by Rachel Vail
“I’m just saying,” she continued, shutting me down without a thought, not noticing how pissed I was despite my reassurances to her. “It’s not going to be easy….”
“We’re the Avery Women,” Phoebe chimed in. “Nothing can intimidate us.”
Dad splashed her with his soapy hands. “Not even dish soap?”
“Well, maybe dish soap,” Phoebe responded.
Dad dried his hands on the dish towel and said, “Okay, then, let’s face our demons, shall we?”
We followed him into the cavernous living room. We stood there silently for a little while, not knowing what to do or where to go. After a minute or so, Dad wrapped his arms around Mom and said, “While it lasted, it sure was grand.”
She buried her head in his chest. He looked up at the ceiling, which is my trick, too, for not letting tears fall out.
This time, though, the trick didn’t work for me.
Suddenly I was on the floor, gasping for air through my sobs. My sisters hugged me, or tried, both at the same time, but I shrugged them off. I didn’t mean to be making a scene, and the last thing I could handle was their comfort.
Allison looked at me with sad eyes, and Phoebe whispered, “You loved that piano, huh, Quinn?”
Mom and Dad turned to stare at me, too, as I cracked apart all over the empty living room. They looked shocked. I’d never lost it like that before. “Quinn…” Mom and Dad both started at the same time.
I shook my head, held up my hand to stop anyone from coming to hug me. I’d had enough of that earlier in the day and didn’t deserve—couldn’t take—any more.
The caring in their faces literally made me gag, and then I had to struggle to catch my breath again. It hit me hard how much I hated that they all had this image of me: the gifted one, the pianist who voluntarily—no, let’s face it, compulsively—practiced, who gave concerts and won awards, the one who actually could, with luck and work and dedication, become a professional piano player, an artist, a master.
Not true, probably, but still, it was what they thought. And I’d let them. I’d liked their thinking it, despite knowing I wasn’t that good at all.
They were staring at me, my whole family, the people closest in the world to me, but what they were seeing was the Photoshop version of me, retouched and improved, untrue. They had no idea it wasn’t real.
They all thought I was shattered by the loss of the piano, that my dashed dreams of myself and our family had to do with competing, winning, music, beauty, success.
They were wrong. That wasn’t what I was mourning.
Not even close.
“It’s just things,” I told them, and ran upstairs alone.
10
THE NEXT NIGHT WE WENT to the fireworks at the high school. Adriana invited Jelly and me to go to a party with her, but I explained we had a family tradition, and Jelly said she had the same. Adriana rolled her eyes and empathized and we said good-bye with promises about Saturday at Adriana’s house and meeting JD and Mason, either one or both of whom had previously made out with Adriana. Jelly talked the whole way home from camp about how cool it would be to feel so casual about having made out with this guy and that and then, “No big deal, we can just stay friends.” Wouldn’t that be awesome? “We should totally cultivate that,” she suggested. I had to open my window for some air.
“Maybe if you made out with Mason, you’d stop obsessing about what’s-his-name,” she said.
I jolted toward her. “Who? Why do you think I am obsessed with somebody?”
“Oliver,” she said meekly. “Who you have been obsessed with since, I don’t know, ever. Jeez, Quinn. What?”
“Nothing. I’m just…in a weird mood,” I said. “Sorry.”
“Perpetual bad mood, Q. Seriously, lately. It’s July, dude. We are going to get kissed this summer, and get wild, shed our outer dorkiness. But you have to chill.”
“I will.”
“Okay,” she said. “Could you hurry, though? Because Saturday is coming up.”
“I know. But, Jelly, honestly, I am not obsessed with Oliver.”
“Yeah, right. Uh-huh. And did you know ‘gullible’ is written on the ceiling of my car?”
“Ha, ha, ha.”
“No,” she said. “Actually, it is.” She was bursting with laughter. “It is, Quinn.”
“Jelly, that’s like a fourth-grade joke. Shedding our outer dorkiness?”
“Is it?” She looked deflated. “I still think it’s funny.” She pointed up.
I rolled my eyes and looked. There, in black Sharpie, in Jelly’s beautifully perfect, neat handwriting, was the word gullible written small and dark against the tan felt.
I had to laugh. “Okay, I think that’s funny, too. I can’t believe you did that!”
“It’s the worst thing I ever did. How sad is that? I’m in, like, living torment that my dad will see it and freak out. He will so take the car away. And yet, can I say I am loving the buzz of having done it?”
I laughed again. “Wish I didn’t get exactly what you mean.”
She shrugged, pulling into my driveway. “My worst rebellion is nerdy, though.”
“Totally nerdy.” I grabbed my bag and got out. “But so darn funny.”
“Let’s talk tonight about what to wear to Adriana’s tomorrow,” she yelled on her way down my driveway.
I waved and nodded, though I fully intended to find an excuse not to go when the time came. I’d been to that kind of party before, without Jelly, who’d never been invited until now. I’d explained to her, after each, that they were boring: The people who got drunk made fools of themselves and the rest of us pretended to look for somebody so we wouldn’t seem as bored as we actually were, and then eleven o’clock finally arrived and a person could leave with only shrugs and groans about unfair, though completely made-up, curfews (because my parents had never given me one, but nobody needed to know that) and not be thought a loser. Jelly was too psyched, though. She was out from behind the stacks in the library and determined to find all the glamour she imagined at Adriana’s house, with a bunch of horny, drunk boys casting their eyes quickly over and past us, for sure.
Inside, Gosia was standing beside all her stuff, hugging each of us good-bye. Phoebe had made her a card, and Allison gave her a string bracelet she’d made. They were both crying, and Gosia was trying not to. She’d never be in our house again. She promised to call and check on us, and made us promise to email her all the time. “You’re my girls; you always will be,” she said, starting another round of hugs.
I just kept looking at the ceiling, and after she walked out the door, I went upstairs.
After a few hours of hiding in my white room, I piled into the car with my family and headed for the summer-deserted high school. The five of us sat on a big sheet like we used to when we were little, but none of us could get too excited about the fireworks. Dad said “ooh” and “ahh,” especially at the grand finale, but to me it just seemed like a loud, profligate waste of money and time. The economy is in the toilet but we can blow up minibombs in the sky: Your tax dollars at work! When meanwhile some of my campers sometimes had nothing but ketchup and crackers for dinner. That’s what skinny little Ramon had told me he’d had for dinner the night before, anyway, and it made my stomach clench. It was hard to get enthusiastic about the pops and whirs with that in mind, you know? Or maybe I was just feeling sour and self-righteous.
Maybe I was sad about Gosia leaving, and about not crying when she pulled away, as Allison and Phoebe had.
Maybe I just didn’t feel like sitting on a blanket with my family.
Independence Day, I kept thinking. So let’s blow some stuff up. Woo-hoo. Then get some ice cream and straggle home.
Because what says independence more than pointless destruction?
I smiled; I said, “Yeah, that grand finale was amazing.” I said, “No, thank you,” to the extra fifty-cent sprinkles. Jelly was there with her family, so we all said hello to them. Her brother, E
rik, talked with Mom about how much he was loving quantitative analysis at college while Jelly and I chatted with Ziva Marks, a friend of ours from school. She was having a few people over in two weeks, before she left for a summer program at Johns Hopkins, where she’d be studying journalism. We talked about SAT prep and how many APs we were going to take in the coming year, and the AP Latin teacher’s reputation as a space cadet.
There was no reason I should feel claustrophobic, chatting with friends under a clear summer sky with ice-cream cones in our hands. Okay, Ziva Marks is a total, unabashed nerd, with her terribly cut hair and schlumpy clothes, all giggly about weird stuff like memorizing the periodic table and the names of every Webkinz stuffed animal ever made, but really she is a sweet and generous friend, with a hilarious sense of humor if you catch her references. And Jelly Chen is a smart, witty, lovely girl, and my best friend. Jelly Chen is just like me—polite, focused, responsible.
Ah. No wonder I was light-headed and sweating. I wasn’t a big fan of myself at that moment, either. Anyway, I was tired and sticky and just really ready to go home. But my family was lagging as my two closest friends discussed whether it would be more fun at Ziva’s party to play Pictionary or watch a West Wing marathon. Maybe instead we should just watch 1776 again?
“Whatever,” I said. “Any of those.”
“They’re all fun!” Ziva squealed. “Maybe we’ll do a little of each? And eat those little pretzels shaped like portcullises?”
“I love those!” Jelly shouted. “Wowzers!”
“I gotta go,” I said. It was not just seeing Allison and Tyler talking up the hill, or him chasing after her when she stepped away from him. What was he telling her? God, no.
Phoebe and Dad were talking to Phoebe’s boyfriend, Luke, and his dad in front of the hardware store. Dad’s laugh ricocheted off the store windows and joined the echoes of the fireworks. Mom and I leaned against Dad’s car and waited for the rest of them.
“So Jelly’s having a party?” Mom said. “That should be fun.”
“No,” I said. “Ziva Marks. Not Jelly. Allison!”
I told myself not to think about it, not to wonder why I was so annoyed at Mom for getting it wrong or about why I was dreading this nerd-fest of Ziva’s, despite the fact that I actually fully love The West Wing and Pictionary and 1776 and little pretzels shaped like portcullises.
“But you’ll go with Jelly? Is that what you said?”
I just said, “I guess. Sure. Are we ready to go? Allison! Come on! Let’s go!”
“It’s nice that she’s around this summer,” Mom said. “You always liked Jelly; you should hang out with her.”
“I do hang out with her, Mom!”
“And isn’t Ziva the one who won the spelling bee?”
“That was Jelly,” I said. “Ziva won the geography bee.”
“I thought you won that,” Mom argued.
“We tied,” I said. Tyler was holding Allison by the arms and whispering to her. I thought my head might spontaneously combust, so I shouted, “Allison! Come on!”
“Shut up, Quinn!” Allison yelled back. But she did yank herself away from Tyler and stomp to the car.
“What did he say?” I asked Allison, dreading the answer.
“Nothing,” Allison said.
“I don’t trust him,” I whispered preemptively.
“Because he’s a boy?” she asked. “Or because he says he loves me?”
“He said that?” I asked, feeling my fingers go numb.
Allison shrugged, but the smile she was trying to force into a frown was having none of it.
When we finally got home Phoebe chased Allison up to Allison’s room and they closed the door quickly behind them. I could hear Phoebe’s voice, all happy and excited, behind the door as I passed it going to my room. Still my room, I thought now, each time I entered it. Still my room. I didn’t even take a shower.
He told her he loves her, I thought.
Well, better than telling her I kissed him.
Ugh.
I was unbearably exhausted and wanted nothing more than to crawl under my covers. I conked out before my head hit the pillow.
I woke up at dawn and watched the sky brighten. Dawn is always my favorite time of day.
When the transition from night was done, I opened my computer and checked my email—nothing, a few status updates from people whose status I didn’t really feel like thinking about, an email from Ziva with the subject line PARTY. I didn’t open it. Instead I stared out my window for a while. I just felt so vaguely sad; even the clouds tracing their slow route across the sky seemed to mock me, by having somewhere to go.
After an hour of that, I opened my computer again and made a journal file. I decided to write about what was going on, how I felt about it, maybe figure out why I was feeling so prickly lately, plus work on why I had done what I had done (I still couldn’t bring myself to name it even in my head), but there was a knock on my door just after I typed the date, so I shut the computer. “What?”
It was Phoebe. In her boxers and rumpled sleep T-shirt, she lingered in my doorway and asked, “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you hate Tyler Moss so much?”
I sat up and shoved my computer behind me. It was closed and I hadn’t even had a chance to write one word about what had happened yet, but I felt totally caught anyway. It took a lot of effort to sound innocent and I was not sure I succeeded. “Who says I hate him?”
“It’s pretty obvious, Quinn.” She smiled. God, she has the happiest, most winning smile. It was impossible not to smile back a little, even then.
“I think it really matters to Allison that you see he’s actually a great guy,” Phoebe insisted.
“Okay,” I answered. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“It’s…I don’t know. That’s…You’re right. I’ll try, okay?”
“Great,” Phoebe said. “I’m starving. Should we make some eggs?”
“Eggs? So early? What are you even doing awake?”
She checked my clock. “It’s nine thirty. Come on, cheese omelette? With fried onions?”
“I…Sorry,” I said. “I am, um, meeting a friend…going for a walk now.”
“Oh?” Phoebe half said, half asked. I flipped my hair over my head to gather it in a ponytail, to avoid looking at her.
“Good thing you came in,” I added. “I’m running late.”
“I miss Gosia already,” Phoebe said, and sniffled. “I can’t believe—”
“I know,” I told her. “Me too. Just don’t say anything to Mom and Dad, okay? They’re already—”
“Mad stressed, I know,” Phoebe said. “I’m not a baby.”
“I didn’t say you were,” I assured her.
“I was just telling you,” she added. “Not them.”
“Okay.” She was leaving my room as I opened my underwear drawer. The heel of one of Mom’s shoes poked out.
“How is nobody else hungry in the morning but me?” Phoebe was mumbling.
I shoved a bunch of socks on top of the shoe. “I don’t know, Phoebe, okay? I’m sorry, I just…I can’t answer all your questions right now.”
“It wasn’t that kind of question. You don’t have to answer.”
“Rhetorical,” I said.
“Talk about mad stressed…jeez, Quinn. You don’t have to bite me, you know?”
“Sorry.” I yanked on a tank top and shorts and left the house with no plan of where to go. I am not a jogger, so that was out. There was no actual friend for me to meet. I did need some air, though, so I decided to take a walk. Then I wouldn’t have totally lied to Phoebe, I tried justifying to myself on my way down the driveway.
That was my plan, and I was kind of happy with it. Despite my usual lack of interest in anything that might cause me to sweat, I was weirdly pleased with this early-morning jaunt. I thought maybe I would do this every morning from now on, take a quick two-mile, three-mile walk to
wake me up, to hear some birds chirping and smell the honeysuckle and the lilacs. Honestly. I had myself half convinced that this was what I had been needing, that everything—all the stress and inner turmoil and impulsiveness I’d discovered in myself in the past couple of days—would be resolved with a habit of early-morning walks. All resolved.
Solved again.
Do you have to solve something first, though, before you can re-solve it?
But no, no mind games, I told myself. No thinking. I was just walking, just a girl, the only girl in my family with no boyfriend, no boy who ever thought she was worth asking out or even hooking up with except for Mr. Rebound in Love with My Sister, who therefore does not count at all, especially because I kissed him and he just didn’t instantly pull away because of maybe, like, misplaced gentlemanliness or even just shock. Anyway. Not thinking about that. Thinking about walking. Thinking about just being nobody, an isolated random girl out for a walk. Randomly. No destination.
Maybe it was in my subconscious, or my unconscious (still can’t quite sort those two guys out), but it was definitely not my plan to walk all the way to Oliver’s.
11
I TOTALLY WOULD HAVE walked right by, but Oliver was sitting out front on a bench, playing his guitar, and he called to me.
I was not faking a startled reaction.
He patted the seat beside him.
I hesitated.
He waited.
I crossed my arms.
He strummed a chord and sang softly, “Quinn Avery stood on my sidewalk today, trying to decide—walk…or stay….”
I couldn’t help smiling a little.
“Stay,” he said softly.
I felt myself moving toward his front porch. “Hey,” I said, sitting down on the Adirondack chair across from him instead of on the bench next to him. I couldn’t trust myself not to grab and kiss him if I was in close proximity. I was a lot less predictable lately than anybody (including I) had realized.
“How’s it all?”
“Okay,” I lied. “Well, I told you, you know…”
