Tales From My Closet

by Jennifer Anne Moses

  Did everyone really hate me that much? Or maybe everyone didn’t hate me. Maybe only the blog writer hated me. Was I that horrible? Couldn’t they just understand that I was miserable?

  And I was more miserable now.

  I had to find out who had written it, and make her — them — take it down. Why couldn’t people just understand? Even Robin didn’t understand me anymore. Even she thought I was just, well, a bitch! But I wasn’t really. Not deep down. Not in that place where I used to love Meryl, and she used to love me back, and everything was simple and easy and free. I just didn’t know how to be friends with anyone anymore! Maybe, after all, it was me who was a freak — and not them. Maybe that’s why Arnaud treated me the way he had: because he knew, too!

  When, as I headed toward my first class, I heard a bunch of girls giggling behind my back, I felt myself going hot and cold all over. Worse, when I turned around to stare them down, they scurried away. Ignore them, I told myself. Maybe they were just jealous. After all, they’d have a right to be, especially because what I was wearing that day, for the first day of school after the winter break, was as entirely an incredible outfit as any I’d ever put on. It was a gray woolen Libby Fine minidress, topped with a Libby bolero jacket, and my black boots. I’d tied my hair back into one long braid, and as I walked, I could feel it swishing back and forth along my spine. I could also tell that people were looking at me! Ignoring everyone, I walked on.

  But just as I was coming out of the bathroom, I saw Robin hurrying up to me. “I need to talk to you!”

  “I thought we weren’t friends anymore.”

  “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  “That you’re a whiny crybaby?”

  “Okay. Just forget it, then.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  But there was something in her voice, some catch, like backed-up tears, that stopped me. Plus, she looked weird, like she’d been playing makeup with her mother’s cosmetics and had forgotten to wash it off. And just like that, I figured it out: She knew who had written the blog.

  “You know, don’t you?”

  “Know what?”

  “Who wrote the blog.”

  She looked at me as though I was from Mars. “Huh?”

  “Tell me, Robin. I mean it. Who wrote that stupid blog?”

  “First, if you didn’t notice, I’m in it, too. And second, I have no idea!”

  “Who. Wrote. It.” By now I was so upset that my voice was shaking, I was so angry. “Tell me, Robin. Because if there’s something I need to know . . .”

  As the words flew out of my mouth, Robin seemed to shrink a little inside herself, as if she were protecting herself from a blow. Which is when, in a flash, I figured the whole thing out: Robin felt guilty. She’d already gone blabbing to Meryl about Arnaud, which was how Meryl knew about “Raincoat Boy” to begin with. Then Meryl had gone blabbing to Um’s mother. And now Um knew all about the raincoat — and everything else, too! It was so obvious, I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. Instead, I took Robin by both shoulders and shook her.

  “You!” I said.

  “What?”

  “You told my mother about me.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You did! I can tell by your face.” It was true, too. Robin’s face was going pink around the edges, and her eyes, coated with way too much makeup, were like spinning black discs. As if mascara could cover up what she’d done! “You told Meryl everything. And she gossiped with her new friend from across the street. Who turned around and told Um!”

  “But I already told you! I don’t have a clue who wrote it! And I didn’t tell your mother anything! Not even after everything!”

  “Everything? Everything like what? Like I gave you that Donna Karan that you’re so obsessed with? Like I helped you get a job last summer with Aunt Libby?”

  “And like you got drunk and spilled red wine on a dress that doesn’t even belong to me? And didn’t even offer to pay for the dry cleaning? How about that?”

  “Meaning what, Robin? On the worst day of my life, I spilled wine by mistake, so you felt free to go blabbing to my know-it-all mother about Arnaud?”

  “On the worst day of your life? How about my life? You’re not the only one with problems, you know! You don’t care about anyone but yourself!”

  “At least I don’t go tattling all over town, telling other people’s secrets!”

  “But I told you! I didn’t say a word! Not to your mother — not to anyone.”

  “I’m going to find out who did this,” I said. “And kill them.”

  “But wait!” Robin was trailing behind me now as I stalked down the halls, looking for someone, anyone, who could tell me. Polly! Polly would know — she was lab partners with the freak. But I couldn’t find her. Then the bell rang, and I saw her hurrying to class. But she was inside before I got a chance to catch up with her, and when the final bell sounded, I was alone in the hall.

  I’d never felt so trapped. Even after what had happened in Paris I didn’t feel as trapped as I did now. Because at least in Paris, I could go back to the hotel and cry, and when Libby came back, I could tell her — well, not everything, but enough so that she’d give me a giant hug and then take me out for some shopping therapy. But now, as I walked down the hall heading toward English, I could tell that it was going to be a lot worse than I had thought it would be, because just about everyone — including the freshmen — was staring at me. Heads literally turned to look at me when I walked into class. Third period, with Um in it, was particularly horrendous. After fourth period, this senior girl who I’d never even seen before came up to me and said: “Hey, where’s your raincoat?”

  I was just about ready to flip out when, at last, I ran into Polly, who, when I asked her point-blank, turned a little red around her eyes, and then told me that she wasn’t actually one hundred percent sure, but that she’d heard some talk. . . .

  Which was all the evidence I needed. I was going to kill that Um, and then I’d unmask all of them, starting with Robin!

  In the corner of the cafeteria, sitting with her usual gang of misfits and weirdos, was the biggest misfit weirdo of them all. A moment later, I was standing over her, saying, “Just so you know, you are pathetic. You and your little crew of rejects and uglies.”

  That’s when I noticed that Ann was there, too — Ann, who’d been my best friend in kindergarten. I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed her before, especially because she was the only black girl at the table. Her green eyes were as big as lollipops. Her cropped soft sweater was the color of a green lollipop, too. Around her neck was the same turquoise choker that Um had been wearing at that awful brunch Meryl had dragged me to . . . and as that memory flooded over me, I felt even more trapped, even more desperate and furious — at EVERYONE!

  Then something truly awful happened: I burst into tears! There — right in front of those awful, immature, geeky girls! They sat there frozen, every one of them, until Ann got up and started to come toward me.

  “Get away!”

  All eyes were on me as I turned and, taking my time, walked through the cafeteria, down the hall, to my locker, and finally, out the door.

  The only one at home was Lucy, who jumped on me when I let myself in. I’d skipped lunch, but I wasn’t hungry. Even Daddo wouldn’t be able to help me with this one. Somehow, I knew that the only solution was to get out of there — not just out of the house, but out of West Falls. Then I saw the books stacked neatly on the kitchen table: The Daughter Doctor Does the Teenage Tango, by Meryl Sanders, PhD.

  Her new book. Opening it randomly, this is what I read:

  When exactly do our darling daughters leave behind their innocent charm to become, by turns, boy-crazy, sibling-hating, competitive, moody, premenstrual, angry, self-defeating, or any combination therein? In my own house, I watched, sometimes with horror, as my first child, once a beautiful, sweet, cooperative little girl who delighted in playing dress-up, playing hou
se, and collecting dandelions, turned into a veritable monster of hormonal chaos. . . .

  An hour later, I’d hauled every single copy of that book I could find to a Dumpster a few doors up from us, where one of the neighbors was putting an addition on their house. Then I crawled into bed. I dreamed I was trying to climb a flight of stairs, but it was as if my legs were made of concrete, and I could barely take even one step without being exhausted and frustrated. Then I dreamed that I was in the middle of a war zone, with bombs exploding everywhere: Boom! Boom! Boom! I was so afraid that I woke up. Which is when I realized that the bombs I was hearing were real — and coming from down the hall. The Little Jerk was in his room, banging on his drums.

  Before I even had time to think about it, I went downstairs and grabbed one of his baseball bats. The next thing I know, I was swinging it — smash, smash, crash, crash! “No! No!” Danny was yelling, but I barely heard him — or rather, his cries made me even angrier. I’d show him, the Little Jerk! How dare he ruin my peace of mind like that, interrupting my studies and my privacy with his incessant banging? When I felt him jump on my back, I flipped him around, and just like that, he fell, with a thud, onto the floor.

  Returning to my own room, I caught sight of my own reflection — tall, dark, slim, with long dark hair and perfect clothes. Except for my face, which was blotched with red, I was perfect. Perfect in every way. So perfect that grown men stared at me and my own mother tried to keep me back. So perfect that it hurt. So perfect that the only thing I could do was destroy that perfection permanently. Smashing my fist into the glass, I watched as my perfect image shattered into dozens of fragments and fell on the floor. Though my hand was bleeding from a hundred different cuts, for the first time in almost a year, I felt no pain at all.

  It never occurred to me that Becka would freak out. But there she was, standing over Justine, screaming so hard that her eyes bulged and her face turned red, screaming so hard that, in the end, I felt like every kid in school was staring at us — at me and Justine, that is. Because even though we hadn’t signed our names to the blog, rumors were already spreading that we’d written it. Becka herself figured it out! I don’t know how she did, either; Justine and I had sworn not to tell anyone at school about it, and the only person who may have had some idea was Polly, but she’d been so wrapped up in her swimming Finals that she could think of nothing else.

  “Uh-oh,” I said to Justine after Becka was finally gone. “I guess she read it.”

  “Guess so.”

  “She’s gone bonkers.”

  “Honestly? Serves her right,” Justine said, stabbing the air with a knife.

  “But, Justine!” I said. “She’s really upset. We shouldn’t have done what we did.”

  “It was your idea, remember? Remember how you begged me to write it?”

  “Yeah, but it was your idea to write about Becka’s raincoat. Oh God. I feel bad.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “But, Justine. She was freaking.”

  “And you know what? We didn’t even say anything mean! What’s her major maladjustment, anyway? That girl’s a terrifying toad. Anyway, she had it coming to her.”

  I just sat there, my mouth hanging open like I was at the dentist’s, as Justine stood up, gathered her things, and stalked out of the cafeteria. Great, I thought. Just what I need. More drama. As if the drama of Christmas week in Florida with my family hadn’t been bad enough.

  To wit: We flew to Florida and took a taxi to our hotel. As usual, my sister and I were in the same room. The minute the door closed behind us, she turned to me and said: “Mama told me that she got you something special to wear for Debate Finals.”

  “True.”

  “And that she just can’t wait to see you up there.”

  “Yup.”

  “And that you’re so into it that you spend all your free time practicing.”

  “I guess.”

  “And that she’s so proud of you.”

  “As she should be.”

  Finally, with a slam of the closet, Martha turned to me and said: “And just what do you think you’re up to, anyway?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, little sister. Do you not remember that I was, in fact, on Debate Team? And that I did, in fact, go to Finals?”

  “How could anyone forget? You’re still bragging about it.”

  “Look, it’s better to tell me than to face them.”

  “What? Tell you what?”

  “Are you doing drugs?”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “Because if you are — and I’m serious about this, Ann — just don’t. But, for God’s sake, if you are, you have to tell me! You have to tell someone! People ruin their lives with that stuff.”

  “Really? Because no one’s ever told me that before.”

  “Here’s something else no one’s ever told you: You are truly an idiot.”

  “And you are truly a control-freak goody-two-shoes suck-up with a superiority complex who thinks she’s the boss of the world!”

  Which was when something truly weird happened. My sister sat down on the bed, her shoulders slumping, and said: “Ann, we don’t have to be enemies, you know.”

  “We don’t?” I snickered.

  “Look, you might not know this, but you’re Mama’s favorite, and always have been. So why do you compete with me all the time?”

  “Don’t you have it backward? First, it’s you who’s always putting me down, and second, I’m barely even a shadow of your shadow.”

  She continued to sit there. Then she squeezed her eyes shut. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

  “What don’t I get?”

  “Look, I took a class this semester, in psychology, and there I was, me, written up on the blackboard: the perfect firstborn kid who only wanted to please my parents.”

  “Exactly. You’ve given them bragging rights from now until doomsday. All they talk about is their daughter who goes to Princeton.”

  “Yeah, and now I’m stuck. I mean, what if I were to tell you that I’m not even sure I want to stay at Princeton?”

  “What?”

  “Do you have any clue how much pressure there is there?” There wasn’t a single crease on her perfectly pressed pink button-down blouse.

  “Your choice.”

  “Everyone is already gunning for law or medical school.”

  “Including you.”

  “I don’t know, Ann,” she said.

  “Guess there’s a first time for everything,” I shot right back.

  She started unpacking, taking one pastel-colored blouse after the other out of her suitcase, along with her white capris and polo shirts, her espadrilles and boat shoes. Her voice remained quiet when she said: “Look, I know you’re not on Debate Team, Ann. You’d hate Debate Team. Even I hated Debate Team. The only reason I did it was because Mama and Daddy thought it would help me get into college.”

  By now I was unpacking, too: the fabulous red dress with the white flowers from Mama Lee, a pair of her polka-dot capris, a fabulous white sleeveless blouse with a midriff tie — all that great bonanza of bounty.

  “You may not know it, but it’s you, not me, who has it good. First of all, just look at you, with your pixie thing going, your arty friends, your creativity.”

  “Which makes me what? A giant loser.”

  “No! It makes you original. I’ve seen your sketchbooks, Ann. You leave them all over the place.”

  “I do?”

  “Duh. You think it’s easy being your sister?”

  For the first time in my life, I was speechless.

  “I don’t see why not,” I finally said.

  “Anyway,” she said with a little shrug of her Lacoste-covered shoulders, “you can tell me what you’re up to, or you can face the music when Daddy and Mama go to Debate Finals only to find out that you’ve played them. You may be able to fool Mama, but don’t try it on me. You couldn’t debate your way out of a we
t paper bag.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? That I’m stupid?” Sincerity or no sincerity, I was angry at her all over again.

  “It means that you don’t care about stuff like that — and why should you? If I had even an ounce of creativity, the last thing in the world I’d want to do is Debate Team.” She let out a long sigh. “Not to mention that you talk so much, and so fast, that no one can keep up with you!”

  “You just love to put me down, don’t you?”

  “You really don’t get it, do you?” she said again. “I’ve tried to cover your butt with this stupid debate lie of yours for as long as I can, but it’s about to blow up in your face, and you don’t even know it.”

  “Way to condescend to me again,” I said.

  That’s when she burst into tears. “Why can’t you, for once in your life, just be nice to me?”

  And with that, I felt awful. As in: really, really awful. Like I’d been mean to a five-year-old, or lit a dog’s tail on fire.

  Which is when I just kind of melted, and told her about the blog that Justine and I were about to unveil, and how, when Mama and Daddy finally saw it, they’d be so proud of me that they’d be able to forget all about Debate Team.

  When I was finally done explaining, she looked me dead on and said: “Let me get this straight. You concocted this entire stupid story about being on Debate Team because you’re afraid of telling Mama that you’ve been spending your afternoons in the art room? Why would she care? What are you, crazy?”

  “But that’s just the thing!” I wailed. “She does care. Every time I mention art, she freezes and gives me this look like she’s going to get sick.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “But it’s true! I’m supposed to be you.”

  “What do I have to do, slap you so you’ll wake up? It’s easy for me, getting good grades. But you’re the one who’s just so cute and funny, and cracks everyone up all the time, and looks like Mama Lee — unlike me, who looks like Daddy! — and on top of all of that, you’re totally Mama Lee’s favorite, so much so that she even gave you all her beautiful clothes! As if I didn’t even exist!”