“But I thought you hated Mama Lee’s — my — clothes.”
“I love them,” she said.
Then she said: “But I couldn’t wear them anyway. I’m too big. But you would have thought that, just maybe, she would have let me have a hat or something. A pair of gloves, or a ring. Instead, you got everything.”
“Do you want some of mine?” I finally said.
“No. She gave them to you, not to me.”
I felt so sad that I almost hugged her. Instead, I said: “But that still doesn’t explain anything at all about why Mama is so weird about my doing anything even a little bit artistic, including in the way I dress!”
We’d come to a deadlock. Then my sister came out with the biggest whopper of all: “I was never, ever supposed to tell anyone this.”
“What?”
“It’s about Mama. About Mama and Mama Lee.”
Then she told me.
“When Mama was younger, she was secretly engaged to someone else — I mean, someone who wasn’t Daddy.”
“What?”
“He was an artist. And a lot older than she was. A whole lot older. In fact, he was an old boyfriend of Mama Lee’s. He used to come over to the house. That’s how Mama met him.”
“Mama dated an old boyfriend of Mama Lee’s? How is that even possible?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer, but Martha continued. “Mama Lee didn’t know a thing about it, but Mama had started posing for him. For his paintings. She’d go to his studio, or wherever, after school. But she told Mama Lee she was doing something else, a school club, and with Mama Lee working, she didn’t even think to check up on her.”
“I don’t like where this is heading. . . .”
“First he painted her sitting in a chair, just gazing off into the distance.”
I bit my lip.
“Then he did a bunch of sketches.”
My stomach began to make noises.
“And then he did another portrait, this one just of her face.”
I was getting impatient: “So?”
“Finally, he did his famous painting of her. And when I say famous, I mean it. It’s in a museum somewhere, even.”
“Yeah, right.”
“It is. I swear, Ann, I’m not making this up. You can Google it if you don’t believe me.”
“Believe what?”
“The famous painting of Mama. It’s called Black Beauty in Red and White Floral.”
“Huh?”
“That red dress. With the white flowers. The one Mama Lee gave you.”
“What about it?”
“Mama’s wearing it in that painting. She took it from Mama Lee’s closet and posed in it. She thought she was going to marry that man. But he was still half in love with Mama Lee!”
“I think I’m going to lose my lunch.”
“The painting was in some gallery somewhere and Mama Lee found out about it and pitched a fit and then the whole story came out and she broke the two of them up but good.”
It was like someone had punched me in the stomach. I could barely think my own thoughts. Finally I said, “Mama told you this whole long story?”
“Yeah, and she made me promise not to tell anyone! She said even Daddy didn’t know all the details. And now I’ve gone and told you, and if she ever finds out, man, is she going to be angry.”
Suddenly my sister looked very, very tired, very old and worn-out and without hope. “Just don’t tell her you know,” she pleaded.
“But I still don’t get it!” I yelped. “Just because Mama wore that one dress for the painting and, well, whatever, doesn’t explain why she insists that I have to dress like the world’s biggest conformist and act like someone who’s never had an original thought or original impulse in her entire life.”
“Like me, you mean?” Martha said. Which is when I felt myself flushing hot and deep, and for the first time since I’d first met Justine, I wished I could, just for once, keep my big mouth shut forever.
For once, I had to admit it: Martha was right. Even so, I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t tell Mama the truth. Not even when we got back from Florida and I went over to Justine’s for one final edit of our blog. Not even when Mama Lee called me to tell me that Mama had invited her to the Debate Finals and that Mama was “just brimming over with pride.” Not even when I went ahead and Googled Black Beauty in Red and White Floral and saw the painting with my own eyes: my beautiful young mother, wearing my — Mama Lee’s — favorite fabulous dress, the red one with the tight waist, cap sleeves, and big white flowers.
And now Justine was angry at me, Becka was furious at me, and the entire high school was talking about the drama that had happened at lunch. I sprang a headache, and then a stomachache, and by the time the final bell rang I felt like I was going to vomit. All I wanted to do was go home, undress, curl up into my bed, and sleep. But when I got home, Mama, who was usually working at that hour, was waiting for me. She didn’t look too happy, either. This is what she said: “I just got off the phone with Justine’s mother.”
Now, in itself, that wasn’t that weird. Justine’s mom and Mama had started talking soon after Justine and I had become friends. What was weird was: first, that she’d bothered to tell me she’d spoken to Justine’s mom on the phone, and second, that she was home in the first place.
I took a tentative step or two across the kitchen floor, heading, I hoped, to the hallway that would lead me to the stairs that would allow me to escape to my room.
“She wanted me to know that something Justine wrote — something on Facebook or something like that — went viral. Something about Becka. And that Becka’s so upset that she broke something — something about drums, and then a mirror.”
She looked at me as if I’d just started the third world war.
“The upshot is that Becka’s in the hospital.”
“Oh my God.”
“You probably already know that Justine’s mom — Judy — and Meryl Sanders are friendly, even if the girls aren’t.”
I nodded.
“Judy’s at the hospital right now.”
“Mama,” I said, “are you saying that the girl tried to kill herself?”
“I don’t really know. Judy didn’t know, either. What I do know is that Justine had something to do with it.”
“What? Who told you that?”
“Why? What do you know about it?”
“Just that Becka flipped out in lunch today,” I fudged. “She screamed at Justine and me. She was, like — out of control.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ann,” she said, “I think it’s time we had a little talk, don’t you?”
“What? Why?”
“How about we start with Debate Team.” The way she said it, it wasn’t a question.
Martha had squealed. I wanted to pound her brains in.
“Sit,” Mama commanded.
“Your sister is very worried about you,” she continued after I’d taken my usual seat at the kitchen table. “Very. She’s thinking of taking the semester off.”
“Not for my sake, she isn’t.”
“Even so, she may not go back to Princeton next semester.”
“Kill me now.”
“You aren’t on Debate Team, Ann. Explain yourself.”
“First I have to kill her.”
“Your sister has nothing to do with your choices, Ann. You and you alone chose to lie. You and you alone have chosen to hide your activities from me. You and you alone have decided to prance around in your grandmother’s ridiculous outfits, like — like I don’t know what! Like you’re trying to draw attention to yourself. As if you don’t get enough love and attention at home! Oh, you’re so much like Mama Lee that you may as well be her clone. But it’s over, do you understand?” Finally she just gave me the look, her big brown eyes and steady gaze holding mine until I had to look away.
“What do you want from me?”
“How about the truth?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong! I swear!”
There was a silence. A long, long silence. Finally, Mama broke it. “I’m not sure I have reason to trust you. But I will hear you out. You can thank your sister, by the way, for assuring me that, though you’ve been sneaking around, you’re not fooling around with drugs or boys. So if it isn’t drugs, and it isn’t a boyfriend, and I think by now we can be pretty sure that you’re not spending your time with the Debate Team — what is it? What are you hiding?”
“Mama,” I finally said, “there’s something you don’t know about me.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you think you’re a lesbian? Because, honey, if you’re gay — you’re a little young to know if you are or not, but if you are, that’s okay. Your dad and I love you no matter what.”
“But, Mama, that’s not it!” I said. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Finally, with my eyes squeezed closed, I said: “It’s that — I want to be an artist.”
She looked at me as if I were speaking Chinese.
“That’s where I’ve been in the afternoons. In the art room at school. Working with Ms. Anders, my art teacher.”
“That’s what this is all about? Frankly, I find that hard to believe.”
“But it’s true! That’s what I’ve been doing! I’ve been learning to — well, mainly to draw.”
“You’ve been learning to draw,” she said in a voice that let me know she’d just about run out of patience.
“Well, I like painting, too. Actually, I love it, Mama. I love painting. I love just — just everything about it, the feel of the brushes in my hands, and the smell of the paints, and how sometimes my hands know what they’re doing, like they’ve got a mind of their own.”
“I see,” she said coldly.
“You hate me now, don’t you?”
“Hate you? Honey, how could I ever hate you? I love you with my entire heart.” Mama’s voice was trembling now, and there were tears in her eyes. Then her voice hardened. “But I must tell you that I’m both concerned and furious. Which is why I have to find some way to punish your butt so badly that you’ll never, never ever, pull this kind of idiocy again.”
“Mama?”
“For lying. For pretending. For dishonesty of every kind. For your abominable disregard for me. And for your behavior to your sister. ”
“But, Mama!”
“And as for art — there’s just no future there for you, Ann. Unless you’re willing to live on nothing for the rest of your life.” She shook her head. “Honey! Listen to me loud and clear: Art is all right for rich kids. But for people like us? We can’t afford to go fooling around with that kind of nonsense. And nonsense it is. I learned the hard way. You don’t have to.”
“But, Mama!” I wailed. “Daddy’s a lawyer! And you have a good career, too. We have plenty of money!”
“Do you have any clue what it’s like out there, Ann?”
I looked down at my feet.
“Exactly. So I’d suggest that, instead of defending yourself, you think long and hard about what I just said. Especially about Becka.”
“What’s she got to do with anything?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Me?”
“Yes,” she said. “You.”
“Oh my God,” I said, utterly panicked as the stories my brain was already spinning came to the surface of my consciousness — how the art I was doing was really making posters for the Debate Team, and how it was obvious that Becka had come to school drunk — but just before I launched into a whole new set of lies, I heard a siren in the distance, thought about Becka being in the hospital, and decided that I had to tell Mama the truth instead.
So I did.
No sooner had I walked in the door when Mom came hurrying out to greet me, but instead of her usual overhug, she took me by the shoulders and, her voice elevated, said: “What do you know about Becka?”
“That she’s the world’s biggest bitch?” I still hadn’t quite gotten over what a hissy fit she’d thrown in the cafeteria over the launch of Fashion High, particularly since Ann’s sketches were totally flattering. My only question was how she’d figured out that I was connected to it.
“Did you have something to do with Becka — something that set her off?”
“Mom — the girl doesn’t even talk to me except to insult me. You know that.”
“Tell me the truth, Justine. I just got a call from Meryl. Becka’s in the hospital.”
“What did she do? Choke on her own nasty vapors?”
“No, she did not. She slit her wrists.”
“What?”
“Right in front of her brother, too. Apparently he was the one who called 911.”
“Mom, look: I don’t know what Becka’s mom told you, but slitting her wrists is not the girl’s style.”
“Honey, I was here when the ambulance pulled up. I heard the siren — and I went over there right away.”
“You can’t just mind your own business, can you?”
“For God’s sake, Justine! This isn’t about some stupid quarrel between you and Becka! Don’t you get it? She’s in the hospital right now — and it’s where I’m going, too — because of something you wrote.”
“What? Who told you that?”
“Meryl said something about some website, some blog. You and Ann — I knew you were up to something up there. I’m not an idiot, you know.”
“Oh, really?” I then said. Suddenly, with Mom screaming in my face, I felt like a caged animal, hot and scared and desperate all at once. My heart was pounding. My palms were sweaty. Had Becka really slit her wrists? Over our blog? Because if she had . . . But as anger welled up inside me, I lost track of what I’d been thinking.
“You’re not an idiot?” I said. “Are you kidding? Mom, you are, hands down, the biggest idiot ever. Not only have you followed Dad around from place to place, like some stupid, loyal dog, but you quit your entire dancing career for him. You quit having any kind of life at all!”
“This is a topic for another occasion,” Mom said.
“I don’t think so, Mom, because if you want to talk about idiots . . .”
“Not now, Justine. I mean it.”
“Spending hours finding the perfect Christmas gift for him when he gives you some cheap earrings . . .”
“That’s enough!”
“That he doesn’t have a clue who either of us are . . .”
“I need to get to the hospital.”
“. . . only you’re such an idiot that you think he actually loves you, that he actually cares, when in fact you’re an even bigger idiot that Becka’s mom, and Ann’s mom, and all the other moms in the world put together, because you and you alone are the mom who doesn’t even have a clue that she moved to New Jersey so her husband could be closer to his girlfriend!”
It was like she’d just been bitten by a poisonous snake. Or like a blizzard had just blanketed our entire living room with drifts of deep snow, bringing utter stillness, utter silence.
“What did you just say?” she finally said.
“Dad has a girlfriend. She lives in New York.”
Swallowing hard, Mom said: “I’m going to the hospital now to see if there’s anything I can do for Meryl. In the meantime, you’re grounded. And I mean it, Justine. You’re not even allowed into the backyard!”
I watched TV. I went onto Facebook. I called Ann, but she didn’t answer. Then I called Polly, but she didn’t answer, either. I even called Eliza, who was still, duh, in school. Then I had a pressing urge to call Robin, but didn’t even know her last name, and anyway, what would I have said? Am I a murderer?
Because suddenly that’s what I felt like, and I saw my future, too, locked up in some JV prison with a bunch of girls who did heroin and already had two or three children and carried knives just in case they needed to cut your face. The next moment, I was standing over the toilet, dizzy with dread, coughing up — well, no
thing. I tried to puke, but all that came out was spit.
Skizz came up to me and rubbed against my ankles.
But I still found it hard to believe that Becka would try to kill herself — especially over our blog, which I read and reread and reread again, until I didn’t even understand what it said. The next thing I knew, Dad called me. Here’s what he said: “What the hell is going on, Pooky? Your mother left me a message saying that there’s been some emergency.”
“Like you could care,” I said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
What was it supposed to mean, anyhow? I didn’t know — but suddenly, I didn’t care, either. I didn’t care about him. I didn’t care about Mom. And I didn’t even want to think about Becka!
“You could have at least bought Mom that necklace.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The one you were looking at in Bloomingdale’s when I ran into you there even though you said you were out of town on business. The one with all the diamonds.”
“Sapphires,” he corrected. “And I decided they were too much for your mom. You know she doesn’t go in for fancy.”
“Not like some people. How much of my future college tuition did you spend on that thing, anyway?”
“What? Pooky — you’re talking in riddles.”
“I’m talking in riddles?” I said. “Me? Your own little Pooky? Because let’s face it, Billy, I’m not the only one who hasn’t been real clear about things.”
“That’s it. Are you on drugs? I’m coming home right now!”
“I wouldn’t if I were you.”
“Listen here, young lady. You don’t talk to me like that. Ever. Understood?”
“Not a good idea,” I singsonged.
“I’ll be home in thirty minutes, at the latest. And you’re going to stay put. Do you hear me?”
“Loud and clear.”
But instead of staying put — I mean, was he kidding? — I ran away. I didn’t know where to run to, though, so it was a challenge. Clearly, Ann’s house was off-limits, and anyway, we’d just had a big fight and I wasn’t really sure I wanted to talk to her. I called Polly, but her mother said she wasn’t home. And basically, except for the random girls I sat with at lunch, I didn’t have any other friends who I considered actual, live, close, good, want-to-actually-hang-out-with-them friends. So I headed out the door and wandered aimlessly for a while, until, ta-da, I had a master brainstorm. I’d go to Weird John’s house and just kind of hide out there until Mom was so worried about me that she’d forget that I was responsible for Becka’s suicide attempt.
Tales From My Closet Page 19
