Shane straightens, clutching his stomach. “Because. That”—he points at his motorcycle—“that not Shane’s bike no more. That my bike now.”
Oh. My. God. Shane’s voice. It’s the same as the stranger’s. On the phone.
“Oh, Ariel, you were so funny.” He flaps his wrist in the air, acting feminine. “Look, I know this is Shane’s number. He programmed it into my phone. I’m his girlfriend. He wouldn’t give up his number and not tell me!”
My adrenaline kicks in, sending an enormous surge rushing through me.
I lunge at Shane, knocking him straight to the ground. Then I’m on top of him, arms flailing, swatting him. Me, Miss I’ve-Got-a-Dad-in-Prison-for-Murder-So-I’m-Always-Totally-Rational. I’m worse than the Spandex-clad riffraff on Jerry Springer.
My hand connects with Shane’s nose. He winces as his head snaps sideways. Blood trickles from his nostril.
In one sudden move, he grabs my wrists and pushes me off him. Then he stands, swiping his nose with the back of his hand. The afternoon sun is over his shoulder, drilling a hole through my brain. “You bitch,” he says, staring at the blood on his knuckles. “I can’t believe you did this to me.”
I can’t believe I did it, either.
I roll in the opposite direction, away from Shane, and manage to stand.
Shane’s bleeding hard now. I know I should ask him if his nose hurts. I should tell him I’m sorry, offer to go inside and get ice and paper towels from the cafeteria.
I should.
I should.
I should.
But I don’t.
Instead, I tell him, “I think I’d like you to leave.”
* * *
I breeze past Frieda: Volunteer and duck into the first bathroom I come to. A lady balances an infant on the changing table. His diaper is open and the room reeks of baby shit. I barely make it into a stall. Within seconds, I’m puking my guts out.
When I hear the woman leave, I flush the toilet. Wash my hands. Splash cold water on my face. I avoid my image in the mirror, afraid of what I might see—a psycho who’s capable of shoving her boyfriend to the ground and giving him a bloody nose.
I reach for a paper towel, drying my hands. Then, I can’t help it, I have to look.
When my own reflection stares back at me, I feel grateful. Sure, my eyes are puffy from crying, my pupils are demented from the headache, and my hair is a total mess—but I’m me. The same Ariel I was an hour ago. Before Shane showed up.
I get this vague, gut feeling I’ve been given a second chance on something. Except I have no clue what that something is.
I check the cafeteria for Mom, but she’s not there. I pause in front of a soda machine, remembering caffeine helps a headache. Except, when I dig through my pockets, all I find is a quarter.
Out of options, I head back upstairs, praying I can count on a Coke.
Green Mountain’s sitting up in bed, watching another dumb soap opera. She sees me in the doorway and points the remote at the TV, turning it off.
I lean into the wall across from the empty bed. “Seen my mom?” I ask her.
“Nope. I thought maybe the two of you took off.” She shrugs. “Not that I’d blame you. I’m just a mean old woman without tits or tea manners.”
“You’re not that old—” I start, then kick myself, because it sounds like I’m agreeing with the rest. “What I mean is—”
“Sit,” she interrupts.
I pick the chair closest to the door, in case I need to make a getaway. I lower myself onto the cushion—gingerly, like you’d rest an egg on a counter.
Green Mountain stares at me. “What’s the matter with you? You look like hell.”
“I feel like hell. I’ve got a really bad headache.” I glance at the Coke can she’s semiconcealed beside her nightstand, praying she’ll offer me one.
“You seeing funny flashes?” she asks, waggling her fingers near her face. “Like spider legs in front of your eyes?”
I nod.
She lifts her Coke, sipping. I’m ready to dive at the can. “Smells bother you?”
“Big time. I got a whiff of a crappy baby diaper in the restroom a few minutes ago and—”
She laughs. “Woofed your socks off, didn’t you?”
“How’d you know?” I ask, hoping it’s not because my breath smells like barf.
“Classic migraine. They run in families. Does your ma get ’em?”
I shake my head no.
“Lucky her.” She motions toward the window. “The light hurt at all?”
“A little.”
“Close the blinds then.”
I cross the room and twirl the wand. The room grows darker. Cooler. It feels quieter too, even though there’s no less sound than there was five seconds ago.
“Grab yourself a Coke,” she tells me. “And get my pocketbook while you’re there. It’s hanging on a hook inside.”
Gratefully, I take a soda from the cooler. And I hand her a brown suede bag that looks at least a hundred years old. I think for a minute what I’d do if this were a regular situation—if Green Mountain were really like a grandmother to me, and I was really like a granddaughter to her. I’d make a mental note on my holiday shopping list. Under Grandma, I’d write: new pocketbook. But I don’t even know if I’ll see her at Christmas. Or if she’ll still be alive at Christmas.
Green Mountain digs through her bag, popping the lid on a bottle of Excedrin. “They say to take two, but you need three for a migraine. Here, hold out your hand.”
I do what she says. She taps three caplets in my palm.
I swallow them with Coke and return to my chair, eager for the miracle of pain relief. “Mom always gives me Motrin,” I volunteer.
She harrumphs. “Motrin never did diddly for me.”
“Me neither,” I agree.
“Stick with Excedrin if it does the trick. Doctors’ll try to sucker you in with the prescription stuff. That’s what mine did. Got me hooked on Percocet. Ever hear of it?”
“Yeah. In health class. It’s got Oxycodone in it. A girl in my homeroom OD’d on Oxy. She’s in detox now.”
“Yeah, well, it turned me into a damn zombie. Your ma could tell you all about that. Wasn’t until I got treated for depression—after she left and my husband, well, died—that I realized I was hooked on the stuff. Hillbilly heroin, they call it in NA. She points a finger at me, a finger that obviously means business. “You stay away from the shit, you hear me?”
Her approach is so totally different from Mom’s, who trusts me to “make good decisions and do what’s right.” It’s a first, having someone just say no. And mean it.
She squints at me. “What are you grinning about? I asked you a question.”
I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from smiling. “I won’t touch the stuff. Promise.”
“Okay. Good. Now shut your eyes. I’ll show you what my new doctor has me do when I get a migraine. She’s trained in all that touchy-feely stuff.”
I rest my head back, against the wall. I let my lids drop closed.
“Picture something nice,” she tells me. “The ocean or the forest or whatever makes you feel relaxed. Concentrate on it, like you’re watching a show on TV.”
I don’t have to decide what to picture, the memory just comes to me. I’m at Olivia’s cottage on Willow Lake the summer after fourth grade. Her dad and Steve said she could invite me along. Normally, their weekends were “family time,” but Liv had broken her wrist two days before, and they were worried she’d be bored because she couldn’t go in the water with her cast. Anyway, Liv led the way toward this tree, which was right next to where their boat was docked. It had huge pink blossoms that smelled sweeter than anything I’d ever smelled before. As we sat beneath it, I drew on Olivia’s cast. She’d sectioned off areas for different people—her cello teacher, her grandpa, her favorite aunt in New Paltz, her babysitter. And me, of course. My spot was the largest. I filled it with flowers and hearts mostly, and I sign
ed it: VBFTTWE—which stood for Very Best Friends Till the World Ends—Ariel. Then we lay back on the warm grass, watching the bees buzz through the blossoms, listening to the boat thump the dock.
When I open my eyes, I realize I must have dozed off. My neck is stiff, but my headache is completely gone.
A nurse in a pale yellow uniform stands beside Green Mountain’s bed, attaching a blood pressure cuff. She squeezes the rubber ball again and again and the cuff expands, making sounds like small, nervous breaths. The nurse stares at the floor, listening. “Much better,” she says. “One-fifty over eighty-four. Now we’re getting somewhere.” When she rips the Velcro loose, my eyes come to rest on Green Mountain’s white, fleshy arm.
Quickly, I turn away.
Then I look back again—the same way you do when you pass a gruesome car wreck and don’t want to see it, but at the same time you have this morbid curiosity.
Green Mountain’s arm is scarred. Badly. From the cap of her sleeve down to her wrist, her skin is scaly, mottled with patches of raised, off-color skin, clustered in erratic patterns.
The nurse scribbles something on a chart and turns to leave.
Green Mountain slips her arm back into her sweater. She smoothes it in place and glances my way. “Hey,” she says, “you’re awake. Feel any better?”
“Yeah, I do. Thanks.”
“Good.” She tries to sit up. Stops. Winces.
“Are you okay?” I ask. Which is stupid. How could anyone in her situation be okay?
Creases line her forehead. “Drainage tubes’re hurting. I think I’ll close my eyes for a few minutes. You mind?”
I stand quickly, worried I’ve stayed too long. “No,” I rush out, “that’s fine.”
But when I start toward the door, she calls, “Wait!”
I look back at her. I mean, really look. Her eyes are blue, like mine. Her hair, streaked with gray, is the same shade of brown as Mom’s. And even though her face is very round, her features are small, almost delicate.“Yeah?”
“I didn’t mean you have to leave. I’ve got magazines if you like to read.”
“That’s okay.” I tip my chin toward the hall. “I should try to find Mom.”
“Oh, sure.” She nods, but I can tell she’s disappointed.
Suddenly I feel responsible for her. “Do you, um, need anything before I go?”
She lifts her chin toward an old transistor radio on the windowsill. “Put on some music for me. It’s too damn quiet in here.”
“What station?” I ask.
“Should be set already. Ninety-two FM. Only station I listen to. My bingo buddy, Thelma, goes for that toe-tappin’ country-western crap, but I like the seventies stuff.”
So does my dad, I think but don’t say. Bringing him up wouldn’t go over well.
The reception on the radio is fuzzy, so I move the antenna around. An instrumental song comes on, one I’ve never heard before.
“That’s from Jonathan Livingston Seagull,” Green Mountain says. “Ever see the movie?”
I shake my head no.
“It’s about a seagull named Jonathan who doesn’t fit with the crowd.” Her face softens and she sighs. “I felt a lot like that lonely seagull when I was your age. Thought my dreams would save me. Anyway”—she forces a smile—“rent it sometime.”
“I will.” I wait until her eyes drift closed before starting quietly toward the door.
* * *
Outside, I press Liv’s number. She answers on the second ring. She must be in her room. I hear Coldplay in the background.
“Hey, Liv.”
“Hey, Ariel.”
“My condolences to Katelyn. Is she still there?”
“No. She had a rehearsal to go to.”
I’m secretly happy to hear that. I was worried Liv might invite her to stay for the dinner party.
“How’s your headache?” Liv asks.
“Better. My…” I hesitate. “My grandmother gave me some Excedrin and a Coke, then she had me do a visualization.”
“Wow. She sounds awesome.” Liv would say that. Her dad uses guided imagery with his clients. “What did she have you visualize?”
“She told me to pick something that makes me feel calm. The first thing that popped into my head was the weekend at Willow Lake, after you broke your wrist.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Why do you sound surprised?”
“I thought you’d visualize something you did with Shane.”
I try to pinpoint what I’m hearing in Olivia’s voice. Is it jealousy? A by-product of feeling squeezed out of the picture? Does she think my Liv memories are history now?
Stepping back, taking a look at the situation, I realize—that’s how I’d feel if the tables were turned.
Suddenly I want to give her something. I need to give her something. Something a friend would give another friend. The truth. “Liv,” I start, “I probably thought of Willow Lake because”—I force the words out—“I don’t exactly feel calm with Shane.”
“You…don’t?”
“No. I feel on edge. A lot.”
“Wow. Ariel. I had no idea. Not that I’ve seen you two interact much—Shane seems to want you all to himself—but, well, I got the impression you were happy.”
A door busts open inside me. A door to a room I haven’t dared enter. Until now.
“I don’t know what I am,” I tell Liv. “Confused, I guess. I’m always so busy trying to keep Shane from getting hurt or disappointed or mad that I sometimes feel like there isn’t a place for my feelings anymore. I can barely find myself. And when I do”—I picture Shane’s nosebleed—“I don’t always like who I see.”
Liv sighs. “Oh, Ariel, this relationship doesn’t sound healthy for you.”
She’s channeling her dad again. But she’s right.
After a long pause, Liv asks, “Do you think Shane had an ulterior motive for giving you a phone?”
I panic. The phone. Oh my God. If Shane has a tracking device on it, could it be tapped, too? Could he be listening to my conversation right now? “Liv,” I say, changing the subject, “I really want to have a long talk with you when I get home. I know I’ve been a terrible friend lately and I’ve hardly given you any time. But I want that to change. I miss hanging out with you and going shopping and being silly and laughing and doing all the things we used to do.”
“Wellll,” she says, “next Friday I’m performing a solo at the holiday concert. Dad and Steve are taking me out to dinner first. Maybe you can come too?”
Tears prick my eyes. I’m filled with a rush of feelings I don’t have words for yet.
But then reality hits. Friday is date night.
“You don’t have to answer now,” Liv says. “We’ll talk about it when you get home.”
“Okay, Liv. Thanks.”
There’s a long silence, then she says, “I have no clue whatsoever why I just thought of this. But remember in fifth grade when we went to see Holes, and you got a major crush on Zigzag?” I can hear the smile in her voice.
For a split second, I slip back into fifth-grade me. “God, Liv, I miss you.”
Madeline
Muralee offers to pick me up on Saturday morning, but I don’t want her seeing where I live, so I suggest we meet at Franklin’s Five and Dime.
I arrive first, dressed in a pair of size ten bell bottoms (with a sanitary napkin pinned to my underwear, in case I get my period, which is a week late) and a turtleneck sweater—emerald green, like Muralee’s eyes. Over that I’m wearing a brown corduroy jacket I found at a rummage sale. I think Muralee will like my outfit—it reminds me of something she’d pick out.
Remembering Muralee’s favorite soda, I buy a bottle of Dr. Pepper. It’s not diet, so I won’t drink much, but I hope she’ll be interested in sharing it.
I sit on the bench outside Franklin’s waiting.
Muralee’s late. By ten minutes. Twenty.
An excruciating half hour passes. I’m worried Mural
ee’s decided to ask Jeannette or Sharon or Nancy to go with her instead of me. But then a bright red Chevy Impala slows to the curb beside me. A window opens and Muralee sticks her head out, calling, “Hop in.”
I slide in and fasten my seat belt.
Muralee’s wearing powder blue slacks with an off-white cardigan sweater. Her dark sunglasses rest low on her nose like Audrey Hepburn’s in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Clutching a cigarette, her hand shakes as she inhales.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” I say.
“I don’t,” she breathes out. “My dad keeps a pack in the glove compartment. He’ll never notice if a few are missing. Want one?”
I’ve never tried smoking before. But I’d probably drink arsenic if Muralee Blawjen suggested it. “Sure. Why not?”
Muralee lights a cigarette for me, handing it across the stick shift. I notice her lipstick print on the filter and place my lips exactly where hers were. I draw smoke into my lungs, just like I’ve seen Tad and my mother do.
Then I cough my brains out. I’m so embarrassed, I contemplate opening the door and rolling into oncoming traffic. But Muralee says, “God, don’t you hate that? You’re trying to look cool, and your body has the nerve to betray you.”
I’m thinking how profound the thought is, and how nice it was of her to express it, when Muralee starts to coughs too. Longer and harder than I did. She reaches her hand toward me, wiggling her fingers, trying to tell me something.
“Soda?” I guess.
She nods, choking.
I hand her the bottle and she drinks. Then we laugh until we’re both near tears.
* * *
Muralee parks in front of a tall brick building. Scorch marks left by a fire blacken the blood red stone. A third story window’s boarded up.
“Is this the place?” I ask, hoping she’ll tell me it’s not.
But Muralee nods her head yes.
We’re silent for several minutes. Then Muralee reaches beneath the neck of her sweater and holds out a silver medallion. “I wore my Saint Christopher necklace. Do you think it’ll help protect me?”
Mom never took me to church, so I’m not sure how these things work. But there’s only one right answer. “Of course,” I answer. “And I’ll pray for you the whole time you’re gone.” I don’t know where that last part came from. I’ve never said a prayer in my life. But for Muralee, I’ll figure out how.
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