Nikki and I made a good team. I pitted the dates while she wrapped them in bacon and secured them with a toothpick. We’d had years of practice, ever since my mother went to work for Stella Austin when I was in middle school. Some Friday nights before a huge event, my mother would appear in the doorway of my bedroom, where the three of us were curled up in our usual spots, painting our toenails and watching movies, and flirt with Nik and Lace until they thought it was their idea to help her in the first place. In exchange, she’d give us each a twenty and talk Lacey’s mom into driving us to the mall the next day.
“Where is Lacey, anyway?” I asked.
Nikki’s eyes got shifty like they did when she was trying to get out of something, as if she were literally looking for an escape. She was the worst liar I’d ever met, and she couldn’t keep a secret to save her life.
“You know something,” I accused.
She turned her back to me, grabbing for the box of toothpicks and spilling them across the counter and onto the floor. “Oh, no!” She scrambled to catch them as more and more rolled off the counter.
I ignored her little crisis. “What are you not telling me?”
“What do you mean?” she finally asked. Her voice was squeakier than normal.
I narrowed my eyes. “Nikki . . .”
She didn’t look at me. “Hand me the tinfoil?” I pushed it across the counter without saying a word. Nikki was the kind of person who got nervous in silence. Wait long enough and she’d crack, every time. I crossed my arms and leaned back against my mother’s designer countertop, prepared to wait as long as I needed to. Nikki’s arm moved up and down as she folded and tucked tinfoil into a new baking pan. She was way too skinny, I thought. Her elbow crooked out at an unnatural angle.
“You’re staring at me, aren’t you?” she asked, still not turning.
I nodded and then realized she couldn’t see me. “I’m going to keep staring at you until you tell me what you’re hiding.”
She sighed and turned, her eyes all squinched up in her narrow face. One eye opened slightly to peek at me. “She’s with Jake.”
The words rang through the large kitchen, bouncing off my mother’s decorative copper pots and shiny appliances, vibrating in the air for nearly half a minute before my brain understood them. “Right now?”
Nikki opened her eyes, looking miserable. “Yeah.”
“With Jake?” I repeated. My arms wound tighter around my ribs, cutting into my abdomen.
“Don’t get mad, Paige, okay?” Nikki held up the box of foil like a white flag. “Promise?”
“No,” I said.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Nikki said.
“But?” My ribs ached, but still I pulled my arms more tightly against me.
“They’re at the gym.”
My arms fell to my sides. “What?”
“They’re doing physical therapy or something. Jake’s helping her.”
“Physical therapy.”
She nodded. “She was in the hospital for like a whole month, and her doctor told her she’d be walking with a limp for the rest of her life, and she refused to accept that. So she got Jake to start helping her with exercises.”
Exercises? Jake said Lacey had been in physical therapy all summer, but I’d just assumed it was over . . . I hadn’t considered that it might be an ongoing thing. I hadn’t asked, though, had I? I’d just tried not to stare at the cane and pretended that everything could magically go back to the way it had been before.
I realized I was staring at the shiny black refrigerator across from me. For the first time, I noticed that it never had anything hanging on it, no cute artwork from when we were kids, no coupons for a free oil change or haircut. No magnets, even.
Jake’s voice echoed in my head. She’s got a lot on her mind right now, babe. “Why doesn’t Randy help her? Or Chris? Or Tyler? Or anyone else?”
Nikki shrugged. “Jake took that sports medicine elective last year when the rest of them took bowling. He knows the people at the clinic —”
I interrupted her. “Are you sure that’s all? They’re not . . . together?”
Nikki’s eyes glistened in the glow of the tasteful track lighting. Automatically, she ran a finger under her eyes to catch any stray mascara. “No! Of course not! Jake totally loves you, and Lacey’s your best friend. They wouldn’t do that to you!”
I felt like choking on the words. “Would you tell me?”
Nikki nodded emphatically. “Yes! Of course!”
“So why didn’t they say anything to me? Lacey’s barely spoken to me since I got back, but Jake could have . . . should have . . . said something.”
She sighed and wiped at her eyes again. “I don’t know, Paige. You had such an amazing summer, and you seemed so different when you got back. . . . I don’t know. Maybe they thought you’d be weird about it? It’s just, with the whole divorce —” She clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “Whoops.”
I was too startled to correct Nikki’s claims about my summer. “Divorce?”
“Oh God,” she said through her hand. “You can’t say anything. She was going to tell you herself. You don’t know, okay? Please. Don’t say anything.”
“Lacey’s parents?” I asked. “They’re getting a divorce?”
Hand still over her mouth, Nikki nodded. “She’s been really messed up about it. Jake’s been helping her.”
A few years ago, Jake’s parents had gone through a trial separation, after his mother discovered his father’s affair. Mr. Austin lived in an apartment in Iowa City for a whole summer, moved back in with the family in September, and as far as I know, they never said another word about it. Even in the gossipy country club set, few people knew about it. So it made sense that Lacey would want to talk to Jake. What I didn’t understand, though, was why she hadn’t said a word to me. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
Nikki shrugged helplessly. “You were in Paris when it happened. . . . And when you came back, you just seemed really distant.”
Frozen in place, I said nothing. I didn’t even blink. Was I so self-absorbed that I hadn’t even picked up on the clues? There must have been clues, right? People don’t just get divorces out of nowhere. And I practically lived at the Lanes’ house — at least I had, before the accident. How I had not guessed? Poor Lacey.
After a time, Nikki set the box of foil on the counter and crossed the kitchen, cautiously putting her arms around me. “I’m sorry, Paige.” She whispered the words into my neck, and I thought of all the times I’d held Jake in the same way, speaking my words directly into his skin.
Nikki left with worried eyes. “Promise me you won’t say anything to Lacey about the divorce thing, Paige. Please. She will kill me if she finds out I told you.”
I walked her out to her car, shivering in the cold night air. “I won’t.”
“Thanks, Paige.” She reached over to hug me, giving me a quick squeeze around the neck before climbing behind the wheel of her giant SUV. Before closing the door, she said, “It’s been really hard on her. Don’t be mad at her, okay?”
“I’m not mad,” I said automatically. But I was, a little. Why hadn’t Lacey told me?
“This is our year, Paige. Pretty soon everything will be back to normal, okay? Just like we all planned. It’s going to be awesome.”
I nodded, swallowing hard. “I know.”
“Okay, see you tomorrow!” She closed the door and waved though the window, starting the SUV and backing out of the driveway. She was halfway down the street before she remembered to turn on the lights.
I headed back into the house. My mother stood in the kitchen, wiping the already clean counters. “Where was Lacey tonight?”
“Um.” My chest was tight. “She had a student council thing.”
“That Lacey! She’ll be a legend in her sorority.” She ran the sponge under the faucet, squeezing it out carefully. “Did you remember to label the vegetarian trays?”
“Yes.”
; She checked the fridge to see for herself, and then she nodded in satisfaction. “Did you girls have fun?”
“Yeah,” I said, standing in the doorway. “It was great.”
My mother turned and looked at me, her eyes thoughtful. I struggled to keep my face neutral. What did she see when she looked at me? When I was little, she seemed to see all, to know everything.
“Honey?”
I swallowed against my closed throat. Don’t ask, I thought. Don’t ask if I’m okay. I just wanted to go to my room and call Jake. I wanted to hear it for myself. I would tell him I was cool with it, that everything was fine. Everything would be fine, just as soon as I could talk to him. Jake would reassure me and explain everything.
My mother perched a fist on her hip. “Does Nikki look like she’s gained weight to you?”
I shook my head. “She’s very skinny, Mom.”
“You girls are at the age when your metabolism will betray you, you know. It can happen so quickly. You let go for one day, and you’re just lost.”
“I know, Mom.”
“It’s just, with the vote coming up, and after last spring . . . well, you girls can’t afford to slip again.”
“I know, Mom.”
“You were lucky, Paige. You got to be away from here while things cooled down. And if we’re really lucky, people aren’t thinking about the accident when they look at you. Not like Nikki.” She clucked in sympathy. “Poor girl. But at least she’s out of the running, and it’s just you and Lacey, though I don’t see how anyone could possibly vote for a crippled queen. On the other hand, the sympathy vote might be big.”
I shifted my weight uncomfortably. “I don’t think that’s true, Mom. Nikki’s still very popular.”
“Well, you can be popular and not have a shot at being queen. It’s not about popularity; it’s about being the girl everyone else wishes they could be.” She leaned in to check her teeth in the reflective surface of a copper pot. “Nobody wishes they could be a drunk. Or a cripple.”
The world spinning toward us, everything dark, Lacey screaming, shattered glass —
My mother kept talking. “The vote’s next week?”
I shivered. “Yeah.” Just let me go, Mom. I have to call Jake. I have to make things okay.
“Are you wearing the yellow dress?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said, stepping backward into the dining room. “Yeah. I have a lot of homework, so . . .”
“Okay, honey,” she said, still watching herself. “Don’t stay up too late now, okay? You need your beauty sleep.”
Jake didn’t answer. All night. Lacey didn’t either. I called them three times each, feeling less forgiving each time I hit the SEND button. Were they together, ignoring my calls? Was Jake reaching across the seat of his silver car, pressing the button to silence Lacey’s phone for her? It made me ill just thinking about it.
Divorced. How could she not tell me about that? Mrs. Lane had been like a second mother to me, ever since middle school. She and Lacey’s dad always seemed so happy together, not like Nikki’s parents, who always seemed overly formal and weird, or my parents, who were incredibly polite to each other but didn’t seem to actually like each other that much. Of course, they only spent about three days of every month together, so how they felt about each other hardly seemed to matter. But the Lanes kissed in public, much to Lacey’s middle school mortification. What had happened to them? And how could Lacey not tell me?
This was supposed to be our year. For the last four years, Lacey and I had studied Cosmo like some people study the Torah, modeling ourselves after the perfect, smiling girls in every toothpaste and shampoo ad. And for what? What’s the point of being perfect if your best friend won’t even talk to you about what’s going on in her life?
The roles we’d carved for ourselves were narrow. I hadn’t seen just how narrow until I’d spent the summer in Paris. I’d always taken my life for granted, assumed that the path I’d been traveling was absolutely the correct one. Never gave it a second thought, until last spring. But after the accident, and a summer away, it all seemed narrower than I’d remembered, harder to navigate.
Neither Jake nor Lacey called me back. I sat in the oversize wing chair by the window in my bedroom for hours, trying not to imagine them holding hands across a sticky booth at Perkins, cradled together in the front seat of Jake’s car, lying on their backs in the middle of the golf course, looking up at the stars. . . . A thousand images flashed before me, and I tried not to see. I stayed tucked in my chair, unable to sleep, staring through the cold glass as the stars shivered in the sky and the moon rose and fell over the trees.
Ripping myself from my pitiful two hours’ sleep the next morning was agony, and I was slower than usual to get out the door. I could have hustled and made it to our usual morning meetup, but for the first time ever I just didn’t feel like it. The feeling was strange but not exactly painful, and I probed it like a potential cavity. Instead of speeding to claim my secret spot at the back of the student lot, I turned toward downtown and stopped at the gas station for a large cup of terrible black coffee. Normally we drank faux cappuccinos out of the fountain machines, but black coffee appealed to me and I decided to learn to like it. I wanted to be the kind of girl who drank black coffee and didn’t take shit from anyone.
Clutching the coffee to my chest like a security blanket, I wove and dodged my way through the noisy morning hallways to Contemptible American History. Lacey didn’t show up until a few minutes after the bell rang, and I used the time to rehearse what I’d say to her. Where were you last night? I called you three times. Were you with my boyfriend? Do you feel any guilt at all about using Jake? But when she finally appeared, first peeking timidly through the door and then shuffling into the room, her limp more pronounced than usual, my anger morphed back into pity. My best friend was handicapped and her parents were divorcing, and all I could worry about was my boyfriend? Feeling contrite, I leaned forward to whisper to her. “Lace . . .”
She shot me a death glare. “I’m trying to pay attention, Paige.”
“I know, I just —”
Lacey raised her hand. “Mr. Silva?” Her voice went syrupy and meek. “Would it be possible for me to move? I’m having trouble seeing the board.”
“Of course, Miss Lane.”
“Thank you, Mr. Silva,” she said, and grabbed her cane, pulling herself out of her desk. She gestured to her books. “Could someone . . . ?”
“Mr. Jensen, could you please assist Miss Lane?” Chris jumped to attention, practically leaping from his chair to carry Lacey’s books to the front of the room. A moment later, everyone was settled and Mr. Silva was droning on about the Gulf of Tonkin and Lacey was across the room and I was alone.
Lacey wasn’t at lunch that day, something that seemed to be becoming a trend. Jake was saving a chair and I slipped into it, dropping my bag on the table.
“Hi babe,” he said, leaning forward to kiss me.
I leaned back. “Hey.”
Across from us, the juniors were rapid-fire gossiping, punctuating their exclamations with shrieks and giggles. Jake gave me an appraising look. “What’s up? Are you mad?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Should I be?”
He paused. “Am I supposed to know the answer to this one?”
“Where were you last night? I called you like five times.” The chatter around us quieted, and I realized I’d spoken much louder than I’d meant to. I was surrounded by the little chipmunk faces of the stupid junior girls, and they were all staring at me.
Jake stood, offering me a hand. “Wanna walk?”
I allowed him to pull me up and followed him out of the crowded commons and down the little-used hallway toward the art rooms. He stopped and turned, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me in. “Hey,” he said softly.
“Jake,” I said. “Don’t distract me.”
“But it’s so fun.” He kissed me on the side of the neck, and I was tempted not to stop him. �
��Am I in trouble?”
I got ahold of myself. “Yes. I know about the Lanes’ divorce.”
He stopped nibbling at my skin. “How —? Nikki?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jake pulled away and leaned against the wall. “It’s not my story to tell, babe.”
“You could at least have answered your phone last night,” I said.
He sighed. “Lacey needs . . . I’m just trying to be a good friend to her. We’ve known each other since we were babies, and she doesn’t have anyone —”
“She has me!” I protested. “Or she would, if she would let me know what’s going on with her.”
“She will,” Jake said. “Just give her time, babe.” He kissed me until I forgot what else I’d wanted to say to him. For now, he was with me, alone in this hallway, his hand on my back, his mouth on my mouth. For now, this moment was enough.
In creative writing that afternoon, Mr. Tremont had us read this poem about New Mexico that was full of descriptions of foods and plants and landscapes. The poet was homesick, he said, and was writing in the middle of a Minnesota winter. “Green-chile pizza!” he said. “You can’t get that in Iowa! Which is too bad, because it’s amazing. Look at these other foods: posole, chile rellenos — it’s these very specific details that make this poem so vivid. Piñon trees! Yucca! Sage! Pigweed! We’re not in Iowa here, folks. Or Minnesota.”
A girl in front of me raised her hand. “I went to New Mexico once! It was super pretty! We went in this gondola thing and my mom fainted. . . .”
“Did you eat green chile?” Mr. Tremont asked. “Or sopaipillas?”
The girl shrugged. “I think so? I don’t remember.”
“Oh, you’d remember,” Mr. Tremont said. “Okay guys, now it’s your turn. I want you to keep this level of specific detail in mind as you describe a setting somewhat closer to home. It could be as specific as your bedroom or as broad as the state of Iowa, but it should be somewhere you know well. Use specific details. Not just a car but a beat-up Subaru Legacy with only one side mirror. Got it?”
The Princesses of Iowa Page 7
