’s Prettygirl or Queenface as opposed to Shitbrain,” Jeremy said.
“Ben is Shitbrain, duh,” Clare said. “I’m Queenface, duh.”
“I’m sorry she’s so mean to you,” Jeremy told Ben.
“I’ve adapted,” Ben said, shrugging.
“All right, let me just go get a pair of these terrible shoes and then prepare to be seriously crushed in Galactic Bowling, cool?” Jeremy said. He pecked Clare on the cheek again, and she looked positively starry-eyed as he skipped to the shoe-rental desk.
Hither mimed vomiting into a rack of neon-pink bowling balls, but Magpie thought it was sort of nice. She’d mostly gotten over her shock of being thrust into a double-date scenario, and now she concentrated on finding a ball that fit her fingers. She settled on an orange one, nine pounds, and lugged it back to the ball return. Ben had picked a green ball; Clare had picked purple; Jeremy came back with one of the neon-pink ones held precariously over his shoulder.
“Pretty sure somebody peed in these shoes,” he declared, tossing the rentals on the floor and sitting down to lace them up.
