“I’m Friending you right now,” Joy said. “I want to be your first Friend.” She gave the keyboard a few clicks, then put the computer to sleep.
You already are my first friend, Harper wanted to tell her. You know that, right? But she knew Joy knew. She rubbed Chip under the chin and asked, “Can we look at those questions now?” She was afraid Joy would have to go home before she could help Harper understand anything about the book they were supposed to have read.
But there was plenty of time. Joy explained it all to her, and when she got to the part about the dog recognizing his old master after ten years, even though Odysseus was in disguise and his best friend didn’t know who he was, Harper rubbed the soft hair of Chip’s head and felt herself wanting to cry. She turned away to try to hide it, but Joy said, “It’s okay, Harp. That part’s supposed to be sad.”
To deflect her embarrassment, Harper gestured at the book and said, “I don’t see how you get any of this. All that language. How can you tell what the story is?”
Joy shrugged and said, “I’m just really, really smart,” and even though she meant it as a joke, they both knew it was true. To subtract from the truth of it (which she did so often around Harper), she went over to the window seat to pick up Harper’s only American Girl doll—Addy, the black one, which her hippie Aunt Heidi (everyone in the family called her this, as if “hippie” were part of her name) had sent for Christmas one year—and pulled the doll’s head off. Harper’s brother had pulled the head off straight out of the box, and they’d never been able to fit it back on properly; whenever Joy came over, she liked to remove Addy’s head and play with it like a ball. Harper had never been able to tell Joy this made her nervous, even though she understood that Addy was plastic and couldn’t feel anything.
She looked away as Joy rolled the doll’s head between her hands. “We’re lucky we got Carbone for English,” Joy said. “Don’t you think? I mean, she’s nice, right?”
Harper shrugged. “I guess.” She didn’t trust her own judgment enough to say that she sometimes thought there was something off about their teacher. She wouldn’t have been able to define it any further beyond “off,” and anyway, what did she know? Most people seemed to love Mrs. C. “What are those kids doing in her classroom sometimes during lunch?” she asked. “What’s up with that?”
“I think she helps them,” Joy said. “Not with schoolwork—more like stuff at home. You know her mother was a drunk once, right? She likes to help kids whose parents are messed up. Like, Keith Nance is in there all the time.”
Harper refrained from responding. She didn’t want to be forced to feel any sympathy for Keith Nance.
“Speaking of what’s up with that,” Joy added, “what about Tru?” She’d passed him on her way up to Harper’s bedroom and said Hey, but he hadn’t answered. “Why is he so obsessed with solitaire?”
Harper was about to give an answer—she believed it was her brother’s superstitious way of trying to ensure that everything would be all right—when her mother rapped at the door and told them it was time for dinner, which meant that it was time for Harper to make dinner.
“Crap. What time is it?” Joy woke up the computer to check the clock. “My mother was supposed to be here by now.”
“Your mother’s never late.” It was one of the many things Harper admired and appreciated about Mrs. Enright: she could be counted on to do what she was supposed to.
“Yeah, well. That was before she started having an affair.” Joy began chewing on her thumb.
“What? What? She is not.” Harper practically shouted it, and Chip jumped off the bed to express disapproval at the noise.
“Yes, she is. This black guy from her school, her teaching assistant.” Joy gave Addy’s head one last toss, this one almost to the ceiling, before cramming it back onto its body. “He came over for a cookout with some of my father’s guys. We talked about art and stuff. He was completely awesome.” For a few moments her focus left the room as she appeared to remember the conversation. Then she snapped back. “At least I thought he was awesome, but now, since I figured it out, I hate him. I mean, I hate her worse. But I hate him, too.”
“I don’t believe it,” Harper said.
“I didn’t either, at first.”
“But why?”
Joy shrugged to indicate either Who knows? or Who cares?; Harper couldn’t tell which. Then Joy lowered her head and murmured, almost as if she didn’t intend Harper to hear, “I can’t tell you what it’s done to me, Harp. Everything I thought I knew about how the world works, or who people are—my faith in my own judgment—it’s gone straight to hell.”
“Don’t say that.” Harper felt a chill.
“Okay.” But the smile Joy gave did not reassure her. Then Joy jammed her books into her backpack and added, “Of course, if I had a cell phone, I could just call my mother. But no.” She gave the zipper a furious tug. “My father says I don’t need a cell phone. How would he know?”
Harper didn’t answer. Not having cell phones because their parents wouldn’t let them was something they had in common, so although she sympathized with Joy, she didn’t want to lose that bond between them because it felt like one of the last. “He doesn’t even know my mother’s sleeping with this guy,” Joy continued.
“How do you know he doesn’t know? Did you ask him?”
Anybody else would have said Duh, but Harper knew she could count on her best friend not to do so. “Because he’s completely clueless” was all Joy said. She’d shrunk into herself since uttering the word affair, and the sight made Harper want to shake her back to her original form. But before she could think how to do so, Joy reached for Harper’s computer. “Let’s see how many Friends you got.”
“Just you, right?” Harper panicked. She hadn’t realized Joy would be inviting anyone else to her page.
“Hey, look, you already got five requests.”
With trepidation, Harper leaned toward the screen. Eric Feinbloom, that was okay; they’d been real friends ever since Home Ec (you were supposed to say Family and Consumer Sciences now, but nobody ever did) in seventh grade. Eric knew almost as much about cooking as Harper knew about baking, and they planned to open a restaurant together after college. Joy showed her how to accept Eric’s request. There was another one from Sandra Sherman. “Who’s that?” Joy asked, but Harper pretended she didn’t know, rather than admit it was a lady from her mother’s therapy group, whom Harper had met a few times when her mother dragged her along. Her mother said she did this so that her problems wouldn’t be such a mystery to Harper, and Harper could never bring herself to say she was fine with the mystery, she had no desire to sit in that circle and listen to adults talk about how frightened they were by the world.
The other three requests came from girls in their class—Delaney, Tessa, and Lin. Joy paused when she saw the names. Harper said, “That’s a joke, right?”
“It could be.” Harper loved her friend all over again for saying it this way, when it was obvious that those girls were just mocking her. “Whatever you do, don’t accept them. They’d probably post things on your Wall you wouldn’t care about.” What Joy meant, Harper knew, was that they would post mean things, cruel things, for other people as well as Harper to see.
She was on the verge of asking Joy to close the account altogether when Harper’s mother returned to tell them that Joy’s mother had pulled up in front of the house.
“Just don’t do anything else here until I can show you, okay?” Joy gestured at the computer and lifted her pack over her shoulder. There were so many books in it—she took mostly advanced classes—that the weight made Harper feel weary just to look at. She nodded and followed her friend downstairs, sorry as always to see Joy go.
Secure Choice
On her way to pick up Joy at Harper’s house, Susanne stopped to buy a pizza. Standing at the counter at Adriano’s she ran into Rachel Feinbloom, who laughed when she saw Susanne and said, “Great minds, huh? Glad I’m not th
e only one who gives her kids pizza for dinner.”
“Brain food,” Susanne said, and Rachel laughed again as if she’d said something funny. “Eric not cooking tonight?”
“He had the nerve to stay after for SAT prep.” Rachel opened the cooler and pulled out three Sprites. “He’s kind of freaked out about it—he didn’t do great the first time; he gets spacey on standardized tests. Mark and I keep telling him don’t worry about it, you want to be a chef, not a brain surgeon, but he still wants to improve his score.” She shrugged. “I think it’s a matter of pride. The kids are always comparing.”
Susanne made a hmm sound of agreement, hoping (though she knew she should be ashamed of it) that Rachel would ask about Joy’s scores. Probably suspecting this, Rachel met her halfway. “Joy taking them again, too?”
“No,” Susanne said, which would have been enough, but then she couldn’t resist adding “She doesn’t have to.” She knew this was obnoxious, but at least it was better than coming right out and saying that Joy had received perfect scores.
“She is so smart.” Rachel shook her head, as if contemplating some marvel she just couldn’t get over. “Hey, did you hear Delaney Stowell got an almost perfect score?”
“Really?” Susanne knew she should try to hide her reaction, but it was too late. “Delaney—you’re sure?” she asked, as if Rachel might have uttered the wrong name by mistake. If it was true, she was glad she’d heard this news from Rachel and not Lynette Stowell, who would have been insufferable in delivering it.
“I know. I was surprised, too. Maybe she’s more than we give her credit for.” Rachel paid for her pizzas, picked up the bag of sodas, and turned to leave, but then a thought appeared to stop her and she put the items back down on the counter. “Look, Susanne, I know this isn’t my place,” she said, lowering her voice to such a degree that Susanne dreaded whatever was coming next. “I don’t mean to intrude, but—well, I’ll just say this: I hope everything’s okay.”
“Of course it is,” Susanne said, so shocked by the inquiry that she answered without fully registering how inappropriate it was. They left the pizza shop together and she gave a wave as Rachel pulled away first, then had to sit in the car and concentrate on controlling her breath.
Rachel’s question wasn’t really about “everything” in that vague, undefined way you say it to people intending to wish them well. It was about Mark Feinbloom’s job at Chilton Secure Choice, where Gil and Susanne held their mortgage, and where Gil had taken out an equity line on his odd-job business, after the bottom fell out of everything and after the fiasco with the “sure thing” he’d believed would earn them back their original investment and enough on top of that to maintain his mother at Belle Meadow. It was about the bank sending Gil statements about how far behind he was, and how much time he would be allowed to catch up before the bank took action. It was about Mark Feinbloom telling his wife things he should have kept confidential, goddammit. And it wasn’t exactly the kind of thing Susanne could call him on without drawing more attention to the facts.
She knew she hadn’t succeeded in appearing to brush off Rachel’s question as if it didn’t concern her. Why hadn’t she had the presence of mind to change the subject—to ask, for instance, if Mark knew anything about the string of ATM robberies throughout the county during the past few months? Now Rachel would go home and tell Mark who she’d run into while picking up pizza, and they’d share a moment of smug sympathy as they shook their heads over the Enrights’ foolishness or ineptitude.
Outside Harper Grove’s house Susanne beeped, knowing it was rude, but she justified it by reminding herself that if she went to the door, she risked being forced into conversation with Harper’s mother. Susanne had avoided her whenever possible since the girls were in second grade, when Barbara Grove drove Joy home from the mall one day and Joy carried in a cardboard case saying, “Mrs. Grove got us matching kittens for Christmas!” and then opened the box to let Salsa step cautiously into the room and, so, into their family. What kind of mother just let someone else’s kid bring a cat home without checking first? Not to mention that a few years ago Barbara had just stopped driving, leaving the carpool in the lurch. The last thing Susanne needed today was to get stuck talking to that woman.
It took a second set of beeps before Joy came out, buds lodged in her ears as she studied her iPod and barely nodded in response to Susanne’s greeting.
At home they listened to a message from Gil saying he’d be late because of a stove install—the kind of job he would never have taken, before last year—and Joy reached into the pizza box as soon as Susanne set it down. “Could you feed her first?” Susanne said, gesturing at Salsa who nuzzled around Joy’s legs, demanding her own dinner.
“No, I really can’t. I’m too weak from hunger.” In the old days Joy would have smiled saying such a thing, but she hardly ever smiled anymore. Still, Susanne appreciated the attempt at lightness, because there wasn’t much of that in the house these days. They each ate a slice without speaking, and reaching to find something to fill the silence, Susanne mentioned that she’d just run into Eric Feinbloom’s mother. Had Joy heard anything about Delaney Stowell getting almost perfect scores on the SAT?
Joy made an elaborate show of needing to swallow before she answered. “Of course I haven’t heard that. Because it can’t possibly be true.”
“I don’t know. She seemed pretty sure.” When Joy didn’t respond she continued, “I can’t tell you how proud it makes me—how well you did. Dad, too. Gotta love those recessive genes.” They’d been making the recessive genes joke since Joy was in middle school, when she showed them her math homework one day and Susanne and Gil just looked at each other and laughed.
She’d thought Joy would appreciate being told her parents were proud of her, but instead she looked down at her lap. “What?” Susanne asked, but Joy shook her head. Susanne still felt a lurch when this happened, though she knew she should be used to it by now. Joy had begun retreating from them over the summer, and especially since school started, though Gil and Susanne didn’t know why. They saw less and less of her, partly because she took on as many hours as they would give her at the nursing home and partly because when she wasn’t working, she spent more time in her bedroom than with her parents. “Tell me, honey. What’s wrong?”
But even she could tell from her voice that the invitation was false; she did not really want to hear an answer.
“Listen, I know,” Joy told her. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
“Find out what?” But Susanne stood to begin clearing the plates as she spoke, trying not to understand that Joy must have overheard her and Gil discussing their money problems. Was it possible she also knew there was no way she’d be able to go to Decker, the dream of hers they’d supported for years, promising they’d do everything they could to make it happen? They’d been careful, but maybe they’d let something slip. “We’re going to be fine. It’s just temporary. Let Dad and me handle it—it’s not for you to worry.”
Joy made a noise. Standing at the sink, Susanne could not see her daughter’s face, so she couldn’t be sure what Joy was expressing. She turned to watch Joy leave the room followed by loyal Salsa, who lifted her tail at Susanne as if in reproach.
Not Dominant
The sun wouldn’t be up for another half hour, but at seven o’clock they were already waiting for Tom, pacing with hands pocketed, doing the addict’s impatient two-step outside the shack’s front doors. Above them, the sign that said ELBOW ROOM (or E bo oom, where it had been stuck for weeks because he kept forgetting to call the electrician) was still dark, the letters waiting to erupt in orange neon at his flick of the switch that lit the place to a hum. Tom recognized both men as he pulled up and got out without even looking at the pond or at the white mist rising over the orange and red tops of trees. That’s what came from always being around something beautiful; you didn’t even notice it anymore.
He let them in and waited for their selections. A
case of Genesee Cream Ale for the first in line and a pack of Camels for the second guy, Chilton’s longest-standing burnout, who’d been a few years ahead of Tom in high school. Both of them looked embarrassed, needing these fixes before breakfast, and Tom felt like telling them but didn’t not to worry; his own father—who’d opened this place up back in the Sixties—used to keep a pint of schnapps in his night table and a pack of Luckies under his pillow. To get him up on the right side, he used to say through his hack.
The guy buying the Genny said, “I got a full house coming” as he gestured to the row of blue labels he’d hoisted onto the counter.
Tom went along with it, because the guy needed him to. “Have fun,” he said, slapping a PAID sticker on the case.
The Camels buyer was named Cliff something, but in high school he’d been known as Pothead Pete. Tom had been too far behind to be in any of the same classes, but he used to hear his older sister and her friends talk about the kid whose father drove a regular truck route to New York City for two jobs: the legitimate one, picking up stock for Wegmans, and his own weed business on the side. Everybody knew Pete had been sprinkling pot on his Lucky Charms since sixth grade. He was also famous for never looking anybody straight in the eye, which made people nervous. He’d come into the shack to buy cigarettes and munchies for years, but Tom never really spoke to him before this past February, when a turboprop coming in from Plattsburgh went down during an ice storm and first responders from six counties rushed to the scene. Pete showed up and tried to join in—this was when they still thought there might be some survivors—but when he started running toward the fireball in the field before the trucks even arrived, Tom had to tackle him to hold him back. Pete told him to fuck off and said he’d heard the call on the radio, he was there to help. He was a volunteer, he said. “That doesn’t mean you just show up,” Tom told him, managing to hold back the word moron. “You have to go through the training and join a crew.” The next time he looked, Pete had disappeared. And when he came into the shack for cigarettes a few mornings later, he didn’t seem to recognize Tom from the burning field.
How Will I Know You? Page 9
