STAR: Thank you, Zed. Thank you, LBC-ers. This is life, live it, right? Be more.
I try to decide what to type. I want to be part of whatever this moment is about to become. I want to be front and center, cheering her on. I tap words out, but erase them. One step forward, two steps back, I guess.
Also, it occurs to me that maybe Star is my red-penned stranger. And it occurs to me that I want her to be.
BITTY: This is the most romantic thing ever. And awesome shoes. You should bring a book of sonnets or something. Poems. Neruda. You read him? I guess he won’t be at the airport, but you could go to a bookstore when you land. . . .
I press send on the message, even though these strangers will now be the first people to ever know what a romantic I am, aside from Cate and Paul. No one really knows what a good poem can do to me. I got into poetry the way I get into everything else I read, by looking at the margins. I have a book from a guy named Henry to a girl named Alice. He inscribed it. For their anniversary. Then, on the last blank page of the book, he wrote the lyrics to “Rainbow Connection.” You know, the one Kermit the Frog sings. He said that was the most romantic thing he’d ever heard, and that every poem in there plus “Rainbow Connection” couldn’t accurately describe how much he loved her.
I listened to “Rainbow Connection” on repeat for hours after I found that. And even now, I consider texting Joe to tell him to listen to the song or read a Neruda poem that reminds me of the way I feel about him, but I know better. No one’s ready to see that side of me.
Except, apparently, a bunch of strangers from across the country who are taking over my computer.
Because before I know it, I’ve typed the story of Henry and Alice and Kermit the Frog and the things I never say to anyone into the comment box on Star’s LBC page. I guess it’s safe, to show this tiny part of myself here. Star has no idea who I even am. As far as I can tell, everyone stumbled into Life by Committee with equal degrees of randomness. We don’t pursue members, Zed writes on the Rules page. We trust they will find us. I want to ask if anyone else found the website in the back of a book, but I think it would give something away that I have to keep hidden.
Anyway, if I let them know who I am, they’ll understand why I need a different Assignment.
“Tab?” Cate says, a disembodied voice from who knows where. She comes in to find me pajamaed and cross-legged and typing so fast and hard the tips of my fingers hurt.
“Did I wake you?” I say. I want to click away from Star’s page, but I don’t want Cate to notice any flicker of fear, so I keep it up and hope she hasn’t put on her contacts yet.
“No. The baby did.” She touches her stomach. “You need to get off that thing, babycakes.” Cate hates computers and cell phones and anything remotely useful or modern.
“I know, I know.”
“Want to go for a walk?”
“Now? It’s fucking late.”
“You’re going to have to watch the language when the baby comes, Tab. We’ve been terrible influences.” Like I’m some starter child they can mess up, but now that the baby’s coming they’ll be doing things right.
“Yeah, okay. Let’s walk,” I say, instead of agreeing to watch my language or anything else she wants to change about me. It occurs to me that this is another secret. That I’m jealous of this unborn baby. That I don’t feel all happy about the upcoming arrival. But that’s a way worse secret to share than the thing about kissing Joe, and I don’t need a bunch of strangers commenting on it.
I leave the Assignment be and vow to deal with it after I’ve gotten some air. Maybe a walk with Cate is exactly what I need. I log off and give a little half prayer to the gods of love that everything goes amazing with Star and her mysterious long-distance guy. One of those smiles sneaks onto my face: the kind that happens without thinking. So rare, it makes me jump with surprise when I realize it’s found its way to my mouth.
And we walk. Cate brings a flashlight, and neither of us change out of our pajamas. We wear sneakers and winter jackets and can only see a foot ahead of us at a time. I like the way our legs end up striding in sync, and the unquestioning silence we fall into even though it’s way too late on a school night for me to be up without being interrogated.
I stop paying attention to the direction we’re walking in and trust Cate to take the lead.
“You okay, sweetness?” Cate says every three minutes or so, and I mm-hmm, and that, too, becomes part of the rhythm of our walking. That, too, becomes a reason to stop being afraid of what will happen when the baby is born.
Then, after all that dark, there’s a pool of light. It’s not too strong, just someone who’s left their porch lights on, so the lawn and the house are partially lit.
“You have a destination in mind? Do we know anyone on Village Hill Road?” I ask, taking a look around and realizing what street we’re on.
“Just wanted to get you away from that thing. Don’t want you missing out on life because you’re in front of that computer worrying.” She turns off the flashlight, like we don’t want to be seen, which maybe we don’t. Anyone in town who runs into us now will be chatting and questioning and friendly, and that’s not why we went on a late-night walk.
“I’m fine,” I say, stiffening. She keeps on about me making new friends and getting out of the house and spending more time at Tea Cozy instead of on the computer, and it’s not terrible, having her care, seeing her worry about me. It is that special mix of super annoying and totally heartwarming. Cate’s gotten some burst of mothering energy, and I’m not used to it. Pregnancy has made her unpredictable—sometimes distant and spacey, sometimes full of energy and interest and sentiment.
“You have to push yourself,” Cate says. I’m getting so uncomfortable with her that I almost tell her about the website and the Assignments.
“I actually think I’m going to try to push myself, it’s sort of funny you brought it up—” I start, but something stops the words.
Because that’s when I see it, a long ways down the road.
Not it. Her.
I know it’s a her because when we are just that one step closer, the whole scene comes into focus. The dark is like that. One minute it’s all shadows, the next minute your eyes adjust and the darkness shifts and you can see the world almost as well as you could in the light of day.
At first the shape is simply a person on a porch. But then it’s something more. Not just a girl sitting under the porch lights in the middle of the night, but something actually much, much stranger. An almost naked girl, sitting on the front porch: so milky white and so curvy and so undeniably there. No top, but a long, ballerina-like skirt covering her legs. I must see her only a half moment before Cate does, because I hear Cate’s gasp right after mine. Then, of course, Cate’s quiet giggles.
The houses are close together and similarly shaped on Village Hill Road, so I can’t immediately decipher whose house this is and who might therefore be on the porch.
Either that or I’m in denial.
“Oh my God,” Cate says as quietly as she can with all the laughter pouring out of her. “Oh my Christ, what is happening?” She’s even snorting a little. Cate’s a big laugher and finds almost everything funny: little kids wearing designer clothes, old ladies in high-waisted pants, poorly translated Chinese food menus, the times when I have awkwardly caught her and Paul getting it on in unseemly locations like the kitchen or the shed. So of course she’s laughing now.
I blush first, and then join her laughter. It feels good, to laugh like that. I hope the wind and rustling of the leaves and scurrying of animals cover our voices.
I have noticed something else: the mostly naked girl has costume fairy wings on. It adds a mystical, magical element to the whole scene, and I feel a familiar jealousy at how strange and special and sexy this person seems. The feeling grows when the girl gets up and starts dancing and twirling and swinging her hips.
I look around at the surrounding homes and get over the shock of a naked
fairy in a porch light. The image was so alarming it distracted me from what is obvious about the house and the girl, what I already know. Because it makes perfect sense. There is only one family in our tiny town who would have a ridiculous purple door with gold moldings and a naked fairy-girl on the porch. And an available set of fairy wings. One more look, and yes, it’s there. A camera set up on a tripod. And the now unmistakable, soft shape of the winged girl in the distance.
I try to catch my breath, which has dropped from my lungs to my toes, where I can’t access it. I wrap one arm around my stomach. Some part of me is scared my guts will fall out if I don’t hold them in with a skinny forearm.
It takes a little too long for my laughter to stop, so I’m laughing even after I’ve realized who it is, even though it stopped being funny.
It’s Sasha Cotton’s house. And that is Sasha holding her own breasts in her hands like a Playboy model but not. She has a sunflower behind her ear, and I would do anything to see the look on her face: Is it sexy or sad? Is it playful or serious? Maybe if I could see through the shadows to her facial expression, I’d know how to be that tragic sex kitten, instead of whatever I am now: cute and safe. I want to be loved and dangerous.
I flush with jealousy. My heart twists with it; I could never do what she’s doing. I couldn’t write the poem, I couldn’t flit around topless late at night. I can’t make Joe leap every time I call. This is so, so Sasha Cotton.
About a year ago, her mother had a yard sale, and Jemma and Alison and I went by. This was back when Jemma and I didn’t like Sasha Cotton together. A different universe of time.
Everything at the yard sale was very Cotton family. Unicorn figurines. Pink wigs. Rare books. Fancy pens. Leg warmers. Piles of sheer scarves, patterns on top of patterns making new patterns. Old perfume bottles.
So seeing Sasha with wings and a ballet skirt and even no top is not surprising, exactly. But it’s painful. It twists me up inside. It’s the very representation of what makes Sasha fascinating and complicated, and me just kinda slutty.
I force my hand to find its way to my mother’s mouth, since she won’t stop laughing. We’re close enough to be heard, if we’re not careful. I want one more moment to look at Sasha, then we need to get the hell out of here so she doesn’t see me seeing her. I’m also feeling a certainty that I need to cry. Not really cry: wail. The threat of it burns on my cheeks, my nose, my sleep-tasting mouth. The tears are right there: salty and on the surface. One or two even latch onto my eyelashes. But they don’t spill; I can’t do any of that right now. Cate lets her breathing regulate under the pressure of my palm on her lips, and I put my other hand to my chest, where all the feelings are whirring around.
Sasha moves her body into new shapes, and the camera must be set on some kind of autotimer, because it keeps flashing. The girl doesn’t giggle at herself or move quickly or glance around, looking for Peeping Toms. She’s wholly focused on one singular task: recording her body on film in whatever way she can; in every way she can, I guess. For Joe. It must be for Joe.
Cate ends up being the one who has to pull me away. I keep looking back, but I’m happy to be leaving. The image of naked, dancing Sasha is seared into my head, and it’s already taking up so much room and telling me so many things to feel insecure about that it’s just full-on lucky that Cate’s getting me out of there before it can do any more damage.
“I always knew something was wrong with that girl,” Cate whispers when we are a few blocks away. “And isn’t she freezing? At least she could have worn, you know, earmuffs!” It’s meant to be a joke. I imitate a laugh. We’re walking at a much brisker pace, the sky lightening in tiny pre-sunrise increments. “Not okay,” she says. My parents may be young and hip and disturbingly attractive, but they are not all “sex is a beautiful thing” the way Sasha’s parents are. I get the feeling Sasha wasn’t looking around nervously, not because she is so cool and confident, but because her parents actually wouldn’t mind her doing a creepy sexy-angel photo shoot on the front lawn.
“Yeah,” is the only word I can push out of my mouth.
“What the fuck?” Cate says, breaking her own rule about swearing. “Who does that girl think she is? We’re in Vermont, not . . . Vegas.”
“Typical Sasha Cotton,” I say.
“Stay away from that one,” Cate says, shaking her head and crossing her arms over her chest like she needs protecting from what she just saw. We both give an awkward laugh: I don’t have to stay away from anyone; they’re all staying away from me.
“Uh-huh,” I say. My mouth is mostly closed over the sound. I’m feeling weak and tired and so, so tiny. Those pictures, I’m sure of it, are for Joe. I sigh really loudly, like that will help expel all the terrible feelings sparking up in my chest and in my brain and all over my body.
But the feeling is too heavy to be quelled with a single deep sigh. It hangs on me.
The whole walk home, Cate keeps talking about “that naked Sasha girl” and I nod, and try to laugh or groan at the right moments, but really I’m shaking and spinning, knowing how far, far, far away I am from being that magical or free or enchanting. I am in a different universe from Sasha Cotton, who apparently can’t feel the cold or the shame or the fear the rest of us do.
When we finally get back home, there’s only one thing I absolutely must do: I need to get on Life by Committee and have something to think about aside from my own relative lameness. I need to believe in Star’s romance and the power of a group, and someone else telling me how to fix the mess that is my life.
And then, before the day is up, I need to do my Assignment and kiss Joe again. Not because I have to. Not because I’m scared of the Rules. But because I want to, and now I have permission.
Sasha Cotton can be as weird and artsy and naked as she wants. But I have something better. I will be part of something bigger. I will do things and be more.
Secret:
I got my history paper off the internet.
—@sshole
Secret:
He wasn’t my first. I told him he was.
—Agnes
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Nine.
BITTY: Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll kiss the guy again. Assignment accepted or something?
Cate and I alternate showers and hair drying and head out to Tea Cozy to open the café and fill up on tea and baked goods for cranky Monday-morning customers before I have to force myself to school.
By the time we drive into the Tea Cozy parking lot, Cate and I are wiping tears away. That’s how hard we are still laughing about Sasha Cotton. It is one of the things I will miss most when this baby comes. Coming early to the Cozy and making a batch of scones just for me, Cate, and Paul, before the customers get here. Bitching about my math teacher. Dissecting the latest thing Jemma did or said to me. Quoting our favorite lines from The Princess Bride over and over again. We open to customers at six thirty, so with Cate and me being early risers and morning-lovers, we get to do this every week or two. Family tradition, I guess.
I know when the baby is born, the early mornings will be reserved for catching up on sleep or breast-feeding or cooing.
This morning I use batter we made yesterday to bake some chocolate chip scones, and while we wait for them to come out, Cate makes a pot of vanilla-rose tea. We keep the lights dim and set ourselves up in the blue paisley armchairs by the fire.
“Cute dress, by the way,” she says when she goes up to get the scones. She smiles, and it’s weird to get a real live compliment and not some passive-aggressive backstabby comment.
“I don’t look like a slut?” I say.
“Uh, no?” Cate says, stopping midwalk to look at me again. “A slut? It’s from the Gap. It’s beige. You’re in flats. And the thickest tights I’ve ever seen. Am I missing something? Is it backless?” She pretends to try to get a glimpse of my
back, but I just shrug. It’s short and I feel good in it, which I’ve decided must be wrong.
“Never mind,” I say. I don’t want Cate getting all riled up on a feminist tirade, but I also can’t stop turning Jemma’s comments over and over in my head.
“Hey,” Cate says, emerging from the kitchen with scones and a fretting face. “You know, in my day the pretty girls with perky breasts were the popular ones, so I’m just trying to—” I cover my chest with my arms. The relative jauntiness of my breasts is not up for discussion.
I send an emergency text to Elise telling her to get her ass over here and that I’m saving her a scone and a cup of tea. She lives literally next door to Tea Cozy, and she is basically the best friend ever, so she’s walking in the door minutes later. Cate’s no dummy—he knows I’ve called in backup.
“Oh, Elise, good,” she says. “Right on time.” She winks at me and I sigh, but deep down I know she knows she’s as close to a perfect mom as anyone’s going to get.
“Thank God,” I say to Elise when Cate’s in the back getting ready to open. “She was talking about my boobs. Like, she’s probably eager for customers to come in so she can ask them their opinions about them.”
“No prob,” Elise says, pulling at her pixie cut so that more little strands of auburn hair poke up. “I was actually gonna come by anyway.” She doesn’t laugh about Cate’s ridiculousness, and I hate the air that follows. The last thing I want is something awkward and empty between us.
“You knew we had the chocolate chip scones today?” I ask, grinning. Dishes clink and clatter from behind the counter, and Cate’s singing along with her rockabilly playlist, so we’re safe to talk. Paul doesn’t appear to be showing up anytime soon; maybe he didn’t see our note yet.
Life by Committee Page 7
