by Alexa Martin
“Score one for Mom,” James Henry whispered.
“That’s called tracking!” she yelled.
“The tension mounts, folks!”
“Shh,” I hissed. “By the way, that’s only my life they’re talking about in there.”
“It’s unrealistic to expect a student to be strong in every area,” Mom said. “My daughter isn’t going to be a mathematician. She has a learning disability with numbers. But she doesn’t deserve to be limited in other academic areas where she actually has some exceptional strengths.”
I chewed on my lip. She was starting to sound desperate. I couldn’t listen anymore. “Stay here,” I said, standing up.
James Henry rolled his eyes.
The school had cleared out fast, though the smell of onions lingered. A few teachers shuffled slowly down the halls, shoulders slumped, their eyes glazed with fatigue. The floors were scuffed with dusty imprints of thousands of shoes. I could hear a basketball game going on in the gym. The boys’ sneakers squeaked across the floor. I stood at the entrance watching them. They were so at ease in their bodies. Standing there, I felt a pang of nostalgia, though I couldn’t say for what. I didn’t even like basketball.
After a minute I wandered aimlessly on, until I came to a large room where detention was being held. At least half the kids were sleeping. Some of the girls were painting their nails. One of the guys was drawing an elaborate tattoo on his arm.
Amanda Munger was in there too, sitting in the back row with her feet propped up on another desk. Though obviously out of place—the other kids were a hard-looking bunch—she didn’t seem uncomfortable in the least. She seemed, in fact, to be relishing her role as delinquent.
She had her arms folded across her chest and was smirking at the teacher, who was trying his best to act like he wasn’t noticing her. But you could tell she was making him squirm. The teacher glanced over at me and frowned, as if annoyed that I was witnessing his discomfort. Amanda blew an enormous bubble. It popped like a firecracker.
The teacher whirled around to face her, but it was too late. The gum had been sucked in.
Amanda smiled just as before, her pink hair framing her face like a halo.
“That woman!” my mom exclaimed as we drove away from the school. “Just what kind of show do they think they’re running?”
“I’ll make the best of it,” I said, trying to hide my dismay.
“Dad’s going to freak,” James Henry said.
“That’s not helpful,” Mom said.
I turned my face toward the window so they wouldn’t see the tears flooding my eyes. “It’s true. You know it’s true. Dad’s going to be so disappointed.”
None of us gave voice to the question that was most on our minds: Just how badly was the snafu with the GATE program going to hurt my chances of getting into a decent college? My SAT scores weren’t going to win me any Brownie points or scholarships. Though I’d done okay in the critical reading and writing sections, my math results had brought me down to an “average” percentile overall. I planned to take the SAT one last time before I submitted my college applications, but I doubted I’d see much improvement.
Though Seattle was a pretty place, traffic was a royal nightmare. The jammed streets felt more like parking lots this time of day. Mom was gripping the steering wheel too hard. No doubt her blood pressure was nudging into the danger zone. She reached over and squeezed my elbow. “For now, let’s not say anything to your father. I’ll see about getting you transferred to another high school. This week is going to be manic, but I’ll make some calls.”
Gratitude surged through me. I glanced back at James Henry. “Can you keep your mouth shut for once and not tell Dad?”
He made a zipping motion with his fingers over his lips.
Mom took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, something she’d learned from a biofeedback DVD. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. We’ll fix this. Don’t let that stupid woman get you down. She has no idea how bright you are.”
“Bright as a red light,” I said. We were stuck again.
Changing the subject, I asked James Henry, “How was your first day at the Barclay School?” I made Barclay sound extra snooty by drawing out the first A and dropping the R, the way they do in Boston.
“Do you really want to know?”
“Sure.”
“It was heaven,” he sighed dreamily. “The teachers are great. The food—no offense, Mom but it’s better than what you make us. And they have all these after-school programs. They even have a snowboarding team.”
“Snowboarding?” Mom’s brow furrowed. “But you hate being cold.”
James Henry shrugged. “Some of the kids were talking about it. It sounds pretty cool. And it’s different enough that it would make me stand out when I apply to college.”
I snorted. “Like you’re going to have a problem with that!”
James Henry pointed at a sign for Northgate Mall. “Can we go? I need a TI-Nspire calculator.”
“Why not?” Mom said, her mood brightening. “I think a little retail therapy might do us all some good!”
When we got to the mall, we dropped James Henry off at Best Buy and headed over to Nordstrom’s. I was still wound taut as a violin string. Only now, Mom wasn’t helping. She was a royal pain to shop with. Though she fancied herself a hip parent, she was clueless about teen fashion. Like a crow that snatches up shiny things, she was always drawn to the most outlandish outfits.
She thrust a pair of polka-dotted skinny pants into my arms. “These will look darling on you.” To shut her up, I agreed to try them on.
“Those are perfect,” a saleslady exclaimed when I walked out of the dressing room.
“They’d be perfect if I were a flamboyant leopard,” I muttered.
Mom and the saleslady exchanged a look that said Aren’t teenagers fun?
“Your daughter is very striking,” the saleslady said.
Mom sighed. “I tell her that all the time. She just doesn’t realize—”
“That can be a blessing. With girls.”
Another patronizing look was exchanged. I retreated to the dressing room.
Squinting at the mirror, I frowned at my reflection. I was as pale as a vampire. Though I wasn’t overweight, in the last year I’d gotten boobs. Oversized sweatshirts, baggy tops, and my running bras helped me to hide them. Of course, no one could really even tell if I had a figure. My lips I couldn’t hide. They were, to put it nicely, “bee-stung.” Adults were the only people who ever said I was pretty. I figured they were just being nice.
My mom knocked on the dressing room door. “If you don’t want my help, that’s fine.” She handed me her credit card. “You have two hours. Get yourself a few things within reason. I’m going to check on James Henry.”
Why oh why did figuring out what to wear have to be so freaking complicated? I was so not prepared for shopping. For the last four years I’d worn a uniform. Though I’d pretended to hate them, I’d secretly appreciated how much easier they made life. We all got to look hideous together. Before we’d left Florida, I’d tried to find some non-uniform things to wear. But everything was either too lightweight, too resort-y, too pastel, or too old lady. Nothing I’d seen in the mall had looked remotely “Seattle.” Not that I knew what “Seattle” was—but I sure knew what it wasn’t. And after today, no matter how trendy it became, I wouldn’t be caught dead in sailor-wear.
Wandering out to the main section of the mall, I slid my sunglasses back on. Covertly, I studied the other kids to see what they were wearing.
Here’s what I decided:
I lacked the guts to pull off a queen bee outfit.
I wasn’t defiant enough for anything purposefully weird.
It was imperative that I not seem Goody-Two-shoes.
I didn’t want my clothes to peg me into a specific social group.
After a frustrating hour, I went back to Nordstrom’s and tried a different department. Finally I found a pair of jeans that mad
e my butt look cute and some fitted black shirts that didn’t show off too much cleavage. They were more expensive than they should have been, but they nevertheless had an edgy “city” look. Without calling attention to my body, these clothes had attitude.
Afterward, I bought mascara, lipstick, and smoky black eyeliner. To pull it all together, I got this cool chain choker that was both feminine and tough. It seemed like the kind of thing Amanda Munger might wear.
Before we left the mall, I went into the dressing room at Nordstrom’s and modeled my new purchases for Mom.
“How do I look?” I asked, twirling around before the three-way mirror.
“You look like a teenager,” she sighed.
I sighed back. Looking like a teenager guaranteed you nothing.
It was pouring when we pulled up to our new house—cold, thick, stinging drops. “This weather—” Mom shook her head. “It’s just such a cliché.”
I rolled my eyes. “Leave it to an English professor to find the rain trite.”
“I like the rain,” James Henry said. “It smells like the ocean.”
I wrinkled my nose. “You mean it smells like fish.”
We covered our heads with shopping bags and made a dash for the front door. Stepping into the foyer, we saw that the house had sprung several leaks.
“It’s an old house,” Mom said, a touch defiantly. “That’s part of its charm.”
The man who’d rented us the house had mentioned that it had a few “eccentricities.” Because it was cute and historic—a 1913 Craftsman—and available on short notice, we hadn’t pressed for details.
Our obese tabby cat, Steerforth—also historic—was howling at our ankles as if we’d contrived the dripping just to torture him. My mother had named Steerforth after the manipulative Dickens character in David Copperfield. She claimed there were some “parallels.”
“Where’s Dad?” my brother asked, dumping some food into the kitty bowl.
Mom was rooting around a moving box marked kitchen. “Oh, did I forget to tell you? He’s on his way to New York.”
“Really? And why is that?” I asked.
“Oh.” She waved as if this trip were the very last thing on her mind. “He got a last minute invitation to do a reading at NYU.” She stood up and thrust some pots into my arms. “Here. We can use these for the leaks.”
I swallowed. “Is this trip something Meeghan set up?”
“Meeghan’s very committed to promoting Lily.” Mom’s expression warned me not to say another word about my dad’s book agent.
Lily at Dusk. Though my parents had asked me to hold off from reading the book—in a year or so, they’d assured me, I’d be more ready for some of its more “adult” themes—I’d read the thing cover to cover right before we left Florida. It was an experience I was now trying my damndest to forget.
In the book, the headmaster of an elite boarding school is seduced by one his teenaged students—Lily Bloom. Lily was as ripe and succulent as her namesake blossom, at once coy and open, teasing and yearning, her nectar as moist and fresh as the morning dew.
Maybe it wasn’t quite that bad. But close. Really close.
What separated my father’s book from all the other “middleaged white man has an affair with young girl and gets caught with his pants down” stories was that although the protagonist does ultimately get caught (with his pants down), he and Lily end up walking blithely hand in hand into a Mexican sunset—after shooting a whole bunch of people first.
Ew.
Lily at Dusk hadn’t gotten much of an advance, but it was now starting to gain some critical acclaim.
“Did you like it?” I asked Mom as she mopped up a big pool of water. “Lily, I mean.”
She glanced at me sharply. “You read it, didn’t you?”
“Um—” I bit my lip.
“Well, what did you think of it?”
I shrugged. “It’s literary porn for middle-aged white guys.”
“Charlotte!” Almost imperceptibly, I saw the corners of her mouth twitch. Then she got serious. “It does have some titillating content, and I’m sure that’s the last thing you want to think about your parents thinking about. But ever since I’ve known your father he’s dreamed of being a published author. He’s definitely an inspiring example of what a person can accomplish with a lot of hard work and a little luck.”
“I work hard,” I said, glancing out the window at my brother, who was performing skateboard tricks in the rain. “Unlike some people I know around here.”
“James Henry works very hard.”
“Yeah? Well, he’s also a natural at everything.”
“There are plenty of things you’re good at. You know that, right?”
“I’m an excellent kitty massager,” I said, bending down to scratch Steerforth. He purred loudly as I stroked his chin. Then he swatted my hand.
“Cats,” Mom muttered. “I’ll get you some Neosporin.”
“I’m fine,” I said, wiping the blood off on my jeans. “It’s my left hand anyway.”
Someone was knocking at my door.
“Go away,” I mumbled.
Sleep. I needed sleep. More sleep. Couldn’t get enough sleep. I dragged my pillow over my head. Now, what had I been dreaming? Something about Robert Pattinson? Ah, yes. That was it. Robert Pattinson had been asked to star in a movie but had said he’d only do it if I could be his leading lady. Somehow in my dream I was a movie star too. Somehow in my dream Robert Pattinson and I were kissing.
Oh, no! Why was Robert Pattinson fading away? And why was I suddenly so cold?
Someone had removed all my covers. This was why. I sat up and blinked. My brother was sitting on the edge of my bed. “Why are you here?” I hissed. “It’s the middle of the night.”
He yawned. “It’s morning. Time to get up.”
I glanced at my alarm clock. “I still have half an hour, you idiot!”
“I found something cool. You have to come see.” I lunged for my comforter. He snatched it out of my reach and grinned. “Wakey-wakey.”
“Mom!”
He clapped his hand to my mouth. “Just come, okay? I’ll do your math homework tonight.”
The kid knew how to bargain.
Five minutes later, I was following him into the woods that bordered our new neighborhood. The rain had let up, but the air was foggy and moist. The temperature was lower than yesterday’s. Luckily I’d thrown a sweater over my pajamas.
We headed down a narrow path in the predawn gloom. I sniffed the air. There was a bad smell. This wasn’t reassuring. “You better not be taking me to see a body,” I warned.
“It’s not like that. You’ll see.”
This wasn’t exactly reassuring either.
A few minutes later we came to the top of a steep embankment. A small creek flowed below. James Henry pointed. “Look.”
I peered into the dark water. It took my eyes a moment to adjust. Then I saw.
“Omigod!” I gasped.
“Told you,” my brother gloated.
There were dozens of fish in the pool below, their scales flashing silver in the pale light of dawn. Their bellies were pinkish-red. Most of them rested quietly in pairs. “Salmon,” I whispered.
“We read about this in biology last year. This is so cool. They must be spawning.”
Looking closer, I saw that the salmon didn’t look so hot. Their breathing—or whatever it was that fish did—was fast and labored. Their mouths were bent back in snarls. Several of them were peeling flesh. It seemed too cruel that their life cycle was such an uphill battle. A lump caught in my throat as I said, “Guess the journey from the ocean isn’t much fun.”
James Henry gestured at a sandbar across the creek that was littered with rotting fish. “That explains the smell.”
As I scrambled down the embankment to get a better look, I startled some of the fish. A couple of them took off upstream, their tails churning the water like torpedo propellers. For all they’d been through t
o get here, they still had some life left.
James Henry looked thoughtful. “It doesn’t seem fair. You wait all your life to have sex, and then bam, just like that you die.”
“Must be worth it,” I sighed.
I certainly wouldn’t know anything about it—sex, I mean. To date I’d only had one boyfriend—when I was eleven. His name was Aaron Brinkley. We’d gone to school together in Boston. The spring before we moved to Florida—I was in sixth grade then—we’d started hanging out. At Friday Night Skate, Aaron would glide by my side for the slow songs. When no one was watching, we’d sneak out behind the rink, skates still on, and kiss against the wall. A couple of times I let Aaron go up my shirt. One time he tried to touch my crotch, which scared me, and I’d backed away. The next week, we moved.
A branch snapped somewhere nearby. My neck hairs stood on end. There were, I remembered suddenly, all kinds of wild animals in the Pacific Northwest. Bears. Wolverines. Mountain lions. On the drive across the country, my brother had joked that we were moving to the land of Bigfoot.
Heart thumping, I grabbed a rock and peered into the trees.
“Milton!” my brother exclaimed.
I whirled around. There was a guy standing on the opposite side of the creek from us, just a short way downstream. He was holding some kind of basket. He hopped from boulder to boulder across the water, finally landing neatly in front of me. He was surprisingly graceful for someone so tall.
“You can put down your weapon,” he said in a husky voice, gesturing at my hand. “I only attack when provoked.” Unclenching my fingers, I let my rock fall to the sand. “You must be Charlotte,” he continued. “I’m Milton Zacharias. I go to school with your brother. We’re neighbors. I’m in the house with the red garage.”
“Oh,” I said stupidly. “I thought you were a bear.”
Milton laughed. “Sorry to disappoint. But I played a bear once in the second grade. My school did this production of ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’? I got to be Papa Bear. I sang a song about porridge.”
“I think I know your house,” I said. “Is it the one with the gnomes?”
“Uh—yeah.” His face turned pink. He ran his fingers through his wavy hair. “My mom believes they’re good luck. So you go to Shady Grove, huh?” he said quickly, giving me this look of pity.
