Sam shook her head and got to her feet. “I want to go home. There’s no place like home.”
“Okay, Dorothy,” I said, and led her to my car.
• • •
After all our years as friends, after all of our bad dates, after a hysterectomy (mine) and a needle biopsy (hers, and thank God, a false alarm), Sam knows my kitchen as well as her own. She pulled plates and mugs out of the cupboard while I bent in front of the refrigerator, pushing past the carrots and skim milk to find the good stuff. I fixed a plate of Brie and crackers, grapes and fig jam, figuring we’d hang out in the bedroom, eating and watching the E! True Hollywood Story on Liza Minnelli that I kept permanently on my TiVo. I picked up a basket of laundry while Sam took the food and followed me up the stairs.
“So do I get to see this notorious dress?” she asked as we walked down the hall past Joy’s closed bedroom door.
I flung open my closet door dramatically and pointed at the offending garment.
Sam lifted it from the rod and slipped off the plastic. “Wow,” she said. Sadly for me, her reaction wasn’t disgust; it was appreciation. “Say what you will about your sister, girlfriend’s got great taste.”
“It’s beautiful,” I acknowledged. “But it’s way too old for Joy.”
Sam ran her fingers along the skirt’s shimmering fabric. “I don’t know, Cannie. I bet she looks amazing in it.”
“But that’s not the point! It’s a religious ceremony! The point isn’t to look amazing, it’s about tradition, and Judaism, and . . .”
“What does Peter say?” Sam asked.
“Peter’s a guy.” I spread the dress on the bed and sat down beside it. “First time he saw it, he thought it was for me.”
“God bless that sweet, sweet, clueless man,” Sam said, raising a brie-slathered cracker in a toast.
“And the synagogue has rules,” I said. “No spaghetti straps, no bare shoulders.”
“Doesn’t the dress come with a wrap?” Sam asked innocently. I groaned out loud. Those words would be the death of me. They’d engrave them on my tombstone. They’d show up in my obituary. Candace Shapiro Krushelevansky, 42, died after a short illness brought on by a wrap. “The dress wouldn’t bother me so much if Joy wasn’t being so awful.”
“Do you think she’s on drugs? Does she have a boyfriend? Is she a secret bulimic?”
I shook my head, but I wasn’t as certain as I would have liked to be.
Sam got to her feet, eyes sparkling, looking more lively than she had since I’d picked her up at the hotel. “Is she being cyber-bullied? Stalked by older men on MySpace? Can we go through her Internet history?”
“Joy isn’t on MySpace, her school just had a seminar on cyber-bullying, and no, we cannot go through her Internet history.”
Sam wasn’t giving up. “Can we get an ultraviolet light so we can see if there’s semen on her bedspread?”
I stared at her. “How do you even know about that?”
“CSI,” she said. “Excellent TV.”
“We can’t invade her privacy.”
“You’re her mother. Invading your kid’s privacy is part of the job description. Besides, it’s not invading her privacy if we just decided that it was time to flip her mattress over, which you’re actually supposed to do every six months.” Before I could stop her, Sam had trotted down the hall, opened Joy’s door, knelt in front of her bed, and shoved her hand between Joy’s mattress and her box spring. “Bingo!” she said.
My breath caught in my throat. A diary? Condoms? A box full of joints and crack rocks?
Worse. Sam pulled out some printed pages, a printout of a ten-year-old newspaper story. SPILLING SECRETS, I read. My heart sank. “Oh,” I managed. “Oh, shit.” With numb fingers, I flipped through the pages. There I was, giddy and beaming and oblivious, stuffing my face with cake. I flipped through the story slowly, remembering every sordid detail: my mother in the hot tub, Josh’s arrest, the allegations of my neglectful parenting and unhappy childhood, and how my sundresses came from Lane Bryant.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Why dig this up? Why does she care?” A worse fear seized me. “Do you think she’s read the book?”
Sam rolled her eyes. “Um, duh.”
I shook my head. “I don’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“I read an interview once with Erica Jong’s daughter, and she said she read, like, ten pages of Fear of Flying, and then she just wasn’t interested.”
Sam cocked an eyebrow. My heart sank. “Oh, fuck,” I said softly, and flipped the pages over. “Maybe it’s homework. Maybe she’s doing a family tree or something.”
“A family tree that she’s keeping underneath her mattress?”
I hung my head, silently acknowledging that this seemed unlikely.
“You should ask her about it.”
“How? Tell her I just happened to be snooping through her room?”
“Tell her you were flipping her mattress,” Sam said.
“She’ll kill me.” I groaned. I smoothed the pages and slid them back underneath the mattress. “She’ll hate me worse than she already does.”
“Tell Peter,” Sam suggested. “She’ll talk to him.”
“We shouldn’t have done this. I shouldn’t even be in here.” I smoothed Joy’s comforter and pointedly stood by the opened door until Samantha shrugged and followed me out into the hallway.
TWENTY
“So here’s what we picked for table linens,” said Amber, flipping the page in the special album that her party planner had put together. “I really liked the embroidered silk toppers layered over the linen, but they were special-order from India, and we weren’t sure they’d get here in time. These are the Chinese lanterns . . .” She flipped the page. Sasha and Tara and Sophie and I oohed and aahed over the globes of scarlet and peony-pink that would dangle from the Four Seasons’ ceiling next month, while Tamsin ate her Zone chicken salad without lifting her eyes from her book. “And the favor bags . . .” Amber pointed at a picture. “Of course, that’s just a sample. They’ll be monogrammed with my name. We’re just finalizing the fonts.”
More oohing and aahing. I stifled a yawn. Amber turned another page. “Dress for the service,” she said, pointing at something long-sleeved in pale blue. “Dress for cocktails.” That one was hot pink, with a poufy skirt. “And the ballgown for the party.”
“Oh my God,” Tara squealed while I stared at the page.
“Is that a wedding dress?” I asked.
“Bridesmaid’s,” Amber said smugly. “Vera Wang. Hey, when are you meeting with your personal shopper again?”
I ducked my head. I’d already told the entire lunch table the saga of the dress from New York: how beautiful it had been and how my mother had said no, and how the dress was now hanging in my mother’s closet, waiting for my personal shopper, who they didn’t know was also my aunt, to pick it up and return it. “God, your mom’s a bitch!” Amber had said, and I’d said, “She’s totally clueless.”
“Clueless,” Sasha had repeated.
“Totally,” Amber had said.
“God, yeah, totally,” Tamsin had said from behind her book. I couldn’t tell whether she was being sarcastic or actually trying to sound like the rest of the girls.
“My personal shopper’s booked, so I’m going to the mall with my mom this afternoon,” I told them.
“I really hope you hurry,” Amber said. “Some of the stores are already starting to get their fall stuff in. You so do not want a fall dress.”
“Totally,” Tamsin muttered again from underneath the tent of her hair. I ignored her, munching my celery with peanut butter while Amber and Sasha reviewed the many reasons why I so did not want a fall dress, which seemed to boil down to an issue of navy and neutrals, which were fine for New Jersey, versus jewel tones, which was what Amber’s occasion required.
The bell rang and I packed up my lunch. “See ya,” Amber said. Tamsin said nothing, just shoved her empt
y milk carton into the trash can and hurried out of the cafeteria so fast that there was no chance of my catching up.
Today was early dismissal for a teacher in-service. I stopped in the bathroom to wipe off my lip gloss, then walked through the doors. Outside, my mom’s minivan was parked at the curb underneath the gray, humid sky. I took my seat next to my mother, who was talking quietly on her cell phone. “Call you later, Sam,” she said as I clipped the specially installed five-point harness-style seat belt in place. “Iced coffee?” my mother offered, pointing at the fresh cup in the cup holder, next to a still-wrapped straw. I shook my head. “Restorative dark chocolate?” she asked, waving a candy bar.
“No, thanks.”
“How was your day?” my mother asked as we pulled away from the curb.
“Fine.”
“How’d the science test go?”
“Pretty good.”
She looked at the road with her own seat belt slipping up over her bosom toward her chin. “Listen,” she said.
My body tensed as she drove the car back to the curb and parked there. I sat perfectly still, wondering what she wanted, what she’d say.
“If there’s ever anything you want to ask me about, or talk to me about, you know that I’m here.”
Like I could miss you. I pushed my lips together and said nothing.
“About boys, or drugs, or your family . . .”
“I’m not doing drugs.”
“I don’t think you are,” said my mother. “But I don’t think you’re fine. I’m concerned about you, Joy. Your grades worry me.”
“I told you, I’m in all these honors classes, and they’re just a lot harder.”
“If you’re having trouble with your classes, we can get you a tutor, or we can talk to your teachers. This is important, Joy. Junior high grades matter for high school, and high school matters for college. This is your life we’re talking about! Real life!”
“I don’t need a tutor. I’m fine.”
“I just want you to know,” she said, her voice rising, “if you want to talk about anything, school or friends or anything—anything at all—I’m here to listen.”
“Fine,” I muttered.
“I love you, Joy,” she said, her voice cracking, and I winced at how completely sappy it was . . . and how my eyes filled when she said it.
“Love you, too,” I said in a tone that let her know I was saying it only because I had to. She sighed and shook her head, but at least she got the car moving again, out of the city and onto the highway, toward the mall.
When we pulled up at a traffic light, she reached over to smooth my hair, and I let her. Then her hand stopped moving.
“Joy,” she said. “Where’s your hearing aid?”
I froze. I’d pulled them both out that morning, the way I did every morning, but I’d forgotten to put them back in. “I . . .” Think of something, think of something, think of something quick! “I . . .”
The light turned green, and the car behind us honked. “In my pocket!” I said triumphantly, remembering Amber Gross’s Rules for Lying to Your Parents. Keep it as simple as possible. Stay as close to the truth as you can. And keep it short. The more you say, the more chances they’ll have to find out you’re snowing them.
I pulled the hearing aid for my left ear out of my pocket and showed it to my mother. “It wasn’t working.” I congratulated myself because this, technically, was true. Of course, it wasn’t working because I hadn’t turned it on, but I wasn’t going to tell her that.
“Did you get it wet?” my mother asked. “Is the battery dead?” She sighed. “Joy, those things are—”
“—very expensive,” I recited. “It just wasn’t working. I don’t know why.”
“Huh.” My mother pulled into a parking spot in front of Macy’s and studied the hearing aid in her hand. “Do you think that maybe it’s not working because you didn’t have it turned on?”
“Really?” I sounded as innocent as she sounded sarcastic. “Oops.”
“Oops? Joy.” I watched as she did something I’d only seen described in books: She flung her hands in the air. “What is going on with you?”
“Calm down,” I said, swinging my door open. “It was a mistake. It’s not like you’ve never made a mistake, right?”
She stared at me strangely. “What do you mean?”
“Never mind,” I muttered. Finally, she heaved herself out of the car and stared unhappily at the entrance to the King of Prussia Mall. As she got out, I pulled the right hearing aid out of my pocket and stuck it in my ear. I slammed my door. My mother held out her hand, then quickly dropped it back to her side as I tried not to groan out loud. I am thirteen years old, and she still thinks I’m supposed to hold her hand when I cross a parking lot.
My mother took a deep breath. “All right!” she said, as enthusiastic as a cheerleader on pep pills. “Let’s go!” I followed her into the store. We threaded our way through the makeup and perfume counters and took the escalator up. I started walking toward the designer gowns on one side of the floor. My mother headed toward juniors on the other.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Aunt Elle said I’m a four and I’d do better in straight sizes.”
“Straight sizes? As opposed to gay ones?”
“As opposed to juniors,” I said, trying not to roll my eyes.
“I think we should at least take a look here.”
“Nothing’s going to fit.”
“Just a look,” she coaxed.
I sighed and plodded after her. She pulled a knee-length linen dress off the rack. “This is pretty.”
I looked at the dress. It was unbelievable. “Mom,” I said slowly. “I have that dress already. You bought it for me for Class Day last year.”
She frowned. “Really? Huh. Well, it’s cute.” She looked at me hopefully. “Does it still fit?”
I leaned against a pillar and said nothing. The dress has cap sleeves and a full skirt and looks pretty much like the dress Julie Andrews wears when she’s leaving the convent in The Sound of Music.
“I need a party dress,” I explained. “A dressy dress, with sparkles and spaghetti straps . . .”
“Oh, no,” said my mom.
“With a jacket, or a wrap, which I will wear when I’m in the synagogue, obviously, so that nobody faints because they can see my shoulders.”
“Let’s watch that tone,” said my mom. Her own voice was pleasant, but I could hear the warning underneath. She grabbed something off a sale rack: a brown tweed jumper that had a round-collared white blouse underneath and a short, pleated skirt, with a matching brown velvet beret pinned to its sleeve. “What do you think of this? I mean, maybe not for a bat mitzvah, but isn’t it cute? For a school dance or something?”
I stared at the dress in horror, then at my mother’s face, waiting for her to wink or smile or say that she was kidding. Except, apparently, she wasn’t.
“No,” I said. “Just . . . no.”
A saleslady in tight black jeans and pointy-toed shoes wandered over. “Start a dressing room?” she droned over the thudding of the rock music they blasted in the juniors department.
My mom rummaged through the sale rack (I could imagine Aunt Elle screaming in horror) and pulled out a long-sleeved forest-green dress in too-shiny satin, then handed it to the saleslady.
“It’s too babyish,” I said.
“Just try it on,” she coaxed.
“I don’t like it.”
“Just for the size.”
“One,” I said, lifting one finger, “I already know my size. Two, the theme of Amber Gross’s bat mitzvah is Hollywood, not Little House on the Prairie.”
My mother sighed. “All I’m asking is for you to try it on. If it fits, then we’ll at least know we’re in the right ballpark, and if we’re not, we’ll move along.”
“It’s all wrong. Completely wrong,” I said. “I know what kinds of dresses girls wear. I’ve been to these parties—” I
closed my mouth. Not fast enough.
My mother looked at me. “When have you been to these parties?”
My heart jumped into my throat as I scrambled for my second big lie of the afternoon. “Well, I went to Todd and Tamsin’s, and I hear all the girls talking about them, and I know the kind of dresses they’re wearing. Party dresses,” I said, and then hurried to the dressing room. The faster I could demonstrate the green dress’s absolute wrongness, the faster I could get out of here. Some fun, I thought, kicking off my shoes and yanking off my jeans. Oh, we were having some fun now.
The dress slid smoothly over my hips, but the zipper stopped about halfway up my back and wouldn’t go any farther. As I looked in the mirror to see my breasts bulging up toward my chin in a way that reminded me, horrifyingly, of my mother, it didn’t take me long to figure out why the zipper wasn’t moving.
“Joy?” My mother knocked on the door.
“It doesn’t fit.”
“Just let me see!” she said.
“It doesn’t fit.”
“Honey . . .” She actually started turning the doorknob of the dressing room, as if it would pop open just because she wanted it to.
I slammed the door open and stood in front of her with my arms hanging at my sides and my boobs squashed against the satin. “See? Do you see now?”
My mother cleared her throat. “Okay,” she said. “Maybe we can try another size. Or maybe a different bra would help.”
She reached toward my chest, probably to adjust the straps of my bra. I slammed the door and stood in front of the mirror, flushed, breathing hard. The zipper wouldn’t move up or down, and I hated the sight of myself, hair sticking up, breasts quivering, one hearing aid sticking out of my ear.
“Joy . . .” My mother’s voice was sweet as honey. I could see her hand coming over the top of the door, dangling a pink dress with puffy sleeves. I yanked the green dress over my hips, hearing it rip before I threw it over the door.
“Just . . . leave . . . me . . . alone.” I punctuated each word by tossing a piece of clothing onto the floor: my pants, my shirt, my left shoe, my right shoe. Then I sank down on the pin- and price-tag-covered floor in my bra and underpants and sat there with my head in my hands. Her fault. It was all her fault. Her fault I was so big on top, her fault that my family was so abnormal, her fault that I would spend my whole life being a freak who would never sound right or look right, who couldn’t even disguise her freakishness with the right dress.
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