“None of your business,” he says, scraping his sneakers along the beige carpet. He sits at the piano as I look around the room. Mr. Youk has set up three chairs and one tall stool for Brandon.
John clears his throat, sits at the piano and leans toward me. “Watch out for Mike Duvall,” he says.
“Oh, please. Like he would hurt me,” I say, before taking the seat closest to him.
A new copy of Schubert’s “Trout Quintet” is sitting on my music stand. Sweet! I’ve wanted to play this piece for years.
John keeps talking. “Mike is ticked at you. He’s out for blood.”
In what parallel universe am I a threat to Mike Duvall? He’s the fastest forward on the basketball team, he has a reputation for bullying people, and he’s way more experienced in fights than I am, not that that would be hard. I shut my eyes for a second and remember how Kat sent him crumbling to the ground.
Usually I root for the guy who gets kicked in the balls, but in Mike’s case, I make an exception. When Kat hurt him, I wanted to whoop and cheer. Go Kat! She couldn’t have picked a better target.
“I can take care of myself,” I say, trying to look tough.
John shrugs. “Just watch your back.”
Even though John runs with the jocks, I decide he’s okay. His hands glide over the piano keys like a pro, and I’m energized by the feel of the cello strings vibrating beneath my fingers. Unfortunately, the feeling doesn’t last long before tall Emily rushes, short Emily drags, Brandon gets lost and Mr. Youk leaves because he has important business to attend to.
I put my hand up to stop the music, go back half a page, and clap the beat while they fix the tricky spot. When they’re in sync, I join them with my cello. For several minutes, I understand exactly why my mother has run off to Europe. I’m proud of her, envious even. Then Brandon gets lost, tall Emily skips ahead a few measures and I’m forced to hold up my hand and clap the beat all over again. By the time the rehearsal has finished, I’m exhausted.
“Good job, guys,” Brandon says, holding his bass in front of him and spinning it like a jazz player. “I’m starving. Who wants to meet up at McDonald’s for food?”
My stomach grumbles. The offer is tempting, but when I look at my watch, it’s past four o’clock. I need to get home.
Before my mother left, I made this arrangement with Amy where she’d cook dinner most days, and I’d cook on days that start with a T. No one wants my dad to cook because the fanciest thing he knows how to make is cheese on toast. Anyway, since today is Tuesday, and my dad will be teaching in our basement until nine-thirty (with a half hour break between five-thirty and six) I need to get home to start dinner.
“You guys go ahead,” I say, opening the choir room door for the Emilys. I go back to the orchestra room by myself and put away my rental cello, ignoring the hunger pains in my stomach. At least I hope they’re hunger pains. Maybe they’re stress pains. My to-do list for the rest of the day is making me feel sick: fix dinner, practice, homework, practice, homework, go to sleep.
Sleep. I take a deep breath. Amy isn’t working tonight! I grin as I open my locker, retrieve my backpack and head to the parking lot. Amy isn’t working. I can sleep!
Unlocking my car, I hop into the driver’s seat, stick my keys in the ignition and panic as everything around me darkens. Crap, I’m falling asleep. Slapping myself on the side of the face and blinking away the drowsiness, my hand fumbles for the radio dial. Beethoven’s fifth comes on. I turn it up so loud you’d think I was listening to heavy metal.
When I get home, Amy is nursing Elijah in the family room with her shirt pulled up to her shoulders. The TV is blaring, my dad is teaching a student downstairs, the sound of drums and cymbals echo through the walls, but they’re still not loud enough to drown out the sound of Elijah feeding. He sucks, swallows, breaths heavy and moans like he’s in baby nirvana. I stare forward at the television because nothing is grosser than seeing your own sister’s boobs.
“Uh … Amy, do you think you could do that someplace else? The window’s wide open.” I gesture to the large bay window to her right, curtains pulled to the side, blinds pulled up tight. “Someplace private, maybe? Like your room.”
“I live here too,” she says.
“Then at least cover up.” I pull an afghan from the back of the couch and throw it at her. She’s been doing this more and more lately, plopping down wherever she wants in the house and pulling out a boob to nurse the baby. Then she talks to dad and me like she’s fully dressed and at some kind of party. I never, ever know where to look, let alone what to say.
Amy pushes the afghan aside. “It gets too hot under there for Elijah. Gosh, Quinn, when did you become such a pain in the butt? Shouldn’t you be cooking dinner right about now?” She glances at the mantel clock sitting above our fireplace.
I go to the kitchen, wash my hands and get started. First I pull out carrots and start chopping them in half. Then I open a bag of potatoes and start peeling. My dad used to be in the military. His first job was with Pershing’s Own Army Band. He still tells us boot camp stories, tales about running in combat boots in the rain, about being forced to work kitchen duty and peeling piles upon piles of potatoes.
The thing is, I like peeling potatoes because my hands stay busy without the pressure of putting them in the exact right place. Sometimes playing the cello is stressful. One misplaced finger can ruin everything. A few nervous tremors can wreak havoc on my sound. Not good. Being human is so not good, especially when it means messing up while playing a piece that’s supposed to sound perfect.
I cut up my newly peeled potatoes, put them in a saucepan with the carrots and fill the pan with water. Then I place it all on the stove and turn the heat up to high.
Time to start the rice. My mother taught me how to cook rice in fifth grade. I still remember how she turned it into a math lesson. “Two parts water to one part rice,” she said. “Just like the fractions you’re working on at school. You don’t have to stir it, just make sure it doesn’t boil over. Twenty minutes and you’re done.” She made it sound easy. Still, I managed to burn it. Yes, it is possible to burn rice.
It’s also possible to overcook mac and cheese, put too much salt in mashed potatoes, ruin tomato soup and put so much butter in cookies they merge into a sticky jell. I’ve done it all, but my mother says that knowing how to cook makes me stronger and more of a man. Her voice pops into my head. “What will all those non-cooking men eat when forced to live on their own—Big Macs, French fries, cheese toast and peanut butter sandwiches?” I don’t know whether she’s right or not, but there is one thing I’m sure of. Preston would tease me non-stop if he knew I could cook.
I lift the lid from the rice; it’s almost done. I throw some sliced up beef into a wok, mix it with onion, toss in my vegetables with five cups of water and wait. Japanese curry is my favorite and since I’m cooking, Amy can’t complain about the spice messing up her milk. Not that she won’t.
My sister walks into the kitchen and hands me Elijah.
“I need to change,” she tells me, pointing at her pink shirt. It has a big wet spot on it. “Hold Elijah for a minute?” she asks, dashing up the stairs before I can give her an answer. This is my sister’s way of doing things. If she asks a question and then leaves before it’s answered, she can assume she’ll get whatever she wants.
With my left arm I hold the baby away from the stove, with my right I break the curry against the counter before dropping the chunks into the water.
Elijah burps and lets out a huge fart. No, wait, not a fart. I glance down at my left elbow. It feels strangely warm. A few drops of yellow liquid drip to the floor. He farts again and the back of his diaper changes from white to mottled mustard brown. Squishy, grainy, yellow-brown feces leak down Elijah’s leg. More comes out the back of his diaper, a trail of nastiness oozes down my arm before it lands on the floor with a plop.
“Amy!” I scream. Food and poop don’t mix.
She rushes down
the stairs in black high-heeled shoes, a fitted black top and a skirt that comes down to her knees. “Why are you all dressed up?”
“Do I look nice?” she asks, spinning around.
I glance at the floor. The puddle of poop has gotten bigger.
“Well?” Amy prompts.
“Just clean up the baby.” I shove him toward her.
She puts her hands in the air and backs up. “I can’t change him. I’ll get my outfit all dirty. What if I stir the curry while you give him a bath? Pleeeeeease.” She clasps her hands together, begging like a little kid. “I’m going out with a friend tonight, and I really don’t want to change again.”
A friend. She’s going out with a friend?! My dad is teaching until late too, which means I’ll be watching Elijah. How nice of her to tell me in advance. I take a deep breath and try to stay calm. “When were you going to tell me this?”
She shrugs. “I told dad. He said he’d let you know.”
“Well he didn’t!” I snap. “How long are you going to be gone?”
“A few hours.” She bites her lower lip. “We’re going to see a movie, nothing big.”
“Dang it, Amy. You can bathe him yourself. Elijah’s your kid!”
I can feel the anger building in me. It’s like I’m a pressure cooker full of steam, ready to blow any minute. Take the baby, Quinn. Change him, bathe him. Watch him until I get home! Does she think I’m her slave? I squint until Amy’s features go blurry. Then I imagine her with a deformed nose and a face full of pimples.
“I’ll cook Thursday,” Amy blurts.
“Fine,” I say, meaning the opposite. This is one hundred percent not fine. I take the baby out of the kitchen and leave Amy to clean the mess on the floor. There’s no point fighting her on this, but I’m still bitter. I picture her getting poop all over her new outfit, then wiping it off and getting poop on her hands and in her hair. The thought makes me smile. Elijah smiles too. I’d like to think he likes the idea, though he’s probably just excited for his bath.
In the bathroom, I turn on the bath water and test the temperature with my elbow. But all I can think of while stripping down my nephew and scrubbing his behind is how I want to be somewhere else. I’m dying to get into Curtis, to go to school in Philadelphia where I can meet new people and start over.
Mr. Stevens, my cello teacher who works at George Mason, wants me to stay here and take from him. He thinks he can get me a scholarship, but I don’t want to go local. Not if it means living here while pretending to be Elijah’s dad.
I support his head as he splashes with his fists.
“It’s not your fault,” I tell him, tickling his feet with my fingers. Two of the toes on his left foot are connected. Amy calls him her cute little mutant. “Your momma needs to get her head screwed on straight.”
He smiles; the dimples at the corners of his mouth crinkle, and I smile too. Maybe this is why Amy wanted to keep him so badly, even after my parents tried to push her into giving him up for adoption, lecturing her about all the couples who want children and can’t have them, telling her how tired she’d be if she didn’t. I agreed with them, but then Amy reminded me of how she took the blame for my not-so-little car accident involving a dump truck. And I realized that whether or not I agreed with her decision, not supporting it would make me a self-absorbed jerk.
What’s ironic is that now I’m the one who’s tired. My parents think if they help Amy, the consequences of her actions won’t sink in. It makes sense, but I can’t leave her to do everything alone. She may be annoying but she’s still my sister.
I touch Elijah’s nose with my finger and revise my to-do list: practice, hold Elijah, practice, feed Elijah, homework, hold Elijah, practice, sleep.
8
Katarina
I storm from John’s house, slam the door behind me and back Mike up against his silver Lexus.
“That’s it,” I say, smashing the bouquet of flowers he just gave me into his chest. “You give me your keys, or I’ll stomp on your foot.”
I raise the heels of my pointy stilettos, and Mike, six inches taller than me, smiles down as if he thinks he can charm his way out of this. Idiot. He never should have shown up at John’s to begin with. Sweat trickles down his face. I smell beer on his breath. Did he really think he could bribe me into loving him with a dozen red roses and a drunken apology?
As if I’m some naive girl, ready to jump into his arms at the first opportunity.
As if showing up inebriated will win him points.
When Roland drove off in his Honda the night he died, we’d been arguing about Mike. Roland called Mike a user and said even though I was his annoying, tag-along little sister, he still cared if I got hurt. He demanded I break things off, to which I’d stuck my middle finger up and told my brother to go to hell.
Little did I know those would be my last words to him.
That night, after he dropped me off at the Springfield metro station, I rode the trains until one o’clock in the morning, feeling the vibrations of the floor beneath my feet, picturing my life as the shifting scenes through the windows of the train, always changing yet strung together.
That was the night I decided to take a cab straight home instead of going to Roland’s stupid drinking party. He could be such a stupid jerk. Always right, even when he was wrong. It still bugs me that he was right about Mike.
I told him off over nothing.
Mike laughs before putting his hands on my shoulders, as if I’m a chair or some random table he can use to steady himself. “Does this mean you forgive me?”
I want to slap him. Instead I hold up my palm. “Keys,” I say.
He hands them over.
I drop them in my purse and open the passenger’s-side door of my Jeep for him. As he walks past, he grazes my boob with the back of his hand. If he were sober he might be able to pull that off, but drunk he does it with the subtlety of a cannon ball. Pervert.
“I will hurt you if you touch me again,” I warn. “And for God’s sake, you know better than to drive drunk. Roland’s blood alcohol level was .12 when they found his body.”
The moment I mention my brother, the smile on Mike’s face falls. He stares down at his shoes, his bravado blown to bits. My heart gets all mushy. How can I be so cruel?
“Look, Mike.” I shrug. “The flowers are beautiful, but this thing between us—” I motion from me to him with my hand. “It isn’t working. We both need space.”
“So you admit we’re together?” He looks up with bright, hopeful eyes.
I bite my lip to keep from cussing. “No!” I say. “No, no, no, no, no!”
Pounding the dashboard with my fist, I stare daggers at my now ex-ex-boyfriend, too drunk off his ass to hear a single word I’ve said.
John comes out of his house, hands me my video camera and leans into my ear. “Keep it down, Kat. I have neighbors.”
“Thanks for letting me use your computer,” I say.
“Nothing’s too much for my best girl,” he says. “Hey … maybe I’ll compose some music for your vlog sometime, a tribute to my favorite brown skinned diva.” It may sound racist, but it’s an inside joke between John and me. Two years ago he helped me come up with my vlog’s official name.
Mike makes a growling sound.
I turn to see him glaring at John.
“John and I are friends,” I snap at Mike. “And just to be clear, so are you and I.” The only thing worse than Mike sober is Mike drunk. He goes from funny to angry without warning. Plus, he thinks he’s invincible, which means he picks lots of stupid fights.
I stick the keys in the ignition of my Jeep, rev the engine and wave goodbye to John. The sooner I get Mike out of here, the better. I so wish Mike hadn’t shown up at John’s house. Now I have to go home and trip over random junk, heat up some leftover Chinese and pass Roland’s shrine of a room. If my father is home, he’ll eat a plate of food and leave. Which means I could cut off all my hair, slice up my arm or start a giant bonfire
in the middle of the living room without anyone noticing. It’s like I live in a house with ghosts, ever-present but not really there. We eat without tasting, see without knowing, pass without touching and breathe without living.
***
One week later I’m eating a slice of pizza in the school cafeteria and thumbing through the twenty-page paper I wrote for Mrs. William. The one Quinn didn’t help me with. Not that I asked him or anything. My life is hard enough without trying to coordinate with someone who hates me, especially now that I’m sitting by myself at lunch to avoid Mike.
I shift my weight and my plastic chair wobbles. The room echoes with the sounds of people talking. Mike’s ex-girlfriend, Tasha, with her emerald-green silk blouse and silver-gold hair, scoots in next to me with a lunch bag in her hand. She looks disdainfully at my pizza, pulls out an orange and starts peeling it with her long nails.
“You packing on the weight to take Quinn on next period?” she says, laughing too hard. “He acts like you’re cursed the way he stacks all his books into a wall between you. I admit it’s a relief that not every guy in this school trips over their tongue whenever you walk by. He’s not a bad flirt, either. The way he put you in your place that first day.”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes. “The boy may look like a walking Ken doll, but he couldn’t keep up with me if his life depended on it.”
“You should tell that to Molly McCormick,” she says, splitting her newly peeled orange in half. “She’s been glaring daggers at you for a week.”
I wipe my greasy fingers with a napkin. “Molly may pretend to be good, but I’ve seen her do some bad things. And believe me, it’s a miracle she still holds onto her perfect reputation.”
“You sound jealous.”
“Of a prissy little kiss-up who looks like she’s anorexic? I think not.”
“Keep your voice down. She’s two tables away making googly eyes at the cutest boy in our physics class.” Tasha points to a girl with a head full of strawberry-blond hair.
With just one glance at Quinn, a tide of resentment rises inside me. He thinks because he’s a virgin and I’m not that he’s so much better than I am, like a person’s worth can be found between their legs. His holier-than-thou attitude makes me sick.
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