by Jen Larsen
I run through the idea that I am not strong enough to do this anymore.
The beach ends abruptly at a sheer rock wall that stretches so high overhead it can block out the sun. I am running flat out now, straight for it, my legs pumping and on fire. My whole body burning. The sand drags at my feet but I am stronger, and faster. I run hard at the wall and throw myself at it, gasping, clinging to it, sliding down until I’m sitting on the rocky sand, pressing my face against the rough, warm stone and gulping air.
I feel empty. The space behind my eyes feels like it should be filled up with tears, but it’s gone dry. I’m miles from home and it feels like no one but me has ever been here. It’s an unfound beach, the sand littered with broken branches and drifts of seaweed. The smell of salt and sulfur and sand is almost as big as the sky, and the sun is turning everything gold. I feel like I am the first person in a while—in maybe ever—to churn up the sand, disrupt the tide, startle the gulls.
I sit and let my breath calm and wait for a revelation. A sense that everything is going to be okay, that I’ve found an answer, the key to everything, the end-game solution. I spread my hands out in the sand and close my eyes against the slowly dipping sun. Invisible gamma rays, help me, I think.
No answers, I know. Just me.
I am the sum of my parts. Everything I’ve ever done and everything I’ve ever achieved and everything I have ever been. Fat and smart and afraid and fierce and angry and brave all together right here, and every piece of the puzzle fits the way it’s supposed to and I can’t pretend anymore. It’s always been true, no matter what I’ve told myself or hoped or tried to believe.
I wobble a bit when I drag myself standing, wait for a moment to get steady and sturdy on my feet, and head home.
CHAPTER 23
The entire house is filled with smoke. It’s pouring out the windows and through the screen door. Mateo and I are standing on the lawn, but we can hear our father inside shouting at Lucas to find wet towels, and about whose idiot idea was it to not own a fire extinguisher, and goddammit. He tried to deep-fry the Thanksgiving turkey and no one is surprised that it’s gone as badly as it has.
Laura is still in New York. Grandmother is in Toronto, and then Hawaii, and then Germany and Italy, her yearly round of talks. But Lucas and Mateo came home, and Jolene might go over to her parents’ for dessert, and Hector stopped by with some of his mother’s tortilla soup because we are friends again, I think.
Jolene volunteered to go to the co-op and find something not burned to eat, and Hector ran back home to see if his mother could spare some of the second turkey she always cooked for just-in-case. And I’m outside with the grass tickling my calves, a little chilly in the darkening light, feeling a little bit useless and incredibly irritated. “Not now, Ashley,” my father had said, pushing me back from the flames pouring out of the oven, and I had stormed out the door. Let him burn down the house. I didn’t care.
I stomped down the back stairs to where Mateo was lounging in the grass. Mateo never bothered to try and help.
“I’m hungry,” Mateo says, squinting up at me and taking a swig of his Corona.
“Nice to meet you,” I say absently. “I’m Ashley.” I cross my arms over my chest and tap my foot. “If he had just listened to me for once he would have known—”
“Forget it,” Mateo interrupts. “He’s never going to listen. He has to learn from his own mistakes.”
“That would be great if he ever learned anything.”
Mateo knocks his knee into mine, hard. “Hey. He tries, you know. He really does.”
“Tries to screw everything up?”
“That’s not fair,” Mateo starts, but I’m not finished.
“Don’t try to defend him. You don’t live with him anymore. You don’t know what he’s like. He’s just—he’s exhausting.” We’ve barely made eye contact since our argument on the lawn.
Mateo shrugs, swigs his beer again. “He’s gone through a lot of shit,” he says, glancing up at the deck. The smoke has gone white instead of dark, but it’s still pouring through the windows and door.
“He just tried to set us all on fire.”
“Mom used to take care of him,” he said. “And Clara just kind of ignores him. She’s always focused on you.”
I look at him sharply. “Well, he’s an adult,” I say.
“Mom still calls me to check in on him,” he says, and I suck in a breath.
“You talk to Mom?” I want to ask questions, but I smash all those words right back down. I’m sorry I said anything at all.
“Yeah,” Mateo says. He looks at me. “You look just like her. It’s weird.”
“You’ve seen her?” I can’t stop myself from saying it.
“She’s on Facebook,” he says.
“Of course she is,” I say. I’ve never been tempted to search for her.
“She’s doing good,” he says.
“Okay,” I say. “I wonder if Jolene is back yet.” I start across the yard toward the driveway, but he grabs the sleeve of my sweater.
“Hey,” he says. “She worries about you.”
“Yeah, it’s too late for that,” I say.
“She knows that,” he says.
“Good for her.”
“I’m just saying don’t believe everything Clara tells you.”
“I don’t,” I say. I want to brag about turning down the coupons, but Mateo and I don’t have heart-to-heart talks. It would be ridiculous to start now, but he seems determined.
“You’re more like Mom than you are like Clara.” He won’t stop talking. I yank the beer out of his hand.
“You’re drunk, right? That’s the only reason you could possibly be saying these things. Mateo, I don’t care.”
He hesitates, and I freeze, then close my eyes. I remind myself that I don’t care what people think anymore. These are easier words to say than to live every day. Every time I flinch in a spark of humiliation, I get furious with myself and crush it out.
“I’m not getting weight-loss surgery,” I say. “Dad knows I’m not.” And then I realize I haven’t actually let my father off the hook yet. “I’ll tell him I’m not. Because I’m not.”
“Mom is furious about it,” he says, and I shove the beer back into his hand and stalk away.
“I don’t give a shit,” I call over my shoulder, and then spin around, my hands on my hips. “Do you know she never really went to Harvard? I bet she couldn’t even get in. All these years I thought she had maybe done something worthwhile in her life but it was a lie. And I’m nothing like her.”
“And you’re pissed at Mom for not having gone to Harvard instead of at Clara for lying to you.”
“I’m pissed that—” and I stop. I shake my head and everything is rattling loose. I tuck my arms around myself again because it’s starting to get cold.
Mateo doesn’t say anything. He’s just standing there, looking at me kindly, almost like he isn’t my jerk older brother.
“I’m not getting weight-loss surgery,” I say finally.
Mateo shakes his head. “She’ll bully you into it.”
The wind sends a gust of smoke whirling around our heads. He doesn’t follow me when I turn and walk away without a word.
CHAPTER 24
I rehearse.
Grandmother, I am rejecting your proposition. Grandmother, I cannot accept your offer. Grandmother, cancel my appointments. Grandmother, all bets are off.
I never see it coming.
December 15. I know she’s back from Venice because there’s a letter on my pillow when I get home from school. There’s the red Harvard crest, and there’s my name typed out neatly on the front and the envelope slit cleanly on the top.
I shake the letter out and unfold it and I read, I am delighted to say that the Admissions Committee has asked me to inform you that you will be admitted to the Harvard College Class of 2019. And—no scholarship.
I drop the letter on my pillow. Roaring white noise in my head.<
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Also on my pillow, a small white card, creased and torn and with a thumbprint right in the middle over my name.
Ashley Maria Perkins. Weight-loss Surgery in Exchange for Four Years of Tuition.
I can hear footsteps overhead and I freeze. I close my eyes as if it will hide me. Jolene calls my name and I can’t move. When she appears at my door, I still can’t move.
“What is it?” she says. She looks at the bed where I point, picks up the letter. “Ashley,” she breathes. “Ashley, you got in. Of course you got in! You got into Harvard! This is such good news!”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Are you kidding? You must be kidding.”
“I have to go,” I say.
“Well, of course you have to go. You have gotten into Harvard!” Her face is shining. “I am very proud of you.” She leaps forward to hug me. I must feel like a statue.
“If I go to Harvard, I have to get weight-loss surgery,” I say into her shoulder, and then push back. I put my hands over my stomach, which is churning.
Jolene looks worried. “I don’t understand. Is it the tuition?”
My laugh is closer to a sob. “Oh god, the tuition. Yes. That too.” I can’t afford college without a scholarship. I can’t afford it without my grandmother. It is all piling on, collapsing the fragile structure I had built inside me.
“What is it?” Jolene says. She grabs my hand. “What’s going on?”
I can feel my hand shaking in her grip. “If I don’t get weight-loss surgery, I’m a liar. I lied to get into Harvard. I said I was getting weight-loss surgery to change the world. My interview. My essay.”
“Oh, Ashley,” Jolene says softly.
“I can’t do that,” I say. I know I sound hysterical. I can hear how shrill my voice is. “I can’t do that, Jolene.”
“I know,” she says. She pulls me down to sit on the bed next to her.
All of this—this bravery. This conviction. It’s been useless.
She looks at the letter in her hand. She picks up the card. We’re both quiet for a moment. Her mouth quirks up on the side. “Laura would say, ‘At least you’ll get free tuition.’” She looks at me anxiously. She’s got tears in her eyes.
“I’m going to Harvard,” I say. I hear the tears in my voice.
“Congratulations, my darling,” my grandmother says, coming into the room, enveloping me in her arms. “I am so proud of you. This is such good timing. When I was in London I spoke to Stanford again.”
“I have a surgery appointment,” I say.
“You have a surgery appointment,” she says, holding me by the shoulders and beaming at me. “Right after Christmas.”
“That’s so soon,” Jolene says. She’s still holding the little white card. She looks back and forth between us.
“Merry Christmas to me,” I say, and it does not come out sounding jolly.
Grandmother frowns, then briskly says, “I’m proud of you.” She kisses me, a warm dry peck on the temple. “Your mother would be proud of you,” she says, and I stiffen.
“I don’t know about that,” I say.
She shrugs. “True. How could we know? But I’d like to think she would at least be smart enough to recognize how well her daughter is turning out, despite everything. What an amazing woman she’s becoming.”
“I don’t feel amazing,” I say.
“We’ll have a party to celebrate,” Grandmother says.
“No!” I say.
“Your acceptance, darling. I know you’re sensitive about the surgery thing.” She pats my shoulder.
“I don’t care about the surgery thing. I just don’t want a party.” I can’t look up at her.
“You’ll change your mind,” my grandmother says. “Get ready for work now.” She sweeps out of the room.
“I’m not a liar,” I say softly. And I can’t lie to myself anymore.
The tiniest, pinprick bright spark of relief, and it burns.
CHAPTER 25
At work I am not an incoming Harvard student or a weight-loss surgery patient. I am a server and I am not thinking, I am filling up bread baskets and spending a lot of time explaining the special, which is Manhattan clam chowder and seems to worry quite a lot of people because it doesn’t sound like clam chowder to them and they’re not sure they can trust us anymore after all these years, since we seem to have gone off the rails in unpredictable ways and the world isn’t a safe place for anyone, anymore.
“I just don’t understand how anyone can call that chowder with a clear conscience,” Mrs. Monroe is saying as she loads the last of her sourdough into her giant black purse.
“Well, I think chowder is a blanket term that covers a basic kind of fish soup,” I say, “which offers lots of opportunity for experimentation—”
“That’s exactly right,” she says to me. “It’s the experimental stuff that gets you in trouble. You have to stick with the classics.”
Mrs. Monroe’s new girlfriend Sadie says, “I don’t know. I’m always up for adventure.” She winks at me and I tamp down the urge to ask her not to do that. I smile at her instead. I hope it’s a real enough smile.
“Well, maybe you can try it next time,” I say.
“Sadie, don’t you dare,” Mrs. Monroe says, taking her arm.
“It’ll be good for us, Martha,” Sadie says as they slide their chairs back. “I’m going to be dead soon enough. I can’t keep always doing the safe things.”
I hope we’re still talking about soup, I think.
Mrs. Monroe shakes her head and Sadie says, “You have a good night now,” to me, and I look up to see my father standing outside on the deck, staring out at the lighthouse. My phone says I still have another hour of my shift, so I go to the pass-through instead, out the back way, and make my way around my tables, making sure every one is covered.
“How’s Laura, honey?” one of Laura’s regulars asks me. “I haven’t seen her in a while. Her dad and mom either.”
“Stepmom,” I say automatically, just like Laura would. I miss her. I have spent my whole shift expecting to look up and see her standing at a customer’s elbow, making them laugh as she points something out on the menu and offers sage and serious advice about the difference between various types of whitefish. I’ve spent the whole shift waiting for her to text me. About Harvard. About weight-loss surgery. But my phone stays dark.
“Right,” he says. He is a deeply tanned and deeply wrinkled white guy and very blond. “She doing okay?”
“I think so,” I say. “I’m going to talk to her later. I’ll tell her you were asking about her.” I glance up. My father isn’t on the deck anymore.
In the pass-through, Nancy peers out of the kitchen. “How are they liking the chowder?” she says. She wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist.
“They are very confused by it,” I say, pulling my phone out.
“Good, good,” she says. “I’ll have the next order up in a jiff. Wait right there.”
I pull my phone out and text Laura. I type, MISS YOU, and send it and put the phone away when another two bowls are up.
When I come back onto the floor, my father is lingering by the hostess stand. For a minute I forget where I’m supposed to drop the soup, until I see the Tams’ expectant faces.
“It’s red,” Mrs. Tam says when I set it down.
“This isn’t chowder!” Mr. Tam says. He seems to regret venturing out of the house more than usual.
“It’s Manhattan clam chowder,” I say. “It’s a variety. Like chardonnay is a variety of wine.”
“Oh, I see,” Mrs. Tam says, and picks up her spoon. “Pick up your spoon, Frank.”
My father is looking at the giant fiberglass swordfish on the wall like he’s never noticed it before, and I suppose that’s possible. He says, “I thought Moby Dick was a whale,” when I hurry up to him.
“Why are you here?” I say. Then it occurs to me in a rush. “Is everything okay? Is Grandmother okay?”
�
�I wanted to talk to you,” he says. He pulls me into a hug, levers me up off my feet. “You got into Harvard!”
“I’m still working,” I say when I land with a huff. “I have another forty-five minutes.” I glance back at the dining room to make sure that no one is trying to get my attention.
“Can I sit down?” he says.
“Where are the dogs?” I say. “They’re not tied up outside, are they?”
“No,” he says. “I brought them back home.”
I grab a menu from the rack next to the hostess stand and say, “Follow me.” I lead him over to the table by the window. “Can I get you anything to drink besides water?” I say.
“So professional!” he says.
“I’m working,” I say. “The specials are on the inside cover. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes to take your order.”
There’s only so long I can hide in the pass-through rolling silverware into napkins. When I poke my head out, my father is staring out the window with his chin in his hand.
“Have you decided?” I say.
“I’m going to live a little,” he says.
“Don’t you always live at least a little? I mean, if not, we’ll have to fit you for a coffin.”
“Ha ha! Touché!” he says.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Pick something for me,” he says. “I trust your judgment. You’re a Harvard girl.” He shoves the menu over to me and is trying to make really significant eye contact.
“Great,” I say. I check my phone when I’m in the back. Laura has written, I MISS U 2. B BACK SOON. I want to tell her that I’m getting surgery after all, despite all my pronouncements. But I don’t know what to say. I stand in the pass-through just staring at my phone until Amy hip-checks me as she stomps by.
“Wake up,” she says, and I shove my phone back into my pocket.
When I come back to my father’s table with Manhattan clam chowder and a basket of bread, I see he’s shredded his coaster into bits of confetti. He doesn’t look at the bowl when I set it down. I say, “Can I get you anything else?” and he says, “I’m worried about you, Ashley.”
