by Gae Polisner
“According to Cleopatra,” my mother says, “jasmine is the scent of seduction. It makes men want you.” She puts a dab behind each of her own ears, in the hollow of her throat, and runs her finger down between the crease of her breasts. “Men have always been drawn to women’s perfume.”
I squirm on the seat, pick up a lipstick, and hold it out, a question. “Go ahead,” she says. “You can put it on.”
I trace my lips, wondering how she keeps it so neat and perfect when she does it. Not that she wears makeup much. Only when she and Dad are going somewhere special.
“Legend has it, Cleopatra coated the sails of her boat with her perfume as she was returning to shore, in order to lure Marc Antony to her.” She leans in to me and whispers this next part as if it’s some sort of secret between us. “It worked for your father.” But the cloying smell of the perfume still makes me want to gag.
Now she squeezes my hand, her slim fingers over my own. “I’ve been sitting here, the whole time you were gone, watching them,” she says. “They’re so beautiful. I don’t know why I haven’t come in to see them sooner. These are the ones Nana picked out, yes? These clear ones?”
“Yes.” I’m surprised she remembers, that she’s been paying attention at all. Maybe she’s not as bad off as I think—as bad off as Aubrey and her family believe.
People talk, JL …
Maybe she’s really okay, or the medicines are starting to do their job.
She moves closer and runs her fingers down the mesh of the habitat. “Tell me again what they’re called.”
I swallow hard, mad at myself for nearly falling for it, this trick where she acts like everything is fine, like she’s better. I’ve seen it before. It’s a trap—this mother who seems present, who asks questions. This mom who seems halfway normal. This version of her is way more dangerous.
“JL?”
“Glasswings,” I answer. I stand up, to gain some distance. “Those clear ones are the Glasswings, and the grayish-white ones are Painted Jezebels.” I sit on my bed and open my history book. Anything not to let my heart believe what she’s saying. “There were four of those to start, but one died earlier. I flushed it down the toilet.”
I’m being purposefully harsh and callous. That’s not what I did. I carried it out to the garden.
On the end of my bed is the small stack of envelopes she walked in with. A reminder of what she is, and is not: her endless letters to a dead man.
I gather them up and bury them at the bottom of my wastebasket.
“The Glasswings are from Central America. Nana picked them,” I say, only to distract her from what I’ve done. “They feed on nightshade plants, then store the toxins, so prey can’t eat them.”
“They’re so beautiful,” she says. “So fragile. I’m amazed you know how to take care of them.” I let my eyes go to her as she pushes up from the floor, and moves toward me, reaching her arms out. I let her do it, embrace me. I can’t help it. This day has been long and exhausting. I don’t have the energy to ignore her. “My precious, precious girl,” she whispers into my hair, “you’re growing up so fast. If I’m not careful, I’m going to miss it all.”
I tense against her chest, even as I feel my resolve melting. Her soapy smell winning me over. The sweet, slippery promise of her love.
“We should do this more,” she says, stroking my hair. “Spend time together, take advantage of it being just us girls.”
“I’d like that,” I whisper.
“Your father will be home soon.”
I push away and look at her funny. Has she spoken to him? I thought it was early September now. Four more months, he had said. But I’m guessing it’s only her wishful thinking. Her believing what she wants to believe.
“I’m trying,” she says. “You know that. I know I’ve been depressed. But I’m feeling much better. Dr. Marsdan says it’s a matter of finding the right combination of things.”
“I know.” The cloud of hope fills my chest once more. “We can let them out if you want,” I say, nodding to the habitat.
She claps her hands together, and sits on the floor again, and I walk over and pull the mesh flap aside and relocate an orange slice from a perch to the outside top of the habitat. Almost immediately, a few butterflies emerge.
“That’s a Jezebel,” I say, pointing. “They fly higher than the Glasswings. Closer to the ceiling. It’s instinctual, because their food sources are high up in the trees.” My mother’s eyes follow, big with childlike wonder.
I tap on the mesh where the Jezebel whose wing I repaired stays safely inside. “And this one, here,” I say, showing her, “she had a broken wing, and I fixed it.”
“No kidding?”
“Made a splint out of cardboard. I watched a video,” I explain.
“Well, that is completely remarkable,” my mother says.
I kneel next to her, and she turns and tucks a strand of hair off my face. “Do you know how truly special you are? You are so much more than I will ever be, Jean Louise. Beautiful and special.”
“I am not,” I say. “All my friends always say how pretty you are. That you look like a movie star. They think you’re my sister. Max can’t take his eyes off of you.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t say that,” she says.
“It’s true.”
“Jean Louise, please, that’s terrible…”
Anger rises in my throat. Is she serious? Does she think me saying it aloud is the problem? Maybe if she wouldn’t walk around half-naked.
“Come here. Please. Let’s don’t.” She pats her lap, and I give in, sitting against her, like I would when I was little. I rest my head back and look up at her. We’re both messes, aren’t we? She wraps her arms around me, as the butterflies circle above.
I close my eyes, and think of how it would be to fall asleep like this, listening to her breath, to her heartbeat, to her voice sharing hushed promises—promises I know, even at not-yet-sixteen, she can’t keep.
EARLY JUNE
TENTH GRADE
I slide my tray along the metal rail staring at today’s gourmet choices: sloppy joes made with gray chopped meat that looks like it’s been sitting there all weekend, heaped onto a half-stale bun, or “Tacos Fresco,” which is the same gray meat slathered in cheese and sprinkled with lettuce, plopped in a half-stale taco shell.
My stomach roils as I move past the rectangles of main course offerings, fingering the wad of bills in my pocket that I was crazy enough to bring to school. I twist and search for Max in the crush of kids. I wouldn’t have even come to lunch except for the plan to meet him. But he’s not here yet. He rarely comes to lunch anymore.
When we first started dating, I used to sit with him and Bo and Dean and their girlfriends, Angie and Melissa, which was super-uncomfortable, but at least I had someone to sit with, not to mention Meghan and Niccole were equally uncomfortable to be with. At least Angie and Melissa weren’t fake, if they didn’t seem all that interested in having some sophomore hanging out with them. But by spring, they’d all become mostly absent from the premises, plagued by serious senioritis.
“What are you having, dear?” The lunch lady’s voice is impatient. I twist back to her, apologetically, and order.
“I’ll have two side salads.” She gives me an exasperated look. “Sorry. Not that hungry,” I say.
“I’ll have to charge you full,” she says, and I nod, then walk with my tray of wilted lettuce and two mealy tomatoes, looking for somewhere unhostile to sit. Across the cafeteria, I spot Meghan and Niccole by the door, so I stay put at the opposite end of the lunchroom.
I wonder where Aubrey is. Maybe she and those girls had a falling-out. But so what if they did? Screw Aubrey.
People talk, JL …
I don’t need her. I need to stop thinking I do.
At a table against the windowed wall, I spot Tanya and Janee, the girls Aubrey and I used to hang out with in middle school. They’re giggling with Matt Chin and Steven Piscarello,
possibly two of the geekiest guys in school.
I steer past them, to the last table, and sit down opposite some stoner girl I don’t know but think may be friends with Bo’s girlfriend. She doesn’t look up or say hello. But she doesn’t tell me to leave her alone, either.
“Hey,” I say, forking lettuce unenthusiastically into my mouth. Her eyes lift and she nods. I guess she isn’t much in the mood for conversation. Fine with me. I’m just biding my time till Max gets here.
I manage to finish the first salad in peace before there’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn to see Aubrey standing there, her face knotted with concern.
“Hey,” she says, her eyes darting to the girl across from me. “Mind if I sit down?” I finger the lump in my pocket, eyes searching for Max.
“Sure, but I was getting ready to go.”
She doesn’t have food or a tray, and when I glance back to where Meghan and Niccole were sitting, they’re gone, so maybe I was right. My chest flutters with momentary hope.
“I only need a minute.” The stoner girl casts us a look, picks up her tray, and leaves. “Sorry, it’s a free country,” Aubrey mutters.
I fork at my second salad, before pushing it away. “So talk,” I say.
“JL … I—Please. I feel bad enough.”
“So don’t.”
“Come on.” She reaches down and touches my knee, but I move it.
“Don’t want you catching anything slutty,” I say. It’s completely juvenile, but I can’t help myself. Hurt has settled like a dead bird, all weight and wings and bones in my throat.
“We’ve always been friends. And you’re not perfect.” I glare at her, and she shakes her head. “Sorry, that’s not what I meant. I—I want us to be okay.” I flinch, and she sees it. “Or, not that, I guess, because, of course we are. We will be. I wanted to know that you’re okay.”
“So nice of you. I’m fine. Thanks for checking.”
“That’s it then?” But I don’t answer. I don’t have one. She’s trying, but what am I supposed to say after she basically told me her mother said she should stay away from me? And, anyway, I don’t have time for this. Max is making his way across the cafeteria.
“JL?” Aubrey waits, following my gaze. “Oh, sorry,” she says. “Never mind. I guess, I’ll get going.”
“Sure,” I say, standing. I need to head off Max saying anything that might hint at what I’ve done. What I’m doing. What I brought here for him. “I’m sorry, Aubs, I should go.”
“No worries. I get it,” she says. “I just wanted to try—I mean, to invite you—that’s why I came over here. We’re going to study for finals together at my house, if you want to join. You’re welcome to. I mean, we want you to.” But I barely register her words because Max is across the room faster than I can extricate myself from Aubrey or the table.
“Hey.” He nods at her. It’s not enthusiastic, but at least it’s polite. “You ready? Let’s get out of here, Jailbait,” he says.
“Okay, coming.”
“Don’t bother,” Aubrey says, standing. “I’ll go.”
“Suit yourself, Andersson.”
“Max—” I try, but it doesn’t matter. She’s up and leaving. A few steps away, she stops and turns, arms crossed to her chest, voice shaking.
“For what it’s worth, JL? You shouldn’t be so hard on Meghan and Niccole. They know you don’t like them. And that makes it hard for me. And I’m trying here, so maybe you could try a little harder, too?”
Such a lie. Why can’t she see they have it in for me?
“Sure,” I say, trying to swallow past the dead thing in my throat. “I will.”
“Okay, see you later,” she says, and she’s gone.
“What was that about?” Max asks, sitting. I can barely look at him, barely talk, even though I’m desperately happy to see him. I want to fall into him, have him wrap his arms tight around me. I want school to be over. I want summer to be here. I want everything to be easier. I want to be sixteen, headed to California on the back of his bike.
Three weeks till my birthday. Three weeks till the end of school.
“Jailbait? What happened?”
“Nothing.” I shake off the question. I don’t want to focus on any of that bullshit. “Hold out your hand. Under the table.” I shouldn’t do this here, but I do. I pull out the wad of bills and slip it in his hand, closing his fingers around it. “There’s two there,” I say, my voice lowered. “That should be enough to fix Blue Morpho?”
He stares down and shoves the wad of bills into his pocket.
“Hundred?” he whispers. I shake my head. “Thousand?” I nod. His eyes grow big, concerned. “Jesus, are you sure, Jailbait?” I nod again. “No way. I can’t. Seriously.”
But I hold my finger to his lips and look him in the eyes.
“I want you to. Really. And I want you to take me with you.”
EARLY JUNE
TENTH GRADE
I pull Dad’s blue fluffy robe from my closet, and wrap it around me like a cocoon. Mom hasn’t said anything about me taking it or wearing it around the house like pajamas. It makes me feel close to him. It makes me believe he’s coming home.
I lock my door, and slide my desk dresser drawer open, and unwrap the rest of the wad of bills, the empty pink box still in Mom’s vanity.
Twenty bills gone. Fifty left.
Seven thousand dollars altogether.
How much had Max said we’d need? The stack I gave him should be enough for Blue Morpho.
I count the bills into stacks of ten, to be sure. Five stacks remain, the bills crisp and untouched, if curled from being rolled up so long.
My heart pounds in my ears. I’ve given Max two thousand dollars. What if I shouldn’t have given him so much?
But, no. Max loves me. He must if he’s asked me to go with him.
EARLY JUNE
TENTH GRADE
“Come on, Jailbait, we’re going for a ride.” Max walks over to the broken garage door and yanks it up, letting sunlight pour in. When he returns, he grabs two helmets down from a shelf, holds one out to me, and stands proudly in front of Blue Morpho. “Voila. Hop on.”
I stand there confused. “Already? How’d you fix her so fast?”
“Not fixed yet. Waiting for parts. But we’re not going far. She’ll be a little bumpy, but she can weather a short ride with my girl.” He takes the helmet from my hand and straps it on my head, wrestling a bit to tighten it. “Adorable,” he says, touching my nose.
I smile but can’t keep my nerves from showing. I’m barely comfortable on the dirt bike, but if I plan to ride this thing to California with him, I had better get used to it.
“Oh, and other than me,” he says, as I climb on the seat behind him, “you’ll be the first one on her, and that’s special, that’s sacred, so I wanted you to know.” I smile again. I know how he feels about these things. “Wait till you see where I’m taking you.”
He turns the key in the ignition, stomps once, twice, three times, on the starter thing, and jerks us forward out into the sunlight.
And we’re in motion.
This is Max and I trust him, I tell myself, trying to stop my arms, wrapped around his waist, from quaking.
I trust him.
Otherwise, I won’t be able to keep my grip and hold on.
I trust him.
As he zips down the side streets and onto Main, weaving in and out of cars and buses, as I cling to him for dear life. Petrified that, despite the small comfort of the helmet, I’m going to fly off the back at 60 miles per hour and break every bone in my body.
I trust Max, who hangs a left at the end of the road and flies past the Hay & Feed.
I trust Max, who signals at the exit ramp and turns onto the freaking turnpike.
I trust Max, who thankfully veers us off at the New Waverly exit, and aims us in the direction of the abandoned New Waverly Mall, a site suspended mid-construction going on two years.
The stores are in various
stages of half completion, some sections merely framed, others nearly finished, the main billboard at the turnpike exit that used to announce: “Waverly Mall, Where All Your Shopping Dreams Come True!” changed by some vandal to announce: “Waverly Hell, Where All Your Shopping Dreams Come to Die!” Under that, they’ve added: “Shoppers Repent! In the Name of the Father, the Son, and Abercrombie & Fitch!”
The rear of the construction site is a notorious hangout for derelicts and bikers and homeless people, so I hope to God that’s not where we’re going.
“Max!” I yell, tugging his shoulder as he slows off the highway, and eases us into the cracked and overgrown parking lot. He calls back, “Don’t worry, it’s fine. We’re not staying here. Promise!”
“I trust Max,” I whisper, as he heads beyond the south side of the site where a “Macy’s Coming Soon” sign still clings to the blacked-out windows.
When we reach the back, he says, “You ready? This is the part where you really need to hang on,” and he takes off flying, my head jerking back, barely giving me enough time.
He shows off like a little kid, making wide circles, zigzagging the bike around the raised bumps intended to slow traffic down. “You’d better hold tighter than that!” he yells, heading us beyond the lot, toward the acres of undeveloped land.
I close my eyes and clutch to him as hard as I can, whispering, “I trust Max,” for the tenth time, even as I’m having a hard time knowing if I do. Even as the back of his leather jacket proves nearly too stiff and slippery to hold on to.
He doesn’t slow down and turn to check on me until we’ve reached the edge of a badly overgrown field. “Okay, here we go,” he says, and he moves the bike forward on the soft dirt, the stalks of green growing taller, grazing at my ankles, the sides of my bare legs.
Halfway out, he stops. “And now, the magic!” he yells over the bike’s engine. “Watch how everything changes!” He plows forward, slowly, till the green starts popping with color: reds and blues and yellows and purples, as far as the eye can see. We’re in the middle of a vast wildflower meadow, right on the cusp of the woods. He cuts the engine altogether, and I scan the width of the field, taking in daisies and buttercups, violets, and dandelions. “The blue ones are called Bachelor’s Buttons,” he says, “I did an image search on my phone.”
