by Kit Frick
“It’s not—” I start to say. Personal. About you. Good enough.
“Forget it,” she whisper-hisses. “You haven’t been around all semester. I got the message. But I said I would ask, and I asked.”
So she doesn’t actually want me there. She’s just humoring her mother. It stings for a second, even though I have no right to feel hurt, but then I realize this is better. It would be worse if she actually cared.
“I can’t this Sunday. We’re getting the house ready for the aunties.”
Bex withdraws her hands from her pockets and returns to twisting her backpack straps. “Fine then. If you change your mind, dinner’s at four. I assume you still know where I live.”
At the end of the hallway, the door to the girls’ bathroom swings open, and I watch Ret walk out into the hall. I haven’t been back to the river since I left her there last weekend. She pauses midstep when she sees me talking to Bex. Her mouth hangs slightly open in a very un-Ret-like manner. For weeks, she’s kept her promise. If you see me in the halls, you ignore me. But I dug up Abigail on Saturday, and then I left her hanging. I wouldn’t blame her for thinking our deal is off.
For a minute I think she’s going to come over here, get in my face again like she did last spring, but then she walks coolly to the water fountain and takes a long drink.
“Ellory?” Bex turns to look behind her shoulder, following my dazed stare down the hall toward Ret.
“Tell your parents thanks anyway,” I say.
The second bell rings, and classroom doors start to close.
I push past Bex and hurry down the hall. Ms. Elkins is standing in the doorway, her hand on the knob, waiting. But when I get to the door, she holds out her arm to stop me.
“Why don’t you stay after class, Ellory?” she asks, her voice low and soothing. “I’d like to take a few minutes, check in.”
I’m pretty sure this has nothing to do with math. I watch her eyes follow Bex as she disappears into the stairwell and the door swings closed. I want to say no, thank you, but something tells me this is an invitation I’m not allowed to decline. I nod, and she lets me into the room.
As I slide into my seat and dig my book out of my bag, I try to forget the note of concern in her voice. Had she been eavesdropping on my conversation in the hall? No matter what my math teacher thinks, I know what I’m doing. I do have to help my mom get the house ready for the descent of her two sisters and their families this weekend. It’s not like I could go to Bex’s thing anyway, even if she actually wanted me there, even if I wanted to go.
“A little housekeeping before we get started,” Ms. Elkins is saying from the front of the room. “Your chapter five exam is on Wednesday. Don’t leave the entire review packet to the night before.”
Don’t worry, Ms. Elkins. I’m already halfway through. Gold star for Ellory. I open up my text and smooth down my homework on my desk, then I tune her out. I reach into my pocket and carefully unfold the little triangle in my lap. I tell myself I can stop reading the notes any time, that they contain more questions than answers, that I should probably do myself a favor and set them on fire. Not that I haven’t gotten myself in enough trouble that way before.
But I can’t help it. I have to know what they say, even if they don’t say much of anything. I start to read. I know how it sounds—a cop out, a cliché—but I couldn’t stop things. So I fucked it all up. Beyond repair. On purpose.
On purpose? My fingers gravitate to the black band around my wrist. It’s tight, but I twist until I’m sliding it around and around my skin. Then I refold the note and silently slip it back into my hoodie pocket. I think about all the things I’m not telling Dr. Marsha. The notes. Abigail. Ret. Drinking myself sick. She’d be so disappointed in me. I’m disappointed in myself, but I can’t help it. How am I supposed to live in the present if I can’t even understand the past? If I told her, she could help me solve it, but I’m not ready to let her. I have to work this out on my own. But from where I’m sitting—November, senior year, Ms. Elkins reviewing inverse trigonometric functions on the board—trying to put last April in crystal clear focus is like trying to check your makeup in a fun house mirror. Except a lot less funny.
It hits me that this is exactly how I used to see Matthias’s world. An onion, endless layers. You know you’re going to end up with stinging eyes and tears streaming down your face. But you grit your teeth. You keep peeling the layers back.
15
NOVEMBER, JUNIOR YEAR
(THEN)
“On Monday I have gymnastics at Holy Trinity. Mommy says they have a real gym with the beam and the uneven bars and the vault because it’s privately funded by the pope. On Wednesdays and Fridays I have soccer after school, and then sometimes we have games on Saturdays, but if we don’t we have weekend practice. Then on Tuesdays and Thursdays I have ballet with Madame Simpson at Little Miss Dance Studio.”
I took Cordelia’s outstretched hand and held it high while she spun around. Her life sounded exhausting.
“Madame Simpson?” I asked. “That doesn’t sound very French.”
Cordelia gave me a puzzled look. We were on the lower tier of the Crestview Mall, my first return excursion for anything but new gym shoes since June. It was our fourth time hanging out, and I still felt like we were in the “getting to know you” stage. And even though Matthias wouldn’t say it directly, Cordelia’s approval clearly mattered.
“She’s not.” He reached down to tug his sister’s long, messy ponytail. “I think Madame Simpson is Greek. But like in a bleached blond, fourth generation, Real Housewives kind of way.”
“Madame Simpson says that in ballet all the girls call the teacher ‘Madame’ and the teacher calls the girls ‘Mademoiselle.’ I’m Mademoiselle Cordelia.” Her eyes were eager, her face the epitome of nine-year-old seriousness.
I laughed. “I think Madame Simpson is pulling your leg, but that’s pretty cute.”
Her lips turned instantly into a scowl. Wrong move. “I am not cute,” she insisted. “I am graceful and ripped.”
She bent her arms into a display of wiry kid muscles before spinning off in a series of twirls and leaps while Matthias and I hung back by the cell phone kiosk.
“She’s good, huh?” he asked.
“Yeah, she is.” She was no Bex, but I had to admit, the kid had promise.
“She’s seriously smart too. It hasn’t dawned on her yet what complete deadbeats her parents are.”
“You make her life normal.” I reached over and slipped my hand into his hand, but he wasn’t looking at me. For a moment, Matthias was somewhere else entirely.
Then, he kissed the top of my head, which he could barely do without lifting up onto his tiptoes. His lips felt like paper against my hair. Light, fluttering. Something jolted in my stomach, something deep and demanding and powerful. I leaned against his chest, sinking into the slightly sweaty smell of his T-shirt and the press of my cheek into his neck.
“Ew!” Cordelia was back, breathless and grinning. “You guys are all mushy. Can we get ice cream?”
I tugged on the strap of my bag and gathered my long, fine hair over one shoulder, as if by making a few small adjustments, I could snap my brain back in line.
“Sure thing, Cordelia-bean,” Matthias replied. “Carvel or Baskin-Robbins?”
Cordelia steered us toward the food court, then broke away. She had skipped ten steps ahead when my phone chimed. Ret.
You guys still at Crestview?
Yeah. Food court.
Stay there, I’m on break.
“Ret’s on her way,” I said to Matthias. “You mind?”
“Course not. She can hang.”
Cordelia was waving us toward Carvel. I ran toward her, leaving Matthias to catch up, and grabbed her hand. She beamed up at me and took long, purposeful steps, matching her pace to my long gait.
“Hey, losers.” Ret paused to give Matthias a half hug, then strolled up to Cordelia and me. “Who’s the squirt?”
/> “I’m Cordelia.” She clutched my hand tighter, and there was a hint of defiance in her voice. “Who’re you?”
“Oh, yeah, Matty’s little sis. I’m Ret. I go to school with Ellory and your brother.”
“Your earrings are cool.” Her gaze was fixed on the little pink skulls dangling from Ret’s ears.
“Thanks, squirt.” Ret leaned down to study Cordelia’s bare ears. “Yours pierced yet?”
She shook her head, no.
“Tell you what. When you get your ears pierced, tell Matty here to let me know. I’ll get you a matching pair, any color you want. We have it all at Hot Topic.”
“You,” Matthias said, “are trouble.” He turned to his sister, who was still beaming up at Ret. “No pierced ears until you’re twelve, got it?”
“Yeah, I know.” She scuffed the toe of her shoe against the floor. It was amazing. Ret had been here all of three minutes, and already she had Cordelia wrapped around her finger. A pang of jealousy knifed through my chest, but I swallowed it back. Ret was just being Ret. Ushering disciples to her altar was what she did best.
“Ooh, new subjects, three o’clock!” Ret grabbed my shoulders and spun me around to face the Chinese buffet. The Coles turned with me to look.
Ret pretended to adjust a nonexistent pair of glasses. “Dr. Holland, observe Human Subjects X and Y at the window table by Panda Express. Would you say we’re at orange or full-on red alert?”
Bad Parents was one of our favorite games. You could play almost anywhere, but the mall was always a prime spot for discord.
“Good question, Dr. Johnston.” I pursed my lips and scribbled into an imaginary notepad. Ret and I liked to pretend we were ecologists in the field, researching human behavior. “Subject X has affixed monkey backpack leash to Subject Y in an apparent effort at containment. Subject X is presenting total iPhone dependence while Subject Y rolls around in what appears to have once been pork fried rice on the food court floor.”
Ret turned to Matthias, inviting him to play. “Dr. Cole?”
He considered. “I’d say we’re at yellow headed toward orange. I’ve seen worse.”
“A generous classification from Dr. Cole,” I said.
Ret rested her chin between her thumb and forefinger and leaned forward, totally absorbed. “Critical update: Subject X has put down the phone. Will she notice Subject Y’s transformation into a Floor Monster?”
“Nope, she’s going for the lipstick refresh.” I shook my head and pretended to update my notebook.
“Definite bump to orange.” Matthias reached down to give his sister’s shoulder a squeeze. “C’mon, C. Carvel time.”
I took Cordelia’s hand, and she led me up to the counter.
“You know what you want?” I asked.
She turned around and looked at Ret. “What kind do you like?”
“Cake mix, all the way. In a cone, rainbow sprinkles.”
“Can I try the cake mix kind?” Cordelia asked, and the kid behind the counter handed her a little plastic spoon.
I glanced back toward the Panda Express, where the mom had her kid propped up on a table. She was furiously brushing him off, and whatever she was saying, he was clearly in trouble. Poor tyke.
“You want kids?” Ret asked. She and Matthias were standing right behind us.
“Definitely. You don’t know my parents, but they’d be perfect for your game. I have this running list of everything I would do better.”
“Yeah, my parents are the worst. My mom still thinks she’s twenty-five, and my dad’s basically just a check in the mail.”
“He’s not around?” Matthias asked.
“Kansas, since I was ten.”
“Cordelia’s almost ten. Ours are both around, in the technical sense, but they may as well be in Kansas. You want kids?”
“If I make it to my thirties, maybe,” Ret replied.
“Are you ready to order?” The kid behind the counter was talking to me. Cordelia was already holding a towering cone covered with rainbow sprinkles. I didn’t know Matthias wanted kids. I’d never asked. He’d never asked me either. I guessed it was easier to have that conversation with Ret.
“Chocolate,” I said, answering the easy question.
Matthias got mint chip, but Ret declined, looking mournfully at her phone. “Time to get back to the poser-punks.” She walked backward for a couple steps, blowing us all kisses, then spun on her heel and took off. I watched two sets of Cole eyes follow her until she was out of sight.
“She’s pretty,” Cordelia said through a mouthful of sprinkles.
My boyfriend’s lips parted into a slow smile as he reached down to tug his sister’s ponytail. “Not as pretty as you, Cordelia-bean,” he said. Then he leaned over to kiss my cheek and reached into his pocket to pay for our sugar boost. “My treat.”
16
NOVEMBER, SENIOR YEAR
(NOW)
The Holland family turkey is carved at two. I stay at the table just long enough to convince the aunties and their respective families that everything’s just great. Rock solid grades. Artistic portfolio complete, courtesy of art camp. (No thanks to wherever my brain has been these past three months, but they don’t need to know that.) College apps ready to go. Nothing to see here.
So no one objects when I slip away to drive downtown. It’s hard to argue with volunteer work on Thanksgiving. My mom was positively glowing when I told her I’d made plans to put in a shift at Capital Harvest with “a few new friends from school.” It’s not a complete lie. I am going to the food kitchen, and I am looking forward to a couple hours of helping others. But I’m only meeting one person from school, and calling Abigail a friend is a bit of a stretch. I’m not in the market for new friends, but I can’t get Ret’s words out of my ears. I don’t want you talking to her. Abigail will poison you against me.
Ret doesn’t get to call the shots. Not anymore. So three weeks after she found me in the shop on Halloween, I tracked Abigail down in the sky dome yesterday at lunch. She and her mom were supposed to volunteer together this afternoon, but some sort of deadline came up at work. I said I’d take her mom’s spot.
As I drive across the Market Street Bridge, I let my thoughts wander back to last Thanksgiving. I spent hours curled up on the couch with Auntie Darla, peppering her with questions about her job as assistant curator of East Asian art at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, until my cousin Zach ran his Thomas the Tank Engine through my mom’s chocolate pie. I can barely picture the girl who tossed Zach up in the air until he squealed while Auntie Pauline scrubbed brown streaks off the carpet. The girl who slipped away after dark to gather at Jenni’s for a holiday debrief and late night screening of The Ice Storm. The memories make my heart pulse with something like nostalgia mixed with bitter bile.
I find a spot down the block from Capital Harvest and shift the Subaru into park. Then I close my eyes and picture my former friends’ faces. It’s something Dr. Marsha taught me. A technique for forgiveness, for letting go. You visualize an event or person or place on a giant balloon, and you let yourself feel all those feelings you can’t get rid of. The ones that hold you back, that burn so deep a pit of anger and hurt ignites beneath your skin. And when the wind kicks up, you set the balloon free. The bad memories float away along with the pain.
I made a list for Dr. Marsha. People, dates, words, rooms. We did the visualizations together, but the one balloon I was never able to release was the one holding my own face. I pretended that it worked. That I had let it go. But every time the wind kicked up, the cord yanked fast around my hands, binding me to the pain, dragging me up along with it into the storm.
I open my eyes and let the East Shore register around me. Capital Harvest is on a side street made up of boxy concrete buildings, mostly warehouses and mini-storage units. The sign out front is friendly, an engraved wooden plaque hanging from an iron post. It looks more like the doorway to a cheery tavern than a food kitchen, which I guess is the point. I walk inside to fin
d a big room with a bunch of long tables and a serving counter up front. The place is warm and filled with people, and it smells intensely like gravy. I find the woman with a clipboard, checking in volunteers. Her name tag reads PEG, one of those old-fashioned nicknames you never hear anymore. I tell her I’m Mary Pérez, Abigail’s mom’s name, and she doesn’t blink at my blond hair or fair skin. She hands me an apron and points me toward a bussing cart.
“You put empty plates in here, keep the silverware separate. And scrape trash into this bag. Only clear a place after the guest has gotten up. Kitchen’s through that door when your bins are full.”
“Got it.” I take the cart and start wheeling down the first row of tables. It’s toward the end of their dinner service, so there’s a lot of bussing to do. I fill up my bins, taking care not to disturb the men and women silently chewing their turkey and potatoes, the families grinning over coffee and slices of pie. I know I should be thinking something meaningful here about how lucky I am to have a warm house to go back to filled with family and leftovers. I know I should be thanking a higher power—God or Joan of Arc or Frida Kahlo—for the many blessings in my life. I reach for an empty plate, and my insides crunch as I bend over the table. I can picture the ash flaking off the cavern inside, collecting at the pit of my stomach.
It’s Thanksgiving. I’m well fed and warm and bussing plates at a food kitchen, and all I can do is feel sorry for the girl I’ve become. It makes me hate myself even more.
I need to find Abigail.
It doesn’t take long until my bins are full, so I wheel the cart back toward the kitchen. When I push through the door, Abigail is carrying a giant tray of mashed potatoes that looks heavier than she is to the back end of the service counter. She slots it into an open rack, then sees me by the sink.
“Help me with these?” I ask.
Abigail walks over and grabs a stack of plates. “Service is almost over,” she says. “I think that was the last batch of potatoes.”
Another busser, a middle-aged guy with tiny glasses slipping down his nose, wheels his cart into the kitchen.
