Keeping Secrets

by Alyson Noel

  About a week after Connor left I got a postcard from him with a picture of the Queen on it, and then a few days later he left a message on my machine. I admit that I listened to the message more than twice, but when I was done, I erased it, even though I had the option to save it for thirty days. And then I sent him a postcard too; it had a picture of Richard Nixon and Elvis; it’s called “The President and the King.”

  Even Guy (remember him, from Java Daze?) called and left a voice mail message, but I’m not sure if I’m gonna call him back. I mean, I thought he was really cute and nice. Not a dweeb like M said. But I lied to him too and pretended I was in college and stuff. Well, technically it was M’s lie, but it’s not like I tried to stop it. And I’m just not sure I’m willing to start something that’s based on lies again.

  I went out with Blake the other night after work. Nothing special, we just went to that little coffee place by the store. I didn’t plan on telling him, but when he asked, “How’s M?” The whole story just came spilling out.

  When I was finished, he whistled and said, “Wow, that’s ugly.”

  I go, “Tell me about it.”

  “Does she know that Connor left?” He breaks his biscotto in half and offers me a piece.

  “I have no idea,” I say, taking it and swirling the Italian cookie in my cappuccino.

  “Well, you know M’s always been a little bit of a princess and all, but you guys were best friends.”

  “Since we were eight,” I tell him.

  “Listen, you’ve got to think of a way to work it out. Has she tried to apologize?”

  “Several times.” I take a bite of my now soggy cookie.

  “But you’re not accepting apologies right now?” he asks.

  “Nope, not right now.” I look at him and shake my head. “Look, I’m really mad, and hurt, and offended. She totally lied! She totally betrayed me! I mean, M’s mom can think whatever she wants. I don’t care about her. But the fact is M didn’t even try to stand up for me. She just saw an easy way out and went for it. She threw me overboard and saved herself, and I think that’s messed up. Jeez, Blake, if nothing else she could have said they were Tiffany’s.”

  He gives me a horrified look and says, “Don’t even say the name. Is she still around?”

  “She’s still around. Anyway, let’s talk about you.” I take a sip of my coffee.

  “Finally.” He smiles.

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Middle of June.”

  “I’m gonna miss you.” I reach across the table and squeeze his hand.

  “Of course you are. But wouldn’t you know it, right when I have everything in order, I meet the man of my dreams.” He finishes his biscotto and wipes the crumbs from his mouth.

  “Are you serious?” I ask.

  “Very.”

  “Blake, you’ve said that before,” I remind him.

  “I mean it this time. His name is Ken, and he’s gorgeous, and smart, and he cooks.” He uses his fingers to list those attributes.

  “Wow, I’d settle for just smart. So what are you gonna do?” I ask.

  “By June he’ll be so in love with me he’ll follow me anywhere, right?”

  “Totally.” I nod my head in agreement and drink the last of my coffee.

  “The question is, what are you gonna do?” He looks right at me.

  I put my head in my hands.

  “How many times do I have to tell you that you can do whatever you want? You’re smart and talented. You’re setting your own limits you know. You don’t need your dad, or Connor, or anybody else. But you’ve got to get it together.” He reaches across the table and says, “High School is almost over, and you’re wasting your life if you stay here.”

  When I got home I was still thinking about what Blake said. The idea of being stuck here for another year after everyone else has moved on is too horrible to imagine. I mean, everyone keeps asking me what I want to do and I realize that I’m no closer to an answer. So I grab a piece of paper and make a list of the five things that I like to do. Kind of a modified version of the aptitude test they made us take sophomore year.

  At the top of the list I put READ/WRITE. Which I know sounds totally hypocritical considering my grades and all, but I’m not talking about textbooks and essays. I mean, I really like to read and write fiction, but even though Mr. Sommers liked that one story, I’m not sure if it’s like, a realistic goal.

  Next I put CLOTHES. But it’s not like you can make a living buying clothes for yourself (unless you’re M’s mom). So that means you have to shop for other people and I kind of already do that right now. So I definitely know that I don’t want to do it forever.

  Third is MUSIC. But I can’t sing or play an instrument so I’m not gonna get too far with that. And I don’t know how to run a record company like Connor. And I’m no longer delusional about running a record company with Connor.

  At number four I put HANGING OUT. But the only people who can make a career out of that are the Hilton sisters. And I don’t think I need to explain at this point how I’m not exactly related.

  And number five was blank. Oh well, it’s not like it’s a real aptitude test.

  Chapter 32

  So after days and days of secretly obsessing about it more than I care to admit, Mr. Sommers finally starts passing out our graded short stories. When he gets to Christine the Collector’s seat, I admit, I’m practically standing on top of my desk to get a glimpse of her grade. On the upper-right-hand corner of her paper is a large, red, unmistakable C. Wow, I bet she’s never received one of those before. Underneath it is a short note, also in red ink, that unfortunately I’m unable to read from such a distance. She looks at her grade and quickly turns her paper over, and when we make eye contact she looks like she’s about to cry. And I gotta tell you, I enjoy every minute of it.

  So he hands out all the short stories in his stack and walks to the front of the room. But my desktop is still empty and when I look around I notice that everyone has their paper except me. And now I’m in a total panic thinking that maybe he somehow lost mine. I mean, that would be just my luck, to actually complete an assignment only to have the teacher lose it and assume I didn’t do it.

  But then he goes, “I’d like to read you a story that I thought was very good.”

  And then he reads my story, just like last time.

  When he’s done reading it, someone goes, “Did Alex write that one too?”

  And when he answers, “Yes,” everyone turns to gawk at me and I know that they’re shocked that it wasn’t just a fluke the first time.

  When Mr. Sommers returns it to me, there’s a big red A in the upper-right-hand corner, no note, just a single letter.

  Christine the Collector glances at my paper and asks, “Mr. Sommers, is this going to count toward our final grade?”

  When he says yes, she drops her head on her desk and sits like that even after he dismisses us. And this may sound crazy, but part of me actually feels a little sorry for her.

  When I walk out the door M is standing there waiting for me. But I’m feeling so good about Mr. Sommers reading my story out loud, and giving me an A, that I just can’t be mad right now. I look at her briefly and say, “Hey,” then head to my locker.

  She’s right behind me when she says, “Alex, that was a really great story.”

  So I stop. And I turn, and I look at her and say, “Thanks.” Because even though I haven’t talked to her in quite a while, the stories I write are really important to me, and it makes me feel good when people say that.

  “I never knew you were such a good writer,” she says, following me.

  And I can’t help it. I’m a sucker for a compliment. So I smile and thank her again, and open my locker and switch my books.

  “Your characters are like, so real,” she says. “It’s really amazing how you do that.”

  I’ve got my backpack balanced on my knee, trying to get my books inside, when she goes, “Trevor told me that
Connor went back to London. I’m really sorry. I’m really sorry about everything that’s happened.”

  I just look at her and go, “Okay, I hear you. I hear your apology, okay?” Because now I know that all those compliments on my story were just a way for her to get my attention so I would forgive her.

  “But you won’t accept it?”

  I shake my head and reach into my locker and grab those jeans she gave me that day we were shopping on Robertson. They still have the tag on them, because I never wore them.

  “What’s this?” she says, holding up the jeans trying to figure out where they came from.

  “You gave them to me that day you tricked me into going to Trevor’s. They’ve never been worn. So you can keep them, or return them. I really don’t care.”

  “But I gave them to you. I don’t want them back,” she says, holding them down at her side so that one of the legs is dragging on the floor.

  “Yeah?” I slam my locker shut. “Well, I don’t want them either. You can’t buy me stuff then treat me like shit. You can’t bribe me into being your friend. I may be poor, but I’m not desperate.”

  “I wasn’t bribing you! I never said you were desperate!”

  I just look at her and go, “I don’t even know who you are anymore.” Then I turn and walk away. I just can’t be her friend right now.

  When I got home from school I asked my mom if she wanted to rent a movie or something and do you know what she said?

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I have a date.”

  Wow. I would be big-time lying if I told you that didn’t make me feel totally pathetic. I mean, I’m happy for my mom don’t get me wrong, but it’s pretty weird when she’s getting all dressed up for dinner when the most I can hope for is a “very special episode” of Seventh Heaven.

  So around seven-thirty, her date comes to the door and I answer it because she’s still in her room putting on the finishing touches.

  He’s tall and dressed all business casual, and he goes, “You must be Alex.”

  I go, “That’s me.”

  And he goes, “I’m Chris.”

  We shake hands and I invite him in and tell him to have a seat on the couch while I go get my mom. While he’s walking toward the living room I totally check him out and I’ve got to say he’s pretty handsome for an old guy in his forties.

  So I go down the hall and knock on my mom’s door and when she opens it, I go, “Mom, your date’s here.”

  And she asks, “Are these shoes okay?”

  And when I look at her I can’t believe how pretty she is. I mean, I knew she was pretty but this is different. This is the glamorous kind. I tell her, “Those shoes look great. You look beautiful.”

  She looks really happy and gives me a quick hug and kiss and when I look in her mirror I can see a faint lipstick mark on my cheek but I just leave it there. “So, Mom, how long have you and Chris been dating?” I ask.

  “Are you checking up on me?” She looks at me and smiles.

  “Yeah. Unfortunately I have nothing better to do.” I sit on her bed and watch her fix her hair.

  “We’ve been dating for about a month I guess.”

  “Well, he’s really handsome. Is he nice?”

  “So far.” She looks at me through the mirror and shrugs.

  “Where did you meet him?” I ask.

  “He’s actually a friend of your Uncle Terry.”

  “Do they work together?”

  “Yes,” she says. Then she asks, “Have you talked to your father lately?”

  I lie down on the comforter and look at the ceiling. I can’t believe she’s going to quiz me about my dad while she’s getting ready to go on a date. “No,” I say. And I’m thinking I should probably get up and leave now before this goes any further.

  “He hasn’t tried to call you?” she asks.

  I’m sitting on the edge of the bed and I am not about to have this conversation with her, so I go, “No, he hasn’t tried to call, because he doesn’t give a shit about me, okay? We’ve already been through this.”

  My mom just looks at me for a moment with her eyebrows raised and I don’t know if it’s because I used the s word, or because of what I said about him not caring.

  “Alex, between your argument with M and your relationship with your father I’m worried about the amount of energy you spend on being angry.”

  I roll my eyes and go, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She comes over and sits next to me and puts her hand on mine. “I want to share something with you that might help you put things in perspective, and I probably should have told you this a long time ago.”

  I’m still sitting on the edge of the bed, ready to bolt at any minute because she looks like she’s going to say something really serious and the truth is I just don’t know if I’m up for it. But she still has her hand on mine and she’s looking at me all intense so I don’t bolt, I just sit there.

  “When I was growing up,” she begins, “my father, your grandfather, was an alcoholic and a bum. And I was angry. Angry at my father for not being able to control his sickness, angry with him for constantly embarrassing our family. But I was also angry at my mother, for putting up with him, for being dependent on him, for not protecting us from him.”

  She gets this faraway look in her eyes and then she bites down on her lower lip just like I always do. And I sit there stunned because I never knew that about Grandpa, but then she never really talked about him before now.

  “And when he died, I felt guilty. Guilty because I had secretly wished for it every night that he came home late, smelling of alcohol and starting fights.” She shakes her head and looks at me. “And my mother, your grandmother, who never seemed happy when he was around, completely fell apart without him. And so I became responsible for raising your aunt Sandy and taking care of the family. And I was angry again. Because that was her job. I was supposed to be a kid, out running around having fun, not stuck at home making dinner for my helpless mother and my baby sister.”

  She gets up from the bed and walks over to the mirror where she rechecks her makeup and runs her index finger gently under each eye. “I swore that as soon as I could I was getting out of that house no matter what. Then I met your father, and we married, and we were both far too young.” She turns and looks at me. “He came from a similar background, and we just sort of glommed on to each other. Well I know that we both had bad examples of marriage and problem solving, but still, when your father left I found myself very angry all over again. I was angry at being saddled with kids to raise on my own. I was angry with him for walking out on his responsibilities. And I was angry at the way I had let my life turn out.”

  She comes over and sits down next to me again. “I know I haven’t been there for you much, and I worry about the bad example we’ve given you, because I see you making similar mistakes and I don’t want you to repeat my patterns. I want so much more for you.” She reaches up and touches me briefly on the cheek. “I know your father abandoned you, and M betrayed you, and I know how much that hurt. But you cannot control other people’s actions. You can only control your response to them. And you have to pick your battles wisely, because it just takes so much energy to be angry. Energy that you can put to better use. Your father has limitations that have nothing to do with you. And I’m sure that someday he will have a lot of regrets. But it’s time you held yourself accountable for what happens next. And not to use your past as an excuse for not getting where you want to go.”

  She looks at me for a long time and I just nod. It’s a lot to process.

  Then she pats me on the leg and asks, “Do you think Chris fell asleep out there waiting for me?” She gets up and grabs her purse and when she opens the door she looks back at me and goes, “What are you going to do tonight?”

  I look at her and smile. “Believe it or not, schoolwork.”

  I sit on her bed until well after I hear them leave, and I think about everything she just told me. I guess I nev
er saw my parents like that before. As real people still struggling to cope with their pasts and the shit their parents dealt them, just like I’m trying to deal with their bad decisions.

  And I guess my mom is right. I’ve spent a lot of time and energy being angry with my dad and blaming him for everything bad in my life. And even though I can’t help but hope that he’ll have some big-time regrets someday, that’s really between him and his conscience.

  I’m glad my mom’s dating again but it feels kind of weird to witness. I wonder if this means she’s finished being angry with my dad?

  Chapter 33

  The next Friday after school I’m walking to the parking lot when I run into my guidance counselor. I had successfully avoided her since that last meeting, but it looked like my luck had just run out.

  “Alex, how are you?” she asks, approaching me.

  Shit. I can’t just keep walking and ignore her so I go, “Um, okay. You?”

  “Fine. Do you have a minute?”

  Damn! I look at her and jangle my keys and say, “Well, I was really on my way home. I mean, the bell just rang and all.”

  “This will only take a minute.” I just stand there hesitating and then she goes, “Don’t you have a minute to talk about your future?”

  I should have run. But instead I just follow her into her office, like a big retard, and sit in that same old chair in front of her desk and look around. Everything is just like last time, except the plant is missing. I bet she killed it.

  She sits at her desk, folds her hands together, and leans toward me. I’m trying not to squirm but she’s already making me really nervous. “You haven’t held up to your end of the deal,” she says.

  “What deal?” I fidget with my silver hoop earring. I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “The deal where you got your grades together. Early reports on your semester grades are very troubling.” She looks right at me.

  I look over at the filing cabinet. “Don’t you want to pull my file?” I ask. “You know, just to make sure?”