by Tish Cohen
“Love of my life. Cheers, Dad.”
“Coocoocachoo. Yours, Dad.”
And so on.
The thought of my mother clipping notes to the light fixture in my room actually makes me laugh. My notes would be more like this:
“Andrea, bring the trash cans in from the curb. Mom.”
“I hope emptying the Diaper Genie is the worst hardship you ever have to face, Andrea Birch. I sincerely do. Mom.”
“You left a wet towel on the bathroom floor. How many times do I have to tell you that trapped moisture breeds mildew and mildew breeds mold? Love, Mom.”
Lucky, lucky Joules.
Walking into the closet is like walking into some teeny, tiny, super-funky shop on Melrose up in L.A. You know the kind—it has some too-cool-for-you name over the door like Titanium Poodle or something equally nauseating that makes you think you’re not hipster enough to go in. But if you don’t, you’ll regret it because the place will be full of great stuff, exactly like what I’m seeing in Joules’s closet. Everything vintage: shoes, belts, hats and bags. They’re all in a gorgeous tangle with mountains of jeans and tops and boots.
This isn’t the closet of a pampered Rodeo Drive princess. No Gucci bags with the price tags still on. No, these things are more like the wildly cool castoffs of the coolest people on earth. Everything appears worn, scuffed, rumpled and aged to perfection. There’s even an entire shelf dedicated to tiaras tarnished with rust and irony.
No one in their right mind would crave one of the Wal-Mart hoodies from my closet back home right now. But suddenly that’s all I can think about.
What have I done to my life?
Twenty minutes later, I realize I have no idea where to begin in putting together an outfit. The choice is overwhelming and, let’s face it, this junk must be fairly underwhelmed by Joules’s total lack of imagination this morning. I try on several outfits and finally settle on flat, black lace-up boots, ancient cut-off Levi’s, a white T and a baggy black blazer. For fun, I top it off with a man’s fedora.
When I look in the mirror expecting to be thrilled with myself, I’m disappointed.
Here’s the thing about wearing someone else’s clothes: it might be exciting to put them on, but once you catch a look at yourself, you get depressed. I mean, just because you look all hot donuts this minute, you know it’s only a matter of time until you’re back on your bed in your holey sweatpants pouring broken chips from the bottom of the Lay’s bag into your mouth.
But worse—far worse—is wearing someone else’s body. Because all you can do is hope and pray and trust that one day you’ll be back in your own.
Besides the weirdness of it, I feel guilt. Here I am fussing with clothes while Kaia and Kaylee are probably whining for their formula. And will Joules even know how to handle sterilized bottles right so the insides don’t get contaminated? Hopefully Mom was angry enough to do it herself. She probably still thinks Joules is high or something, that we were trading drugs for money beneath the bridge. Mom being mad might be best-case scenario. Joules can totally handle Mom’s wrath, and it would mean the kids are safe from Joules’s lack of experience. Then, once we switch back, I just work extra hard to earn back Mom’s trust.
The bedroom door creaks open. Nigel, who has changed into a less holey, but not completely without holes, shirt, says, “It’s time.”
“I know. I’ll get there before the bell rings if I run.”
“You’re not running anywhere, sweet pea. The journalist is here from Vanity Fair magazine. Don’t tell me you forgot that, too?”
A journalist from Vanity Fair? What does he need with me—or Joules? What I need to do is get Joules’s carcass to school so she and I can meet and try to figure out how on earth to make things right again. “I don’t know, Nige—Dad. I have a test coming up in Biology and if I miss today there’s no way I can—”
He bursts out laughing and takes me by Joules’s shoulder, guiding me out of the bedroom. “You kill me today, kiddle. You really do.”
Her name is Amanda Rappaport and she can’t be more than five—maybe seven—years older than me and Joules. She sits on the white sofa in the living room, in her supershort skirt and her blouse buttoned about three buttons too low, and tries not to look intimidated by the wooden carving of an elk head coming out from the wall beside her. As she watches us come into the room, her face pushes itself into a face that wants to say, “Aw, look at father and daughter, aren’t they sweet?” but really says, “Crap, why does his kid have to be here? Total waste of a push-up bra.”
Over and over, she tucks red, pixie-short hair behind her ears, but the hair isn’t long enough to get tucked into anything. Doesn’t matter, she does it anyway. Then she stands up, holds out a French-manicured hand for me to shake, which I do. Her fake talons touch my palm. “So pleased to meet you—Julie, is it?” she says.
“Joules,” I say, offended on Joules’s behalf once again.
“You look just like your dad.” She looks up at Nige and tucks her hair again.
“Hey, my night wasn’t that rough,” I say, which makes Nige kill himself laughing.
“When did my Jujube get so funny?” he says once he can speak. I guess Joules isn’t much in the sense-of-humor department.
He motions for everyone to sit down, including the photographer, who is setting up a light box by the piano. The photographer waves his appreciation but maybe isn’t allowed to do cushy things like sit down with rock stars so he keeps fussing with his lights.
“So where do we start?” Nigel asks.
More hair-tucking from Amanda. I swear, she’s going to dig grooves into the sides of her head. “Well, I’m sure your father has told you, Joules, that this is a piece about your dad’s absolutely incredible generosity, not only with charities in Third World countries but right here at home.” She turns to Nigel, crushes her breasts together as she flicks on a recorder. “Nigel, you played an essential role in the healing of the Glass family after they lost their son, Tyler, last winter. I think it’s time the public—and the media—find out who you really are.”
“It was a terrible time,” says Nigel, shaking his head. “Poor boy, coming out of such a long hospital stay.”
The kid had been fighting an illness for months and was finally allowed to go home for Christmas. Then, at the side of the road, just before getting into the family’s van, he was slammed by a car that lost control. Nothing could save the boy, not even the hospital right behind him. It stunk, that whole thing. Seriously.
Amanda makes tsk-tsk sounds as she scans her notepad for the next question. “You’ve really taken the Glass family under your wing. I’ve even heard you helped them financially.”
“What can I say? I have a child myself. I can’t even imagine the devastation those parents must have felt. They lived through an absolute nightmare. Still living it, as a matter of fact.”
“You speak to them regularly, do you?”
Nigel smiles. “Regular enough, I suppose. The way I see it, it’s small things like lending a shoulder to cry on that everyone can afford to do. In fact, I’ll go one step further to say that as a society we can’t afford not to do these things. Community really does reach farther than our own front door. It’s global, or it should be. Global community is what we all need to aspire to.”
Nige sits back kind of satisfied with himself and I want to rewind the entire scene. Global community. It’s the kind of thing that makes me cringe. I don’t like when people use crappy phrases that make them sound like they’re the most generous humans on the face of the earth when what they’re really trying to do is sell boxes of cereal. Still, if Nigel is forking over the cash, I suppose he has the right to say whatever he wants.
“That’s wonderful, Nigel,” says Amanda, staring at him. She’s impressed, I can tell. The whole global community thing made her forget to tuck her hair. “We’ve got some really good material already.” She turns to me. “And, Joules, does it make you proud that your father is so
generous?”
I actually think Nigel is a pretty generous guy and all that, I really do. But part of me wants to say no, just to see how she reacts. I don’t, though, because I’m not that lousy a human being. “Yes.”
“Do you think it will inspire you to reach out and make yourself an example to your peers by offering to help others less fortunate than yourself?”
Reach out? Help those less fortunate? I’ve been doing nothing but for the past ten years of my life. I’d love to tell her how many foster children’s diapers I’ve changed, noses I’ve wiped, spills I’ve wiped up, but I refrain. “Definitely. Nige is a fantastic role model for me.”
“And let’s talk about Hungry Children. Such a fabulous organization that brings so much to the needy in Third World countries. Nigel, you’ve been the face of the organization for how many years now?”
He blushes. “Four. Five. Doesn’t matter how long, really. Only that it’s helped a few others reach out and sponsor a foster child who needs it. Plus I, personally, care for a few kids in Sierra Leone. Joules too.”
Care for? I chew the inside of Joules’s cheek while I contemplate this. How does paying some twenty-five bucks a month constitute “caring” for these kids? You write out a check every four weeks, then scribble a letter every Christmas telling them how your car is running and how many days of rain you’ve had and wishing them a happy New Year! Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice thing to do, but let’s not confuse who is and is not “caring” for foster children.
Amanda looks at me. “He’s so humble, your dad.”
“Yeah. He is. Plus he makes feathery-light chocolate croissants,” I say. “That’s a killer combo in a father, let me tell you.”
This, of course, gets Nigel in a hoot again, even makes him slap his thigh.
“And how many foster children do you sponsor as a family?” Amanda asks.
Nigel adjusts his position on the sofa before wiping his jaw. “As a family? Honestly, I’m not sure offhand … Jujube has hers, I have mine, all in the same village … not sure what the count is just now …”
“That many!” Amanda grins, shaking her head and scrawling something in her notepad.
After the interview, it’s time for a staged, squishy, gushy father–daughter adoration session beneath what the photographer insists are “youth-making” overhead lights. I sit beside Nigel on the piano bench while he sings his new rock ballad, “Rockabye,” to me. Nothing like the “Rock-a-bye, Baby” I sing to the twins back at home. This song is edgy and dark, vague too—about a kid in despair who is saved, presumably by a father’s love but it’s hard to know for sure.
When all the camera flashing is done and Nigel is helping the photographer pack away his equipment, Amanda looks at me. “Wow. Joules Adams, you just might be the luckiest kid on earth. Do you know that?”
I think I need to vomit again.
chapter 9
Believe me when I say that nothing, nothing, has ever freaked me out like stomping across the Sunnyside High School campus to where a girl leans against a building trying to light a cigarette—and realizing that girl is myself.
I mean, there’s Joules as Andrea Birch, only she’s somehow managed to make my same-old same-old outfit of jeans and sweater look cool. She’s rolled up the jean cuffs to expose bare calves and sneaks, and the sweater—which normally hangs limp and lifeless on me—actually slips off her shoulder, revealing the striped camisole Gran brought me back from some little town near Madrid last year. Funny, when Gran gave it to me I thought it was ridiculous. It took someone with an eye like Joules’s to transform it.
Weirder still? She wears my body better, too.
Still, cooler or not cooler, Joules is me, and if I hadn’t thrown up twice already I’d throw up right now. She hasn’t seen me yet, but I can bet she’ll have the same reaction in about thirty seconds.
I pass by an open hallway on my way to where Joules is and I hear someone say “Joules” from my left. I look up to see Will waving me over to his locker. Will calling to me, actually grinning and waving for me to join him, is a sight that floors me almost as much as the out-of-body sensation of seeing myself with a cigarette. Naturally, I forget all about Joules and what she’s doing to my lungs and hurry over to Will and his floppy brown hair.
“Hey, Juju,” he says as I get close. It’s funny. It’s a cute and cozy nickname, but the way he says it isn’t as lovey-dovey as you’d think. It’s more mechanical. After he pulls a few books down from the shelf, he turns to face me. “You missed Biology.”
It unglues me, having him look at me so close. Knowing these lips I’m smiling with have touched his. “Yeah. Nige—my dad—had this interview and they needed me there.” For authenticity, I throw in, “You know how it gets.”
“Sure.” He motions toward the English building. “We need to talk. Walk you to class?”
Walk me anywhere. Walk me into a pit of fire, into a cage full of silverback apes, off the edge of the planet. I won’t complain. I smile at him. “Okay.”
We head along a covered hallway and a group of his soccer buddies race by, pausing only to take Will by the neck and grind their knuckles lovingly into his scalp. When he rights himself, he laughs and tells them off. “Goons,” he says to me.
I can’t even answer him because his hair is in his eyes and it’s crazy adorable. But I’m Joules, right? I can do something about it. I reach up and push it to the side, but instead of grabbing my shoulders and pulling me closer like I see him do with Joules, he uses his elbow to stop me. It’s not even me he’s rejecting, it’s her, but still I’m hurt.
Suddenly his “we need to talk” seems a bit more ominous. I’ve never been broken up with because I’ve never had an actual boyfriend, but this feels an awful lot like I’m about to get dumped.
Which Joules will kill me for.
“The other day in the bushes …” he says after a bit.
“Yeah?”
“Shane’s been all funny since. All angry and distant. And to be honest, he smelled of your perfume after.”
“What are you saying?”
“Just what it sounds like. I want to know if it was you in the bushes with him. Because Todd and Frankie say it wasn’t Andrea. They swear it was you.” He wipes at his eyes, then looks away, embarrassed.
Wow. He must really love Joules. He’s actually trying not to cry.
No one is in the hallway. I stop and turn to face him, hating what she’s done to him, longing to do what I’ve wanted to do for years. Kiss him.
But I don’t.
Instead, I rub his forearm. “Will. I’ve never been with Shane in my life. I swear to God.” It’s true, too. It’s not even a lie.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. I’ve cared about you and only you since third grade.”
He squints. “Third grade? We’ve only known each other since fifth.”
“I meant fifth! Fifth grade.”
This seems to satisfy him. “I don’t know. I just don’t think this whole thing is working out.”
“You mean you and me? You want to break up?”
He shrugs. “It’s just that … I don’t know …”
It’s going to happen. Right here and now. I’ll have lost him for Joules in less than a day. What will she do? She could ruin my entire life. She won’t see that this has been coming for a while, she’ll blame me.
I have to stop it.
I reach up and loop my arms around his neck. “Will, wait. I know I’ve been a rotten girlfriend. It’s my fault things have been off.”
“Well, not all your fault …”
“No, it is. Give me one more chance, Will …” I whisper, moving close enough that I could kiss him.
“I don’t know.”
“Please.” My lips graze his earlobe—which might just be the softest earlobe on earth. I am now inches from his mouth. I could finally, finally have that kiss. Even for just a second. I’ll take the slighest hint of lip contact.
He
takes me in his arms and pulls my body closer. Then he looks down at me and moves in, tilts his head to kiss me. Closer … closer …
Just then I am grabbed from behind and ripped away from him. With Will looking on in surprise, Joules takes me by the shoulder and yanks me away, whispering, “You little skank!”
Will comes closer and nudges me. “Hey. Can we just finish our discussion?”
I smile at him as Joules pulls me farther away. “After class, okay? I just need a minute with … Andrea.”
He looks unsure, then wanders toward the English building. Once he’s out of sight, I turn to Joules. “Why are you calling me a skank?”
“You were totally about to make out with my boyfriend!”
“I’m you, idiot! You were about to make out with him.”
She pulls me into an empty classroom. “No kissing Will. Evereverevereverever!”
“Joules. You need to know something.”
She gasps, horrified. “Please tell me you haven’t slept with him!”
“No. He was about to break up with you.”
“I don’t believe it. You’ve already ruined my life.”
I knew I’d get blamed. The breakup didn’t even happen and it’s already my fault. “No, I was stopping him just then. I was reeling him back in for you. He totally knows about you and Shane. Some of the guys are talking.”
“Liar.”
“I swear! And anyway, I saw you smoking. That is not okay with me. Andrea Birch does not smoke.”
She rolls her eyes and slouches. “Andrea Birch is a bore.”
“Yeah, well, if not taking cognac in her morning coffee is a bore, you may be right. How was Michaela this morning?”
She snaps the stretchy bracelet on my arm. “That wristband is a thong. ‘A’ for effort, though.”
I rip it off and fling it into the grass. “Did Michaela settle down? Has she spoken yet?”
“Yes and no. And why does your mom keep whispering stuff about ‘Michaela’s situation’? What situation?”
Mom swore me to secrecy. “I don’t know.”
“And what’s with all the foster kids, anyway? I knew your family was big, but crap.”
