Year of the Guilty Soul

by A M Leibowitz

  “I get it,” she says. “I was sort of doing the same thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mark,” she says. Tears shimmer in her eyes.

  “What really happened?” Hannah asks.

  “Did you know he was my first boyfriend? Back when I was in eighth grade.” A tear slides down her cheek. “He made me put my mouth on him. A week later, he was going out with someone else.” She shrugs. “When he came home from college, he apologized. Said he’d learned his lesson. But then…”

  She’s outright crying now, and she doesn’t have to tell us what Mark did. We can all guess. Hannah puts her arms around Gwen, and Cari and I move in as well. We’re no longer worried about getting glitter all over each other.

  Eventually, we manage to pull ourselves together. We make a sad attempt at cleaning up all the glitter, which only results in more mess. It breaks the tension, and we’re laughing by the time the door opens again.

  Hannah shrieks, and Gwen whirls around to yell, “What are you doing in here?”

  It’s Noah and Elliot, looking sheepish after being hollered at. Cari giggles, and I flick water at the boys. “This is the girls’ room,” I say, like they couldn’t figure that out.

  “Yeah, we know,” Noah says. “But you were gone forever, so we came to look.”

  “Are you all okay?” Elliot asks.

  “We are now,” Gwen tells him, and she reaches over to squeeze my hand.

  “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m sick of listening to Reverend Hate out there. Wanna go somewhere else and hang out?” Noah asks.

  “My house this time?” Cari offers. “My parents won’t care that we skipped out.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I say, and without another look back, we’re heading out of the ladies’ room and to the parking lot.

  ***

  Mr. Sullivan dies on a Tuesday. It both is and isn’t a surprise. He’s been too sick in the last couple weeks for me to play for him anymore. By then, I think I was going over more for Mr. Cohen than for Mr. Sullivan. Every time I went, Mr. Cohen would say, “Today isn’t such a good day. Maybe next time.” He always looked like he wanted to let me in anyway, but he never did.

  A couple days later, I’m at Bubbe and Zayde’s, and Bubbe is teaching me how to braid the challah. She’s making a shiva basket for Mr. Cohen, which I’ll take to him when I go home. The basket already has apples, Bubbe’s homemade preserves, and black and white cookies. I can’t stand those, but maybe Mr. Cohen has a different sentiment.

  Tante Gisela is there too. She isn’t really my aunt, but I call her that because she’s Bubbe’s oldest friend. Tante Gisela came from Germany after Dachau was liberated in 1945. I can’t think of a single person my age with Jewish family who doesn’t know at least one survivor. Tante Gisela doesn’t talk about what they did to her there the way some people do.

  For as long as I can recall, at least once a year, Bubbe gives us what I call “the talk.” It’s this thing where older family members pass on their wisdom to younger ones about what we’ll do if it ever happens again. They mean the Holocaust, but no one uses the word, like they won’t say Dom is gay. Whenever I’m with Tante Gisela, this is all I can think about.

  She’s an eccentric woman. The way she pierces me with her gaze always makes me think she knows things she’s not letting on about. Tante Gisela can speak in heavily accented English, and occasionally does, but she mostly communicates in German or Yiddish. She never married. For a while, she lived with Bubbe and Zayde until she moved into her own apartment. She doesn’t drive, so they pick her up every week to go to synagogue. On occasion, she’s with Bubbe when I go to visit.

  Today, they’re talking mainly in Yiddish. Bubbe told me she learned it by listening to her parents and practicing with her sisters at night. In her generation, she says, parents sometimes kept their children from learning Yiddish so they could talk about grown-up things without them understanding. She was determined to learn, and she’d hoped my father would too. He wasn’t so interested, especially as Zayde doesn’t speak it much.

  I try to pick up what they’re saying from context, but I can only understand a word or two here and there. I know some good slang, mostly from Levi, and a handful of common words. I should ask Bubbe to teach me. I continue to work on my loaf, which isn’t coming out half as tidy as Bubbe’s.

  She looks bemused by my braid when she slides the pans into the oven, but she doesn’t say anything. When we’re seated at the table, she takes my hand.

  “We were talking of our Mr. Cohen,” she tells me. “We must care for him. Mr. Sullivan’s family is making trouble.”

  She explains that even though Mr. Sullivan had a will, they’re contesting it with the claim he wasn’t of sound mind. One of their friends from Beth Israel is a lawyer, and she’s helping Mr. Cohen for free. Mr. Sullivan’s care was expensive, and the money he left was supposed to pay for some of it. Now his family wants to take that and more from Mr. Cohen.

  I hate that it’s like this. Mr. Cohen should have whatever Mr. Sullivan wanted him to. But the law says they weren’t technically each other’s next of kin, so it doesn’t matter what I think.

  When the basket is ready, Bubbe makes it look pretty. Dad’s waiting in the driveway, and I’m about to pick up the basket when Tante Gisela grabs my wrist. She says something to me in Yiddish, and I shake my head. The only thing I understood was Dom aun Levi.

  Bubbe translates for her. “She says we have to take care of your brother too because they’ve come for men like him and Levi again.”

  I nod, and Tante Gisela lets go of me. I give Bubbe a hug and then, after a pause, I offer one to Tante Gisela. She kisses me on the cheek before I grab the basket and dash out to Dad’s car.

  When I deliver the basket, Mr. Cohen wraps me in his arms. He’s sobbing, and it feels weird. Aside from the sometimes showy emotions of the pastor at church, I’ve rarely seen a grown man cry. Mr. Cohen thanks me, and I head home.

  About two minutes after I walk in the door, the phone rings. It’s Cari. “Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”

  “My dad just got home. He says—” She sniffles. “Ms. Lorring passed away this morning.”

  “What?” I stretch the phone cord so I can sit in one of the kitchen chairs.

  “He works with her…girlfriend. Her partner, and she was out today because of it.”

  I’m stunned into silence. Ms. Lorring, the one teacher I adored, is gone. And she was, at least in some way, like me. I wish I’d known. My head is full of these complicated things, and I forget I’ve left Cari hanging on the other end of the line.

  “Toni?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry. I—”

  “I’m coming over, okay? We’ll talk.”

  She hangs up, and I sit there. When Mom comes into the room, I tell her what happened. Words come out of my mouth, but they feel dry and impersonal. I remember to tell her Cari is coming over and to ask if I can go for a drive with her. She says yes.

  I hear the car in the driveway an indeterminate amount of time later. When I stand, Mom pulls me into a hug, and I shiver against her for a few minutes. She smooths my hair, kisses my forehead, and lets me go.

  Cari and I drive up to the beach. Not the secluded spot we went to over the summer but the other side, where the pier and the lighthouse are. The weather’s begun to change, but it’s not cold yet. My jacket is plenty despite the crisp air and chilly breeze.

  We walk through the park toward the lake. It doesn’t close until ten, but there’s no one around. The only sounds are the last of the leaves rustling in the wind and the water slapping against the sand. Cari and I are quiet too. She understands I’m not ready to talk, so she takes my hand as we make our way to the pier.

  About halfway along the pier, we stop. I look out into the dark water, and suddenly all I want to do is yell. At God, at the universe, I don’t know.

  I must’ve said something out loud because Cari says, “Go ahead.”

&nbs
p; For a moment, I stare at her. Then I turn back to the water, open my mouth, and yell, “Screw you!” as loud as I can. I’m not sure who or what the target is for my rage, but it feels good to let it out, hearing it echo back.

  I let my anger and grief seep out as I slide down to sit on the cold concrete. Cari sits too and takes my hand again. Her fingers are warm against my chilly palm.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “Did you know?” I ask. “That she had a girlfriend. Before today, I mean.”

  “Yeah. Her girlfriend works with my dad. When I came out to my parents, they told me to talk to her. For a while, I had lunch with her once a week.”

  I don’t know why this surprises me. Cari’s never said anything about it. “Are you…like me?” I ask.

  She smiles. “No one is like you, Toni. But if you’re asking if I’m bisexual, nope. I only like girls.”

  “Oh. Oh! Is that the right word for me?”

  “Sure, if you like boys too. Didn’t you know that?”

  “I guess not. My parents don’t know, and it’s not like I talk about it with my brother.”

  I wonder about Ms. Lorring. There’s so much I didn’t know about her. It’s possible that if she’d said, I wouldn’t have felt so confused that whole time. It’s not something teachers talk about with us, but maybe they should.

  “This might not be the right time to tell you this,” Cari says, interrupting my thoughts, “but I’ve had a massive crush on you all year.” She sighs. “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same. Been there and done that before.”

  My thoughts run back over the last ten months. Cari’s fascinated me ever since the day she showed up at church. I remember how beautiful I thought she was the day we started watching that awful video series. Maybe she’s right, and this isn’t a good time. Or maybe, after all the hopeless sorrow of the last few days, this is exactly what makes sense. I’ll never know unless I confess to her how much I like her.

  “And what if I do feel the same way?” I ask.

  “Then would it be okay if I kiss you?”

  I nod, and she shifts so we’re angled toward each other. When our mouths meet, everything else fades into the distance. Her lips are soft and cool, and it tastes like she uses some kind of lip balm. It’s nice—fruity. I don’t have time to think about it because she’s unlinked our fingers and moved her hand to run it through my short, wavy hair. Soft and slow, like our kiss.

  It’s different from the others. Not hesitant and innocent, like with Noah, or rushed and experimental like with Hannah. There’s no eager tongue or wandering hands like with Elliot. Only sweetness and warmth and moonlight and joy, all the things I will forever associate with Cari.

  At last we part, and she smiles. I lean my head on her shoulder, and together we brave the grief and hope that are bound up in this moment. I don’t know what tomorrow or the next day will bring, but right now, we have each other, and it’s enough.

  ***

  It’s Halloween. Matteo is eight today, exactly half my age. He’s supposed to have a party at school. Mom made him chocolate cupcakes, frosted in every color of the rainbow. I think this was to appease him because she said no to the all-pink ones, but Matteo seemed happy this morning before school.

  I know something is wrong the minute I walk in the door. Mom’s home, which she shouldn’t be. Either she should still be at work, or she should be at Matteo’s school to take the cupcakes and help out with the party. She used to do it every year for all of us until we got too old.

  The scent of baking is still in the air, but Mom’s banging around in the kitchen again anyway. Aside from the birthday treats, Mom only ever bakes when she’s stressed. Something must’ve happened, but I can’t fathom what. I don’t want to disturb her right now, so I sneak up the stairs to drop off my bag in my room. I’ll come back later to see if I can figure out what’s going on.

  On the way past Matteo’s door, I hear muffled sniffling. Dumping my bag on the floor in the hallway, I knock. The sniffling stops, and then I hear a wavering, “Come in.”

  Matteo’s on his bed, and I have to hold in my shock so I don’t upset him. His face is a mess, both from the crying and from the dark bruise forming around his left eye. Someone at school got in a good punch. I have a sudden urge both to grab Matteo and hold on forever and to run back downstairs and join Mom in the dish-slamming.

  I don’t do either of those. I cross the room and sit on Matteo’s bed with him. “What happened?”

  “Tanner Hanson.”

  Oh, God. Philip’s younger brother. I can’t say I’m surprised. Obviously being a jerkface runs in the family. I pull Matteo close, and he leans on me.

  “Bullies suck.” I would love to tell Matteo how much I want to rip that kid’s throat out, but it won’t help, so I keep quiet.

  “He called me a name.” Matteo leans up and whispers it in my ear. I’ve heard people call Dom that before, and it makes me bristle. Matteo continues, “Because of my mermaid costume. So I grabbed him, and he punched me. We both got suspended. We never even got to eat my cupcakes, and I missed the dressing-up part.” Fresh tears streak down his cheeks.

  So that’s why Mom’s mad. The suspension, not the uneaten cupcakes. Matteo’s behavior might’ve been out of line, but Tanner shouldn’t have said anything to him, and he definitely shouldn’t have given Matteo a black eye over it.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say.

  Matteo’s face screws up in anger, and he shoves himself away from me. “Yes, it is! Mom says it. Dad says it. Even Dom kind of thinks it. I can tell.”

  He might be right. Dom never had much of a problem with bullies. He was cool and popular and didn’t go around wearing unicorns and rainbows on his shirts or carrying a pink backpack. I kind of think Levi might have, but I obviously didn’t know him then. Dom was into sports and stuff, and he didn’t tell anyone he was gay until he was out of high school. Matteo… I don’t know. Something is different, and it isn’t only the clothes.

  “Toni?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

  “It’s okay.” He slides in close again. “I don’t think it’s your fault.” I look down at him. “Can I ask you something?”

  “What?”

  “Do you think— Are— are you a girl?” When he doesn’t answer right away, I stammer on. “B-because I sometimes don’t quite feel like one, and… I might be like Dom. I kissed a girl, even. Twice. And two boys. And…”

  I look at him, but his eyes aren’t on me. His gaze is trained on his doorway, where Sofia has appeared. I wonder how much she’s heard. Matteo looks back and forth between us, and the silence is tense.

  At last Sofia crosses the room and sits on Matteo’s other side. “It’s okay,” she says, and I’m not sure if she’s saying it to me or to Matteo.

  “What is?” I ask.

  “All of it,” she answers.

  “Oh.” I blink. “I wasn’t sure if you believed the stuff they say at church.”

  She shrugs one shoulder gracefully, like the dancer she is. “I don’t really care what they say. Did you know even some of our youth leaders don’t believe half of it? I asked one time because I wanted to know if I was supposed to try to fix Dom.”

  I hadn’t realized she was feeling that way too. I also hadn’t known she’d told anyone about Dom. And here I was, trying to keep it a secret. “What about the things the pastor says? Or what we learn in Sunday school?”

  Sofia sticks out her tongue. “A lot of it is stupid, like how they want us to try to get Mom and Dad to come to church. They don’t know them very well, obviously.”

  I laugh, and Matteo giggles too. He quickly turns serious again and looks up at me then Sofia then back to me. “Yes,” he says.

  “Yes?”

  “What you asked me. I’m a girl. Or I want to be. It’s what I keep telling Dr. Saliers, and she hasn’t said I have to stop saying that.” His shoulders slump. “But I can’t be one at sch
ool, or else Tanner’s going to keep beating me up.”

  I understand. I’m not sure I’d want to tell everyone at school about any of my stuff, and I’m in high school and most people wouldn’t know by looking, not really. It’s a lot worse right now for Matteo.

  “So you really do want us to call you Ariel?” I ask.

  He—she—shakes her head. “It’s silly. Maybe when I’m bigger, I won’t like that name anymore.” Her cheeks turn pink. “I still like mermaids, though.”

  I think for a minute and then snap my fingers. “Remember that old movie?” I ask. “The one about the mermaid. Um… Splash.”

  “Yes!” Sofia says. “I used to love that one. We should watch it again sometime.”

  “Her name was Madison,” I tell Matteo. “We could call you Maddie for short. It’s almost like Matty.”

  “It’s like a secret code,” Sofia says. “Other people wouldn’t know, but we would.”

  “And Mom and Dad won’t get so upset while they’re getting used to the idea,” I add.

  While we wait for Matteo to think it over, I wonder if we’re doing the right thing. I don’t know anyone else like her except in books. There’s a trans woman in The World According to Garp, and I’ve heard of a few really famous ones. What do people do when they’re still little kids? And how do I keep the Tanner Hansons of the world from beating her up?

  “I like it,” Matteo—Maddie—says. “For now.”

  It’s settled, at least temporarily. Sofia is watching me, and I can tell something’s on her mind. I ask, “What?”

  “Did you really kiss a girl?”

  “Yeah.” I hold up two fingers.

  “So you’re really a lesbian?” Sofia’s probably thinking about the rumors at school.

  “I don’t think so. I mean, I’ve never heard of lesbians who also like boys.” Is that something a person can be? Somewhere between girl and boy, between liking girls and liking boys.

  “No, I guess not,” Sofia agrees. “Are you gonna tell me who it was?”

  “Not one of them,” I say. “I think she wants it to stay private. The other is Cari.” My face is warm just thinking about her.