by Mindy Raf
I laugh, and manage to suck in a semi-good breath through my nose. I push through another long inhale-exhale. Wow. Yes, I’m definitely inhaling too many potent paint fumes, but I guess that’s okay, as long as I’m still breathing.
• • •
And I’m still breathing by the time I get home for dinner that night. Which is important in a general “I’d like to stay alive” sense, but tonight specifically because I need to focus on my mom. She has this way of stealthily moving her food around on her plate so that a novice observer would be fooled into thinking she’s actually eaten something, but I’ve fallen for this too many times already.
“And he said he still wants to hang out with me, but like not ‘romantically,’” Allissa says, munching sadly on a cucumber from her salad.
“Well, that’s okay.” Mom reaches over and rubs Allissa on the back. Then she says something to us about how boys don’t mature as fast as girls do, and uses the terms “fickle-minded” and “emotionally under-stimulated” a lot. Then she slowly moves a piece of her lasagna from the right side of her plate to the left.
“Not hungry?” I ask.
“Eh, I’m too congested,” she says. “This damn cold.”
“Oh. Right. But, you’re feeling okay, though? I mean, besides the cold?”
Allissa pops a cherry tomato in her mouth, studying me.
“Besides this cold? Yes, I’m feeling pretty good actually.” Mom flashes me a perfectly glossed smile and then executes one of her signature moves, the slow traveling fork. Tonight’s destination is a mountain of ricotta cheese.
Great, Mom. So you’re not having digestive problems? Digestive problems which you’re sharing with PMP strangers, and not your own daughter? And then I don’t mean to do it, but I find myself rolling my eyes and sighing.
Mom’s too busy doing her fork move to notice, but Allissa does, and her squinty “leave it alone” eyes get extra squinty.
But I can’t leave it alone because watching Mom stealthily manipulate the food on her plate is making me so angry, I can barely get anything down myself. So no, I can’t leave it alone, Allissa, because a body’s digestive organs not working correctly is kind of a big problem. How many other big problems has Mom just not told us about? Or at least not told me about? And I was actually feeling guilty for wanting to sneak out to a party Saturday night. I was even ready to be honest about it, and ask her permission, but now I don’t see the point. Why should I tell Mom every detail about what’s going on in my life when she can’t fill me in on one, vitally important detail about her own?
“I’m having a friend sleep over Saturday night,” I find myself saying.
“Oh, okay, that’s fine.” Mom nods, twirling some cheese onto her fork and then scraping it off with her knife, and probably assuming I mean Jenna.
“You okay, Mom?” Allissa asks as we watch her now slowly rubbing the right side of her head.
“Yes, I’m just … so tired and I have this awful sinus headache and … I think I’m going to head up.” She sets her cheese-filled fork on her plate and gets up slowly. “Make sure to put the leftovers in the fridge. Okay?”
We both nod.
“I told you. She’s not eating,” I say, as soon as Mom’s out of earshot.
“She’s got a cold. Leave her be.”
“No. She says she’s got a cold, but I think—”
“Lemme guess, Disease Louise, you think it’s a brain tumor?”
I wince. I hate that nickname.
“You know, Allissa, just because you come up here on the weekends doesn’t mean—”
“Oh, and when you and Jenna have your sleepover,” my sister interrupts, “I can’t drive you guys anywhere ’cause I’m going out with—”
“Jenna’s not coming over. Meredith is.”
“What? Why?” Allissa looks at me over her fork.
“Because … we have to work on a project for school, so we’re hanging out and studying so … yeah, no need to drive us anywhere.”
Allissa flashes me a “yeah right” look, like she’s sniffed out Meredith’s whole plan already. And then she says all detective-like, “Um, since when do you hang out and study with Meredith Brightwell on a Saturday night?”
“Since when do you plan elaborate Mom birthday gift surprises with Meredith’s mother and not include me?” I give Allissa a small “I know your secret” smile.
But Allissa only sighs and looks down at her plate. “It’s not elaborate. Just some furniture. Don’t worry about it.”
“Well … I won’t. I’m not. I’ll probably give her a painting again anyway, so …” I trail off, hoping she doesn’t hear my voice crack.
“I just wanted to do something by myself, Izzy. It’s no big deal.”
“Sure, yeah fine. Well … well, make sure you put the food away, okay?” I push my plate toward her and walk quickly upstairs to my room, where I lay my head down on my faded multicolored-tulip pattern comforter. I try closing my eyes, but a day’s worth of mental snapshots—Mom’s post the biggest of them all—pops them open again. I try sitting up, but I can’t because I’m having that “can’t get a breath because there’s a weight sitting on top of my chest” feeling again. The pressure is actually around my chest this time. It feels like, oh God, like I’m wearing an invisible corset and two invisible hands are pulling it tight. I roll over onto my side, then slowly sit up and lean my body forward, feeling a little release as I drop my head toward my knees. I exhale slowly, trying to breathe the corset away.
My phone is on my nightstand. I really need to talk to Jenna. Maybe I can send her Mom’s post and see what she thinks. Yes, Jenna will know exactly what to do, and plus she’ll tell me exactly what to say to Mom next time I ask her how she’s feeling and she tries to evade it. I can already hear Jenna lecturing me about how my keeping quiet and watching my mom not eat is a terrible strategy.
Sadly though, after only a ring, I hear Jenna’s Please try not to say something idiotic [beep] message. I end up leaving her a super-long and potentially idiotic message, telling her that I really need to talk, and that she can call me anytime tonight. Then as soon as I hang up, my phone rings. It never fails. Jenna always manages to call me back a split second after I’ve left her a rambling voicemail.
“Hey, I just left you a novel on your voicemail,” I say.
“I’m sorry, what?”
And oh, that’s not Jenna’s voice at all. It’s Blake’s.
“You what on my voicemail?” he asks.
“Nothing, sorry, I thought you were … Hi,” I say, sitting up a little straighter, as if Blake can see my bad posture through the phone.
“Hey,” he says, “what’s up?”
It’s really nice to hear his voice, and it immediately takes me back to the driveway, and his lips, and his cinnamon-flavored mouth. But all I say is, “Not too much. You?”
“Yeah, not too much. So … I didn’t see you at rehearsal today.”
“No, I was in the lighting booth and then helping with the set in the choir room, so …”
“Oh, yeah … I was hoping to see you.”
“Yeah?” And I feel like I’m giving my cheeks a workout, I’m smiling so big. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow at school. And then on Saturday for the DIA. And then … maybe after that at the party, so …”
“Yeah,” he confirms.
And wow, just the way he says that one-syllable word makes me want to sleep right now so it can be tomorrow and then Saturday already.
“So, Izzy, I actually wanted to say thank you.”
“Oh? Um … for what?”
“The suggestion you made about what to say to my dad, you know? About the musical? And about how, like, extracurricular stuff would look good on my college apps.”
“Oh, right. That helped?”
“Yeah, you know what? I think it did. So yeah, thanks.”
“Well, hey, no problem. You’re welcome.”
And then, oh no, we are fully having an awkward facia
l expression phone moment. In a face-to-face conversation we’d probably be exchanging a smile or a glance or something. But on the phone right now we’re just exchanging embarrassingly long breathing sounds.
“Okay, so …” Blake finally breaks in. “I’ll see you tomorrow. And hopefully … more than I saw you today?”
“Yeah,” I laugh, “hopefully.”
After we hang up, I practically glide into my pajamas. I’m feeling so inspired, I decide to set my alarm early so I can get to the studio and work for at least an hour before Spanish, reminding myself to talk to Meredith about using her photos. I am definitely going to make a bigger dent in my portfolio by the end of tomorrow. Definitely. And if I work fast, I can finish the dance map sculpture thing during studio time and get that out of the way too. I’m sure Miss S. won’t mind me taking some portfolio time to work on it.
I fall back onto my pillow again and I close my eyes. This time they stay closed because I’m fantasizing about the when and where and how I might kiss Blake again. Then this voice creeps into my head, telling me I should be thinking about Mom. I know, I know, I say back to the voice. But it doesn’t get a chance to respond, because Blake’s lips, and his cinnamon smell, and his dimpled chin have overrun my brain space, loosening up that invisible corset, and allowing me to fall asleep.
CHAPTER 11
I can’t get loose.
It’s finally Friday morning. I slept well. If I could bottle the getting driveway-kissed again fantasy, it would totally cure insomnia.
My giant smile from last night stretches even wider, my non-date DIA date is less than twenty-four hours away, my portfolio deadline is less than three weeks away, and Blake Hangry is less than three feet away, leaning against Nate’s locker.
I’ve been at my own locker waiting for Jenna, but I guess she’s not coming. I called her again this morning to tell her about Mrs. Kerns’s StrawBeary Fields sweatshirt, and ask her to drop off the blank envelopes with me now. I’d do the calligraphy before we had to start selling tickets at lunch. Her voicemail must be full, though. She would have called me back otherwise.
I open my locker and out falls the package Pam delivered to me on Wednesday. With everything else going on, I’d kind of forgotten about it. I pick it up from the floor and gently shift the contents around, confirming, thankfully, that the handcrafted, artisan, sinus-irrigating neti pot inside is still in one piece.
I put the package back and am about to slam my locker shut when Blake and Nate walk past.
Blake waves at me and smiles, but then Nate stops, spins around, and says, “So Izzy, is it true?”
“Um … what?”
Nate’s now leaning against the locker next to mine. He flips his dark hair out of his eyes and looks at me. “Is it true,” he laugh-talks, “that Jenna wants me?”
I don’t know what I was expecting Nate Yube to say, but it wasn’t that.
“Oh, um …” is all I manage in response as I stare back at him. He’s grinning now and nodding his head up and down, I guess answering the question himself.
“Yube, give it a rest,” Blake warns.
“But right, Izzy? Jenna so wants me.”
“No. No, I just … I thought you guys would maybe make a …” I turn to Blake, thinking now that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to tell him I wanted to set them up.
“Ignore him, he’s delusional,” Blake says.
“You’re right.” Nate smirks, shifting his weight from the locker door and standing up straight. “Jenna and me, not important. What’s really important is that you two have a great time on Saturday and—”
“Yube,” Blake cuts him off with the kind of glare that usually precedes a punch.
“Sorry, sorry.” Nate throws his hands up in the air, mock protecting his face. “I’d just really love for you and Izzy to have a great time when you hang out on Saturday. A greaaaaaaa—” He stretches out that word for so long that I’m starting to think Blake might actually punch him. But then we hear, “Izzy!” and see Pam rushing over from the other end of the hall.
Pam’s got a postal package tucked under her right arm. Her left hand is clutching her chest, which is visibly heaving up and down. You’d think she completed the final stages of a triathlon and not just walked quickly down the hallway.
“I’m late for a meeting, glad I caught you. Here you are and so here you go.” She hands me this second package. “Is it for your Mom’s birthday?”
“Oh, thanks, Pam, yeah.” I light up and tuck the box under my arms. I’m so excited they’ve finally arrived. So excited, in fact, that when Nate says, “Oooh, what’s in the box? What did Santa bring us?” I almost accidentally blurt out, “Mom’s color therapy glasses! Mom’s color therapy glasses!”
Thankfully, Pam pants, “Hello Mr. Yube, Mr. Hangry,” giving them both a friendly nod. Then she fishes out a mysterious, napkin-wrapped item from her back pocket, bends down, and sets it on top of my backpack on the floor.
“It’s a baby quiche. Spinach and feta. A little cold, but totally fine.”
“Yum,” I say, and set down my new package to place the quiche in my backpack’s zipper Pam pocket.
“Cold, but delicious,” Pam cries again, now sprint-marching down the hallway to her meeting. Then something flies past my head. I look up in time to see Jacob Ullman catching it from farther down the hall, his freckled face grinning as he almost shakes off his baseball cap doing a pseudo touchdown dance. I look down. My box is gone.
I turn to Nate, feeling the muscles in my face stiffen. He ignores me, signaling Jacob by raising his arms in the air.
“Give it, guys. Stop being douches.” Blake charges at Jacob, lunging for my package. Jacob just laughs his congested seagull laugh and sidesteps Blake, throwing the box back to Nate.
“You’re going to break them!” I shout.
“Oh no, so sorry,” Nate says, backing a good five feet away from me. “Here you go—” Then he winds back his arm as if to throw the box to me, but turns at the last second and heads down the hallway in the other direction. Blake just stands there, his mouth open, then mutters, “I’ll get that back for you—promise,” and takes off down the hall after Nate.
Great. Nate Yube just stole Mom’s color therapy glasses and completely ruined what could have been a potentially good Blake moment. Maybe Blake would have stopped to talk to me, asked me to the dance. Now I kind of hope he does punch Nate.
I put my Spanish books in my bag, hoping Nate’s at least passed the package to Jacob. That way I can steal it back when Señora Claudia is eclipsed by her huge sombrero in Spanish. Yes, I’ll steal my glasses back, I’ll talk to Meredith about using her photos, and then all I have to do is get through bio before I can be in the studio again.
I can’t wait to show Miss S. what I did this morning—note to self: Buy Cara new nail polish—and the map too. If I work fast enough I can finish the sculpture, and maybe even get started on something new for my portfolio.
I re-secure my fragile neti pot between a couple binders and gently slam my locker shut, slumping against it. I need to get those glasses back. I spent way too much money on them, and I’m pretty sure WearapyTherapy.com doesn’t give full refunds.
• • •
In the studio, I’m suddenly seized with a sharp pain in my right butt cheek and I shoot up from my seat. The wooden center of my stool is embedded with glued-on macaroni shells. Cute in the projects the elementary school kids do here on weekends, but lethal at the wrong angle. I switch out my stool and study the bits of mirror in the patterns I’ve laid out on the table.
“That is looking really great.” Ina Lazebnik ambles in, her ventriloquist mouth smiling as she passes my table and heads over to the pottery rack.
“Thanks.” I smile back my first real smile since Spanish this morning and shift onto my macaroni-less stool.
I forgot today was cultural immersion day in Spanish. So instead of getting to talk to Meredith about the photos or stealing my package back from Jacob,
I had to sit there and listen to music while Señora Claudia danced and translated lyrics that had verb tenses way above our comprehension level. Then in bio we got our quizzes back and I got a C minus. Which is basically a D. Marcus gave me pained look when he handed it back to me and offered to help me study again at rehearsal today. Which I think is futile, but nice of him.
“So close, yet so far away,” Ina closed-mouth mutters to herself as she cautiously places her latest piece on the table.
“Wow, that looks amazing,” I tell her, because it really does. She’s been working for the past two weeks on this really awesome clay sculpture with this crazy intricate etched-in pattern.
I study my almost dried papier-mâché map that I fleshed out this morning and sigh.
“Izzy, Izzy, listen to this!” Meredith and Cara giggle their way into the studio and throw their stuff down on my table, almost disturbing my mirror chip patterns.
“Do it!” Meredith prompts Cara, who then sighs and starts full-out singing the chorus to one of the songs we were listening to in Spanish.
Okay, watching Cara dance and sing off key in a terrible Spanish accent doesn’t totally lift my mood, but it does make me laugh a little.
“Doesn’t she sound just like the recording?” Meredith laughs.
“That’s amazing,” I say, shaking my head, while Ina closed-mouth chuckles.
“What’s all this?” Meredith asks, getting her supplies out and eyeing my map and mirror fragments.
“It’s just for the dance—I’m helping my mom with decorations, and … well, actually… I know Marcus is helping you do something digital for your final project, but since you have so many photos … are you using them all, or—”
“Oh, no way. I’m picking a couple photos and will”—she riffles through her notebook and reads back—“‘will employ one to two techniques on each, or tie them together in a thematic way.’”
“Hm.” I nod. “Do you think I could … maybe use some of the rest? I’d give you photography credit, of course, and—”
“You’d make them part of your painting?”
