Split Just Right

by Adele Griffin

  “I did?” Portia flips through a magazine. “Oh please, oh puh-leez let me lose at least ten pounds by next Saturday to fit into my Vera Wang.”

  “Yeah, you did. Remember? On the answering machine.”

  I can see Portia reflected in the mirror. She’s pushed in and is kneading her lips over her braces, scraping the soft skin of her mouth over the metal. It hurts, she told me, but she does it to put more poutiness in her lips.

  “Stop doing that thing with your mouth, okay, and just tell me.”

  “What thing?” She stops doing it, though, and flips her hair into her face. It splashes heavily over her eyes and she drags her fingers through it, flipping it first to one side, then the other. Gold and honey brown streaks catch the lamplight and swirl together like a shampoo ad. Portia’s hair practically has its own personality

  “Come on.” I deadeye her and she pulls up to sit on her knees, flipping the magazine to the side.

  “Okay, it’s about your mom.”

  “My mom?”

  “See, I saw her … last night? At the Greenhouse? I was out to dinner with Mom and Dad. Danny, I had no idea.”

  I knew it. Mom went on a secret date with Mr. Sallese. He’d been just a bit too friendly with her in the faculty lounge. The Greenhouse is a pretty popular bar and grill restaurant; it’s where Bradshaw girls throw their sweet sixteen parties and where the senior class dinner usually is held. Mom had been sort of mysterious last night about what she was doing. She told me she had rehearsal every night this week, but thinking back on it, rehearsal every night seems like an intense schedule, even for a last-minute Rosalind/Celia switch.

  But Mr. Sallese is awful. He’s shorter than I am, not counting the huge helmet of Ken-doll hair that swoops up from his forehead. He has a son, too, named Rocco. I didn’t even think that was a real name. Worse, Rocco plays drums in a grunge band. I see my whole new step-familied life in a flash and it looks crowded and horrifying.

  “He’s nice, Mr. Sallese.” I shrug.

  “Okay, I totally understand if you want to change the subject? Mr. Sallese, yeah, he’s nice, but he definitely mousses.”

  I’m confused. “Wait, Portia, how’m I changing the subject?”

  “And anyone trying for that much volume? That might mean hair plugs.”

  “Portia, hang on—who was my mom with at the Greenhouse on Tuesday?”

  Portia looks straight at me, her eyes round as dimes. She seems nervous.

  “With? No, Danny—she wasn’t with anyone. She was, uh, training? To be, uh, a waitress? I think? I’m pretty sure.”

  “Oh, yeah, that.” My brain freezes but I keep right on talking. “I only know a little about that, but she’s, like—it’s some acting thing, technique thing. She’s in a new play.” My heart is beating sickeningly fast, and I wonder if fourteen-year-olds ever have heart attacks.

  “Ohhh.” Portia looks visibly relieved. “A play about a waitress? That sounds cute. Because it would be kind of funny—strange funny I mean?—if she really was waitressing? Since, well, since so many of us kids go, since so many people go out to dinner at the Greenhouse, you know? You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah.” I shove myself into my barn jacket. “Look, I better head home.”

  “Okay, yeah, I need to study bio. And Mr. Jackson’ll give you a lift to the station. It’s totally dark now”

  “See, Mom gets into method acting. She’s read all that Uta Hagen stuff.”

  “Well, then I guess that would be good training and since it’s not for real—Danny, I hope you don’t mind, but can I just tell you?” Portia smiles and presses her fingers to her braces as if she’s trying to hold inside something she wants to shout. Instead she giggles. “Your mom is about the most clueless waitress that I ever ever saw.”

  I laugh. Right now it’s just about one of the most unfunny things I’ve heard in a long time, but I laugh anyway “Yeah I bet,” I say “Some things you just can’t act, probably”

  And then I escape.

  The train, crowded a couple hours ago, holds only a handful of businessmen and women heading home from their jobs. They sit in their overcoats and gray suits and the sounds they make are all muted and polite. A quiet crinkle as they turn the page of a newspaper, a discreet ahem when they clear their throats. I hear one man talking on his cell phone, his hushed voice explaining what time he’ll be pulling into the station. A few of them give me quietly thoughtful looks, like they’re trying to figure out what I’m doing on their train.

  Small mysteries are lifting all at once from my brain like a cloud of gnats. The pair of ugly black sneakers that Mom had been carrying around in her basket bag this past week. The dried ketchup smear on her jeans, grossly big and sloppy, even for Mom. The time I tried calling Bellmont to remind her to pick up orange juice and Louis said she wasn’t scheduled to come in that night. “I was there,” Mom had said later, looking mystified. “I was in the box office. Louis sure is losing it lately”

  It seems so strange and terrible, thinking of her hiding this job from me. What did it mean? Why wouldn’t she have discussed this with me before? I feel sort of worthless, knowing that for some reason Mom decided I didn’t count enough to confide in about her decision.

  “Bide Away,” the conductor calls.

  Worthless. Mr. Paulson asked if Ty Amblin was worth my time. I’d never thought about it before. Now I wonder if Mom sees me as a worthwhile person. A person you can explain important things to, even if they’re tough to talk about, like losing your job and having to work as a waitress. I bet if Mr. Paulson lost his job and had to work as a bartender or something, he’d tell Portia. Mr. Paulson was always trying to explain bonds and debt origination to Carter and Portia, no matter how much they whined to him that they didn’t get it. He thinks it’s worth his time, sharing stuff about his job with his kids.

  It’s funny, how Mr. Paulson always knows those details about my basketball and guys and whatever’s going on at Bradshaw. He’s a really great dad; I always feel bad when Portia acts rude to him, and I like to think that part of Mr. Paulson secretly wishes that I were his daughter.

  The man sitting across from me wears a slouchy gray hat that keeps slipping over his eyes. His face in profile seems tired but friendly. I imagine him turning around. Our eyes lock and there’s a moment of recognition.

  “Danny,” he says. His throat catches in a laugh of disbelief. “My darling daughter, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  “Didn’t you get my letter?” I falter.

  “Ah, no, my horrible second wife must have ripped it up. She’s insane with jealousy over my persisting memories of Susan. No matter, I’ll be getting rid of her soon.” He smiles cryptically. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “Dad, Mom and I could seriously use your help right now.”

  Gray-hat man suddenly shifts and looks over at me, startled. “Did you say something?”

  “Oh! No, I mean,” I shake my head quickly, “I just wondered if you had the time.”

  “It’s seven fifty-eight,” he says, obviously relieved to stare at his watch and not me.

  Mom’s not at the apartment when I get home, but messy traces of her presence remain. The stereo’s on; a half empty can of Coke and a new bottle of aspirin stand next to a crumpled paper bag on the table; and all the cupboards are open from her last-minute dinner search. I look inside the refrigerator and find a note:

  Danny,

  I’m at Bellmont but won’t be home till late. There’s ten dollars on my bureau for pizza. Study for math!

  Love, Mom

  I call Bellmont.

  “She’s on for tomorrow, not tonight,” says Patsy “You want her whole schedule?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  I write out the schedule and fold the paper in my pocket. Then I tug out the phone book, which we’d been using to steady a missing leg of the couch, and dial the number for the Greenhouse.

  “Susan Finzimer, please.” I disguise my voice low
like a guy’s.

  “Jusasec, hon, I’ma transfer you over to the kitchen.” There’s a click and another breathless, “Hold on.” The background noises sound like someone’s crashing plates and silverware to the floor and then, blaring close enough in my ear so there’s no doubt in my mind, Mom’s voice is shouting,

  “Hello? Hello? Hello?”

  I hang up.

  She doesn’t want to tell you because she’s ashamed. She doesn’t want to tell you because she’s afraid you’ll be ashamed. The thoughts cyclone through my brain and refuse to die.

  I punch in Gary’s number. This is one of those times when I really need to have somebody say, “Oh, you know your mom; that’s just the way she is. She can be a bit nutty.” But instead I get his answering machine. I don’t leave a message.

  “It’s so incredibly stupid of her.” I lie, stomach down, on the couch. “Not to tell me. Like I can’t handle it or something. What is she thinking?” And even as I’m saying all these things out loud, I’m wondering what I do think about it. Because it’s flat-out awful, this image of Mom at the Greenhouse. I see her running around slopping food in front of other people, having to be nice to them if parts are burnt or cold or too spicy, counting tips against our rent.

  “She’ll quit in a week,” I predict, addressing the photograph of Rick Finzimer. “You know Mom. She’s scheming up a better plan.”

  But there’s no one here to assure me. Rick Finzimer just smiles carelessly, keeping his thoughts, as always, to himself.

  CHAPTER 5

  FOUL SHOTS AREN’T ALL in the flick of your wrist, or in the way you plant your feet at the throw line. They aren’t exactly about the height of the jump or the bend of your knees or the angle of your elbows, either. In my mind, a foul shot is all about timing: the one pivotal moment of release. It’s a moment when your brain and your body flex together, like when you’ve swung up to the highest point you can go on a swing and, right before you begin to fall in a long, swooping arc back to earth, you’re inside a tiny breathless instant when time stops and your heart stops and your thoughts stop and all around you, life is frozen silent.

  If I can make my shot right in the middle of that kind of untouched moment, I know as soon as the ball glides into the air that the point is mine.

  We’re in the final minutes of the fourth quarter and the scoreboard has been clamped with a pair of 47s, a tie for us and Perry. I grip the ball. I hold my breath, bend my knees, give a last, assured fingertip squeeze. And then, right as I’m about to release the ball from my possession, I see Ty Amblin standing with his friends Jess Bosack and Scott McKinlin, right by the open doors.

  And then the ball is gone, spinning out through the air, while the crowd, all eyes and stopped breath, follows its path from my hands to where it bounces off the edge of the basket. A disappointed groan rises in the bleachers. Timing. I waited too long, let my crucial moment get swallowed by the distraction of a clump of stupid guys.

  I can’t look at Ty and am thankful when a Perry girl grabs the ball and starts driving it downcourt, throwing us into a tight brace of guarding panic. They score, one of the 7s flips to a 9, and there’s a polite murmur from the bleachers. The time buzzer sounds worse than ten fire drills in my ear.

  I walk slowly over to the bench to grab my towel and water bottle, my head down to avoid eye contact. Our coach, Mrs. Sherman, yells something at me like “Buck up, kiddo”—she’s always on everyone’s case about being a better sport and a good loser. I feel empty, my mouth tastes like sweat and dust (lacks not only zim but also zam, zip, and any emotion in between …), and the defeat drags my body into a slumpy depression. When I lose a game, I don’t care how I look to my teammates or to the other team. You lost. You’re a loser. That’s all I’m thinking.

  Parents have swarmed in from their seats to collect girls and towels and sports bags, and I’m disappointed Mom’s not here; she’s usually around to see my games. She would rehash the details, revising key moments to her own Mom-vision, so that my mistakes wouldn’t be all my fault, and part of me wouldn’t believe her and part of me would be able to listen and laugh and maybe relax a little.

  “Danny!” Portia waves from across the court and races over. “Guess who’s here?” she hisses loudly and wetly in my ear. “Your very own potential mutual Spring Flinger?”

  I check out of the corner of my eye. Ty must have hit the vending machines; with one hand he’s glugging down raisins from the box straight into his mouth while the other holds a can of Sprite. “You want me to go over there with you?”

  “Look, I was just going to call him tonight,” I protest weakly. Portia squishes up her nose, irritated with me.

  “Dummy, why would you want to call him if he’s standing twenty feet away from you? We’ll both go. It’s not like we don’t know those guys; you’re being so insecure, especially since I’ve already asked Jess.”

  “I am not being insecure, just because I don’t want to follow your plan.”

  “But the conversation will go much better in a group, especially since you’re BNT-cubed.”

  Which stands for Bringing Nothing to the Table, acting like deadweight. Right now, this is probably true. Portia scoops her hair high up in her hands and lets it fall—whoosh—over her jacket. Jess Bosack looks over.

  “But I’m all sweaty … and I just lost the game.” I rub my nose and then suddenly flash Portia a big fake smile in case anyone’s watching and sees me looking insecure. “And by the way, if you grab my arm and start dragging me over there like a spaz,” I speak quietly behind my tightly locked teeth, “I will kill you and that’s a promise.”

  “Like I would really do that?” Portia shakes back her hair.

  “Calling’s better for me, anyway. If I go now, Ty won’t know that I’ve seen him. The late bus is going to be leaving any minute.”

  Then I dash away from Portia, out of the gym, into the cold air. The empty bus is waiting at the curb, and I thump down into my favorite seat, the one with the bump that the tire fits under. I press my face against the window; my skin feels stiff with salt and my ponytail elastic hugs a tangled mat of brown.

  Thu-thu-thunk. My eyes fly open to see Ty knocking against the glass with the heel of his hand. He jerks his thumb to the bus door and I nod, trying not to let myself seem too energized by his presence.

  “Hey, you.” He smiles as he walks down the aisle. His cheeks have blossomed pink from the cold and his school tie dangles out of his camel’s hair overcoat. I brush my hair in front of my chest in case of a hive attack. “Good game.”

  “Not really. Where were you? I didn’t see you.” I lift my eyebrows and pretend to stifle a yawn. Ty slides into the seat in front of me, kneeling on it backward to face me and resting his arms across the seat back.

  “I was watching you from the door. We didn’t get there till fourth quarter. I came to see Hannah. Hannah Wilder, you know. She’s my cousin.”

  “On your mom’s side?”

  “Huh?” Ty reaches up and unlatches his window and squeaks it down, allowing a shot of cold air to blow inside.

  “Cousin on your mom’s—like, is your mom sisters with her mom or something?” At first Ty just stares at me and I can’t tell if he doesn’t get it or he’s just bored by my awful BNT-cubed conversation skills.

  “Hannah’s dad is my uncle Craig,” he says quickly, and then, thankfully, he slides on the Smile, probably to let me know that I haven’t totally blown it with him yet. “So what’s going on with you, Danny? Besides hoops?” Ty pulls a pack of gum out of his pocket; it’s the weird no-name brand of another Bradshaw vending machine purchase. He offers me a stick, which I accept.

  “Not much.” I swallow. “Same old same old.” I hope I don’t look like I’m shivering. And then I realize how idiotic I am to feel so jumpy. Ty Amblin is probably sitting here waiting for me to ask him to the dance. He knows I’m going to, and he wants to go. I don’t have to be nervous at all. My asking rushes out all at once, words clear
and simple as bubbles. He nods, and flashes the Smile at me again.

  “When is it?” he asks. As if he doesn’t know.

  “Next Saturday. And I’m pretty sure Jess and Portia are going.”

  “Well, yeah, sure. Sounds cool.” He brushes his fingers through his soft yellow hair and nods. “Cool,” he says again.

  “And Jess’s older brother might be able to give us all a lift, if you guys want to meet up with us at Portia’s before the dance.” The plan behind this casual sentence actually involved hours of phone conversation with Portia, since Mr. Paulson’s so strict about putting his personal stamp of approval on our dates. Ty nods, satisfied, and lifts himself up from the seat, his two thumbs whipping at the seat back in a little drumroll. After all this anticipation, it’s turned out to be a snap. Well, maybe a couple snaps.

  “Great. Look forward to it. See you later then,” he says. “I gotta go. My friends are waiting.” He waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the gym.

  “See ya.” And I’m glad to see him go, glad to get back to the business of breathing normally again. A few other girls are pushing onto the late bus just as Ty gets off, and their impressed glances over at me fill me with a happy smugness inside. At least I can count one victory tonight.

  “I did it,” I tell Mom the next morning as we’re eating breakfast at the Taste of the Town diner. “I asked Ty and he said yes.”

  “Fantastic.” Her eyes rest soft over me. “Your dad and I went to my senior spring formal together, in high school. He wore this beautiful paisley silk tie and cummerbund; no one at Slater had seen anything so sharp. I was hugely impressed with him, so proud he was my date.”

  “Yeah, Ty’s got cool clothes. He’d look cool in anything, though.”

  “Well, we’ll have to get you a dress. I bet we could find something pretty at Nyheim’s.” She catches my wrist and holds it. “Sound good?”