The Weight of Zero

by Karen Fortunati

  Whatever. This is a defensive maneuver to negate the class comment.

  But it lands on Kristal like a direct-hit drone strike.

  “They’re beautiful,” she says slowly, and I can almost see her brain working, thinking how she’s got a new set of dilators and I got new earrings. Which one of these is not like the other?

  “I’ve got to make a phone call before we start up again,” Kristal says suddenly, pulling open the bathroom door. Her bangle bracelets chatter. “See you in there?” Without waiting for my answer, she exits, leaving me alone.

  And for the first time in at least a month, since the cuckoo, cuckoo incident in the computer lab, I feel something on the back of my neck. It’s the breath of my old acquaintance, Zero. That shrewd fucker has been waiting in the wings, biding his time for the inevitable cracks to appear. So he can seep back in and flood me. He’s getting bolder again.

  Not now. Not yet. I lean close to the mirror and whisper loud enough for Zero to hear, “Fuck off.”

  “Catherine, you sit here.” Nonny beckons me to the chair at the head of the table. Michael, Anthony, Lorraine and Tony all freeze in place.

  “Did you just call Michael’s friend by her real name?” Anthony yells. “Catherine, you’ve broken the land-speed record. Nonny never calls any non-Pitoscia by their first name until at least one full calendar year has passed along with a lunar eclipse. Jesus, Michael, you should’ve tried to take out Farricelli like three weeks ago.”

  The last comment wipes the fake smile right off Michael’s bandaged-chin face. Something is definitely wrong. I haven’t seen Michael since Wednesday. He missed school yesterday and today. All his texts were one-word responses to my questions. Then tonight, he greeted me at the front door, dressed in a ratty old Paoletti’s Landscaping T-shirt and baggy sweatpants, with a lukewarm hello, his eyes glued to a spot right above my eyes. I thought for sure he’d notice his snowflake earrings. Before I put them on, Mom helped me polish them with her silver cloth to make them extra shiny. Michael didn’t notice, he just turned his back and left me to follow him down the hall to the kitchen. I halted, the tail of his shirt in my hand. He had to stop, but he only turned halfway to face me.

  “Hey,” I said softly, pressing my cheek against his shoulder. “You okay?”

  “Sure.” Bland. Generic. No eye contact. He pulled away and began walking again.

  No connection. After two days of no physical contact, he still won’t look directly at me. The world feels off-kilter.

  And now there’s no quick smart-ass comeback to Anthony’s Farricelli comment. Instead, Michael drops into his chair and spoons a heap of rigatoni onto his plate. No one else has even sat down yet.

  “Oh, bro, this is getting really old. You’ve got to drop this sad-sack shit, like, now,” Anthony says.

  Lorraine immediately referees, “Ant, just leave him be.”

  “Can you all please just stop?” Michael asks, his eyes not leaving his plate. “I mean, Catherine’s here. Do we have to start this again? If anybody says another word, I’m leaving.”

  Of course it’s Nonny who says a bunch of words. Words of the surgically precise kind that peel away the layers of denial and doubt and expose the raw nerve. Nonny says loudly, “Michael, he feel bad. He embarrassed. He want to hit the Farricelli boy and he miss. I say good. Michael don’t break a fingernail for that stronzo.”

  The legs of Michael’s chair screech on the tile floor as he whips back from the table. “Jesus Christ!” He charges out of the kitchen. A door opens somewhere, then slams shut.

  What the fuck? Is he going to leave me here? The Pitoscias, all of them, study me with expressions of pity. The cloth of my blouse must be vibrating, my heart is beating so hard. My face is on fire, and I start to sweat, but inside, I feel cold. Is Michael breaking up with me? Right here in front of his whole freaking family?

  And then the moment is over. Michael yells, “Catherine!” and in his tone, I can hear it. The way it cracks a little on the rin part of my name. It’s not me. He’s just beyond mortified. That he failed spectacularly not only in front of me and Farricelli and Tyler and the rest of the school but also in front of Anthony, the cool, take-no-shit older brother with the college expulsion and DUI arrest who, paradoxically, Michael will never live up to.

  What is it that Sandy said? How do we deal with pain? This is Michael’s pain. And he’s not dealing very well at the moment.

  I so get it.

  “Excuse me,” I say to Michael’s family.

  “I’m sorry about that, Cath,” Lorraine says. “Get him calmed down and come up whenever you guys are ready to eat.”

  Anthony shakes his head. “Michael’s a drama queen. Everyone knows Farricelli isn’t fully charged. The kid runs at like fifty-eight percent. It’s no big deal—”

  Tony puts up a hand. “What about this don’t you get? How many times do I have to explain that your brother…”

  I don’t hear the rest. Michael is waiting for me, red-faced, on the basement steps. He lets me pass him and closes the basement door behind me. Downstairs, the room is dark, lit only by the giant TV on the wall. It is black velvet down here, the exact cozy cave that I need. I slink onto the soft sofa, my heart slowing. Michael joins me, but he’s still wound tight. I can feel the rage inside him, radiating from him in waves.

  I reach for one of his balled fists and work my fingers inside it. Once again, our hands talk before our mouths can speak.

  “Cath,” Michael starts, and then shakes his head. “How can you even stand to come here tonight? How can you still want to see me? Didn’t you see any of the videos? I’m such a loser.” His voice is ragged.

  I move closer and rub his back. “Stop saying that. I think you were great. Defending Tyler like that.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Like a complete wimp? Who couldn’t even hit Farricelli’s fat fucking head? I mean, Jesus Christ, his forehead alone is like a freaking billboard.”

  I don’t mean to start smiling, but his description is cracking me up inside. “Nah, it’s smaller. I’m thinking minivan.”

  He looks at me and a slow grin forms above the huge chin bandage. “Gee, thanks. I feel better now.”

  “You should. Seriously.” I rest my forehead against his. We’re so close that his eyes merge into one. “Even if you were a Cyclops, I’d still want to be your girlfriend.” I kiss the tip of his nose.

  Michael pushes me back gently so he can study my face. “So you’re telling me what happened doesn’t turn you off? You’re not, like, skeeved out or anything? When I almost passed out? And almost threw up?”

  I start to massage the tops of his shoulders, which are knotted tight with tension. “I especially like that part.” We both laugh. “This doesn’t change my feelings for you at all. The part that sticks with me is that you’re a loyal friend. Got that, Pit Man?”

  “Got it,” he whispers.

  I scoot closer and we come together. Michael pulls his head back and we start to kiss, sweet and light. But then it deepens. Ignites. Like all the worry and stress of the last couple of days, all the negative energy is rechanneled. We’re kissing with a new intensity, and between the warm lips and tongues and hands, I only vaguely register the cotton gauze of his bandage against my own chin.

  Michael pushes me back so we are lying on the sofa. His back is damp with sweat and his mouth is moving lower, down my neck, my collarbone, going even farther. Then his hands are under my shirt. He’s pulling me even closer to him, unhooking my bra. It has never been this way between us before—rushed, fast. But it feels so good.

  “You are so beautiful.” His breath is deliciously hot on my ear.

  His weight on top of me feels so solid, so right. We fit together perfectly. He lifts himself to gaze at me, intense lust in his expression. As he unbuttons the first two buttons of my shirt, his dark eyes hold mine. With that same Mona Lisa boy-smile. And in the flickering light of the TV, the image of his face imprints itself on my brain. Permanently.
>
  “Is this okay?” he whispers huskily, reaching for the third button.

  It strikes me that I could love this boy. I could really love him. And then the second truth hits: I can never be with him that way, experience sex with him. It would be beyond cruel to share that with him, to be so intimate, when he’s only met the facade of Catherine Pulaski. The real Catherine has to die when Zero crash-lands, and I don’t want to hurt or scar him forever.

  I feel cold suddenly. I button my shirt and manage to separate from him. “No, we better not. Not now.” I stand up.

  Nonny calls to us from the top of the basement steps, “Michael! Michael! You done being a baby now? Bring Catherine up. I got dinner here for you. It’s getting cold.”

  “Jesus,” Michael mutters, before yelling to her, “We’ll be up in five.”

  He stands and moves close to me, cupping my face gently in his hands. “Cath, I’ve never felt this way before. I think—”

  “C’mon,” I say, cutting him off. I can’t hear this. I don’t want to know how he feels about me. It cannot be said out loud. I’m not ready to let him go yet, but I can’t add any more to the cloak of guilt I wear for Mom. It’s too heavy for me now. “Nonny is waiting for us.”

  I leave my phone off the entire weekend. I’m confused and sad about Michael.

  What started out as a quest to experience has turned into a bittersweet entanglement—something that majorly complicates my plan, which makes it no longer possible. And that knowledge shakes me. I’ve been thinking about breaking it off with Michael, a preemptive strike that will hurt him less in the long run.

  And hurt me less too. I know I can never tell him I’m bipolar. I could not bear to see his face.

  And there’s Kristal. I know I damaged our friendship last week. With that comment about the earrings. She’s stopped asking about getting together, and soon she’s going to start asking herself, Why bother with Cat? If she hasn’t already. It’s only a matter of time.

  I’m trying to adjust to their future absence, so I shut off my phone to get myself used to the inevitable.

  This turmoil is accelerating Zero’s arrival. I felt him last week, breathing on my neck in the girls’ bathroom. I saw him in the kitchen at the Pitoscias’, circling like a shark. For the first time since starting Lamictal in September, I couldn’t fall asleep Friday or Saturday. I know Dr. McCallum would tell me to note it in my nonexistent sleep journal. To tell him. But I trust my shoe box more than that.

  I don’t know what to expect when I turn on my phone this Monday morning. As I hold my breath and type my passcode, I avoid looking at my home screen photo. There are three voice mails from Michael and ten texts, three of which are from Kristal.

  First one: 10:16 a.m. Saturday. “Hope M ok and you had a good time last night.” The next one: 4:37 p.m. Saturday. “In CVS feminine care aisle. Major envy. Ha!” The third is from last night: 10:51 p.m. Sunday. “Are you ok?”

  I take my first full deep breath of the last fifty hours. I’ve been tightly compressed all weekend, breathing shallowly. I respond first to Kristal. “So sorry. Not good weekend,” and then I stop. I don’t know how much more to say.

  She responds right away. “You ok????? Was so worried”

  I almost lose it right then and there, at the top of the steps, with Mom waiting at the front door. Kristal’s concern is exactly what I need. But I can’t tell her the truth. So I type, “M not great but things better now. He is hugely embarrassed. Can’t come to group today. Dr appointment”

  Kristal texts back, “Will give you big hug tomorrow! Hang in there! ”

  “Catherine, c’mon! I can’t be late today,” Mom calls from downstairs. “I want to warm up the car. Don’t forget to lock the front door.”

  I feel a million pounds lighter. So much so that I almost laugh at Mom’s reminder. Don’t forget to lock the front door. I’ve been doing that every single day since freshman year. Mom always starts the car and loads it up with her paisley lunch tote, the traveling polka-dot bag/medicine cabinet and, up until two weeks ago, the laptop. (She leaves the laptop in the kitchen now—unguarded and available. It is an unspoken leap of faith.) Regarding my door-locking task, Mom stubbornly refused to relieve me of it, even in my darkest hours, unwilling to acknowledge that I might not be capable of the simplest of functions.

  I grab my backpack, open the front door and freeze. Because Mom’s not in the Accord. She’s standing on our cracked concrete walkway, talking with Michael. Michael. Who nervously shifts from foot to foot. A flesh-colored Band-Aid covers his chin. Our eyes catch. In my peripheral vision, the tailpipe of Lorraine’s Subaru at our curb blows a steady stream of white into the morning air.

  “Catherine.” Mom wheels around. “Michael asked if he could drive you to school today.”

  “Uh…okay,” I say, trying to tamp down the relief and happiness flaring up in my chest, tugging up the corners of my mouth.

  “Is this legal?” Mom asks Michael. “Has the required time passed for you to be able to drive friends?”

  Michael tears his eyes from me and back to Mom. “Yesterday. As of yesterday, I’m allowed to drive friends. And I’m a good driver. My mom would have never given me her car if I wasn’t.”

  “Does she know you’re driving Catherine today?”

  “Yeah.” Michael flushes.

  This is new territory for both Mom and me: Catherine driving with another seventeen-year-old. Jody is yet again pushed out of her comfort zone. And must handle the latest issue all by herself.

  “Can I go with Michael?” I ask.

  Mom’s expression asks me if I’m really okay with Michael. As my eyes tell her yes, I notice that she looks old this morning. Older than she did when she handed me my toasted and buttered English muffin fifteen minutes ago.

  I throw my arms around her. Mom is stunned, and before I pull back, I kiss her on the cheek.

  Dear Lord, when was the last time I’ve kissed my mother?

  “I’ll see you at two-forty-five? On time, okay?” she asks, the code for “Don’t forget we have a Dr. McCallum appointment at three.”

  I nod. And then Michael takes my backpack and slings it over his shoulder. He opens the passenger door for me. It’s so awkward between us. I slide onto the passenger seat and Michael takes the driver’s seat.

  “I have a lot to say, Cath, but let me concentrate and drive to school first and then we can talk in the parking lot. Is that okay?”

  I nod. I’m not sure what to do. He must be mad at me for blowing him off all Saturday and Sunday.

  But then he says, “That’s for you,” and points to a Dunkin’ Donuts bag on the floor. I open it to find two double-chocolate doughnuts. “That’s your favorite, right?” Michael asks nervously. “I thought that’s what you said.”

  “But there’s no jelly—your favorite,” I say. “Did you eat it already?”

  “Nope,” Michael says, his eyes glued on the road. “Couldn’t eat this morning.”

  When we get to the student parking lot, Michael pulls into the spot farthest from the school. He turns to me, his face red and eyebrows rammed together. “I…I…had my speech all planned out. But…” He takes a deep breath. “I am so sorry about Friday. If I pushed you in any way. If you felt pressure. If I—I m-m-made you uncomfortable in the basement.”

  Oh my God. He’s agonizing over that? And has been since Friday when I didn’t return his texts or calls? Instantly, I feel like complete shit. “No, Michael, please don’t apologize.” And even though I told myself the entire weekend that I would limit contact with him, I find myself moving closer, wrapping my arms around him, hugging him. “No, I wasn’t upset about that. I was just…I don’t know.” And then this comes out, “I was having a tough weekend. It had nothing to do with you. I’m so sorry if you thought that.”

  Michael pulls back to study my face. “Really? Oh my God, I was completely freaking out. I thought I had blown it with you.” He takes both my hands in his. “I still cannot be
lieve that you’re my girlfriend. I’ve liked you since freshman year. Since that show. You probably don’t believe it, but the minute I saw you, that was it for me. I haven’t looked at another girl since. Tyler sent this to me almost two years ago.” Michael takes out his phone, taps away and then hands it to me. It’s a video. “Go ahead. Watch it.”

  It’s a clip of me dancing in the talent show. Just me. Riley and Olivia twirl by occasionally, but the camera is focused on me. Michael was right about how I stayed in the back. The music, the number one pop song for that year, a song I despised, sounds cheap and tinny.

  “Tyler saw my face. He took the video while we waited in the wings and sent it to me for Christmas,” Michael says.

  I can’t speak. My heart thuds. My cheeks feel like they’re on fire. I can’t take my eyes off red-ribboned, chestnut-ponytailed freshman me. The gleam of my red satin miniskirt catching the light as I move. I was good. And damn, I was skinny. Too skinny. Mom was right. I look a little bobbleheaded, my head a tad too big for my frame. I have a mellow smile on my face, slightly zoned out from whatever Dr. A was prescribing me. And even though I hated the song Riley chose, I loved that routine. In fact, I don’t think I ever met a routine I didn’t like. I remember dancing now. This particular show and all the Miss Ruth recitals. The joy of it. The music enveloping me. My body moving purely from muscle memory. Performing in the heat of the spotlights. Thoughts on mute. Only music and motion.

  Peace.

  I miss it.

  “Cath?” Michael asks. “Are you creeped out? Is it kind of psycho for me to have this?”

  “I can’t believe it,” I whisper, mesmerized by freshman me. Because I know this girl’s story like I know Jane’s. This skinny, dance-loving freshman is less than a year away from her lithium and Prozac overdose. I want to cry for her. Because she looks okay right then and there. She’s dancing, for Christ’s sake.