Again, I held my tongue. What was the point in trying to explain that liking something and wearing it in public had pretty much nothing to do with each other?
“Okay. I’ll try.”
She was already on her way out the door. “I will come back.”
As I shucked my jeans and sweater, I did some quick thinking. I figured I could make her happy and still be comfy in my shredded wedding dress. I would store that in my locker; I could leave the house as Neptune’s bride and arrive in the gym as Bride of Davy. Sadie would help. Frankie probably wouldn’t, I thought as I reached around to unhook my bra. He would be on Nonna’s side all the way.
I opened my closet door and lifted my bathrobe from the hook over the mirror so I could see. I don’t usually do that when I’m undressed. But I was distracted.
There’s a moment everyone knows, when you look down at your fresh white shirt and realize you’ve spilled Coke or egg yolk or spaghetti sauce down the front. There’s that flash of denial, followed by the realization that the shirt is probably ruined; it’ll certainly never be the same. Then, for some people, it’s “Well, that’s life. Move on.”
I still haven’t reached that point with the scar.
Straight on, it can look kind of like a closed handprint, like something hellish stood behind me, grabbed my shoulder with a massive fist, and squeezed. I don’t face it straight on very often, especially not naked from the waist up. Once in a blue moon, I’ll stand in profile, left side to the mirror. If I push my hair behind my shoulder and get the angle just right, all I can see is what could have been: smooth skin, longish neck, breasts I would actually have been proud of.
Like I said, I don’t bother often. I don’t let anyone else look, either, if I can possibly help it. Because almost as much as the scar itself, I hate the lies:
“Oh, it looks so much better than it used to!”
“Honey, it’s not nearly as bad as you think it is.”
“Believe me, no one is looking.”
And the very worst one:
“The scar doesn’t have anything at all to do with who you are!”
Yeah, right. Try going through the whole day with egg on your chest and see who you are at the end of it. See if you don’t want to squeeze the shirt into a tight little ball and throw it away, even though there’s a big bottle of bleach above the washer.
I turned my back on the mirror and slid Nonna’s dress over my head. I owed her that much, especially considering the effort she’d made. She had stitched a sort of half sleeve on the right side, flowing but designed to cover the top of my arm. The fabric was gathered high on my shoulder in a tall, intricate knot that stopped just below my ear, then draped down across my chest, leaving my entire left arm bare. She’d attached one of the gold drapery cords from the pre-toile-redecoration days onto the back. When I tied it, pulling some of the material up and through, the skirt fell to the floor in a graceful column.
“Oh. Oh, Fiorella. Molto carina.” Nonna was back. She stood in the doorway, both hands over her heart. “You are beautiful.”
I turned reluctantly to face my reflection again.
What little makeup I’d put on in the morning was long gone, I probably should have washed my hair that morning, and my stripy toe socks were peeking out from under the blue hem. But I looked okay. Maybe even just a little bit better than that. The dress certainly hid the scar. I still couldn’t wear it to the dance, but . . .
“Grazie, Nonna. It’s beautiful.”
She shuffled into the room, grabbed my hand, and pressed it open until it was flat, palm up. “Your nonno give this to me the month before he passed. Now I give it to you.”
It was warm from her grip. I felt it and knew what it was even before I looked. “Nonna, I can’t. It’s your Tiffany necklace—”
“It is yours now, my sea girl.”
She folded my fingers closed, pinched my cheek, hard, and walked back out of the room, closing the door behind her. I unfolded my hand and the chain slithered between my fingers. The silver starfish pendant glowed softly. It looked completely different against the warm beige of my skin than it always had against Nonna’s stark black dresses. It had seemed too whimsical on the occasions when she’d worn it, a quirky and impractical gift from a husband who hadn’t lived to see her wear it. I never thought about the fact that, as Estella Marino, she was literally Star of the Sea. My grandfather had.
“I don’t suppose I have much of a choice now,” I said aloud.
“The admirable thing, darling Ella,” came Edward’s reply, “is that you ever thought you did.”
18
THE ISLAND
“So, how important is the setting of The Tempest? Anyone? Yes, Chase.”
“Well, it’s an island. You know. Like Lost, with a whole bunch of people who were there first and then the group who got shipwrecked. Fighting.”
“Right, and . . . ?”
“And . . . what?”
“Okay. Maybe I should be more specific. Let’s talk about why the setting is important to the Miranda-Ferdinand love story. Anyone? How about you, Ella?”
“Honestly? It’s everything. I mean, she’s been on the island almost all her life. It’s her world. She doesn’t know anything else. Then suddenly, she’s surrounded by all these new people who are like aliens—”
“Shh. Quiet. Let’s let Ella run with this. Go on, Ella.”
“So, fine, she sees Ferdinand, and it’s love at first sight. But what if they’d been from the same world, or what if she’d known more men from his? They pretty much have to fall in love, don’t they? Otherwise, the whole story falls apart. But what if they’d had more information about each other? Or what if they’d been in Naples when her father was the duke . . . ?”
“A fair question. You’ve been to Naples. Imagine it five hundred years ago. Would it have made a difference?”
“I’ve never been to Naples, Mr. Stone. But yeah, anywhere would have been totally different. It’s not about Italy. It’s about isolation and freedom and wanting more than you have.”
“True. True. But . . . I was so sure. Didn’t you talk about Vesuvius when we read The Last Days of Pompeii?”
“I think you might be confusing me with someone else.”
“No, no. I’m quite sure it was you. Wasn’t it?”
“No. It wasn’t.”
“Oh, now, Ella. I distinctly remember something about the cleansing aspects of fire . . . Oh.”
“Wrong aspects, Mr. Stone.”
“Right, right. Of course. My mistake. Okay. No harm done. So, about islands . . .”
19
THE BATHROOM
“Mr. Stone is a jackass.”
That was Alex’s greeting when he found me in the hall Friday afternoon.
“Probably,” I agreed, levering myself out of the corner where I’d been waiting, on nervous Hannanda alert, for him to show up. “But I don’t think he can help it.”
“Generous of you.” Alex swung his backpack from his left shoulder to his right, then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, pulled mine out of my hand. I was too surprised to stop him. “Allons-y.”
We turned a few heads as we went. I would have happily met him a block away from school, but he’d preempted my cowardice, sliding a note into my locker that morning. Front hall, 3:15. I ignored the stares as Alex held the big front door open for me, my heavily inked bag dangling from his wrist. I figured any speculation would last only as long as it would take for us to hit the street in front of the school. By then, at least one “Wait. Wait. Alex Bainbridge left with Freddy Krueger?” would have been met with “Yeah. He’s tutoring her in French. Winslow’s making him.”
Because he would have told Amanda, and Amanda would have told anyone who cared. That’s the thing about Willing: There’s always someone happy to let you know exactly what your place is.
I started to turn toward the closest bus stop. Alex turned the other way. “Suivez-moi,” he commanded. So I followe
d. “Bon. Je pensais que nous irions—”
“Alex.”
He stopped. “Ella.”
“Don’t do that, the immersion thing.”
“Mais, c’est très important.”
“Alex.”
“Ella.”
“Please. I know you do this with other linguistic losers, but it makes me feel like I should have a great big L lipsticked onto my forehead in some swirly French calligraphy.”
“Do you often contemplate decorating yourself in such a manner?”
I took a quick look down. I was wearing Sienna’s turtleneck again, but my own jeans. There was a large blue sea horse from the art museum fountain running from my knee to the crease of my thigh. “Yeah,” I admitted. “I do.”
“Quelle horreur!” he declared, eyes round in mock distress.
“Casse-toi.”
He let out a bark of laughter that sounded just like a seal. “Très bien, Mademoiselle Marino. Got any more?”
“A couple. Frankie gave me a copy of How to Offend the French when I managed to get a B in 1B last year.”
“Well, I never trade insults on a first date. Not that kinda guy. But after two or three . . .”
I liked that he’d said “date,” instead of “tutoring session.” Even if it wasn’t and he totally didn’t mean it. I couldn’t help it.
He jingled his keys in his hand as he walked. “Y’know, I’ve looked for you around the floors. You haven’t been drawing our door.”
Of course, there wasn’t an our anything. Unless, of course, he meant our as in “we the people of means who visit France regularly enough to be in French 5.” “I figured I should give up,” I said shortly.
“Why?”
Because you looked right through me. Because I might be pitiful, but I’m not stupid. Because I promised the one boy who never disappoints me. “There was no way it was going to turn out the way I wanted it to.”
“Too bad.”
“Yeah.”
We’d reached a parking lot. Alex stopped.
“You drive to school?” I demanded.
He gestured me ahead of him through the break in the chain fence. “We don’t all live five blocks away,” he shot back.
“It’s eight, actually.”
“Fine, eight. And sometimes I walk.”
I pictured the stretch between Willing and Society Hill, where I knew he lived somewhere near Sadie. It was quite a distance, and not a particularly scenic one, especially at seven thirty in the morning. “Yeah? When was the last time?”
He didn’t answer immediately, leading the way now between the parked cars. He passed a big Jeep that still had its dealer plates, a low-slung two-door Lexus, and a slick black BMW that all looked like just the sort of cars he would own. “April of last year,” he admitted finally. “But it pissed rain on me the whole time, so that’s gotta count for something.” He stopped by the dented passenger door of an old green Mustang. “Your carriage, my lady.”
“Really? This is your car?”
The door made a very scary sound when he opened it. “It’s clean,” he snapped, and I realized he’d totally missed my point.
“It’s amazing.”
And it was. I know a whole lot of nothing about cars, but I do know that the saddest day of my father’s life was the day he sold his 1972 Mustang to his nephew Paulie. He’d bought it from his own uncle, the original owner, and spent ten years of Saturday mornings vacuuming the floor and polishing the whitewalls.
There were pictures of him, full head of hair and huge smile, leaning on the racing-striped hood or beaming out from the driver’s-side window. There was a photo of the back, “Just married” written in soap on the rear window, cans of ribbons trailing behind as it carried my parents to their honeymoon in Atlantic City. There are two or three of a fat, scowling baby Sienna strapped into the back. After that, all car pix are of the chain of Toyotas that came along in the wake of the Mustang.
Alex’s was even older than Dad’s had been, and in visibly rougher shape. But like he said, it was clean, and it was very, very cool.
I told him so. He beamed. Then ordered, “Seat belt!” as he stowed our bags in the backseat. I was trying. I’d already scanned the duct-tape-patched roof in vain. The clip was where I expected it to be, next to my left hip on the bench seat. Not so the other half. “Oh, yeah. I forgot to mention it’s a lap belt.”
He reached over me, his arm brushing against my chest, his hair just grazing my cheekbone as he pulled the belt from the crevice between the seat and the door. I caught my breath. And jumped a little when he shoved the pieces together with a loud click.
“Old parts,” he apologized.
Quivery parts, I thought as my insides settled. Kinda.
“I found it online,” he told me, patting the steering wheel with affection. It was hard plastic, with bumps for gripping. “It’s a ’68 GT Coupe, only two owners before me. I’m going to restore it over the summer.”
“By yourself?”
“I wish. No, there’s a guy in West Philly who specializes in vintage Fords. But I want to do some of it by myself. Whatever he’ll teach me.”
I thought about telling him about my dad and his ’72. I didn’t.
“Look.” He tapped the odometer. “Only eighty-five thousand miles. And,” he added with obvious pride, “it’s an AM radio. Just AM.” He pushed one of the chipped buttons. We got an earful of static before he spun the dial. A fuzzy “Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing” came through the speakers. It’s one of Frankie’s faves.
I sat back, wondering what Frankie would have to say about the car. He’d been uncustomarily reserved, if stinky, when I’d mentioned that the tutoring sessions would, in fact, happen, and at Alex’s house, no less. “As long as the entire lacrosse team doesn’t think they can get a date with you after . . .” was pretty much all he said on the matter. Sadie’s input, after a long and heavy pause: “I think their house is an I. M. Pei.” I’d promised to e-mail her if anything interesting happened. I’d told Frankie, “I’ll make sure you’re cc’d by the team.”
There was a little pair of crossed lacrosse sticks dangling from Alex’s rearview mirror. I tapped them, and they spun in a wobbly circle. “How’s the season going?” I asked. It seemed a safe conversation: his sport.
“Okay. We’re three and two so far. But Chase might be out for a few weeks. He has tendinosis.”
“That’s too bad,” I muttered. As far as I was concerned, Chase Vere’s continued absence from anywhere could only be a good thing.
Alex shot me a quick look, but didn’t respond.
He drove the way he seemed to do everything: smoothly, confidently, with very little visible effort. We cruised up Broad Street, the rough asphalt vibrating up through my seat, the white stone walls of City Hall looming ahead. There’s something pretty awesome about coming into Center City from South Philly, something impressive and encouraging and even beautiful.
There’s a statue of William Penn, the state’s founder, on top of City Hall. For a hundred years, nothing in the city could be built that was taller than Billy’s hat. Then, one at a time, bigger buildings went up. Blue glass, black steel, arches and spires. But somehow, Billy is still visible from a dozen different angles, from all the way down in my neighborhood.
I waited as Alex turned right off of Broad Street. Every time Leo and his friends drive near the City Hall circle, they yell, “Boner!” It has to do with one of Billy’s hands and how it looks when you see the statue from certain vantage points. Even Frankie has been known to salute the hand. I was thrilled when Alex didn’t say anything.
We were heading east now. The big commercial buildings turned to smaller ones, then to houses only, and then to big houses. Alex steered the car down one narrow street, and then another, this one lined with tall brick walls and big wooden garage doors. He fiddled with the plastic box attached to his visor, and one of the doors slowly rolled open to reveal the Porsche I’d seen at the restaurant and eno
ugh empty space for the Mustang to pull in beside it.
“Dad’s in D.C. all week,” he said as we climbed out, “so I get to use the garage. Parking’s a bitch around here.”
I didn’t know whether to roll my eyes or sympathize.
“Is your mom home?” I really didn’t know how I felt about seeing Karina Romanova in her own home. Well, no.
Truth: I was worried how she would feel about seeing me in it.
“Will she mind my being here?”
“Why would she?” Alex gave me an odd look as he pushed open a small door onto a wide brick patio. “But no, she’s at the studio until midnight. It’s just you, me, and the lacrosse team.”
I could see myself with amazing clarity in the huge glass wall that was the entire back of the house. I was small, dark, and frozen. “You’re kidding, right?”
Next to mine, Alex’s reflection looked twice as big and just as still. “You’re kidding. Right?”
I nodded. Clearly not emphatically enough.
“Christ, Ella. Who do you think I am?”
I sighed. Honestly, I didn’t know. “I think you’re probably a terrific guy, Alex. But let’s be truthful here. We don’t really know each other.”
“Oh, come on. We’ve gone to school together for two and a half years. I’ve been to Marino’s . . .” He stopped. Sighed. “Okay. Fine. So let’s change it. Now.” And he unlocked the door to his house.
It was huge, even for the neighborhood. It was surprisingly modern, especially for the neighborhood, all cathedral ceilings and huge expanses of stone floor. Everything was steel and granite and glass. I recognized a Calder mobile, a dozen axe-blade-like black metal plates connected by silver wire, over the glossy white dining table. The chairs were Eames black plastic. When I looked past the dining room into the palatial living area, I saw a leather-and-steel sofa that probably had a twin in MoMA. It was a modern rich girl’s dream, this place.
I didn’t like it.
“Nice house,” I said politely.
“Thanks,” Alex said flatly, and led the way into the black-and-chrome kitchen. “Personally, I think it’s like living on the set of Alien.”
The Fine Art of Truth or Dare Page 15
