by Cat Bauer
Three points! Carla scores. Everything at Fran-gelica's costs a fortune. I hear they serve tea while you shop. My own sad little price tag dangles from my sleeve for all to see. What a bitch.
My tongue has talons. “Just because something costs more doesn't make it better, Carla.” Carla, Princess of the Ball! I hate her guts. I can't believe she was ever my best friend.
“Of course it doesn't.” Even Ronnie seems embarrassed that she gave birth to such a greedy monster. “Come on, Miss Vanderbilt. The mall is closing in an hour.” Ronnie yanks Carla toward the front of the store. I stand next to Peppy in my little black dress and watch them go.
“Are you sure that's the dress you want, Harley?” Peppy's voice is quiet. “We can go to another store….”
I feel so bad for her, I want to cry. I put my arm around my mother's shoulders. “It's perfect, Mom. I love it. It's the best dress I ever had. I don't care how much it costs. I really don't.”
“That Carla is spoiled. Veronica gives her everything she wants.”
“Maybe she feels guilty.”
“Guilty about what?”
“About Sean Shanahan running off and abandoning them.”
Peppy's mouth turns into a straight white line. “Don't push it, Harley.”
I know when I have gone too far. “Okay.” I duck into the dressing room and slip my new dress back onto the hanger. Revenge. I want revenge. Carla Van Owen will be Princess of the Ball over my dead body.
Homeroom. Johnny Bruno's voice blasts over the PA system and into the auditorium. He sounds like one of those boppy Top 40 radio jocks. I swear, I don't know what I ever saw in him.
Carla has been lobbying hard for Princess of the Ball. Today we write down our nominations. Whoever gets the most votes from each grade gets to be in the finals. Then tomorrow the whole school picks one of the top four. The winner is the Princess and the others are her Duchesses. Usually a senior wins Princess because nobody knows who the under-classmen are.
They hand me a slip of paper. On it I write “Harley Columba.” I nominate myself. Maybe Evan will nominate me, too. I turn around to look at him. His class sits all the way over in the third section of the auditorium. Evan is having an intense conversation with the guy sitting next to him. He doesn't see me watching.
Then, suddenly, everything changes. Evan stands up and fiddles with the front of his pants, then sits back down in a hurry. At the same time, Mr. Petranski runs up the aisle and yanks Evan out of his seat. Evan shouts, “Hey!”
I stand up, amazed at what I am watching. So does everybody else. The hardwood auditorium chairs squeak as everyone vies for a peek. Evan and Mr. Petranski are struggling. The seats squeal and flap, squeal and flap, as hundreds of people try to see what's going on. Mr. Petranski grabs Evan's arm and drags him out of the auditorium. I try to make eye contact with Evan as he is whisked away, but there are too many people blocking my view.
Everyone whispers, “What happened? What happened?” A game of telephone begins over in Evan's section and spreads throughout the auditorium. Buzz, buzz, buzz. Miss Auberjois clambers up onto the stage and starts yelling, “Asseyez-vous! Asseyez-vous!” which means “sit down,” but no one pays any attention.
Finally the whispers reach me. Marijuana. Selling. Busted. Evan has been busted for selling pot. Oh, no. My stomach drops right out of me. Busted. It sounds tough, like a gangster word. Will he go to jail? I will visit him behind bars and sob, Oh, yes, I will wait for you, my love. Will they cut off all his hair and make him wear blue jumpsuits? I will bake him nail-file cakes and mastermind the escape. I am an accomplice in spirit. Will they arrest me, too? Yeah, Lieutenant, she's the girlfriend. Cuff her.
I hear police sirens in the distance. Closer. Closer. I watch myself run to the long auditorium windows, even though I'm not allowed out of my seat. I press my cheek against the glass. The red light on top of the police car flashes across my face, like I am in a movie. I stare as they handcuff Evan, shove him in the car, and drive away.
I drift through my classes in a dream. Teachers teach, but I don't hear them. Every so often someone touches me and says, “Hang in there, Harley,” or asks me about Evan like I have some secret source within the police department. Strangers and upper-classmen, people who never talk to me, come up and offer a word or two. People whisper and point at me when I walk through the hall. I have become an instant celebrity because of Evan. I stop by my locker to put on some lipstick. I might as well look good.
“Looks like you're not going to make it to the Spring Ball, huh, Harley?” I turn around and Carla is standing there with Nancy Peterman, a nasty smile on her face.
“What … what do you mean?” She has caught me off guard.
“You don't think they're going to let a druggie into a school dance, do you? Evan'll be lucky if he doesn't get expelled.”
I didn't even think of that. Of course she's right. It's hard to have your best friend as an enemy; they spot all the weaknesses in your armor.
Carla knows she got me. “Too bad you're going to miss my coronation.” She hikes her books onto her hip and swivels away. Nancy Peterman follows right behind her like a lapdog.
“In your dreams,” I yell to her back. I lean against my locker. What am I going to tell Peppy?
I hang out on the Pond Hole steps at lunch. All the elite engulf me. Lisa Kowalski and Debbie Nagle give me a cigarette.
“Can you believe that narc Petranski?” Lisa says, puffing on her Marlboro. It dangles out of her mouth like an old billboard ad.
“Evan got a raw break,” sniffs Debbie. “Every-body deals pot.”
“Really?” I am so naive, I swear. “Do you think he'll go to jail?”
“Nah.” A senior guy spits on the ground. “He's not old enough. Maybe juvie or something. Does he have a record?”
“I don't think he's ever been in trouble before,” I say. “Nothing that I know about, anyway.”
“He'll just get a slap on the wrist,” says the guy. “Marijuana is nothing. Just be glad it wasn't junk.”
I nod and puff on my cigarette, and wonder what I am doing here, chatting about junk and pot. I look around at all these people who seem to be so cool. I am separate from them like an island, even though I am in the center of the group. In the back of my mind, this little voice whispers that I am in over my head.
* * *
I let myself in the front door. “I'm home!” Peppy is in the kitchen. Roger isn't home yet. I have decided to tell them nothing.
“How was school?” Peppy calls out to me. Oh, great. The one day I don't want to talk, and Peppy is feeling chatty. I brace myself and walk into the kitchen. She is cooking lemon chicken, my favorite.
“Same old thing.” I grab one of Bean's apples and bite it.
“I left something on your bed. Go see.” Peppy pours the sauce over the chicken and shoves it in the oven. Terrific. Today of all days she decides to break down and turn into a mother.
I climb up the stairs and go into my room. There on my bed, next to my freshly ironed black dress, is a red jewelry box. I pop open the lid. Ooooh. Inside is the pair of hand-painted rose earrings we saw in the mall. I feel so guilty, tears fill my eyes.
“They are beautiful, aren't they?” Peppy has silently appeared in the doorway behind me.
I sniffle. “They're incredible, Mom. But you shouldn't have spent the money.” There is no way I can tell her I'm not going to the ball.
“I remember how exciting my first Spring Ball was. All the decorations, the flowers—it's so romantic. Everything should be perfect. See how good they look with your dress.”
I cannot take it. I burst into sobs. I throw my arms around my mother's neck and cry. It's been so many years since I've held her, she feels funny. Peppy strokes my hair. “What's the matter, Harley?”
I want to tell her about Evan, but she will never understand. “I … They're … they're just so wonderful, Mom. I love them.” I have to get a grip. I straighten up and wipe my nose with my
sleeve.
“Use a tissue,” Peppy says automatically. Then she goes into the bathroom and brings out a box. “Here.”
Her kindness is making everything worse. I take a tissue out of the box and blow. She squeezes my arm like we are a female alliance, then turns to leave. “I've got to go down and finish supper, honey. I'm glad you like the earrings.” Her feet pad down the stairs. I lie down on my bed, exhausted by the weight of it all. God is laughing at me, I think. I am his little joke.
The phone rings. Peppy answers it. She hollers, “Harley! It's Evan!” I jump off my bed and race down the stairs. Roger has come home and is watching the news. I pull the telephone cord as far as I can into the living room so no one can hear me.
“Evan! How are you?” My voice is full of panic.
“Q.C. is threatening to kill me. Otherwise I'm all right.” He doesn't sound too upset.
“What's going to happen?” I can't believe he is so calm.
“Oh, I'll have to go to court, but Q.C. has a pretty good lawyer. They'll try to get me released into Q.C.'s custody. I'll get probation or something. No big deal.”
Maybe I've been making this worse than it is. Everyone seems to think it's nothing. Except Carla. And if I'm honest, except me. Then Evan says: “But it doesn't look like we'll be going to the ball. They suspended me from school for a couple of weeks.”
My worst fear has come true. I cannot talk.
“Harley? Harley, are you there?” Evan's voice echoes in my ear. “Harley, answer me.”
“I'm … I'm here, Evan.” I swallow. The romantic jailbreak has disappeared; reality hits me cold in the face. I lower my voice so that I am almost whispering. “What am I going to tell my mother? She just bought me new earrings.”
“Look, babe, we'll figure something out. I'll pick you up after school tomorrow. Meet me at the steps, okay?”
I feel the tears sting my eyes, wrap around my throat, and squeeze. “Okay. I've got to see the director of the play first.”
“I'll wait. Hang in there, Harley. Bye.”
I hang up the phone and keep my face away from the kitchen so Peppy can't see my tears. There goes Old Faithful. I must have a geyser so deep inside it will never run dry.
“Set the table, Harley,” calls my mother.
“Okay, Mom.” I put on a phony face and get the silverware from the drawer. I take the silver princess spoon out for myself from the pot-holder drawer. I hesitate, then grab the best steak knife, too.
* * *
In homeroom, I can feel the empty space where Evan once sat behind me. Everyone is still buzzing about yesterday's big bust. I catch a whisper or two about me: the poor girl with the new little black party dress, the only one not going to the ball. The hot redness starts at my ears and spreads to my face. I open my French book and read the same paragraph over and over.
Mr. Petranski begins handing out stacks of paper to the first person in each row. Out of the corner of my eye I watch as everybody takes one and passes the rest on. Finally the pile gets to me. It is the four nominations for Princess of the Ball. I stare at the paper trembling in my hand.
Freshman: Carla Van Owen
Sophomore: Melody McCormick
Junior: Prudence Clarke
Senior: Betsy Hamilton
She did it. Carla actually did it. I glance over at her, sitting among the other end-of-the-alphabet people. Everyone is hugging and congratulating her and she is grinning like she's the new mayor. And then there's my other good buddy, Prudence Clarke. This is too much. I put a big red X next to the senior girl's name, even though I don't know who she is. I'll be damned if I'll vote for the Gorgon Sisters.
Well, this is it, then, the way life goes. The way wars start. Maybe I'll sneak into the ball and drop a bucket of thumbtacks from the ceiling. Or put liquid shoe polish in the ladies' room soap.
I dip my brush into the yellow oil paint, then dab it onto the palette and soften it with a little white. Miss Posey stands at my side, nodding. “Good. Good. Nice choice of color.”
The painting for the first act is done, the princess with no face. I tried to paint the body standing as if she is uncertain, hesitant, since this is when Anastasia first meets the Empress. She wears a ragged shawl over her shoulders, and her long brown hair is limp and tangled. The second portrait is almost done. This time I've drawn a vague outline of her features but purposely left the details off so there is just a hint of a nose, a suggestion of a smile. In this painting, Anastasia stands taller, a little more sure of herself.
The painting for the third act, the oil, will be a life-size portrait, after the Empress is convinced she is the real Anastasia. It is my pièce de résistance, although I am still working on the background and haven't finished the actual face. It takes longer because I have to wait for the oil to dry.
Bud Roman comes striding into the room. “I'm late. Sorry.”
Miss Posey and I move to the side and wait as Bud Roman paces up and down in front of my three portraits. He strokes his goatee. Backs up. Squints. Moves forward. Miss Posey looks at me and shrugs. I shrug. We wait. I have performed my trick. I am a dog waiting for my master's approval.
Finally Bud Roman speaks. “They're perfect. Keep going, Motorcycle Mama. Keep it going.” I smile. This is what keeps me sane, I think. These paintings. I am so starved for a compliment, I lap it right up. He turns to Miss Posey. “You ready, Emma?”
Miss Posey glances at her watch. “We've gotta run to a meeting, Harley. Stay as long as you like. Good work.”
I stand alone in the art room, facing the three princesses. I dip my brush into the oil and start to paint.
When I finally get to the Pond Hole steps, Evan is there, mobbed by a crowd. He's down in the parking lot since he's not allowed on school property. Everybody is moshing against him like he's a rock star or something. He's got a cigarette in one hand and a bottle in a brown paper bag in the other. He sees me and waves. “Hey, Harley!”
I smile in spite of everything, I am so happy to see him. I waltz down the steps like a princess at a ball. Except my court is a bunch of smokers and stoners, not dukes and duchesses. I try to squeeze my way into the mob. “Let her through!” yells Evan. Someone in the crowd moves aside. People turn to look at me as I push my way into the center, next to Evan. It's a Pond Hole party, and we are the main attraction.
Evan wraps his arms around me and gives me a big, long kiss. A couple of people whistle and hoot, and I feel great. Let Carla and Prudence have their stupid nominations. We are the vanguard stars on campus, the musician and the painter.
Evan grabs my hand and leads me through the crowd to his car. He opens my door, helps me in, revs up the engine, and squeals out of the parking lot. He zooms to the top of Lovers' Peak and parks. Finally he turns to look at me. “I missed you, babe.”
I throw my arms around him. He kisses me. We are all lips and tongues. He takes my jacket off and runs his hands over my body. I press against him and kiss him until I think I will never breathe again.
This is what we decide to do: I will get ready to go to the ball in my new dress and earrings. Evan will pick me up. We will pretend we are going to the ball, but we'll really go to the drive-in movie or something with Oliver and Jessie.
Evan pulls me to him. He strokes my cheek. “Don't worry, Harley.” He puts his arm around me and squeezes. “I'll make it up to you. I promise.” There is a tiny part of me that hesitates, worried about whether we can pull this off. Then he kisses me and I bury that part away.
For the first time in a long while, me and Lily are alone in the house. My heart is pounding. I'm in the kitchen. I have my Shanahan list in front of me. These calls are too complicated to make from a pay phone. I will deal with the consequences when the phone bill comes.
I dial the first S. Shanahan, on West Seventy-first Street. I am so nervous, I am breathing heavy; he'll probably think I'm an obscene caller. The phone rings. And rings. A click. An answering machine picks up. There is a child's voice babblin
g in the background. Aman says: “You have reached the Shana-hans'. If you have a message for Steven, Annie, or Parker, please leave it at the beep. Thanks.” I hang up. Hmmm. Steven Shanahan, I presume. He sounded like an accountant, not at all like a man who would be my father. I cross his number off the index card.
I dial the next number. It has no address. One ring. Two rings. “Hello?” It is a female voice. Maybe this is his wife. I am such a wimp, I can't speak. Come on, Harley, I tell myself. It's now or never. “Hello?” The woman on the other end sounds a little testy. “HELLO? Is someone there?” Talk, Harley, talk!
“Hello?” I say. “Hello, I'm trying to reach Sean Shanahan.”
There is a pause at the other end of the line. At that moment, Lily runs into the room. “Harley! Harley! Come quick! Riley's got my doll!”
I glare at her. I cover the mouthpiece. “Quiet!” I hiss. “Leave me alone!” Lily's eyes get wide. Her lip trembles. I pray she doesn't start to cry.
“I'm Susan Shanahan, but there's no Sean,” says the voice. “What number did you dial?”
Lily's face is scrunching up and she is moments away from tears. I talk fast. “Oh, I'm sorry.” I try to cup the receiver. “I must have the wrong number. Bye.” I hang up. I turn to Lily. I count to ten. “Come on, Lily, knock it off. This is important. Just let me make one more phone call and then I'll come, okay?”
“But Riley's eating her NOW!”
There is no reasoning with Lily when she is in this mood. I run into the other room and grab Barbie's head out of Riley's mouth. I twist it back onto her body. A big chunk of hair is missing and her nose is gone. “Okay, I fixed it. Now leave me alone! Watch TV.”
I go back into the kitchen. I take a deep breath. I cross Susan Shanahan's number off the list. I dial the last number, on West Eleventh Street. It rings. And rings. And rings. No answer. No answering machine. After the tenth ring, I start to hang up. Then I hear a man's voice. It sounds sleepy, like I woke him up at four o'clock in the afternoon. “Yeah?”
