by Annabel Lyon
The last box is my favorite and Dexter’s too, though she always pretends otherwise. These contain the low-heeled gold sandals that go with the sari. I’ve never seen Mom wear the sari and don’t know for what possible occasion she could have bought it. Mom is always vague on the subject and says she bought it In Another Life. I covet the sari for my dress-up bag but have never even been allowed to try it on.
Dexter puts the shoe boxes back and turns to Mom’s dressing table, where she picks up a lipstick.
“Telling,” I say.
“My word against yours.” Dexter has the cap off and is twisting up the colored part for a quick swipe at her mouth when the door opens and Dad comes in. “There’s trouble in River City!” he says, seeing the lipstick in Dexter’s hand. She drops it like it’s burnt her and then picks it up calmly and puts it back in its place as though she has nothing to feel guilty about.
“I was looking at the color,” she says.
“Trouble with a capital T!” He puts the newspaper by the bed and goes out again.
“Ha,” I say.
When Mom comes, Dexter asks if she might phone Megan back now.
“I thought you wanted a toothbrush,” Mom says.
“Quit changing the subject!” Dexter yells, and then she stomps into her room and slams the door. This is what Mom and Dad call Going Off Like A Firecracker. Dexter often goes off like a firecracker. She can’t seem to help it. I suspect she often surprises herself as much as everybody else with her fits of sudden, intense anger directed at nothing and everything.
“Dexter and the telephone, sitting in a tree,” I say.
“You should be nicer to your sister.” Mom rummages around in her top dresser drawer and pulls out a jar of Q-tips. “You hurt her feelings more often than you know, always laughing at her.”
I say, “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?”
“I don’t know,” I hear Mom say to Dad much later, long after I’m supposed to be in bed. I’ve gotten up to go to the bathroom one last time and hear their voices from the living room. “Every little thing sets her off lately. She’s getting so rude. I just don’t know what to do with that girl.”
Dexter? Perfect Dexter? Princess Dexter?
Mean Megan slumps in Dexter’s bedroom doorway like she’ll fall over if something doesn’t prop her up. “Dave and Celine say I can have a party,” she says, as though this is the most boring news on the planet. “After final exams. Girls and—”
Dexter shrieks, making Mean Megan jump. Dexter has just found my drawing of an Egyptian scarab beetle, with a carapace blacker than the night, leafed between the pages of her English binder. I’m able to observe all this from my hiding place in the linen cupboard with the latticework doors. I have an excellent view of Dexter’s room from here as long as she leaves her door open. If I get caught, I can simply say I’m looking for the key chain I left in the pocket of my jeans when I threw them in the laundry. I got this idea from seeing Mean Megan casually twirling the key ring that hangs from the big loopy chain on her belt.
“Get it away!” Dexter says.
Mean Megan, who’s not so squeamish, takes the beetle paper, crumples it and throws it into Dexter’s garbage can.
“—and boys,” she finishes.
“Ooh,” Dexter says, shaking her hands to rid them of the feel of the big paper bug. “Who are you inviting?”
“I don’t know,” Mean Megan says. “Practically the whole school, I guess. Dave and Celine say I shouldn’t make anyone feel alienated.” Mean Megan calls her parents by their first names. She wants Dexter to come over to her house after school every day since her parents don’t get home until suppertime or after, but Mom thinks that’s too much. She worries about them spending too much time together without adequate supervision, almost certainly ignoring their homework and getting up to who-knows-what. Once a week is quite enough Megan-time, in Mom’s opinion.
“You hate Megan,” Dexter says.
“I like Megan very much,” Mom counters.
“You hate me,” Dexter says.
“Don’t be a goof,” Mom says.
“Don’t call me a goof!” Dexter says, and Mom laughs.
“I don’t hate anybody,” Mom says. “I wouldn’t think you’d want to spend every single day with your friend anyway. You two get into enough arguments as it is. You’ll enjoy the time you spend together more if you don’t have so much of it. Anyway, when would you practice your dance if you spent every day at Megan’s?”
“I am a prisoner,” Dexter says, and Mom tells her not to be morose.
“Yeah,” I say from the back seat. “Morose.”
“Shut up, little garbage,” Dexter says.
“See, that right there,” Mom says. “We don’t speak to each other that way in our family.”
Mean Megan tends to speak her mind because Dave and Celine say that’s healthy. This makes other kids a bit afraid of her: so cool and pretty and quick-tongued. Sweet as vinegar, Dad said once about Mean Megan. But I knew from the afternoon of Grandpa’s funeral that Mean Megan envies our family as much as Dexter envies Megan’s freedom, and I found myself in the odd position of wanting to defend Megan, though against what I wasn’t quite sure.
“Want a tea?” Mean Megan says. She takes a couple of cans out of her knapsack. The cans are pink and green and have Chinese characters on them.
Through the slats, I see Dexter pop her tea and take a sip and try not to make a face while Mean Megan gets out a paper and pen and starts a list of people to invite.
“We’re going to need a budget,” Mean Megan says after a while. By this time she’s lying on her stomach on Dexter’s bed, sucking her pen. Dexter is lying on her stomach on the bed facing the other way, listening to music on the headphones because Mean Megan says the radio is distracting her.
“For decorations?” Dexter says, really loudly because of the headphones. Mean Megan gives her the kind of look she usually gives me. Dexter quickly takes the headphones off. “What?” she says.
“Are you in grade three? We’re not having decorations,” Mean Megan says. “I suppose next you’re going to want games. What we need are food and tunes.”
“I wasn’t,” Dexter says.
“Games,” Mean Megan says, wrinkling her forehead. “Now that you mention it…”
“I didn’t!” Dexter says.
“Games,” Mean Megan says to herself and starts writing again.
The next day, in our after-school car pool, Mean Megan tells Dexter that Dave and Celine have agreed to give her two hundred dollars for the party.
“Don’t look so stunned,” Mean Megan adds. “You’re going to have to help me choose chips and pop and stuff—whatever you think people will want to eat. I don’t know anything about those kinds of crappy foods.”
Mom and I, in the front seat, glance at each other and away, biting the insides of our cheeks. We can tell Mean Megan is very, very happy.
“What date was that again?” Mom says.
Dexter looks like the top of her head is about to blow off, like a volcano. Mom and Dad are laughing at her. She’s been talking about nothing but the party for the past week, and they know perfectly well the date is this coming Saturday night, four days away. Now Mom stands with her pen poised over the calendar on the kitchen wall, pretending she doesn’t know anything about it, while Dad and I smirk.
“It’s Saturday!” Dexter yells. “Don’t do that!”
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Mom says right away. “I know you’re excited.”
“I’m not excited!” Dexter yells.
“There’s going to be boys,” I whisper to Dad. He makes a face like his eyeballs are about to fall out of their sockets.
“That’s disgusting!” he whispers back. I giggle so hard I fall out of my chair.
“Would you all grow up!” Dexter yells.
Fortunately, Mom’s not paying too close attention. She’s squinting at the calendar and mumbling to herself.
“This Saturday we
have a dinner at the Corrigans’, ” she says. “I forgot you wouldn’t be home. I guess we’ll just have to find a babysitter for Edie.”
I groaned. “Not Mrs. Halibut,” I say. “Mrs. Halibut” is our family’s secret name for Mrs. Hammett, the old widow who lives down the street, who loves children but has no idea how to care for them. Last time she tried to teach me to crochet and made me drink carrot juice and take cod liver oil. “Can’t I stay by myself?”
“During the day, not at night,” Mom says. “When you’re twelve.”
Mom phones Grandma, but Grandma has her book club that night and has already started baking for it. Grandma’s baking is epic, and once the machinery is in motion it can’t easily be halted.
“Why can’t I go to the party?” I ask.
“NO!” Dexter says. “NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!”
I’ve never been to Mean Megan’s house and never wanted to go to Dexter and Mean Megan’s stupid party. Nevertheless, I enjoy making Dex go off like a firecracker. I say, “I could stay in a whole other room and watch TV. I could promise not to come out and bug them. I could take my sleeping bag. I wouldn’t be any trouble at all.”
Dad looks at Mom, eyebrows raised, as though to say, Why not?
What Dexter calls me next I’m not allowed to repeat. I don’t think Dexter really meant to say it aloud. The word just falls out of her mouth onto the floor and sits there like a little black stone. Even Dexter looks shocked.
The silence that comes next is interesting.
Mom drops us off at Mean Megan’s house on the afternoon of the party with a stern warning to both of us to behave and get along.
“I know,” I say.
“This is ridiculous,” Dexter says.
Mom power-locks the car doors.
“Fine!” Dexter says. “I promise or whatever.”
“That’s better,” Mom says and unlocks the doors. We spill out. I’ve brought so much stuff—games and clothes and books and sleeping bag and pillow and blanket—that Dexter has to help me carry it all. She grabs the sleeping bag, which is tightly rolled, and my knapsack with my books, and leaves me to grapple with the odds and ends.
“You’re sure Megan’s parents will be there?” Mom says.
“Hi, kids!” a voice calls out. We look up and see Celine leaning out an upstairs window. She’s got long black hair and she’s really pretty. Mean Megan has told Dexter that she and her mom share each other’s clothes. “I’ll be down in a minute!” she calls.
“See you at eleven am,” Mom says sweetly to us. Dexter and I will sleep over at Mean Megan’s after the party so we can help Mean Megan clean up. That is Dexter’s argument for letting us stay over, though I overheard Mean Megan telling Dexter that Dave and Celine have a cleaning lady because they say housework numbs the soul. Cleaning up will be her problem, not ours.
“Fancy,” I say, meaning the house. I stand beside Dexter on the front step, waiting for Mean Megan to come to the door. I can see Dexter is dying to tell me to shut up, but she remembers her promise to Mom, who is, not incidentally, still sitting in the idling car with the window rolled down, waiting to see us safely into the house. Finally we hear footsteps, and then Mean Megan opens the door.
“Hey,” Dexter says.
“Hey,” Mean Megan says.
“I brought Junior Scrabble and Rex the Raccoon,” I say.
Mom backs out of the driveway, waves and drives away.
“Shut up,” Dexter says.
“Hey, Edie,” Mean Megan says. Ever since Dexter and Mom and Dad came home the night of Grandpa’s funeral and found us dancing like a pair of crazy people, Mean Megan has been nice to me. Well, nicer, anyway. It’s extremely weird and unnatural, and I keep waiting for it to end. Dexter’s waiting for it to end too. That I know for sure.
“Okay, kids?” All of a sudden, Celine appears in the hallway with her car keys in her hand, out of breath and not really looking at us. “Running late, babe,” she says to Mean Megan. “I promised your dad I’d pick him up from the tennis club. You’ll be okay on your own, right?”
“Of course,” Mean Megan says.
“Don’t wait up,” Celine says, and then she’s gone. I know this is not what my mom had in mind, and I feel a little guilty. But then Mean Megan offers to give me a tour of the house, which makes me bounce in my shoes. Dexter rolls her eyes. Mean Megan’s house was built by an architect hired by Dave and Celine when Mean Megan was a toddler. It has a lot of skylights and brick and wood floors and is open-plan, which means not a lot of inside walls and not a lot of privacy. You can sit in the study and talk to someone in the kitchen, forty feet away, while in between someone else sits in the sunken living area watching the world’s biggest TV. There’s a pool in the backyard and an actual cabana with a white sofa and some rattan furniture and a mini-bar where you can sit with a cold drink in summer and feel like a movie star. Mean Megan’s room, upstairs, has a TV and a stereo and its own bathroom and a disco ball hanging from the ceiling and a bed about the size of a farmer’s field with black linens Mean Megan chose herself. Black! Also, she has an aquarium containing an electric blue fish with impossibly elegant, draping fins. It’s some kind of fighting fish that can’t share its tank with any other fish because it will have to kill them. The fish is named Sklar.
“Sklar,” Dexter says, tapping the tank with her finger. The fish barely moves, just ripples his fins slightly, disdainfully.
“We’re going to be kind of busy,” Mean Megan says to me. “Think you can look after yourself for a while?”
“Can I watch TV?” I say.
Mean Megan takes me into the enormous living room and shows me how to work the three clickers for the world’s biggest TV. I squirrel myself down into the sofa cushions. Soon I’m clicking away with a big jerk of the hand every time I want to change the channel.
“You don’t have to press so hard, stupid,” Dexter says, but Mean Megan says actually that one has been a little sticky lately and has been giving everyone trouble.
“You are way too nice to my sister,” Dexter says so I will hear. I’m used to it.
“Forget her,” Mean Megan says. “We have to clean up and get the snacks out and organize the CDS and skim the pool and get dressed.”
It’s four fifteen; the party starts at seven. “Let’s get dressed first,” Dexter says.
Mean Megan gives her a look. They go outside to skim the pool. Unable to resist, I trail after them.
“I didn’t bring my bathing suit,” Dexter says.
Mean Megan takes what looks like a bright blue fishing net at the end of an impossibly long pole and starts dragging it across the surface of the water, skimming up dead leaves and the occasional bug. “After it gets dark, we can turn the underwater lights on,” Mean Megan says. “Nobody’s bringing their bathing suit. I only asked Dave to fill it because it looks cool.”
“I want to help,” I say, mesmerized by the big skimmer.
“Go away!” Dexter says.
“No, that’s okay,” Mean Megan says. “We’ve got lots to do. And I have a special surprise for Edie, later.”
We spend the next hour getting the house ready: setting up the fridge, arguing about the order of the CDS in the pre-programmable CD player, putting chips in bowls and veggies-and-dip on plates. While I vacuum the entrance hall, Mean Megan and Dexter take all my stuff out of the living room and put it somewhere else. Then Mean Megan orders me and Dexter to go watch TV for a few minutes because she’s busy doing something secret with a salad bowl and a piece of paper and a pair of scissors and a pen. She won’t let us help or even watch. “You’ll see,” she says mysteriously.
When Mean Megan is done, Dexter shows her the brownies Mom baked for the party, and I wonder if Mean Megan will say anything about her complexion. But Mean Megan only says “Cool” and shows us what Celine bought for a special treat: wasabi peas. I try one and my eyes instantly water. “Pain,” I say. “Pain, pain.” I start to cough.
Mean Megan, who can’t
seem to take her eyes off the glossy brownies, says they’re an acquired taste, and for a while she, personally, was addicted to them.
I give Dexter a private look, and Dexter, remembering another promise she made Mom, takes me to show me where the bathroom is. When we get back to the kitchen, Megan is snacking in a vague, distracted way from the bag of wasabi peas, but I see that one of the brownies is gone, and there’s a smear of chocolate on the corner of her lip.
“You have chocolate,” Dexter says, gesturing at her own mouth, and Mean Megan wipes her lip hard with her thumb without meeting Dexter’s eye. Dexter keeps her face carefully neutral. “Is it time to get dressed?” she asks, as though that’s what they were talking about all along.
I see this is how, for all their arguments, Dexter and Mean Megan stay friends.
In Mean Megan’s room, they spend another hour trying on Mean Megan’s clothes, and some of Celine’s for good measure. Mean Megan’s clothes are more mature than Dexter’s—“mature” is Mom’s word for it—which means shorter and tighter, with no pink or purple, and nothing that says “angel” on it anywhere. In the end, Mean Megan settles on a white shirt, sleeveless gray sweater, black mini-skirt, knee-high black boots and a lot of silver jewelry. Her hair is in a high ponytail. Dexter chooses a sparkly black dress of Celine’s, with straps like a bathing suit, crossed at the back. Dexter asks Mean Megan if Celine knows they’re borrowing it, and Mean Megan says not exactly, but since it doesn’t fit Celine anymore she can’t see why she would mind. I know this reasoning isn’t entirely sound, but Dexter’s infatuation with the dress and herself in the dress overrides good sense, and she allows herself to be persuaded, especially when Mean Megan loans her a pair of black heels that are Mean Megan’s own, and surely, therefore, okay.
