by Carrie Mac
I met Ruthie at social-skills class when we were in fifth grade. I was pulled out of Mrs. Henshaw’s class, and Ruthie was pulled out of Mr. Randhawa’s class at the other end of the hall. We were brought together with three other kids once a week and made to do things like practice looking each other in the eye and then not looking each other in the eye. Or ordering a meal and remembering to say thank you. Or excusing ourselves politely when our tics or our anxiety or our wild rage or pre-psychotic disposition dictated that we should.
Ruthie was just weird, maybe too smart to be normal. And I was just worried. The two of us seemed pretty harmless compared to the other three, all boys who’d been suspended for various acts of violence, and in one case for having set the school on fire. A small fire, but still.
We had nothing in common, really, but we liked each other’s company and filled that best-friend-shaped space that everyone seems to have. And then I got used to her, and I loved her. Ruthie was an only child, and I was an only child most of the time, so maybe that had a lot to do with it. Whatever kept us together, it was strong. We did everything together. We tried to get classes together, we had lockers beside each other, and we ate lunch together in the loser corner every day. On weekends I would go to her house and sketch while she built tiny models of robots and airplanes, delicate and perfect despite her beefy hands. Or she would come over and read me weird science articles while I drew, or she’d follow me around the garden and tell me that 93 percent of gardeners grew tomatoes, or that the biggest tomato ever grown weighed seven pounds, or that Japanese scientists were studying mosquitoes to help them design a painless needle.
Mostly these articles came from Scientific American, which her dad subscribed to, and which for some reason never stopped coming after he died. One day at lunch she was reading to me about how developing brains fold like crumpled paper to get their convolutions. Which is where Jessica found us after I saw her tattoo in the locker room. She sat beside us, as if that were an acceptable thing to do—join us at our table in the corner. On purpose.
“What are you doing?” Ruthie held the magazine to her chest, as if it were secret.
“I’m Jessica. I met Maeve in the locker room. She was looking at my ass. And you are…?”
“I wasn’t looking at your—” I felt my cheeks heat up. “I wasn’t l-l-looking at you.”
“You were so.” Jessica grinned. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
“I wasn’t.”
Jessica stared at me, eyebrows raised. Ruthie stared at Jessica, mouth agape.
I looked from one to the other, not sure what to say, so I introduced Ruthie.
“Nice to meet you.” Jessica flicked a piece of popcorn into Ruthie’s mouth, which was still hanging open. Ruthie gagged and spat it out. It landed on Jessica’s tray. She flicked it off with a finger and thumb and offered Ruthie the bag of popcorn instead. “Your mouth was open, so I went with it.”
—
But before that. The spring before, when we were waiting for my mom to pick us up in Seattle after watching a roller-derby match between the Rat City Roller Girls and the Bellingham Betties, Ruthie stood there beside a bus stop full of graffiti and garbage and mumbled something about the match and the Betties’ jammer and then she kept mumbling and it sounded like she said she liked girls.
“What?” My mom’s car was at the intersection. She honked her horn and waved.
“I like girls,” Ruthie repeated.
Three little words. And I knew exactly what she meant. Because I did too. But I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to say it out loud. And I’d never thought that Ruthie was gay. Not in a million years. I’d thought of her as one of the weird science nerds who would one day find another weird science nerd and have a few weird-science-nerd babies.
But then I thought, Who says that the weird science nerd has to be a man?
Whatever. I was already dealing with my own confusing thoughts about girls; I was not ready to deal with Ruthie’s, too. I pretended that I didn’t hear her, and I waved frantically at my mom as she pulled in. And then it occurred to me. What if Ruthie thought of me that way? As a girl girl.
No.
I was not a weird science nerd. I was her type just as much as she was mine, which was not at all.
She was not cute. And she was not interesting. Well, not in that way. Not to me. She was interesting, sure. But she’d be more interesting to the weird science nerd who would fall in love with her and want to read tedious articles from Scientific American together. And cute was not a word that I would use to describe Ruthie. Someone would. She would find her weird-science-nerd match, I was sure.
Mom pulled up, and Ruthie got in the front, because there was more room for her. It wasn’t that she was fat—not at all—but she couldn’t pull herself together to fit into anything. Clothes, groups, backseats. Ruthie always seemed to spill over.
Ruthie avoided me for a while after that. She hid in the science lab at lunch and after school and during every second of her free periods. When I ran into her in the bathroom one day, she blushed and finished washing her hands and walked straight out, not bothering to dry them. I followed her into the hall.
“Ruthie! Where have you been?” I wanted to tell her that I’d heard what she said by the bus stop. I wanted to tell her that it was okay with me. I wanted to tell her that I was too. Me too, Ruthie! But none of that came out.
“I’ve been working on the molds,” she said. “The ones for the state science fair. That’s all.”
And then I didn’t see her for another two weeks. Not until after the science fair, which I was supposed to go to with her, but when she didn’t call and she didn’t text and she didn’t email, I figured that was her way of uninviting me.
“I won,” she announced the Monday after the fair. She sat across from me at lunch and lined up her yogurt and her sandwich just so, and arranged her carrots into a hexagon shape on a piece of paper towel. As if nothing had ever happened. Which it kind of hadn’t. But it kind of had, too. Had she been ignoring me? Or had it really been about the molds? The half conversation in the parking lot seemed so fuzzy now. Had I heard her? Had she said that? She slid her medal across the table. “First prize.”
“That’s great,” I said. “Congratulations, geek.”
“Thanks, freak.”
And things went back to normal. Sort of.
—
Jessica laughed at Ruthie’s carrot-stick hexagon when she sat with us for the first time the next spring. She helped herself to one while Ruthie looked on, horrified.
“That was mine.”
“You can spare one.” Jessica’s hair was shorter than Ruthie’s, but it looked much better. Ruthie’s hair was choppy, a fuzzy helmet that stuck out about an inch all the way around and didn’t look any better when it was long. Cursed and damned in that department, she sometimes said. Not Jessica, though. Her sleek black hair was choppy in all the right places, a pixie cut that looked expensive, with long, dyed-pink bangs that were definitely expensive.
I wondered if Jessica was gay, but I didn’t outright ask her. And then I didn’t have to, because she came to school one day about a week later wearing a T-shirt with two woman-figure symbols like the ones on bathroom doors, side by side, holding hands—or handless arms—with the words SORRY, GUYS underneath. We were standing outside before the first bell, and it was cold, but optimistically spring cold, so no one was wearing jackets or coats, except Ruthie. Ruthie and I stared at Jessica’s shirt (which essentially meant that we were also staring at her breasts), both of us blushing. Ruthie stammered and swallowed and garbled something about petri dishes and extra credit and fled to the science lab.
“I can tell so much about you when you stare at me.” Jessica pushed her bangs out of her face. And then: “Don’t tell me that you didn’t know that I’m a dyke. I’ve been dropping hints from the moment I met you.”
And then she grabbed my hand and held on to it, pulling me into the school as if
it were no big deal at all.
—
Ruthie scowled when Jessica asked to be the third in our group for the end-of-term biology project later that day.
“It’s worth thirty percent of our grade,” Jessica said. “Of course I want to be in Dr. Ruth’s group.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Come on, it’s a compliment.”
“She can join us,” I said. “Right, Ruthie?”
“You want her to?”
“Sure.”
“Fine.” Ruthie stacked her textbooks and binder to make room.
“Thanks.” Jessica beamed as she sat down, inching her chair closer to mine.
I hadn’t told Ruthie about us holding hands, and no one else would’ve told her. No one else really talked to her, except for the other geeks in the science club and Mathletes, who would be clueless about it too, no doubt. I was going to tell her, but then I was thinking that maybe I didn’t want to. Maybe it was something that I wanted to keep all for myself. Just for a while. Just until I’d have to tell her. I knew by the fierce red splotches on Ruthie’s cheeks that she had a crush on Jessica too. Was that what it was? Did I have a crush on Jessica? But she took my hand, I reminded myself. She took my hand. She held tight. She pulled me in.
A third for a science project was one thing. But a third in a friendship sent everything off-kilter. And a third for anything more than that? A disaster.
—
The next day Jessica and I were sitting on the floor in Ruthie’s basement ripping newspaper into shreds so we could start on the papier-mâché cell model, while Ruthie was upstairs mixing flour and water for paste, and getting snacks.
“We need snacks,” Jessica had said. “It’s the hospitable thing to do, Ruthie.” And so Ruthie had hefted herself off the floor and tromped upstairs. I could hear her crossing the kitchen. A cupboard door slammed. The fridge opened and closed.
“I better do this now,” Jessica said. She leaned over and kissed me on the lips. I froze, and Jessica kissed me again, and then I was kissing her back, and that’s how Ruthie found us, with our mouths glued together and Jessica’s hand up my shirt, the strips of newspaper scattered around us. Ruthie dropped the tray, and the bowl of paste; a plate of cheese and crackers and three glasses of apple juice crashed to the floor.
“Ruthie.” I sprang to my feet. “Let me help.”
Ruthie just stood there, her jaw slack.
“I’ll get paper towels,” I said, too loud and too fast. I ran up the stairs and grabbed the paper-towel roll from beside the sink. When I got back downstairs, Ruthie was still standing amid the broken bowl and the broken plate and the broken glasses, the paste oozing onto the dingy carpet, and Jessica was standing on the other side of the mess, chewing on her lip, hiding a smile.
Ruthie said it was no big deal, and she might have been talking about the mess, or maybe she was talking about me and Jessica, but it didn’t matter, because she disappeared. She switched to another biology class, arguing that she wanted to learn from a teacher who was working on his PhD, not the one who’d just graduated from college, and so the principal signed off on her request. She was the top science student, after all.
That could’ve been the worst of it. But it wasn’t. It got much worse, and so much messier than a heap of broken dishes on the floor.
—
I wasn’t off to a good start when it came to girls. Jessica—and then what happened with Ruthie after—and now Salix. Each time I thought about texting Salix back, I didn’t. A couple of times I’d start a text, but I never sent them.
Tell the cookie that I’m sorry for leaving it behind.
Or Can I buy you a sorry-I-bolted coffee?
Or Django called from beyond the grave and he wants me to tell you that he was listening that day and to tell you that you’re really good.
Stupid.
Or Do you know Grandview Park? It could use a really good violinist. It’s all hippie drummers and one guy on a trumpet who sounds like a dying goose.
Stupid and pathetic.
So I just didn’t text her back.
The new neighbor moved in exactly a week after Mrs. Patel’s service. He was an old man—older than Mrs. Patel—short and pudgy, with shaggy white hair and thick glasses barely perching on the tip of a bulbous red nose. A wino nose, my mom called them. The boys and I watched the movers bring his things in from the street. Dollies stacked with boxes, a leather armchair, and so many bookshelves that I lost count. When the movers left, he disappeared inside and came out a few moments later with four ice cream sandwiches.
“I always keep a box in my freezer,” he said. “It’s the only thing in there right now. Let’s introduce ourselves when our fingers are filthy with chocolate, shall we?” But he took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of his mouth as he said it. “I’ll go first. I’m Oscar Heidelman.” He had an accent. German, I guessed, although I didn’t really know.
“I’m Corbin,” Corbin said with his mouth full. “And this is my brother, Owen. We’re twins. Only, we don’t look alike. And I have a broken arm.”
“I see.”
Owen looked at Mr. Heidelman, unsmiling. I knew what he was thinking. No one should be living in Mrs. Patel’s place except for Mrs. Patel. Ever. Especially not so soon after she died in the apartment. The building owners could’ve waited until the end of the month at least.
“I’m Maeve.”
“Lovely to meet you all, neighbors.” A horn honked from the street. “Excuse me.” He pushed his glasses up. “My babies have arrived.”
“Babies?” Owen said.
“Come see.”
So we followed him through the courtyard. A bright yellow truck was parked at the curb. ELLIS PIANO MOVERS. Mr. Heidelman popped the last of his ice cream sandwich into his mouth and greeted the men. He stood at the foot of the ramp while they wheeled a small grand piano down. I tried to count the instruments. Another smaller piano. A bass. A cello. Five violins, and maybe a viola, all with cases as beat-up as Salix’s.
“Do you play all of those?” I asked.
“I do.” Mr. Heidelman nodded as one of the movers carried in another black case.
“What’s that one?” Owen asked.
“A French horn.”
“I was looking for you guys.” Claire joined us at the street, her feet bare and swollen. “Lunch is ready.” She turned to Mr. Heidelman. “Care to join us?”
“No, thank you,” he said. “I’m far too eager to get settled. Perhaps the boys would like to come help me unpack a million boxes of books after lunch? I pay in lemonade.”
—
Corbin came home after only twenty minutes and one glass of lemonade.
“It was too sour,” he said. “And the books are really dusty.”
Owen was there until it was nearly suppertime.
Just as Claire was pulling things out of the fridge, Dad texted to say that he was on his way home with pizza—early, for once. He had hardly shown his face since the day of Mrs. Patel’s funeral.
So pizza was a big deal.
Usually when Dad came home, he went straight upstairs and had a shower, almost before even saying hello. But he didn’t that day. And there wasn’t any pizza.
“Where’s the pizza?” Corbin asked, the disappointment clear on his face.
“I said I was going to order it.”
“No, you said you were bringing it home,” Claire said. She pulled up his text and showed him.
“Thanks, Text Officer Claire.” He saluted her.
Something was off. It wasn’t just the pizza. It wasn’t just that he was home early. He wasn’t himself. Had he gotten fired? Had he gotten stopped for drunk driving? The worst thing was that neither of those things would have surprised me.
Claire started to tell him about her friend in Toronto who’d just won a major environmental award for a rooftop garden she’d designed, but he wasn’t really listening to her either.
All of a sudden,
and with a great war cry, Dad grabbed Corbin and flipped him, pinning him to the floor.
“Gotcha!”
Corbin’s expression went from shock to glee, until he was squealing with laughter and pummeling Dad with his cast.
They were still wrestling when Owen appeared at the door, with Mr. Heidelman behind him.
“Billy, we have a guest,” Claire said. “Meet our new neighbor. Mr. Heidelman.”
Dad shoved Corbin off him and leapt up.
“Hi!” He thrust out a hand. “Billy Glover.”
“He was in the Railway Kings,” Claire said. “Remember them? ‘O’Ryan’s Train.’ ”
“Not my genre, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t blame you, Mr. Heidelman,” Dad said, tossing Claire a withering look.
“Oscar, please.” His eyes drifted to the art on the walls. “Patrons of the arts, I see. As am I.”
“We try.” Dad ushered Mr. Heidelman in to show him the enormous painting of the horse and ogre that hung in the stairwell. It was hideous and awful, and at first glance it looked hundreds of years old, done in dark oils and grim colors, with highlights placed exactly where they should be. It looked like the horse was just about to rear up and gallop right out of the canvas, except that it had one rotten leg, red and oozing and chewed to the bone. The ogre was large and scowling, dressed in a business suit, its eyes glistening. I hated that painting.
“This one is by a good friend of mine,” Dad said. “It was a wedding gift. We do lots of trades. Barters. That sort of thing.”
“Billy is an artist too.” Claire pointed out the painting hung over the dinner table. “That’s one of his.” It was my favorite: an alpine meadow, with me and Dad asleep on a patchwork quilt in the corner. Dad was curled around me, his arm curved protectively above my head. I was about two years old, with chubby legs and rosy cheeks. My parents were already living apart by then.
He was doing it again.
Drinking.
Not coming home.
And now he was acting high.
It was only a matter of time, even though Claire had said he would never go back. She’d said he would not be a statistic. She’d said she believed in him. As if that was all it took, when the fact was that over 50—and up to 90!—percent of addicts relapsed. The numbers didn’t lie.
