Pearl

by Deirdre Riordan Hall

  I decide to get a smattering of black swallows on my shoulder and just below my collarbone. I describe to Grant the delicate yet strong balance I want from the lines shading the image and the inner area. I wonder what Shale would say about the composition.

  “There’s this old sailor story, that if you ever get lost, the swallows will guide you back home,” he says.

  The words sound familiar, as if I’ve heard them before or they’re from a dream.

  Grant flips through a portfolio.

  “What’re you thinking about getting?” I ask, leaning over his shoulder and smelling the soap from our shower the night before.

  “I’ve always wanted a tattoo, but my dad . . . his plans. Eff it.” He may have just added a couple of inches to his height. “My grandfather’s this burly Scotsman, a fisherman. I spent a lot of summers with him when I was a lad.” Grant’s voice deepens with hints of his native accent as he speaks. “Being there by the ocean, the fresh salt air, the heartiness of the people. It was a romantic but hard life. People like my grandfather really worked, you know? And after a long day on the water, the simplicity of a steaming bowl of fish stew and a mug of ale was just the thing. My father wanted nothing more than to break away from it all. That’s what he wants for me—to put miles and conformity between me and our heritage, where we came from.”

  For me, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.

  Grant goes on, impassioned. “Anyway, my grandfather was always telling stories about mermaids and other folktales. I think I’d like to get a mermaid.” He beams. “He has one on his arm. Why not follow in the old guy’s footsteps?”

  The owner and another artist summon Sorel and Pepper to a couple of booths toward the back of the shop. Grant and I sneak off for a smoke and a kiss.

  The chilly air blends our breath and the cigarette smoke into fog as we stand close together outside the tattoo shop. I wish more than anything the night would never end. I feel free of fear, free of a mother whose drug addiction taints so many of my memories, and free of the possibility that I’ll break us both if I let Grant get too close.

  Later, after the artist etches the clean lines of the inky swallows in my skin, Grant’s upper arm reveals the outline of a mermaid. As the form takes shape, I notice she has blond hair, just the shade of mine. Grant proffers his sad smile, like he knows we’re both just a fantasy.

  After the artist scratches the last scale, he takes a group shot with an instant camera. Sorel gives it to me, since this is my birthday celebration.

  “You guys up for the night?” the artist asks.

  “Shit, yeah,” Sorel says, edging toward rowdiness as the bottle of whiskey empties.

  “There’s a bar called the Tin Tin. I think you’ll like it.”

  After Sorel pays, we sweep back into the night, all of us forgetting we belong to Laurel Hill.

  After midnight, we pop into a pub for some grub. Sorel is now over eighteen, and for this reason, Pepper has a fake ID. When the waitress asks for Grant’s and my ID’s, we act like hapless friends.

  Sorel slurs, “They lost their luggage while flying in from Seattle. They’ve been wearing the same clothes for days . . .” Her tongue curls around the stupid lies, elaborating as if to see how far she can push them. In short order, with our late-night meal, we all put back a couple of beers on top of the whiskey.

  “See, lying isn’t hard,” Sorel says as she pays.

  No, it isn’t, unless you’re lying to yourself or someone you love.

  Afterward, navigating the streets to the Tin Tin takes on a carnival-like quality. The lights spin and blur, music from clubs spills into the street, distracting us, and Sorel blisters with increasing irritation. We pass the same office building, where a bunch of people our age crowd on the stone stairs, drinking and smoking, three times.

  “Hey, you guys know where the Tin Tin is?” Sorel calls, her voice muddy from all the alcohol.

  One of the girls laughs sharply and then speaks in rapid French.

  “Fuckin’ Canucks,” Sorel says loudly, flashing her middle finger. “This country sucks!”

  As we walk away, an empty aluminum can sails by me, and before I can shout for Sorel to duck, it hits her in the back of the head. She whirls around. The French-speaking girl, no bigger than Sorel, with narrow eyes and permanently downturned lips, a girl I recognize as ready for a fight, stands coiled just a few feet away.

  “What’d you say?” she asks in perfect English.

  Sorel’s smile oozes nasty. “What did I say?” she asks as if puzzled. “Fuckin’ Canuckin’? Fuck the Canucks,” Sorel slurs in a singsong voice. “You have a problem with that?” She laughs.

  “I thought that’s what you said. Yeah, I do have a problem.” There’s no anticipation or time for warning. Without skipping a beat, she punches Sorel square in the face. Laughter echoes from the shadows.

  Pepper catches his girlfriend as she pitches backward.

  My muscles tense, and my pulse quickens.

  “Contrary to the stereotype, not all of us ‘Canucks’ are so friendly and easygoing. Remember that,” the girl says, turning back to her group.

  Pepper mutters to calm Sorel down.

  I bring her a tissue. “Come on, Sorel. We ran into the wrong person. Let’s find the Tin Tin,” I say.

  When the girl settles back on the steps, I relax. They heckle us, but of course, we can’t understand.

  Sorel dabs her swollen lip.

  “Come on, baby, I’ll kiss it and make it better,” Pepper says. She shrugs him away.

  Sorel cowers under the tough-girl’s glare and then cruises down the sidewalk. A few blocks later, I pop into a tobacco shop with Grant to ask for directions to the Tin Tin.

  “I swear you growled back there,” he says, laughing.

  “Growled?”

  “I thought you were going to rip that girl’s head off. Or maybe Sorel’s.”

  I laugh, recalling his comment about me looking like I was raised by wolves. “No, that was Sorel’s fight,” I say smartly.

  “Sure was. Pepper told me her dad is from Canada.”

  “I guess that explains her intense reaction.”

  “We Scots are a ballsy lot, but she had no business saying that shit.”

  “None,” I agree. “I’m not bailing her out because she’s ignorant or angry at Daddy.”

  “Definitely not as tough as she looks,” he adds smugly as we step back outside.

  We make our way to the Tin Tin and meet a much mellower vibe compared to the punk club the night before. Sorel and Pepper do their usual thing, and Grant and I talk about music, which shifts into talking about my mom’s band, and then our futures. When college comes up, I say, “Whoa. Wait a second. We’re on vacation. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “You’re right, we are on vacation. Fancy that. Hey, Sorel,” Grant calls, interrupting the kissy-faced couple. Maybe their constant kissing means that they don’t have much to talk about. Despite Grant’s original request not to talk, we have tons to say to each other. “Thanks for taking us on vacation.”

  We raise our glasses.

  “To Sorel, our sugar mama and the proud owner of her first tattoo!” We toss accolades over at her, forgiving her stupidity earlier, indulging her generosity and this taste of freedom.

  Chapter 22

  Back at the hotel, Grant and I are sloppy drunk. I paw at him like an untamed animal, as if I don’t need anything in the world except his body against mine. Every spot he touches ignites with wild and earthen passion. Maybe I am part wolf.

  I want to stay there forever, in that room, in that bed, with Grant. It’s like a dream, but the morning brings a gray sky. The ride back to Laurel Hill with Sorel hangs over me like the thick clouds above.

  The four of us are trudging along the sleepy streets of Montreal, looking for breakfast, wh
en I notice the same office building from the night before and recall the scuffle. Sorel’s lip nearly looks normal, painted with her burgundy lipstick. An invisible outline of the street kids clings to the vacant steps littered with empty bottles.

  We enter a diner and take up a corner booth. As Sorel complains about her tattoo feeling itchy, she looks over my shoulder and turns a gasp into a yawn. I spot the girl who punched her. Sorel’s face goes red. Her bark is loud, but last night proved there’s no bite.

  “Damn.” She shades her head under her hand. “I don’t want any trouble,” she says. “It’s bad enough my lip is, like, doubled in size.”

  “It isn’t so bad,” I say.

  When the waitress arrives for our drink order, Sorel asks for a beer. “Hair of the dog,” she explains.

  “Yeah, but you have to drive,” I remind her.

  “I’ll be fine by the time we leave.”

  I guess she intends for the beer to lubricate her tongue, in case the girl from the night before gets rowdy again. Sure enough, after Sorel’s bottle arrives, along with three coffees, the girl saunters over to us with a couple of friends.

  “Well, well, well. Looks like we have the Canadian hater,” she says loudly. “How’s your lip?”

  “Hey, guys. She was drunk. She didn’t mean it,” Pepper says in Sorel’s defense.

  “I don’t freaking care what she was.”

  I quietly hope Sorel will keep her mouth shut. I don’t want to be ejected from Canada or, worse, arrested. As our return to reality nears, as far as anyone at Laurel Hill is concerned, I’m supposed to be in New York City, visiting my mom.

  The girl leans toward Sorel. “Did you learn your lesson? Looks like you’re already drinking this morning. Are you going to say shit like that again?”

  “No, she’s not,” I say sternly.

  Sorel takes a swig of beer. “Thank you for your hospitality in this fine country. God bless Canada,” she says flatly.

  “That’s what I thought,” the girl snaps.

  Just then, the waitress brings our food, and the girl disappears. Sorel, with her head bowed, devours her meal and all of Pepper’s toast.

  When we return to the hotel to gather our gear, Grant and I delay our departure in the king-size bed, as the digital clock counts down the minutes.

  Afterward, while we wait in the lobby for Sorel and Pepper, our faces flush with the knowledge that we are quite possibly the center of the universe. I lean languorously against Grant on the sofa, comfortably close now, uninhibited by my own sense of inadequacy and fear. Our interlaced hands rest on his thigh. I feel dreamy, blissful, like we could float away.

  Sorel blusters over to the desk to check out.

  Pepper cautiously trots over to us. “She’s on the warpath,” he warns.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Everything and nothing.”

  Sorel’s bad mood keeps us in silence as she throws her bags around, slams doors, and simmers. When she starts the car, she cranks the music until the melody and words blend indistinctly, forcing us into silence.

  After we cross back into the United States, she fires up. “After all I’ve done for you, I really thought you guys would have stuck up for me back there.”

  “Baby, I’m sorry,” Pepper hedges. “I just thought it was best we avoided a situation.”

  “I thought at least you, City Girl, would’ve had my back.”

  “If it came to that. It was a dumb thing to say, Sorel.”

  “I thought you were all tough. But that girl punched me last night, and this morning she would have tried to kick my ass again. You could have at least done something.”

  “Sorel, what you said last night really wasn’t cool,” Grant interjects.

  “Sticking up for your girlfriend, Grant?” Sorel spits.

  “No, calling you out,” he retorts angrily.

  “You two think you’re just so perfect. All smoochy-smooch and kissy-kiss. It’s just so precious. So glad you finally got together. Has it occurred to you that you have me to thank? PJ, you would have just studied all weekend, your nose buried in your books, too apathetic to have any fun. And, Grant, you would have sulked in your dorm room, pining away for her. But look, I got the two of you off the campus and up to Canada, dammit. And what do I get in return? Silence from my friends when I needed them. If that was you last night, PJ, I would have messed that girl up.”

  “I doubt that,” I mutter.

  Before she can respond, Grant says, “Sorel, if you hadn’t made that idiot comment, nothing would have happened.”

  “I bet you’re too scared to fight,” she says, laying into me. “Whatever cushy little condo you live in probably has a doorman and a driver always waiting outside to bring you wherever you need to go. You’re no city girl. Mommy, Daddy, and their money probably shelter you from everything.”

  The snow-white clouds bleed red. She has no idea. “Sorel, pull over,” I say in a husky echo of my mother’s voice.

  “Or what? Are you going to walk back to Laurel Hill? I wonder what Terran will say.”

  “Pull the car over. I’ll show you where I come from and how we do.”

  She triggers the cold reality of what my life back in Manhattan was like. I’m tired of being reminded, of having to prove myself one way or the other. I know what I’m made of, and if she wants a taste, I’ll give it to her.

  “Come on, Sorel. Let it go,” Pepper says in a small voice. “You know we all would have had your back. We’re boarding school kids, not—”

  “Speak for yourself. I’m not kidding. You have no clue where I come from. Stop the car. I’ll give you a couple of black eyes to go with your lip.” I glimpse my stony face in the rearview mirror. In my reflection, I see JJ, combative, belligerent, at her worst. I twitch.

  Sorel pulls over, but doesn’t get out of the car. I push the door open as quickly as I can, if only to get away from her ignorance, hotheadedness, and my own rage. I slide down the embankment off the shoulder of the highway and shout up to her. So what if she pulls away. I’ve been in far worse situations.

  A few minutes pass. The car idles above. A door slams.

  Grant bounds down the embankment. He pushes my hair behind my shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he says simply.

  “Sorry because Sorel is being a jerk and I flipped out, or sorry because you’ve discerned that my entire life up until this weekend has been a disaster?” I look up at him, tears in my eyes.

  Sadness tugs his lips down. “Let’s go.” He leads me back up to the car.

  Sorel and her music are quiet for the rest of the ride. She drops Grant and me off at the bus stop without so much as a good-bye. We go into the little café, and Grant buys us each a coffee. I chew the grinds up as I swallow hard. “I’m not sure I want to go back to campus.”

  “Me neither, but since Mom had a little breakdown on our vacation, maybe we’re better off,” he says as he sips from the paper cup. He hasn’t shaved the entire weekend, and scruff grows in around his jawline and mouth.

  A smile pierces my reluctance. “At least she took us somewhere cool.”

  We chuckle as we shuffle back to campus. The wild child retreats within me with the reassuring reminder that I have a place to live, food to eat, and Grant. I have assignments waiting and a portrait to paint. I don’t know who it’s of, but it isn’t the girl I saw this weekend.

  Outside my dorm, Grant gives me a shy kiss, his boyish student demeanor returning once back on school grounds. He and I are both quiet, not saying a word, because good-bye is too permanent.

  Chapter 23

  The only reminders of the weekend in Canada are the tattoo emblazoned above my heart and Sorel’s silence as I pour myself back in my studies. I breeze by a couple of girls whose chatter stops when I pass. Then, at my back, I hear the hiss of their whispers, no dou
bt about me.

  I wait in the common room for a girl from English to give me a study sheet the teacher forgot to pass out earlier. Terran approaches me, her shoulders pitched forward as if she’s resisting the urge to charge like a bull. “I know where you went last weekend.” She smiles, but there is no mirth in her laugh.

  I raise an eyebrow. I won’t let her take it away from me. “You do?” I challenge, getting to my feet and standing taller.

  “You went somewhere with Sorel and a couple of boys. Mark said he saw you get in a car. You didn’t get on the bus to New York like you told Connie, Pearl Jaeger.” The way she says my name reminds me how much she detests me.

  “Is Mark watching—”

  She cuts me off. “Mark only confirmed what I already believed. Along with an interesting call. You see, Saturday evening the dorm phone rang . . .” She punctuates each word with suspense. “‘Hello,’ I answered.

  “‘Pearl?’ the caller asked.”

  Terran’s voice drops in what could only be an imitation of my mother’s smoky tone. “‘Pearl. This is your motherfucking mother. Where the hell are you? I bet you’re not really at that fucking special school. Why don’t you call me? Why don’t you visit me? Pearl? Pearly-Pearl-Pearl. What the fuck do you think you’re doing, leaving me?’ Then she started singing, if you could call it that, ‘I’ve met someone, his name is crack, and he ain’t ever goin’ to do me wrong. Do you want to meet him, Pearl? I bet you do.’”

  My stomach twists into knots, because although it’s Terran speaking and not Janet, the expression on Terran’s lips ensnares me, the echo of the familiar words morphing me into a rag doll.

  “The monologue went on and on. The caller talked at me for a solid five minutes, using coarse language we don’t tolerate here in Vivian Brookwood Dormitory and certainly not at the esteemed Laurel Hill.” Terran’s voice drips with elite authority. “Here, we’re educated in order to broaden our vocabulary so that we may express ourselves effectively and eloquently.” She leans in close. “Last I checked the F-word wasn’t on any syllabus here at Laurel Hill. Any idea who the caller could have been, Pearly-Pearl-Pearl?” Terran asks.