“Look, I’m sorry—” she begins.
I cut her off. “You don’t have to apologize. Please. I was wrong. You deserve to have a full weekend off. And I can help out too. You don’t have to do everything.”
“But I jumped down your throat. I shouldn’t do that,” Mom says. “I’m stressed too. Aunt Darlene’s been on me to quit everything and manage one of her stores, but I can’t take advantage of her like that.” Mom forces a smile. “I’m gonna try this, cut back my hours and see how we do. Forget what I said about money. We’ve got plenty. How about we start Sunday-night movie night again?” She smiles, and my Grinch heart cracks even more.
“Sounds good.” Dear God, please make her leave now. I need to go downstairs. I feel off-balance without them here, under my bed, supporting me.
Kissing me on my spiky hair, Mom exits and putters around in her bedroom. And keeps puttering. Her TV’s on and I can hear the hiss of the iron.
I can’t get to my stockpile, so reviewing my list will have to do. I slip under my comforter and gaze at my phone’s screen until the day’s fatigue presses down and pulls me under. In a dense twilight haze, I hear Mom shut off my light and whisper, “I love you, baby girl,” her lips soft against my forehead.
“I love you,” I whisper back. “I love you. And I’m so sorry.”
I sleep the entire night.
—
“It’s freaking brilliant!” Mr. Oleck shouts, waving my bibliography in his hand. “Yes, yes, yes!” The classroom is lit with the early Monday-morning sun that streams through the bank of windows.
Michael’s face falls at Mr. Oleck’s reaction to my proposed switch from Jonathan Kasia to Jane Talmadge. “Well, we were worried that it’s not quite what you wanted,” he says. “You know, this isn’t a soldier who fought in the D-day invasion.”
I throw a look at Michael. We were not worried.
He adds, “You know, it wasn’t a soldier who died in battle.”
“Oh no,” Mr. Oleck responds quickly. “Look, this soldier, Jane”—he looks down at the bibliography title—“Talmadge. She gave her life. She enlisted and did her part. She wouldn’t have gotten killed in an Army jeep in France any other way. There’s no doubt about it. She was there for her country. It’s the ultimate sacrifice.” Mr. Oleck takes a deep breath. “This is really awesome. You’ll be telling a chapter from the war that gets next to no attention. I’ve never even heard of the Six Triple Eight. But these were Americans who faced incredible obstacles like legalized prejudice, and yet still wanted to enlist and help America. Well done, you guys! I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”
Mr. Oleck rushes off to get coffee from the faculty room, and I start to laugh a little. Michael looks like somebody just sold his puppy.
“Nice try,” I say with a grin.
“What?” he asks.
“Trying to get out of doing the project on Jane,” I answer. “ ‘We were worried’?”
He shrugs. “Nothing against her,” he says, looking down. “Oleck is right. She did her part. I was just into doing it on Kasia. It seems more exciting. More epic.”
“Why don’t we just split up, then?” I ask. “It’s no big deal. I won’t be mad.”
Michael’s head pops up and he looks me in the eye. “Is that really it?” he asks. His neck is getting splotchy. “That you don’t want to partner with me? Is this just an excuse? To break up?”
To break up? Wait a second. We’re going out? I can’t say any of this. I’m the one who kissed him. “No. I mean, no, not to break up,” I sputter. “Uh…I just…I really don’t know. I just clicked with Jane somehow.”
I shift, uncomfortable. I didn’t plan on spilling my connection with Jane, but Michael doesn’t even seem to catch the weirdness of it.
“So it’s not me?” he asks, still uncertain. “We’re still good?”
Something inside me unclenches even more and I reach out to squeeze his hand. “Yes,” I tell my first official boyfriend. “We’re still good. Definitely.”
It’s Friday afternoon and all hell is breaking loose in the girls’ bathroom at St. Anne’s. Kristal and I just walked right into a big-ass brouhaha between the Immaculate Conception girls.
Amy, pale and slight in her oversized sweatshirt, is shrieking, “It was just this week, Alexis! I swear!”
Alexis, waving a small, silvery packet of something, screams, “You are so full of shit! You are a pound and a half from a feeding tube!”
“I am not!” Amy says, but there’s a glint of something in her eyes—something twisted and triumphant.
I look over at Kristal, but Kristal is staring straight at Amy with a shocked and almost fearful expression.
The bathroom door swings open. Sandy enters, followed closely by Vanessa. The St. Anne’s behavioral SWAT team. We’ve got a 109 in the ladies’ washroom. All units please respond, stat.
“All right, everybody, let’s calm down,” Sandy says in a soothing voice.
Vanessa asks with some intensity, “Is everybody okay?”
Alexis’s head whips toward Sandy and Vanessa, her blond hair flying. “No! Everybody is not okay. She”—Alexis points at Amy, who has retreated behind a stall door—“is popping laxatives again.” Alexis shakes the silver packet again. “I knew she was losing weight! I kept asking her and she kept lying her fucking head off to me!”
Alexis plows toward the stall in which Amy is cowering. Vanessa inserts her body between the two girls.
“You promised me!” Alexis screams past Vanessa. “We made a pact.” Her voice is breaking now. “We were done with it, right? Isn’t that what we said?”
Sandy turns to Kristal and me. “Girls, can you please return to the room?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say, and obediently move to the door. Kristal hasn’t budged, transfixed by the scene, so I lightly take her arm and pull her with me.
Amy begins mounting her defense from the toilet. “It was only this one time! Just yesterday!”
In the hallway, Kristal whispers to me, “That wasn’t the first time. That’s what we heard her doing last week.”
Sandy steps back into the hallway and says, “It’s all right, girls. We’re handling this. Why don’t you wait inside the room for me? I think—” Sandy stops abruptly, studying Kristal’s face. There’s silence in the bathroom now, and then the soft rise and fall of Vanessa’s voice as somebody cries. “Catherine, I’d like to talk to Kristal privately for a few minutes. Would you please excuse us?”
I glance over at Kristal. She’s clearly shaken: her eyes are wide and she bites her lower lip. For somebody getting over bulimia, it must hit too close to home. Without a word, Kristal follows Sandy into Vanessa’s office and shuts the door.
Inside Room Three, Lil’ Tommy bounds over to me. “What the fuck is going on in the girls’ room? A fight?”
I don’t think I should be talking. At least, not without Sandy here. But I can’t deny it either. Everybody has ears. “Alexis and Amy were arguing,” I say to Lil’ Tommy, Garrett and John. “That’s all I know.” I sit down on a sofa and pull out my phone. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I’m worried about Kristal.
When Sandy returns with a somber Kristal fifteen minutes later, she refuses to talk about what happened.
“But I thought we were supposed to be honest here,” Lil’ Tommy complains. “It’s a safe zone and all that.”
“It is, but it’s for the girls to discuss if they want to,” Sandy responds. “Now, if anyone needs to discuss how the incident is affecting you, then by all means, speak freely. But I can’t discuss what happened between Alexis and Amy.”
Lil’ Tommy looks around the room, but everyone stays mute. Sandy turns the topic to resilience, asking us to think about what it means and how we achieve it. I say nothing. Resilience is not in my DNA. Kristal too stays quiet, lost in thought. I nudge her elbow and raise my eyebrows. “You okay?” I whisper.
She gives me a very small, unbrilliant smile.
After group, I stop her in the empty waiting room. Through the glass front doors, I can see Aunt D’s red Mini Cooper illegally parked in the handicap spot again. “Are you okay? You look really upset.”
Kristal sighs and keeps her eyes on the parking lot. “Thanks, Cat. I’m okay. I just hate seeing that with Amy. It freaks me out.”
I nod, uncertain of how much more to ask her. “Because…”
“Because,” Kristal picks up my unfinished question, “I don’t know, it makes me feel nervous.” She looks at me and says firmly, “I’m done. I stopped doing that a while ago. I’m in recovery.” She looks away again. “It’s just…you hate to see other people…slide back. Amy’s done with us here. Did you know that? She’ll probably have to go to a hospital now. She’ll probably be admitted tonight. This is bad. Really serious.”
I’m glad Kristal is confiding in me, but her comments about having to go to the hospital—that it’s really serious, really bad—scare me. I don’t like how she said them either. The gravity in her tone. An Amy-versus-us mentality just starting to form.
Can I ever tell her that I was hospitalized? Can I ever tell her the reason?
Some kind of luxury sedan pulls into the spot next to Aunt D and a man steps out from the driver’s side. “That’s my dad,” Kristal says. A new expression slides down, masklike, to hide the anxiety in her face. Opening the door, Kristal yells an introduction, “Dad, this is my friend Cat!”
My friend.
Kristal’s dad is tall and is wearing a jacket and tie. He walks around the front of the car to shake my hand. “Nice to meet you, Cat.”
“Have a great time at Amherst!” I tell Kristal. She’s going tomorrow to check out a cluster of schools there.
“I don’t think that’s possible. Those tours suck. But at least I’m driving,” Kristal tells me from the open driver’s-side door.
“Wish me luck,” Kristal’s dad says to me.
“Have a good time at the museum!” Kristal calls out. “I want all the details.” She winks at me.
Kristal knows Michael and I are headed to the New Haven Museum tomorrow to check out the 6888th exhibit.
“All the details!” Kristal says again before sliding into the driver’s seat. She gives a short beep and a wave and then backs out like Grandma—exceptionally slowly, with liberal use of the brake.
I feel a pang of jealousy as Kristal steers toward a future. Mom will never let me learn to drive. I won’t ever be checking out colleges. All I’ll ever have are short, fleeting bursts of color in a genetically preordained gray life.
—
I’m not in the mood for dinner tonight with Aunt D, but, as usual, she insists, and we wind up at a Lebanese place, the Cedars. It turns out to be great for many reasons—food, company, but the highlight is her offer of a job at Dunkin’ Donuts.
“When do you think the IOP ends?” Aunt D asks, dipping a falafel ball into the hummus.
“No clue,” I say. “Whenever Dr. McCallum cries uncle.”
“Well, the job is waiting. Just let me know when you’re through and we’ll get your training started. I don’t know if your mother told you”—Aunt D pauses while our waiter brings us stuffed grape leaves and labneh dip—“but I want her to manage one of the stores. Tell those a-holes at Hefferman and Schletz to take a hike. What do you think? That would be better for her, right? I’d have two Pulaski women on my team!”
At drop-off, Aunt D keeps the engine running, just like last Friday. “I told your mom it was ridiculous me coming inside anymore. You’re right, Catherine. You don’t need any ‘Lamictal monitors.’ ” She makes air quotes for the last two words and then smiles at me.
At that moment, I swear to myself that I will swallow my pills once I get inside.
But the house is dark and cold and empty. Inside the kitchen, my tablets and empty glass call to me. I think of my future job and seeing Michael tomorrow. But then I remember Kristal and what she said about hospitalization. And that she has a driver’s license and she’s going to college. Things that are not options for me. With no Lamictal monitor looking over my shoulder, I ignore my pills and get the troops from upstairs. In Grandma’s room, Friday’s two tablets join their brothers inside the Lexapro bottle.
Nonny twists all the way around to look at me from the front passenger seat of Lorraine Pitoscia’s Subaru. Who knew her aging vertebrae had so much flexibility?
“Why you wear your hair like that?” she asks.
“Oh man, Nonny,” Michael groans beside me in the backseat.
“It’s okay,” I say. And it is. Nonny doesn’t mean anything by it, and she seems sincerely interested in my hair. “I saw that movie with Audrey Hepburn. Roman Holiday,” I tell her. “She cuts her hair short. I just liked it.” I omit the small detail that the haircut occurred during the apex of a manic episode.
“Oh, I love Roman Holiday!” Lorraine says. “That movie is why we went to Rome for our honeymoon.” She throws a glance at Nonny. “Nonny, why don’t you turn back around? You’ll be more comfortable.”
“Me too,” Michael mutters under his breath.
Nonny ignores her and continues questioning me. “What you think? I get my hair cut short too?”
A vision of Nonny getting her hair snipped by Rodrick flashes through my head. Two worlds colliding. Her eyes are expectant, demanding an answer.
“My grandmother always wore her hair short. It looked great on her,” I say. I have no idea where that just came from. I never talk about Grandma. It must be some residual Lamictal loosening my tongue.
Nonny nods and then directs her gaze onto Michael. “That’s why I had to come. I need some girl advice.” She readjusts herself to face front. “Lorraine, you take me to Supercuts after we drop off the kids. I’m gonna be Nonny Hepburn.” She pulls out her iPhone, peels away the Kleenex encasing it and begins pecking away.
“Michael, call and make a reservation for Nonny at Supercuts,” Lorraine says. “It’s a zoo on Saturdays.”
“And Michael’s friend comes over for dinner tonight. She see my hair!” Nonny shouts as her phone chimes. It sounds like a foghorn. Holding the phone as far as possible from her face, she slowly reads aloud the text message she just received. “Sylvia wants a picture of my new hair.”
“Hey, Nonny,” Michael says, “maybe you should have your own Instagram account. I can start it for you.”
“Don’t you dare, Michael!” Lorraine yells.
—
Nonny isn’t in the car when Lorraine picks us up at four o’clock. “She wants to surprise you,” Lorraine tells me.
So I’m headed back to Casa de Pitoscia. At least it’s not a dinner ambush like last week. Still, Nonny’s tactics make me like her all the more. Grandma did the same thing once.
I was in fifth grade, and Mom had started dating an orthodontist she’d met at the law office—he was being sued for malpractice. He’d come inside the house whenever he picked Mom up, but Grandma and I never spent any time with him.
One Friday night, Grandma finally snagged him by cooking her best dish—fried chicken. She also whipped up the lightest mashed potatoes and brown gravy, along with my favorite dessert, apple pie. But the real hook was the chicken. It was early evening and the scent of the chicken had wafted into the living room and out the front window screens. Dr. Scott was drooling on his Ralph Lauren polo by the time his penny loafers cleared the first concrete step to our door. And that’s how we spent our only evening with Mom’s first steady boyfriend. So when the balding douche broke up with Mom, Grandma said with authority that she had known something was wrong with him and that Mom was better off.
That was the way Grandma worked. She was never in your face about anything, just a subtle, steady presence at every breakfast, after-school snack, dinner and good-night hug. Snapping pictures from the front row at every recital. Religiously saving my report cards, ballet flyers and artwork. Singing as she folded clothes warm and soft from the dryer. She was as constant as my brea
th. Our house was always well lit and warm with the great smells of whatever she was cooking or baking.
So the truth is, I don’t mind returning to the Pitoscias. Mom is working a longer shift today, anyway—somebody called in sick, so she won’t be home until nine. The Pitoscia household with Nonny in the garlic-scented kitchen and the loud voices, well, it seems a hell of a lot more appealing than the empty Pulaski Cape on Maple Drive.
This will also be the longest stretch of time Michael and I have hung out. And so far, so good. Borderline great. He was the perfect museum companion this afternoon: not too chatty, not clingy, stayed within view and only called me over to point out something especially amazing or heartbreaking. He saved the exhibit on the 6888th for last.
“I have to get myself in the mood,” he explained, half-serious, half-joking, during our froyo break. “I’m ready to meet your Jane now.”
His lips lifted in a half smile, and in that moment, sitting on a stool looking out onto Chapel Street, he looked beautiful to me. Maybe it was a sugar rush from the yogurt. Or the fact that he acknowledged this project meant something to me. Whatever it was—the way his face looked, that Mona Lisa boy-smile, his brown eyes holding mine—it was one of those moments that imprints itself onto the brain. I felt my cheeks warm and knew I was blushing.
“Thanks again,” I had said, realizing then that I never thanked him in the first place. “For agreeing to switch soldiers. That was really great of you. I know you were into Kasia.”
“It was hard,” Michael had admitted, spooning strawberry yogurt with chocolate sprinkles into his mouth. “I still have my G.I. Joe and Rescue Heroes. I won’t let my mom donate them yet.”
Then, at the 6888th exhibit, he just soaked it all in, reading everything, studying Jane’s coat, watching the looping video for at least four full runs, all the while typing notes into his phone. When he got to Jane’s letter under Plexiglas, his eyebrows drew together and his fingers rubbed his chin. I joined him there, and Jane’s words still sang to me: “I can’t change the way I was born.” We stood side by side and that was when he laced his fingers in mine.
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