by Dalya Moon
Genna says, “Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't Facebook remind me? You must have it turned off there. I swear, Briana, how were we supposed to know?”
Briana twists her mouth from side to side sheepishly. “I forgot.”
“You forgot your own birthday,” Genna says. “What about your parents? You didn't get any presents?”
“It's the books,” I say. “Your life is passing you by. You're fifteen now. Fifteen and a week.” I grab her paperback away. “It's these. You're losing your life.”
Genna giggles. “Oh Lainey, now you've done it. You've touched her book. She's going to kill you.”
“I can quit, any time,” Briana says.
The three of us look back and forth at each other.
“I'm going swimming every Sunday,” I say boldly. “You could come swimming with me. Genna, you can come too.”
Genna wrinkles her nose. “The water is bad for my eczema.”
“Swimming,” Briana says. “I'll do it.”
“Happy belated birthday,” I say. “I'll still buy you lunch.”
“And your parents are going to feel so bad,” Genna says. “They'll probably give you extra presents. Trust me, this is a good thing.”
We talk for a while about what must have happened. Briana has a fake age on Facebook, saying she's ninety-five years old, so the ads aren't targeted at her, and she used a fake month as well. Her parents have been busy, and her mother especially busy, sewing costumes for Briana's younger sister's figure skating competition.
We all decide that this only makes her fifteenth birthday all the more interesting, and her sixteenth will be really amazing.
* * *
I'm so excited about having a new swimming buddy that I almost forgot Tick is angry at me. We're in English class now, with her behind me, and I swear I can feel her gaze burning holes in the back of my neck.
She's ridiculous. All I did was ask her to follow some basic rules of courtesy, and she freaked out and called me a liar.
I should be the one who's upset, since I didn't get to have a shower, thanks to her, and now my whole body feels icky. I know I'm not dirty, but my skin is used to a shower every day, and when I don't get one, my scalp feels crawly. My back is itchy and everything's a bit off.
Mrs. Rose clears her throat and calls the class to order. “Some of the studentry have requested more personal essays,” she says, enunciating every syllable carefully, like she always does.
Everyone turns to look at each other, wondering who would have requested more of anything. Several people look right at me.
Mrs. Rose uses one wrinkled hand to smooth down the silver hair that sits around her head like a bowl. “I hope you all find suitable inspiration in the assigned theme.”
She turns around and begins writing on the board with a dry-erase marker. She's one of the few teachers who doesn't use a computer and projector.
I can't take the feeling of hate behind me, so I turn to try to make some small talk with Tick. “So, Briana is such a book addict, she forgot her own birthday. Can you believe it?”
Tick continues writing in her notebook, not making eye contact with me.
Fine. Be that way.
I open my notebook, pull out my ruler and red pen, and draw my red double line crisply along the margin. To the side of me, Genna is drawing a double green line in her notebook. She sees me looking and smiles.
I scribble my cheap blue pen on some scrap paper to get it flowing, then I transpose Mrs. Rose's assignment from the board.
January 16th - Personal essay: Friends or family? Who are the most important people in your life?
“Yes, Patricia,” Mrs. Rose says with a sigh that tells me Tick is waving her hand desperately.
“Does it have to be the truth?” my cousin asks.
“It has to be your emotional truth. The facts can be altered, if you wish.”
“I don't understand.”
“You're a bright girl, Patricia. You'll figure something out.”
To my left, Genna makes a psst sound to get my attention. She writes something in her notebook and holds the page up for me to read: friends forever.
* * *
By the time we get to Drama, at the end of the day, I've given up on trying to talk to my cousin. Now that she's regularly having lunch with Dana and the Band geeks, and not talking to me in class, my life is calm again, which is good.
I can focus on my upcoming leading role. Only seven people volunteered to try out for the five lead roles, so the competition wasn't exactly fierce, but I still won the lead over Genna.
Josh comes to stand next to me on the stage, his light-brown eyebrows knit up again with concern, the same as when he helped me up this morning. “Your hip okay?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah.”
He looks around to see if anyone's paying attention, then puts his hands at his waist, sticks out his chest, and says, “Hello, gorgeous fairy queen.”
With all of his trademark Josh charm hitting me at once, I get a weak feeling creeping up my body. He's got these mischievous dimples when he smiles. Actually, he looks mischievous all the time, which is probably what won him the role of Puck, the trickster. That, and there are only two boys in the class.
“I am but a regular high school girl,” I say, playing along. “Where is this fairy queen of which you speak?”
He's still staring at me with those twinkling eyes. “I'm in character,” he whispers. “It's called Method Acting.”
“Where's Ty anyway?” I ask as I look around for Josh's usual partner in crime.
“Trouble not your pretty mind with such trivialities. Last I heard, the young man was embracing the porcelain gods. The plague of mucous doth rendered him ... unwell.”
“His ill fortune becomes my, uh, good fortune. I have you all to myself.” I smile at my off-the-cuff faux Shakespearean dialogue, and also at being called flattering things. If this is what Josh is like when Ty's not around, I hope Ty is sick all week.
The banter continues all through class. After rehearsal ends, Genna sidles up to me and calls me a flirt.
“Me? Flirting?”
“A-duh,” she says as we make our way through the halls to our lockers. “You are all ...” She sticks the tip of her baby finger between pouty lips and bats her eyelashes at me.
“Ew, not like that. We were just making friends. He's really different when Ty's not around.”
I look up from my backpack and find Tick standing by my locker, probably waiting to walk home with me. I'm not in the mood to receive any more silent treatment.
“So, our study session,” I say to Genna. “I'm coming to your house for that now, right?” I wink with the eye Tick can't see.
“No,” Genna says, looking worried.
“Yes. Remember?”
“Study, right,” Genna says, looking unhappy. “Of course.”
I turn to Tick. “Can you tell Mom and Dad?”
She drops her head sullenly and turns. She marches off, her weird little army boots clomping on the floor.
“That wasn't nice,” Genna says.
“She'll get over it.”
“No, I mean to me. You ambushed me.”
“Genna, I haven't been to your house in ages. It'll be fun. Or do you not like me anymore?”
“We'll go to your house,” she says.
“My cousin will be there. I think you're missing the entire point.”
She scowls at me. “I think I am.”
“What pooped in your cornflakes?”
Her posture changes, becoming less rigid. “Never mind. It's fine. I don't want to study, but we can watch some TV.”
* * *
On the walk to Genna's house, I think about my cousin while Genna talks about some guy she allegedly flirted with and kissed last summer at camp.
I watched my cousin during Drama class, in between scenes and talking to Josh. She was smiling and having fun with blue-haired Dana, the two of them making goofy faces and messing aro
und with the props.
Tick isn't an enigma.
When I saw Tick and Dana talking, and saw how similar they were, like two weird-haired troll dolls, it clicked. They both just want attention. Now they have each other, so my problem is basically solved, I think, until Dana gets sick of her.
* * *
When we reach Genna's driveway, she stops and puts her arm out in front of me, stopping me as well. “I have to tell you something,” she says.
The door of Genna's family's blue and green house opens and a red-haired woman steps out with a baby, both of them bundled up for the cold. This woman, who is not a member of Genna's family, calls back into the house, “Make sure Stevie eats all his carrots!”
Something is up at the Jones residence.
“This,” Genna says, like one word explains everything.
“This?” I look at the woman with the baby, both strangers. Genna's sister Gwendolyn didn't go off to college in the fall, but is still working at The International. We haven't had any parties or sleepovers at Genna's house in ages.
“This isn't your house anymore,” I say.
Her eyes, shining with tears, say it all.
“I'm so sorry,” I say. “You don't have to even talk about it. I understand.”
The woman walks by with her baby. “Are you girls lost?” she asks.
I look around and ask her, “Is this Birch Street?”
The woman shuffles the red-headed, snowsuit-wearing baby from one arm to the other. He or she makes that irresistible baby face, the one that forces me to grin stupidly with eyes wide.
“No, that's two blocks west of here.” She points her chin in the direction of my house.
“Thanks.” I grab Genna's hand and pull her away.
After we've walked for a block, Genna says, quietly, “We're going the wrong way. Our apartment is back there, closer to the school.”
“Apartment?”
“It's just temporary.”
“Apartments are cool. Is there an elevator?”
“No.”
* * *
Genna's apartment is nice enough, for an apartment, but not as good as her house. The Jones house was a similar age to my family's house, but had been fixed up with all the best of everything, which naturally lead to many, many jokes about “keeping up with the Joneses,” as the saying goes.
Genna's bathroom, which she didn't have to share with anyone, had a heated tile floor. It was so luxurious, you wanted to lie down on the brown-flecked tiles, which were real stone.
Whereas the Jones house felt cozy, the Jones apartment feels ... spacious, partly because there's no artwork up on the plain white walls. The counter tops are laminate, not solid granite like they had at the house. The appliances are on the old side. “Good and functional,” I say, even though it looks like the 1980s threw up in here.
“You hungry?” she asks, rummaging through the fridge. It's wide, with a big door on the right and a skinny freezer door on the left. I've always liked that style of fridge. Everything that's different from what you have at your house seems more fun.
“I'm only hungry if you are,” I say.
She pulls out a bag of pre-grated cheese and sourdough bread, and makes us some grilled cheese sandwiches. The pan's too hot and one side gets beyond golden-brown to burned-brown.
Genna stares at the burned sandwiches and the remaining three slices of unused bread, still in the bag. She looks as fragile as my mother's glass vase.
I pick up one of the burned sandwiches and bite into the corner. “Perfect. Just how I like them.”
The corner of her mouth turns up in that crooked-but-genuine smile of hers. “Yeah. Just how we like them.” She picks up her sandwich and knocks it against mine. “Cheers.”
* * *
Once we're past the shock of her revealing her new living situation, the rest of my evening with Genna is full of laughs. She fills me in on more details. Her father isn't currently working, but her mother's job as a police officer is pretty secure. “We won't starve,” she says. “Don't tell anyone, though. People are so judgemental.”
To change the topic, she smooths down her bangs so the ends are all in a perfect row, and does her impression of Mrs. Rose. “Ha ha. The studentry is very amusing today.”
When my mother calls about giving me a ride home, we're shocked to discover it's already past ten o'clock. My house is not very far away, but I'm not allowed to walk around alone at night.
Genna suggests I stay overnight, since I'm there anyway. To my surprise, my mother agrees to it, even though it's a school night.
* * *
Now I understand why we don't usually have sleepovers on school nights. I'm never going to get any sleep! Genna's as bad as my cousin, with her silly stories in the dark.
When I think of my cousin, alone in my room, I get a jolt of panic. She'll be going through all my stuff, without me there to stop her. I have some leftover chocolates from Christmas in a drawer, and I'm guessing they're as good as gone. She'll probably be into my clothes as well. I hope my mother's stocked up on stain remover.
* * *
Tuesday morning, January 17th
I've come to expect strange things from my cousin, but nothing prepared me for this.
She's wearing my favorite tan corduroy pants, and my new cream-colored cable-knit cardigan, over my cream turtleneck. The only things that belong to her are the purple headband and—I hope—her underwear.
“Nice,” I say, cornering her by the lockers.
She sorts through her books without acknowledging me.
I say, “So you won't talk to me, but you'll borrow all my clothes without asking?”
“Of course I'll talk to you,” she says, eyes wide with astonishment. “We're talking right now.”
I look her up and down. “Stay away from cranberry juice this time.”
She crinkles her forehead for a moment. “Oh, that's sweet that you're worried about my new clothes.” She adjusts the waistband of the pants and smooths down the sweater. “You like? Your mother wanted to get out of the house yesterday, and the mall was open late for some event they're doing, so we hit every store.”
“These are your clothes,” I say, half-question, half-statement.
“Yeah. But don't worry. They're machine-washable, so my mother won't need to have a fit.” She rolls her eyes. “She's so embarrassing.”
“Right. Your mother's the embarrassing one.”
She pulls her pencil case out of her locker and closes the door with a bang.
I say, “You went shopping with my mother.” Again, I'm restating the obvious, but only because it's all I can think of to say.
My eyes aren't believing what they're seeing. On Tick, the neutral classic clothes—the type of things I usually wear—look fresh and interesting, in a way they don't look on me. Maybe it's her bright red hair. My own hair blends in with everything, in one blah-blur.
Maybe it's not the hair, but her confidence. Even her makeup looks better today, even though it's the same thick eyeliner she usually wears.
I don't get it.
As Tick walks away with a springy step, her hair swinging, I wonder what it is that gives her such inner strength. Who told her she was so great?
On the way to my first class, Cameron, a girl I mostly know from Drama, catches up and walks alongside me. She scurries to keep up with me, because she's barely five feet tall, so her stride is considerably shorter than mine. “I see you're finally getting through to your cousin,” Cameron says.
“Great. Now what has she done? Pull down someone's pants? Pull down her own pants?”
Cameron looks taken aback. “Not that I know of. I just meant that you're a good influence on her. I've always wanted a sister.”
“You can have her.”
“What? Aren't you guys getting along? You're sharing clothes and stuff, practically twins.”
“We're not sharing clothes. She bought clothes that look exactly like mine.”
Cameron
says, “I think I saw that in a movie. The movie didn't have a happy ending.”
“Well, if I smother her and go to jail, I guess you can play Tatiana in the play.”
“I hope it doesn't come to that,” she says.
“Me neither.”
* * *
At lunch time, Genna says she brought her own food, so she doesn't line up with me and Briana for cafeteria food. I've been ordering what the other girls get, so I have to stall by pretending I have something in my shoe, so that Briana goes in front of me in the line. She orders fish sticks and fries, so I order the same, even though I don't like fish.
“Only give me half the fries,” Briana says to the lady.
I say, “Me too. Just half.”
Briana turns. “You don't want yours plus my half? You can have mine.”
The lunch lady glowers at us.
“Half-order of fries for both of us,” I tell the woman.
She puts some fries on the plate. Briana shakes her head, so the lady removes a few more, and not very carefully. The fries are getting ripped in half from all the motion with the tongs. She doesn't say a word, but her raised eyebrows tell me she's suspicious, though I can't imagine why.
I follow Briana to the drink dispenser, where she pushes a button next to the Orange Crush tab. Clear liquid comes out, but it's not plain water, because it's bubbly.
I take the same size cup—medium—and do the same, thinking maybe it's 7Up. The machine could have a secret 7Up setting.
Back at the table, Genna has spread out a cloth napkin, chopsticks, and an assortment of square, plastic containers. I recognize the stacking boxes from this morning, at her house. Genna was doing something with them when we had hot chocolate and toast for breakfast. I was too sleepy to pay much attention.
As I munch on my limited number of fries, Genna opens the containers one by one to reveal: the tiniest baby carrots, radishes cut into roses, a sandwich with the crusts cut off, a salad with long, brown noodles, and a delicate slice of cake.
“I know what that is,” Briana says. “It's one of those Japanese boxes, isn't it?”
“Bento box,” Genna says, looking pleased.
“Oh, I want! Want!” Briana says.
