by Cat Bauer
“It's only a stupid high school dance, Carla, it's not like you're going to the Academy Awards.” I have had it with her attitude.
It's time to put a stop to this. “I know this is hard to believe, but I am so tired of getting jerked around by everyone. I don't give a damn about the Spring Ball. I really, really couldn't care less.”
Carla gets all defensive. “What do you mean, jerked around? Who's jerking you around? Are you including me?”
“Take it any way you want it.”
“You know, Harley, you left me hanging when you thought Johnny might walk you home. You can't take a taste of your own medicine.”
We are getting loud and everyone in line turns and looks at us. I drop my voice to a hiss. “At least I told you when I couldn't be somewhere. You don't even show up!”
“How can I tell you? You got thrown out of band. I can't call you, you're always grounded. I heard you even got a detention! Now you're going out with a druggie. Harley, you're a mess!”
I want to slug her, but I don't. Instead I grab her hair and yank it. Carla gasps, she is so surprised.
“OUCH! Harley! How dare you!” Carla grabs my arm and pinches me, really hard, digging her nails into my skin.
Everyone in line is watching us now. The boys are cheering and hooting: “Catfight! Catfight!” I see Mr. Petranski, who happens to be eating lunch at the teachers' table, approaching. I let go of Carla's hair.
“Girls! Girls! What's going on here?”
“She pulled my hair.” Carla nails me right away.
“She asked for it.” Right now I think I hate Carla's guts.
“Harley Columba, you just had one detention. Are you looking for another?” Mr. Petranski has meatball breath. I try not to inhale.
“No, sir.” I go the obedient route.
“I think both you girls should pay a visit to the dean. Go down to Ms. Minelli's office.”
Carla starts to protest. “But—”
“Now.” Mr. Petranski waddles back to his table.
“Thanks a lot, Harley.” Carla stabs me with her words.
I don't answer her. All I can think of is what Ms. Minelli is going to do when she sees me in her office again.
Ms. Minelli does not seem mad when she looks up from behind her desk. She seems sad.
“Again, Harley?” I am so humiliated, I just nod.
Ms. Minelli sighs and puts down her papers.
Carla and I sit on the hard wooden chairs in front of her desk. “I don't remember seeing you in here before,” Ms. Minelli says to Carla.
“Harley's trying to drag me down the tubes with her,” Carla says, flipping her hair.
“What's your name?”
“Carla Van Owen.”
Ms. Minelli peers over her eyeglasses. “Veronica Van Owen's daughter?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmph.” Ms. Minelli snorts like she remembers Carla's mom. “Harley, is your mother from Lenape?” I nod. “What was her name in high school?”
“Patricia Harley.” I pray Ms. Minelli doesn't tell our parents about this. Maybe we'll get off with a warning.
“I thought so. Do you know I had your mother in my sociology class? She was an excellent student, that Patricia. Shy, sweet girl.”
It's hard to think of loudmouth Peppy being shy. She was probably a kiss-ass who never showed teachers her true ogre self.
“She's not shy anymore,” I inform Ms. Minelli.
“She's very vocal.”
Ms. Minelli pushes her eyeglasses up on top of her carrot hair. “In fact …” She pauses. “In fact, if I remember correctly, years ago both your mothers sat right in front of me, just as you girls are sitting here today.” She snorts again. “Very strange!”
“But they weren't friends,” I say.
“Neither are we,” mutters Carla.
Ms. Minelli tilts her head and scrunches up her face like she is concentrating. “It was a disagreement over some boy, I believe.”
Carla fidgets in her chair. “Well, this disagreement is not over some boy. This disagreement is over Harley ripping my hair out.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“Did NOT.”
“DID TOO!”
“Girls, girls. Please!” Ms. Minelli is all dean again. “Now where is your file?” She bends down and starts rummaging through her desk. Carla sticks her tongue out at me, but Ms. Minelli doesn't see her. She is busy opening and closing drawers. “Harley, Mr. Angelo tells me you're quite an artist,” she says from under the desk.
Carla snickers. “She's a regular Vincent van Gock.” I am so surprised that Mr. Angelo has been talking about me, I ignore Carla. What does Mr. Angelo know about art? I wonder if all my teachers have been sitting around the faculty lounge, discussing the trials and tribulations of Harley Columba. Maybe this has something to do with the witchy guidance counselor. “Mr. Angelo told you that?”
“Ah, here it is!” Ms. Minelli pulls out a folder with my name on it and tosses it on top of her desk like one of the FBI secret files. “Apparently he's concerned about you. Your grades are slipping. Is there something wrong?”
“Yeah, there's something wrong with her. She thinks the whole world is here for her convenience.” Carla slumps against her chair.
Ms. Minelli frowns. “Carla, I am talking to Harley.”
“Ms. Minelli, can't I go, please? I've never been in trouble in my life.” Carla is all pleading eyes and smiles.
“You just never get caught,” I mutter.
Ms. Minelli peers at Carla over her glasses. “All right. This should probably be a private conversation anyway. But I'll see you in detention tomorrow. Have your mother sign this slip.”
Carla drops the angel act and turns into her demon self. “But I didn't do anything! I've never had a detention! I'm not going!”
Ms. Minelli doesn't even look at her. “If you keep this up, it'll be double detention. Now get that slip signed and be in Room 103 tomorrow.”
Carla grabs the slip off Ms. Minelli's desk and crumples it into a ball. “This is so not fair.” She starts to storm out of the room.
“Not so fast. First shake hands with Harley.”
Carla makes a face like she'd rather kiss a toad. “You've got to be kidding.”
“Shake hands or you can keep me company after school the entire week.”
Carla rolls her eyes like this is the worst torture ever. Slowly she extends her hand out to me, all limp and lifeless. I stare at it. This is my best friend's hand gone cold. For a second, I want to jump up and hug her and squeeze her and tell her that I'm sorry. Instead I reach up and brush her fingertips with mine.
“Can I go now?” Carla doesn't even look at me.
“Yes.” Ms. Minelli shakes her head as Carla struts out the door. “Are you two good friends?”
“We used to be best friends.” My words sound sad, even to me. For a second, I am afraid I am going to break down and bawl right here in front of Ms. Minelli. I look down and squeeze the tears back into my eyes.
“So, Harley. Is there anything wrong? Problems at home?” Ms. Minelli really tries to be a nice person, I think. I want to tell her that my wicked stepfather has taken over my body and I am no longer in control. But everything I say will end up in that folder, I'm sure. I will be branded for life.
“No, everything's okay,” I fib. “Usual stuff, you know.”
“Well, I can't let you off with just a warning this time.” Oh, no. She is going to drag my parents into this fiasco. I am doomed. “Do your parents work?”
I was right. “Yeah.”
“What time do they get home?”
“Different times. Sometimes four o'clock, sometimes six o'clock. I have to watch my little sister— she's five—and I'm supposed to keep an eye on my brother….”
Ms. Minelli lets out another sigh, a Peppy sigh, a big long sigh, like she's exhausted. “Okay, Harley. This time we'll try something different. Instead of detention, I want you to illus
trate the word compassion.”
“Compassion?”
“Yes. You can write a poem, draw something—I don't care. You have until Monday. Otherwise it's triple detention. Does that sound fair?”
“I don't think I know what compassion means.”
“You will by the time you get done. Okay?”
It actually sounds like fun, sort of. “Sure.”
“Any questions?”
“I don't think so.” I stand up. “Is that all?”
Ms. Minelli picks up her papers. “Try to stay out of trouble, kiddo.”
“I will,” I say, and at that moment, I truly mean it.
I am in the art room. I let myself in with the heavy brass key on the red shoelace. I am alone. I am an artist, and I am alone. Finally I can breathe. I walk over to the dinky record player and put on the Imagine album. John Lennon's music fills the room. I imagine my painting onstage in front of a huge audience.
“Hey, I love John Lennon.” I spin around. Lena, who is playing Anastasia, is in the room. “Did I scare you?” I nod. “Sorry. I had some free time, so I thought we could work, if that's okay.” She has long brown hair and a perfect nose. She will be easy to paint, I think.
“Sure. I've … uh, never had anyone pose before, so … I don't know…. Just stand over there.” I get my supplies together. I haven't quite finished the first acrylic with no features, but having Lena here in person is too important to pass up. Luckily, I have already prepped the canvas. I pick up my favorite sable brush I brought from home, one that Granny Harley got me. I have a good feeling about this; I don't know why.
“Well, I've never posed for anybody, so it should be interesting.” Lena laughs. She has straight white teeth. I will paint her smiling, I think.
She strikes a pose and I begin. I thin the oil paint with a little turpentine and sketch lightly, directly on the canvas. I have no fear. If I make a mistake, I fix it. I use my paintbrush like a sword, thrust and parry. While I'm working, Lena and I chat like we are old friends, even though she is a senior. The time flies and I cannot believe it when the bell for the next class rings. Neither can Lena.
“That was fun!” she says. “Can I see?”
“Sure. It's just the preliminary….” I step back, and she comes around the front. I watch her face.
“Wow! It's incredible! It looks just like me. You're really good, Harley.”
I grin. “Thanks.” I should be humble, but I know it's good. I wish I could stay in this room forever.
I have an idea about how to mend things between Lily and me. Her knee will heal with time; it was not serious; it was sealed with a butterfly bandage. That wound is not as deep as the one I caused; mine needs more than a butterfly.
I get my inks, my colored markers, and a fresh sketch pad that is bound together like a notebook. I spread them out on my bedroom floor. I rip the cover off the notebook and use a three-hole punch on the paper. With brass paper fasteners, I attach a white poster-board cover. On the front, I write: LILY COLUMBA'S NEW YORK CITY BOOK. I draw the Statue of Liberty. Instead of the statue's face, I draw Lily's so she is holding the torch, proud and tall. Then I write a story about how Lily Columba turns into a fairy and flies to New York City to visit the sights. I illustrate each page so that Lily has her very own personal picture book. I draw Lily at the Central Park Zoo watching the seals perform their show. Lily with wings flying over the Empire State Building. Lily with a magic wand dancing on the Imagine circle. But I use my colored markers to brighten only half the book; I leave every other page with just the outlines so she can color those herself. It takes me hours to complete this, but when I am done, I think it is pretty good, just as good as one you can buy in the store. This will be my gift to her as a pledge that I will never hurt her again, and so she can be an artist, like me.
I have decided to tell Mrs. Tuttle the truth about the New York City book. There is nothing else I can do. She will probably fire me. I ring the bell.
Mrs. Tuttle opens the door wearing a painter's smock and a beret. “Harley, hello! You've inspired me! Come see!” Mrs. Tuttle tugs me into the living room, where she's set up an easel. On it is the beginning of a still life with grapes. This is the worst. I blink and try not to cry.
“What's the matter? Don't you like it?”
I hold the New York City book out to her. “Mrs. Tuttle, my little sister got hold of your book and colored all the pages. I kept it on my night table where I thought it would be safe, I really did. I will work for you for free for a month to pay for it. I'm sorry. I'm very, very sorry.” My voice is quivering and my eyes are wet. Sometimes I think I am nothing but salt water inside.
Mrs. Tuttle sets down her palette and takes the book. She opens it and looks at the Statue of Liberty with long yellow hair holding a torch that burns in orange Crayola. Then she does something amazing. She starts laughing. “Very creative!” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “You must feel terrible, Harley. Don't worry about it. When my son was small, he cut up my illustrated edition of Robinson Crusoe and stuck the pictures on the refrigerator. This book is outdated anyway.”
“I'll work for free….”
“Don't be ridiculous. I'm not paying you enough. These things happen. That's life. Now let's get started on the windows.”
I can't believe she is acting this way. Peppy would have locked me in the dungeon without bread or water. I wish Mrs. Tuttle was my mother, even if she is old.
Mrs. Tuttle places the New York City book back on the coffee table. “Now it's a real conversation piece.”
“Mom, can I talk to you?” Me and Peppy are peeling potatoes. She finally got the hint and stopped with the fish. Tonight we are having ham with boiled potatoes. Oh, yum. Just looking at all that pink meat makes me long for red snapper.
“What now, Harley?” Peppy sighs, and tosses another potato in the pot. The lines around her mouth are deep and droopy. She's only two years older than Carla's mother, but she looks ten years older. For a moment, I feel sorry for her, thinking about the girl in the yearbook who was supposed to catch her dreams before they slipped away.
“I was just going to say, did you know Carla's father, Sean Shanahan?” I ask nonchalantly, like I'm asking what's for dinner.
Peppy drops her potato peeler. I swear, Sean Shanahan must have been some guy. All these women drop things just at the mention of his name. “Why on earth do you ask?” Peppy always says “on earth” when she's hysterical but pretending she's not.
“Me and Carla found your old yearbook, and we read the stuff he wrote to you.”
“You what?” Peppy makes a move like she is going to slap me, then stops her hand a moment before impact. “Don't you ever snoop through things that aren't yours, Harley Marie! Don't you ever!”
I flinch. “Why not? You do.”
“I am your mother. Don't you talk to me like that.”
“I only asked you a simple question. Why are you getting so nuts?”
Peppy picks up the peeler and starts carving potatoes like a madwoman. “I'm sorry, Harley, but sometimes you just make me so angry.” Slice. Slice. Slice. The skins fly everywhere. “I don't want you spending time with that Carla anymore. Her mother lets her run wild. You're getting too many ideas in your head.”
Any other time I would probably storm out of the room, but I want information. “I had a fight with Carla.” That should make her happy.
“Over what?”
“Nothing in particular. We're not speaking.”
“Best friends change all the time at your age.” Peppy seems preoccupied.
“Are you upset because I asked about Carla's father?” I keep going. I can tell I am onto some good dirt.
“Harley, I do not wish to discuss it.”
“But, Mom …”
“Harley …”
I push ahead. I am tired of being lied to. “Is that why you broke up with Dad? Because of Sean Shanahan?”
Bull's-eye! Peppy's mouth gets all tight. She puts down her potato peele
r. “Harley, there are some things between grown-ups that aren't meant for children.” Her voice is sharper than the knife.
“I'm not a child! You're always treating me like one! Why don't you trust me and be honest with me and maybe I'd act differently! Everything's a secret around here! What's the big deal?”
That stops her. There is a mountain of potato skins beneath her fingers. She pretends to examine the pile of naked potatoes that are spilling out of the pot, checking each one for a fleck of skin. “Oh, Harley. You're just so young. Don't try to grow up so fast.”
“I'm as old as you were when you started going out with Dad.”
“That's hard to believe….”
“Why did you marry him, anyway?”
Peppy looks up from the potatoes. “What kind of a question is that?” She moves to the sink and turns on the cold water. “He's under a lot of pressure, you know, with money…. You don't know what he's sac rificed for this family. It's not easy trying to raise three children these days.” She's trying to convince herself, I think. Then her voice gets soft and for a moment she morphs into a human being. “Do you know what his favorite movie is?”
“Star Wars?” It is part of Roger's Sacred Film Collection.
Peppy smiles. “It's a Wonderful Life. You know, with Jimmy Stewart? About the man who always wanted to see the world but instead stays home with his wife and children? We watch it at Christmas.”
No, I don't know it, but I nod to urge her on. She opens her mouth to tell me more, then catches herself. She has revealed too much. She searches through the cabinet and takes out the mixer. “Dinner's almost ready, Harley. Now set the table.”
I am upstairs in my room. I dig through the storage area and pull out my mother's yearbook. Then I pull my harlequin out from under my bed. I don't know why I didn't think of this sooner. I try to breathe quietly, but I am almost gasping for air.
I flip open the yearbook to the chicken scrawl around Sean Shanahan's picture. I slide the harlequin card next to the yearbook. My hands tremble. There is only one word in common, and that word is love. I think it's a match. The o is a little different…. I'm not sure…. Yes. It is the same. I am scared. I am relieved. Now I know.
