Just Listen

by Sarah Dessen

  “Annabel!”

  I turned around, and there was Mallory Armstrong. She was smiling big and coming toward me at a fast clip, her progress impeded somewhat by the poster, CD, and camera she was carrying. Following behind her at a more leisurely pace was her mom, whom I recognized from the day I’d dropped Owen at his house. “Hi!” Mallory said. “I can’t believe it—are you a Jenny Reef fan, too?”

  “Um,” I said as another throng of girls rushed past us to get in line, “not really. I had to come in for a meeting….”

  “For the Models?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “actually. We have this fashion show next weekend.”

  “The Fall Fashion Show. I know! I’m so excited, I’m totally coming,” she said. “Can you believe Jenny Reef is, like, here? She signed my poster!”

  She unrolled it so I could see. Sure enough, there was Jenny Reef, looking very surferesque and Californian, posing on a beach. There was a guitar stuck in the sand on one side of her, a surfboard on the other. Written beneath it, in black sharpie, it said: TO MALLERY. HANG TEN WITH ME AND MOOSHKA SURFWEAR. LOVE, JENNY.

  “Wow,” I said as her mom walked up to us. “That’s cool.”

  “And I got a free CD and a picture!” Mallory said, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. “I wanted to get a Mooshka T-shirt, too, but…”

  “But you already have a thousand T-shirts,” her mom finished for her. Looking at her, I could see where Owen got his height: She was taller than me, with dark hair pulled back at the neck, and was wearing jeans and a knitted pullover. I took a quick glance at her shoes, noting that they were not pointy, and wondered if they were vegan. “Hi,” she said to me. “I’m Teresa Armstrong. And you are?”

  “Mom!” Mallory shook her head. “This is Annabel Greene, I can’t believe you don’t recognize her.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Armstrong said. “Should I?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Yes,” Mallory said, turning to her mom. “Annabel’s from the Kopf’s commercial, the one I’m, like, obsessed with?”

  “Ah,” her mom said, smiling politely. “Right.”

  “And she’s friends with Owen. Good friends.”

  “Really,” Mrs. Armstrong said, sounding surprised. She smiled at me. “Well. That’s nice.”

  “Annabel’s in the fashion show I was telling you about next weekend,” Mallory explained. To me she said, “Mom isn’t very into fashion. But I’m trying to educate her.”

  “And I,” Mrs. Armstrong said with a sigh, “am trying to get Mallory more interested in issues, and less in pop stars and clothes.”

  “Hard to do,” I said.

  “Almost impossible.” She pushed her purse farther up onto her shoulder. “But I’m doing my best.”

  “Hello Kopf’s shoppers!” a voice suddenly boomed from a speaker overhead. “Thank you for coming out today for our exclusive in-store appearance by Jenny Reef, sponsored by Mooshka Surfwear! Please join us in a few minutes, at one o’clock, when Jenny will perform her newest single, ‘Becalmed,’ in the Kopf’s Café, located adjacent to the men’s department. We’ll see you there!”

  “Did you hear that? She’s performing!” Mallory grabbed her mom’s hand. “We have to stay.”

  “We can’t,” Mrs. Armstrong told her. “We have to be at the women’s center at one thirty for group.”

  “Mom,” Mallory groaned. “Please not today. Please?”

  “We have a mother-daughter discussion group,” Mrs. Armstrong explained to me. “Once a week, we get together, six moms and six girls, and discuss issues that are pertinent to our personal growth. The group is led by this wonderful women’s studies professor from the university, Boo Connell? It’s really—”

  “So totally boring,” Mallory finished for her. “Last week I fell asleep.”

  “Which was very unfortunate, because the topic was menstruation,” Mrs. Armstrong said. “It’s a manifestation of many changes and beginnings for women…. The discussion was really fascinating.”

  Mallory gasped. “Mom! You are not talking about getting your period with Annabel Greene!”

  “Menstruation is nothing to be embarrassed about, sweetie,” her mom said as Mallory flushed a deeper shade of pink. “I’m sure even models get their periods.”

  Mallory put a hand to her face. “Oh,” she said, “my God.” Then she closed her eyes, as if she wanted to disappear, or maybe was pretending she already had.

  “I should go,” I said, the voice coming over the loudspeaker again. “It was, um, nice to meet you.”

  “You, too,” Mrs. Armstrong said.

  I smiled at Mallory, who was still standing there looking mortified. “See you later,” I said.

  She nodded. “Okay. Bye, Annabel.”

  I started back toward the conference room. I’d only taken a couple of steps, though, when I heard Mallory hiss, “Mom, I can’t believe you did that to me.”

  “Did what?”

  “Humiliated me like that,” Mallory said. “You owe me an apology.”

  “Honey,” Mrs. Armstrong said, sighing, “I’m really not clear on what the problem is. Maybe if you…”

  I didn’t get to hear the rest, as I was passing through the cosmetics department, where a mob of women were getting makeovers, and their voices drowned everything out. When I reached the conference room, though, I turned back to see Mallory and her mom were still where I’d left them. Mrs. Armstrong had squatted down in front of her daughter and was listening, nodding occasionally, as Mallory spoke.

  Inside the conference room, I could hear Mrs. McMurty telling everyone to quiet down, that it was time to get started. Still, I stayed where I was a moment longer, watching as Mrs. Armstrong finally stood and she and Mallory started toward the exit. Mallory didn’t look particularly happy, but when, after a few steps, her mom reached down for her fingers, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she wrapped her hand around her mom’s, quickening her pace, and they walked out the doors together.

  When I got home later that afternoon, Whitney was out on the front steps. There was a row of four small flowerpots lined up in front of her, a bag of potting soil beside them, and she was sitting there, a small shovel in one hand, with an annoyed expression on her face.

  “Hi,” I said as I headed up the walk toward her. “What are you doing?”

  She didn’t answer me at first, instead just ripping open the potting-soil bag and plunging the shovel in. But then, as I stepped around her, toward the door, she said, “I have to plant herbs.”

  I stopped walking. “Herbs?”

  “Yeah.” She scooped some thick soil out of the bag, dropping it into one of the tiny pots with a thunk, some spilling over the sides. “For my stupid therapy group.”

  “Why herbs?”

  “Who knows?” She filled another pot, just as messily, then reached up, wiping her face. “This is what Mom and Dad are paying Moira Bell one fifty an hour for, to tell me to grow some freaking rosemary.” She picked up a stack of seed packets from beside her foot, flipping through them. “And basil. And oregano. And thyme. Money well spent, right?”

  “It does seem kind of weird,” I said.

  “Because it is,” she replied, scooping out more dirt for the third pot. “It’s also stupid and a waste of time and not going to work. It’s almost winter. You can’t grow stuff in winter.”

  “Did you tell her that?”

  “I tried to. But she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about anything except making sure she makes you look like an ass.” She dumped dirt into the last pot, making it wobble, but it didn’t fall over. “‘You can grow them inside,’ she said, all chirpy. ‘Just find a sunny window.’ Yeah, right. I’ll kill these things in days. And even if I don’t, what the hell am I supposed to do with a bunch of herbs?”

  I watched as she picked up the basil packet, ripping it open, and dumped out some seeds into her hand. “Well,” I said, “you can use them to cook, or something.”

  She’d be
en about to plant the seeds, but now she looked up at me, her expression flat, unreadable. “Cook,” she repeated. “Right.”

  I felt my face flush. Again, I’d managed to say something wrong, even when I hadn’t really thought I’d said anything at all. Thankfully, the phone began to ring inside, and I headed to get it, grateful for a reason to shut a door between us.

  By the time I reached the kitchen, the machine had already picked up. There was a beep, and then Kirsten came on.

  “Hello?” she said, her voice loud, as always. “Anybody there? It’s me, pick up if you are…. God, where is everyone? And I had good news, too….”

  I picked up the receiver. “What good news?”

  “Annabel! Hi!” Her voice jumped a couple of octaves, a marked contrast to Whitney’s flat monotone. I sat down, getting comfortable—if Kirsten’s messages were long, actually being on the phone with her could kill an entire afternoon. “I’m so glad you’re home, how are you?”

  “Okay,” I said, sliding my chair a bit to the right. Looking across the dining room, I could see Whitney shaking seeds into a flowerpots, her brow wrinkled as she concentrated. “How are you?”

  “Fabulous.” Of course she was. “You know that filmmaking class I was telling you about? The one I’m taking this semester?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Well,” she continued, “we had to do a five-minute short for our midterm grade, right? They only pick two to be shown for this, like, showcase night that everyone goes to. And mine got picked!”

  “That’s great,” I said. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” She laughed. “I have to tell you, I know it’s just this school thing but I am so psyched. This class, and the communications one I’m taking…I mean, they’ve just really changed the way I look at things. Like Brian says, I’m learning to tell, but also to show. And I—”

  “Wait,” I said. “Who’s Brian?”

  “The TA in my communications course. He helps the professor run the class, and handles the smaller discussion group I’m in on Fridays. He’s amazing, just so smart. God! Anyway, I’m really proud of this piece I did, but now I have to get up and introduce it next weekend in front of everyone. I am so nervous I can’t even tell you.”

  “Nervous?” Of all the adjectives I would have used to describe my sister, this would never have been one of them. “You?”

  “Well, yeah,” she said. “Annabel, I have to get up and talk about my film in front of total strangers.”

  “You used to get up and walk in front of strangers,” I pointed out. “In bathing suits, even.”

  “Oh, that’s different,” she said.

  “How?”

  “Because that’s just…” She trailed off, sighing. “This is personal. Real. You know?”

  “Yeah,” I said, although I wasn’t sure I did, really. “I guess.”

  “Anyway, it’s a week from today. So you’ll have to think good thoughts for me. Okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. “So…what’s it about?”

  “My short?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh. Well, it’s kind of hard to explain….” she said before, of course, commencing to do just that. “Basically, though, it’s about me. And Whitney.”

  I looked outside again at Whitney, who was ripping open another seed packet, wondering how she’d react to this. “Really,” I said.

  “I mean, it’s a fictional thing, of course,” she said. “But it’s based on that time when we were kids, out on our bikes, and she broke her arm. Remember? I had to ride her home on my handlebars?”

  I thought for a second. “Yeah,” I said. “Wasn’t that…”

  “Your birthday,” she said. “Your ninth birthday. Dad missed the party to take her to the hospital. She got back with her cast just in time for cake.”

  “Right.” It was coming back to me. “I do remember that, actually.”

  “Well, it’s basically about that. But different. It’s hard to explain. I can e-mail it to you, if you want. I mean, I’m still tinkering with it, but you could get the general idea.”

  “I’d love to see it,” I said.

  “You’ll have to tell me if it’s terrible, though.”

  “I’m sure it isn’t.”

  “I guess I’ll find out on Saturday.” She sighed. “Anyway, look, I better go. I just wanted to tell you guys about it. Everything okay there?”

  I looked out at Whitney again. She’d put another layer of soil into the pots and had now picked up a hose to water them, her eyes narrowed as the drops sputtered out. “Yeah,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

  As I hung up the phone, I heard the front door open. A moment later, when I crossed through the foyer, Whitney was lining her flowerpots up in the dining-room window. I stood in the archway, watching her arrange them on the sill in a neat row, brushing off their rims with her fingers. When she was done, she stood up, planting her hands on her hips. “Oh, well,” she said. “Here goes nothing.”

  “Or not,” I said.

  She glanced over at me, and I wondered if she was going to snap at me or make a typically sarcastic remark. “We’ll see,” she said, then dropped her hands and started toward the kitchen.

  As she turned on the faucet and began washing her hands, I walked over to the window to look at the flowerpots. The dirt in them was black and fragrant, spotted with fertilizer, and I could see beads of water here and there, glinting in the sunlight. Maybe it was a stupid exercise, and you couldn’t grow things in winter. But there was something I liked about the idea of those seeds, buried so deep, having at least a chance to emerge. Even if you couldn’t see it beneath the surface, molecules were bonding, energy pushing up slowly, as something worked so hard, all alone, to grow.

  Chapter TEN

  By that afternoon, my mother had already left two messages: one letting us know they’d arrived at their hotel, and the other reminding me where she’d left the pizza money, a subtle hint to make sure that we (i.e., Whitney) ate dinner. Message received, I thought as I walked down to the kitchen. The money was on the counter with a list of several places that delivered. My mother was nothing if not prepared.

  “Whitney?” I called up the stairs. No answer. Which didn’t mean she wasn’t there, just that she probably didn’t feel like responding. “I’m ordering the pizza. Is cheese okay?”

  Another silence. Fine, I thought. Cheese it is. I picked a number at random and dialed.

  After ordering, I headed up to my room and settled in to listen to the discs Owen had made me, beginning with one entitled PROTEST SONGS (ACOUSTIC AND WORLD). I made it through three tracks about unions before nodding off, only to wake up with a start when I heard the doorbell ring.

  I sat up just as Whitney passed my room and padded down the stairs to answer it. After brushing my teeth, I followed her. When I got to the foyer, she was standing at the door, which was open, blocking my view of both her and whoever was on the other side. Still, I could hear their voices.

  “…not so much their newer stuff, but the earlier albums,” she was saying. “I have a couple of imports I got from a friend that are awesome.”

  “Really,” another, deeper voice—a guy—replied. “UK imports, or somewhere else?”

  “UK, I think. I’d have to check.”

  Maybe it was because I’d just woken up, but there was something familiar about some part of this scene, although I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was.

  “What do I owe you again?” Whitney asked.

  “Eleven eighty-seven,” the guy replied.

  “Here’s a twenty. Just give me five back.”

  “Thanks.” I took another step. Now, I was sure I knew that voice. “The thing about Ebb Tide,” it continued, “is that they’re really an acquired taste.”

  “Totally,” Whitney said.

  “I mean, most people don’t even…”

  I stepped around the door, and sure enough, it was Owen. Standing there on the mat in front of
my door, earphones dangling around his neck, counting out dollar bills into my sister’s hand She was nodding as he spoke and looking at him with a much warmer expression than she’d given me in, oh, a year. When he saw me, he smiled.

  “See,” he said to Whitney, “case in point. Annabel is not an Ebb Tide fan. She hates techno, in fact.”

  Whitney looked at me, then back at Owen again, clearly confused. “She does?”

  “Yup. Despite my best efforts to convince her otherwise,” he said. “She’s very stubborn, once she’s made up her mind. Totally honest, totally opinionated. But I guess you already know that.”

  Whitney just looked at me as he said this, and I knew what she was thinking: that this was not me at all, not by a long shot. It didn’t sound exactly right to me either, but for some reason, her incredulousness bothered me.

  “Anyway,” he said now, bending down to the plastic carrier at his feet and unzipping it to pull out a pizza box. “Here you go. Enjoy it.”

  Whitney nodded, still looking at me, and took it from him. “Thanks,” she said. “Have a good night.”

  “You, too,” Owen replied as Whitney turned, walking into the dining room toward the kitchen.

  I stepped into the center of the open doorway, watching Owen as he shoved the wad of money in his hand into his pocket, then picked up the carrier. He had on jeans and a red T-shirt that said SLICE O’CHEESE! Of all the numbers for pizza places my mom left me, I’d called this one. Who knew? But I had to admit, I was happy to see him.

  “Your sister,” he said to me now, “is an Ebb Tide fan. She has imports.”

  “And that’s good?”

  “Very good,” he replied. “It’s almost enlightened. Imports take effort.”

  “Do you talk about music with every single person you meet?”

  “No,” he said. I just looked at him. Behind me, I heard Whitney cut on the TV.