Starry Night

by Isabel Gillies

  “Why don’t you reach out to her? Text her. She might be freaked too.”

  “Yeah. I will. I have to get my phone. I bet it’s not even charged.” I started pacing around my room, pulling on a random sweater that was on the floor. “We have to go downstairs. I have to get dressed. You totally have to go to Oliver’s room or something.” I started cleaning up the rest of the clothes on the floor but then gave up.

  “Come here just for one more second.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to get back in the bed but I did. He sat up, leaning on his elbow. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “Are you my girlfriend?”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes.”

  37

  Downstairs my mother had taken over the kitchen and was standing in the middle of it looking at a yellow pad of paper. Her hair was out of the curlers and looping down, making her look too glamorous for eleven in the morning. She was still in her robe. No one took notice that Nolan and I had been upstairs. Holidays throw everyone off their game.

  “Mom, may I please have my phone? It’s Thanksgiving.”

  “If you whip this cream.” She signaled to two pint-size boxes and a large whisk on the island. “I will get your phone, Wren. But let this be a lesson to you both.” She turned and pointed two fingers at us. “Don’t mess with me.”

  “We won’t, Mrs. Noorlander, and again, I’m sorry,” said Nolan.

  “No, no.” She held her hand up, blocking the apology. “It’s water under the bridge, no need to apologize again.”

  “Okay, cool. Can I help?”

  “You can help Wren when her arm gets sore. Wren, you aren’t showered? What is that ratty sweater?” she said as she made her way to wherever she’d hidden my phone. “People will be here at noon. You know Marian. She waits on a park bench until 11:58,” she called from the other room.

  “Who is Marian?” Nolan asked.

  “My father’s secretary.” I poured the quart of heavy cream into the bowl.

  “Want me to do that?” Nolan put his hand out with confidence.

  “Oh, I can beat the daylights out of this cream, you just sit back and watch, my friend.” (I LOVED having a boyfriend!)

  “Stiff peaks, Wren, don’t make butter,” Dinah called over from the dining room table where she was drawing turkeys on place cards.

  “What, you just whip this until it turns into Cool Whip, right?” Nolan asked.

  “Yup,” I said, taking the whisk in my hand and the big copper bowl in my arm. “Then you add a little vanilla and sugar.”

  “We only ever had it from the can.”

  “Yeah, that is contraband here. But I like it. I wish we had stuff like that. I always wanted Lunchables.”

  “I never had a Lunchables either, but they did look good on TV. I was a PB&J guy.”

  “I never brought my lunch to school, and all nuts and seeds have been banned from the entire cafeteria since I was in kindergarten because so many girls had allergies. I don’t think I’ve had a PB&J since Pre-K.” I was starting to get out of breath, but there was no way I was going to give him a turn.

  “That is so tremendously weird.”

  “I know. But have you ever had sun nut butter?” He just laughed at me.

  Mom returned, holding my beloved sparkly pink phone.

  “Thank yoooooou! Oh my gosh.” I had no free hands to take it. “Hello, phone. I have missed you.” Mom rolled her eyes.

  “I’m putting it down here and you can reunite when you are finished with your task!” She put my precious phone on the butcher-block counter.

  “Where did Oliver go?” Nolan asked.

  “I sent him and Vati out with Mr. Noorlander to get tonic and more olive oil. How we ran out of olive oil I have no idea…” She drifted off to the dining room with her seating list.

  Nolan picked up my phone, pressed the power button, and looked at the screen, which was a little weird, but maybe that is what boyfriends and girlfriends do. No secrets, everything shared and out in the open.

  “You have, like, a thousand texts.”

  “I do? Here take this and keep beating on the side of the bowl until it starts to thicken up. Don’t overdo it, or we’ll have five pounds of butter.”

  “I remember that from fourth grade. I think we made butter in school as part of our Colonial study.”

  My phone was fully charged. “She charged it, that was nice,” I said.

  “This isn’t easy.” He started whipping the cream then shifted the bowl in his arm and went at it with more resolve.

  “Oh jeez, Nolan. There are so many texts from Farah.” I scrolled down. “From days and days ago. Listen.”

  W—God why don’t u have your phone??? He is calling me. Like every hour. He is sending a car to pick me up. R u getting these???

  “When was that?”

  “Um—it was, I think, like, two days after the party. Maybe it was that weekend. I don’t know, she didn’t say any of this in school. Listen to this one.”

  W—At his loft. Have been here all afternoon.

  “When was that?” He was still whipping.

  “I think the same day, no! It was the next day. Sunday.” I read on.

  W—He gave me a necklace he made. It’s amazing. He is amazing.

  “Oh my god.” I looked at Nolan. “This is so weird, Nolan. He is in his forties!”

  “He’s in his thirties, I think.”

  “Whatever! She is fifteen!” I stared at the phone and saw a bunch of cute texts from Charlie.

  Hang in there Wrenny. We miss you!!!

  “I’m calling her. At least she was texting me,” I said to myself.

  “I think this is done.” He held up the whisk and there indeed was a beautiful white peak of transformed heavy cream.

  I pulled up Farah’s contact. Her picture is her jumping in the air in front of a car. One time her mom told us about an old Toyota car ad where people jumped up in the air when they bought their car. They sang, “Oh oh oh what a feeling to driiiive … TOYOTA!” We thought it was so hysterical we spent the next few days taking pictures of each other jumping in front of random cars on the street and then laughing until we almost peed in our pants.

  “Go show Dinah.” I pointed to the dining room with the phone. He looked terrified, which made me laugh. I loved having a boyfriend!

  My call went right to voice mail.

  Hi this is Farah. I’m out of the country. Thanks.

  “She must be on the plane!” I called to no one.

  “Who?” Dinah shouted.

  “Never mind!” I yelled. I looked into the dining room and saw Dinah inspecting Nolan’s work. She nodded her head approvingly. He held up the whisk for my mom, who also smiled. She once said to me having a husband who can cook is easier than having a husband who can’t cook. Maybe the same was true for boyfriends. And my boyfriend could whip cream.

  38

  The first twenty minutes of people arriving for Thanksgiving at our house is mayhem. Sometimes Thanksgiving with my family will be twenty-five people who might never have met, or haven’t seen each other in a year since the last Thanksgiving. Both my parents are only children, so we don’t have any cousins. Mom’s parents both died and the Noorlander grandparents are in Holland. Our Thanksgiving guests are mostly people my parents know socially or from the museum or my mom’s pottery studio who don’t have anywhere else to go. New York City is full of people with no cousins, and nowhere to go.

  Charlie and his parents walked in the door at ten after twelve. I didn’t even realize how much I had missed him until I saw his sticking-up hair, apple cheeks, and his new purple bow tie.

  “Oh, Charlie!” I flung my arms around him. Sometimes my father will say I am “a sight for sore eyes” and that’s how I felt about seeing Charlie.

  “Hi!” he said, like he was totally happy to see me too.

  “Hi!” And then I leaned into him again and whispered, “Nolan is here! He’s somewhere in this house!”

  W
e pulled away. Charlie didn’t look as happy as he had a second before.

  “I hate when you don’t have a phone, Wren. I feel like you disappeared.” We moved over to the side of the hallway so our parents could say hello to each other and my father could take the serving dishes full of food that Winston had brought for the feast.

  “I know, I did kind of disappear. I got in so much trouble for leaving that night.”

  “Well, that was,” he whispered, “really messed up, Wren.”

  “I know. I totally know. I got grounded and my parents made me do my Internet homework in the kitchen.”

  “I was worried about you.” He sounded kind of pissed.

  “I’m sorry!” I squeezed his hand.

  “You don’t even know that I got into the Bard Ornithology program.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, and I get to go to Bard College this summer and do intensive bird-watching. It’s pre-college.”

  “That is so great, Charlie. Vati told me you were worried about getting in.”

  “Well, it’s very competitive, especially for a sophomore.” I nodded and gave him a fist bump. He looked more like himself again and not so disgruntled at me for being the spaz who left the party without telling him. “What about France? Have you sent in the application?”

  “It’s not due until December 15.”

  “Well that’s soon. Are you done?”

  “No. But I’m getting there. When I was grounded I drew the bike and my sneaker. I’ve done everything but the essay and self-portrait. Did you hear me that Nolan is here?”

  “Yeah. Why?” Why? Was he jealous of Nolan? How could that be? None of us had ever felt that Charlie “liked” us. He had never had a crush on a girl as far as I knew—well, Kate Middleton, but I thought that was because she was a princess.

  “Well,” I said. Now I was getting a big vibe that I just should have shut up about Nolan altogether, but maybe if Charlie felt sorry for him … “Because he was supposed to go to his dad’s who he only sees once a month,” I paused for dramatic effect. “But, his step-grandmother died.” I looked at Charlie for a reaction. Nothing. “And I guess his mom is in Vermont, so. He came here this morning.”

  “Why here? Because of Oliver? I didn’t think they really even knew each other.”

  “Well, first of all, Oliver and Nolan do know each other, but really, I suppose it’s because…” I felt like I had to be brave to say this. “I’m here. We are sort of a”—his face was so blank it looked mean—“couple.”

  “I’m going to take off my coat, get a drink or something.” He looked around me, like he didn’t care at all that I had basically just told him I had a boyfriend.

  “Oh, okay, yeah.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving!” Vati came rushing down the stairs from the living room where most of the guests were around the fire. “Charlie! Come upstairs! Are your parents here? Did you guys bring that shrimp?” She gave Charlie a hug. “Come on, Wren! Nolan was asking where you were.”

  Charlie took his coat off and hung it on the coatrack.

  “I’m just going to help my parents for a second.” He made his way to the kitchen where his parents were instructing Dinah and my mother on what to do with the shrimp hors d’oeuvres that really are the best thing you will ever put in your mouth.

  “What’s up with him?” said Vati, whose face was flushed from either the fire or from being near Oliver.

  “I don’t know. I think he’s still mad at me that I left my phone with him that night at the museum.”

  “How can you blame him? Remember, you were MIA, for real,” she said.

  “I know, I guess,” I said, unsure.

  “What do you mean, he’s not mad about the phone?” she said.

  “Do you think he’s mad about Nolan? He was annoyed that Nolan was here.” Vati’s eyes widened.

  “Is Charlie in love with you?” She took a big breath in like suddenly it all made sense.

  “No!” I whispered, and looked up the stairs to see if Nolan was coming, and then I quickly peeked into the kitchen at Charlie who was carefully arranging the shrimp on a tray with Dinah. “No, Charlie is like my brother.”

  “But he could have been secretly in love with you all these years.” She clutched her hands to her chest. I love Vati, but any whiff of potential romance for anyone, even movie stars she doesn’t know, sends her into a tizzy. Her pupils turn into hearts.

  “No! Vati, stop.” I pulled her closer to the front door so we would be farther away from all the action in the kitchen. “I don’t know who Charlie loves, but it’s not me.”

  “He never talks about girls, all he does is hang out with us here, and you live here!”

  “Just because you hung out here, totally in love with Oliver month after month after month, does not mean that we all are in love! Charlie is our friend. He’s my friend.” I could feel my heart get heavy, and at the same time I could feel the neurons in my brain leaping around trying desperately to make all the connections they had to make to deal with this day. “I think Charlie just doesn’t like Nolan. He got a terrible look on his face when I said he was here, like he had had a sip of bad milk.” Vati’s face fell.

  “Well, he will like him when he spends time with him today. It’s Thanksgiving.” She linked her arm in mine and that felt as good as someone putting a blanket on me in the middle of the night. “Come on, let’s get some of those shrimp and go upstairs.”

  It was a Thanksgiving like I had never had. Nolan held my hand under the table while my father said grace. On our walk to the park to play touch football, Mom wrapped her arm around me and told me it was “good” that Nolan was there with us, and not in some airport waiting to fly to Vermont. Vati and Oliver were openly being lovey-dovey all day, like they were not aware of anyone else in the room, and it was charming, even if it was unfamiliar. Charlie turned it around with Nolan over washing dishes when they discovered Nolan knew Charlie’s guitar teacher. But the part that made that Thanksgiving feel the most remarkable was, before everyone left, Nolan took out his guitar and played “Edelweiss,” that beautiful song Christopher Plummer sings in The Sound of Music. It was a perfect song for that day because it’s sweet and old-fashioned, and Nolan singing it made me swoon in my own living room. But it’s a sad song too, in the way lullabies can make you wistful. Lullabies can make you long for something. I think maybe, even if you are a kid, they make you long for your childhood.

  39

  First period, the Monday morning after Thanksgiving, I was in Studio Art, in one of the deepest seven-mile stares I had ever had. It was like I would never have to blink again, and it felt so totally good. I was feel-thinking about Nolan. Feel-thinking is more than just thinking. You think about lunch. You think about what’s going to happen on the next episode of some TV show, you think about what to wear—you feel-think about boys. Right then I was feel-thinking about Nolan. Nolan at the table talking smack with my father about the touch football game. Nolan plotting with Dinah about what cookies to make for the Christmas episode. (Nolan is nuts about Linzer tarts, but Dinah argued quite rightly that they are way too difficult for a half-hour TV show. She would make them with him another time.) Nolan’s forearms, his fist bumping with Oliver’s. His eyes … I was feeling him, in a thinking way. And the steady, romantic snowfall out the paned glass window wasn’t helping matters.

  “Wren, Wr-E-Nnnn, where on earth a-rrrr-e yoooou?” Mrs. Rousseau sang, waving her hand in front of my face.

  “Sorry! Ugh, sorry, Mrs. Rousseau. I…” I took my chalk that had almost melted in my hand and randomly started shading on my still life.

  “I thought you were going to bring a self-portrait for me to look at. It’s the beginning of December, and I don’t think I have to tell you that December 15 is right around the corner.”

  “Oh, I know. I will, I mean, I totally will. I just, well…”

  “You haven’t done it?”

  “No.”

  “Woe is me, my dear. W
hat is keeping you?” She clutched her hands together in the middle of her bosoms and looked at me over her reading glasses.

  “I don’t know. I’m having a hard time.”

  “Stop.”

  Huh?

  “I won’t have it, Wren. I will not have you whining at me about not being able to do it.” She imitated me whining. “Do you think you get more than one shot, Wren?” I didn’t know what to say. “Do you think that this talent of yours will keep moving forward, will keep progressing by itself? Do you think you are above putting in the work you need to get this done?”

  I shook my head back and forth.

  “No! I know you know better than that. I won’t have it. I have taught you that. You have been doing so well.” She grabbed my cheeks with her hand. I could feel the edges of her fingernails digging into my jaw. “What has happened to you?” She shook my face back and forth just the tiniest bit. “What has come over you? You are out to lunch!”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, while she had my face in a death grip. “I thought I was doing okay, I’m almost finished with this, see?” I lifted my chalk up to indicate my crazy medieval town still life.

  “This?” She let go. “Wren, this is like playing hopscotch for you. And it’s not the assignment for Saint-Rémy.” She lost her fire and suddenly didn’t sound angry anymore, just disappointed. “I don’t understand. I thought we had a plan.”

  “We do, Mrs. Rousseau, I swear. I will do it.”

  “Good.”

  And then just when it could have been over, I felt an overpowering need to confess. “Something is happening, sort of,” I ventured, not really sure it was the right thing to do. “I met a boy and he’s changing things.” I should have stopped there, but it was too late. “He’s … altering the way I feel.”

  “About art?”

  “Well, no.” I thought about it and changed my mind. “Yes. About art and other things. I feel differently about everything.” She squinted at me and took in a breath for a good thirty seconds.

  “All of that may very well be true, dear heart, but you are running out of time. Don’t let your life become too dramatic.”