“Well, yeah. I could probably learn guitar from YouTube, but there’s nothing on there for how to talk to other kids in high school. Believe me, I’ve searched,” I say.
“Okay then.” Trey puts down his guitar, looks up at me.
“So do you have any brothers or sisters?” I ask.
“Sweetheart, open up.” I wake to my mom banging on the door, loud and intrusive. My cheek is wet with drool and tears. My eyes feel swollen and heavy to open. I must have fallen asleep mid–emotional breakdown. I’m embarrassed all over again by what seems to bring on the waterworks these days. Small things instead of the big ones.
It’s not like this is some lifelong dream. This is the Mapleview High Bugle we’re talking about. So I’m not editor in chief. Who cares? It’s not like I was particularly passionate about the newspaper anyway. I’m not like David, who gets carried away with all the things he’s interested in, reading college-level textbooks late into the night. I still have no idea who or what I want to be when I grow up. This was simply a way to pad my college application. Nothing more.
“Leave me alone!” I yell. My voice is shaky and sad. It gives me away. Now that my mom senses I’m vulnerable, she’ll pounce. This is precisely when having brothers or sisters would come in handy. Someone to share my mom’s focus.
“I’m coming in.” She opens the door, using what is apparently a spare key to my bedroom that I did not know existed. Like my happy family, my privacy has been an illusion. I wonder what else is a lie.
I do not look up. Do not give her the satisfaction of seeing me like this. It would be better if she just thought I was angry. That I hate her now. This pathetic version of me makes it look like there’s room for her to wiggle her way back into my life. I want to scream, I’m not crying about you! but I don’t seem to have the energy.
“We need to talk,” she says. She sits on my bed, and also my toes.
“Ow!” It doesn’t hurt, but I don’t feel like being mature about anything.
“I understand you’re mad at me,” my mom starts, readjusting so she’s not squashing my feet. “And you have every right to be. Still, I think you need to hear me out.”
“No.”
“Kit.”
“No.”
“Stop being a baby,” she says, which, for some reason makes me snap. I’m tired of playing adult. Of trying to be a good sport. I’m suddenly revved up and burning with rage. This must have been what David felt like earlier, when he started drop-kicking the football team. I need to learn krav maga.
“Are you serious right now? I’m the baby? I’m not the one who slept with my husband’s best friend. You’re a cheater and a liar.”
“Please, honey,” she says, all conciliatory, arms outstretched as if I am four years old and all I need is a hug from Mommy to make my boo-boo better. Like my words bounced right off her.
“Do you have any idea what you did to Dad? He was going to divorce you. He was going to break up our family. That’s how much you must have hurt him!” I am screaming at the top of my lungs, so loud that our neighbors the Jacksons can probably hear me even with their windows closed. I don’t care. I need this to stick. “All because you’re a big slut.”
“Kit!”
“Stop saying my name! You don’t get to say my name! You don’t get to do anything!”
“Kit!” she yells again, but I can’t hear her. The anger is too loud and fuzzy, like radio static. White noise on white noise.
“I wish it was you who died. Not Dad. You. It’s not fair,” I say, and then I curl into a fetal position and cry, because though I have just said the most hurtful thing a daughter can say to a mother, and even though I saw the words land like a punch on my unflappable mother’s face—she actually flinched—I feel no satisfaction. Even worse, as soon as the words are out I realize that they are not true. I loved my dad, maybe even more than I love my mother. But still, despite myself, I need her more. Always have.
My mom puts her hand to her mouth, as if she is trying to stifle a silent scream. She’s more ashen than usual, pale enough that she’s almost the same color as me. And just like that, her composure dissolves.
“Oh God,” she says, and then starts sobbing into her palm in large gulps. “Oh God, you’re right. It’s not fair. He’s really gone. And he died without knowing how much I still—have always—loved him.”
“Mom,” I whisper, but I make no move to comfort her. I just unfold my body, sit up, curl my knees back in. I’m still fetal, though at least I’m upright.
“I get why you’re punishing me. I know I deserve all of it. But just know you can’t hurt me any more than I’m already hurting. He was my husband, the father of my child, we were together my entire adult life. I don’t even know who I am without him,” she says, and clutches at her chest. “The love of my life died—he died, Kit—at pretty much the only moment in twenty-six years when he doubted me.”
And there it is. For the first time, my mother says three simple words—he died, Kit—and at least that part, the he died part, is the truest thing she’s ever said.
“Why’d you do it?” I ask, and the tables flip once more. I’m the one sounding like the grown-up again. “Don’t tell me you were lonely. I want to know why you were willing to sacrifice everything.”
She sighs, closes her eyes, and then opens them, as if gathering herself.
“I was lonely. That’s not an excuse. It’s just the truth. Part of it, anyway. Your dad had his books and his practice and you. He wasn’t the type to say to me, Hey, honey, you look beautiful. He didn’t often even say I love you. He just wasn’t that kind of man. I knew that when I married him, and in the beginning I never really needed it. I felt good about myself. Not just about how I looked, but about everything—our marriage, you, my work. For years, it all hummed along nicely. It seemed, I don’t know, so greedy and American to ask for more than that. Then one day I looked in the mirror and suddenly I was forty-five and I realized I couldn’t remember the last time anyone, including Dad, had paid any real attention to me. I felt…taken for granted. Like I was invisible,” my mom says. “You are too young to know what that feels like. At your age, every day is like being center stage.”
Of course my mom would think that’s what sixteen is like. In high school, she was a clear-skinned Indian goddess among pasty, pimpled white girls. She was like a Lauren Drucker, not a Kit Lowell.
“I talked to Dad about how I was feeling and he dismissed it and told me to get my nails done or go get highlights, which felt so condescending. He said I was making a big deal out of nothing. Things were fine. We were fine. All marriages go through shifts. I don’t know. He wasn’t hearing me. It felt like more than just a lull; I was scared things had permanently shifted. Middle-aged doesn’t mean it’s all over, right?”
I don’t answer. Middle age seems an eternity away.
“Jack was feeling depressed about his divorce, and Dad thought it would be good if he spent more time with us, to cheer him up. Sometimes we’d talk, and he became my friend too. I really needed a friend then. This life can be so lonely. You have no idea.”
I want to tell her she’s being condescending, but I’m too tired to talk. My anger has curdled into something sour. Suddenly I don’t know why I asked my mother to explain. I don’t want to hear about her loneliness. About the truth of adult life. I don’t want to know any of this. I want to ask her to stop, but she keeps going.
“One night while your dad was away at that dental convention in Pittsburgh and you were over at Annie’s, Jack and I had dinner and got stupid drunk. I don’t know, for a moment it’s like I equated your father with my parents. I got that ridiculous adolescent feeling of needing to rebel, needing to shake things up, no matter the cost. I made a mistake. One time. Still, one of us should have stopped. I should have said stop.”
“That’s not a mistake. That’s a betrayal,” I say, finding my voice. “You didn’t just betray Dad, you betrayed me too. Our three-person family. And your ex
planation doesn’t undo that damage. Lots of people are lonely. Maybe everyone is. They don’t go around—”
“I know. Again there’s no excuse. We were drunk and stupid and thought—no, we didn’t think. We just did. We immediately regretted it and, for better or worse, I told your dad. I had to tell him. I’ve never not told him anything. And that’s when he filed. Before I even had a chance to explain.”
I take a moment to rewrite the story I made up in my head. The old version had my dad coming home early from work one day and finding my mom and Jack in their bed. I imagined tears and punches, soap opera levels of drama. The old version had an ongoing affair, not a onetime drunken hookup. The old version did not leave room for remorse and confession. The old version involved that terrible, terrible word love.
“You’re too young to understand any of this. Look at you. My baby. You are too young to have lost your father, and in such a cruel way. You shouldn’t have to even know about my ridiculous midlife crisis. You are just too young for all of it. I want to throw myself in front of you, I want to stop all this life from happening to you. But I can’t. I just can’t.” My mom wipes her eyes. “I know you will judge me and maybe hate me, and you have every right to. But I love you no matter what. I was stupid and selfish and one day when you’re older you might understand—I think your dad was beginning to—but for now I can’t ask you to understand. I can only ask you for your forgiveness.”
She lifts my chin so I’m staring her straight in the eye. Both of our faces are wet, and our bodies are trembling with pent-up grief and rage and regret. She’s not wrong. I do judge her, I do hate her for what she’s done—but I also love her, and I don’t know how to reconcile those things.
“You know the part that makes me saddest of all? I can’t protect you anymore. I can’t fix this for you. Any of it,” she says.
“I don’t need protecting,” I say. I don’t say I forgive you. I don’t say I love you. Instead I repeat the words again: “I don’t need protecting.”
The trouble is we both know that’s another lie, just like everything else.
—
Later I have a crying hangover. My head aches, my eyes are red and swollen, and my stomach feels hollowed out. With my door closed and my desk chair tucked behind the knob so my mom can’t just waltz in even with her secret key, I take a deep breath and I decide that if I want to keep my friends—and I do—I better reach out. I dart off a quick text.
Me: Congrats on EIC, guys. Really. I should have said it earlier.
Violet: Whatevs re EIC. You totally deserved it too, but thanks.
Annie: TY, K.
Violet: You’ll stay on the paper, right?
Me: Course.
Violet: Phew. Hey, party at Dylan’s on Friday. You in?
Annie: Pls say Y. Pls. Pls. Pls.
Me: Dylan or Dylan.
Annie: Duh,
Me: K.
Annie: Bring your bf, DD.
Me: David’s not my boyfriend.
Violet: Maybe he should be. That beat-down was hot. I’m totally #teamdavid.
Annie: TD! BRING HIM.
Me: I don’t know if he’ll want to come.
Annie: For the eleventy billionth time, BRING HIM.
At 7:57 a.m. on Wednesday morning, I cross paths with Kit just as we make our way into school. She smiles at me and makes the take off your headphones motion, which I do. If I leave my music on and we talk while walking, I’m pretty sure I can still round the corner to a track change.
“Your face looks better,” she says, wincing. “Does it hurt?”
“Not too bad.” My right eye is ringed in blue and my lips are swollen, but my nose has returned to roughly normal dimensions. In the shower I noticed seven small bruises along my torso, and I’m pretty sure I’ll lose my left thumbnail. Meat Boy apparently has two casts. He will have to sit out the rest of the football season. I’m not complaining. I have not received a single threatening text since yesterday. For the time being, my peers are okay with me continuing to live.
“So there’s this party on Friday night,” Kit says.
“There are probably lots of parties on Friday night,” I say, a line which sounded much smoother in my head than out loud.
“Well, this particular one is a Mapleview high school party at Dylan’s.”
“Boy Dylan or Girl Dylan?”
Kit smiles to herself, though I have no idea why she’d find that amusing. “Girl Dylan.”
“Right.” I believe Girl Dylan has red hair that starts out small and fans out across her back. It’s spectacularly geometric. “The one with the orange triangular head?”
“I guess?” Kit asks. “So I’m wondering, do you want to go?”
“With you? To a Mapleview high school party?”
“Yes. With me. To the party. Though now I’m starting to regret asking, because you’re making this so much harder and more awkward than I thought it would be.”
“I’d love to go to Girl Dylan’s party with you,” I say, quickly accepting before Kit can rescind her invitation. If I didn’t know it was inappropriate, I’d do a little dance right here. I suddenly understand the appropriate usage of Miney’s Can I get a woot woot? because I want two of them—a woot and then another woot—whatever they may be. I’d maybe even add in some lasso arms.
“Okay,” Kit says.
“Okay,” I say, and try but fail to keep my face neutral. Nope, I smile so big it hurts my lips. I slip my headphones back on, round the corner at track change number three. A good start to the day.
—
I’m at the mall again, shopping for Friday night. Miney has declared this journey a necessity, though I don’t understand why I can’t just wear one of the outfits we bought last week. I’ve been rotating my new clothes on a mutually agreed-upon schedule with my mother that allows maximum repeatability by me but also makes time for biweekly washing. The thought of adjusting to more new clothes makes my body itch.
“Will it be noisy at the party?” I ask Miney, since she’s a serious partygoer and is therefore an expert. I say this loudly, because it happens to be noisy here too, as we pass the food court, my least favorite part of the mall experience. Too many mixed culinary smells and crying children and people pushing past while carrying an unwieldy number of shopping bags.
“Yup.”
“Distractingly so?” I ask.
“For you, yeah, probably. But you definitely can’t bring your headphones.”
“Will it be smelly? Will there be lots of people throwing up?” In almost every teen movie party scene, the heroine drinks too much and vomits on her potential love interest’s lap. I like Kit a lot, but maybe not that much.
“Nah. I mean, it happens sometimes, usually later in the night, but you’ll be fine.”
“So put a number on it. What do you think is the likelihood of someone vomiting on or near me at Friday night’s party?” I ask as we move into the atrium part of the mall, which has a high glass-domed ceiling and a grand piano. It’s the opposite of the food court—empty and open and the only part of this whole place that I don’t hate. The music isn’t half bad—I mean, there’s a reason the pianist is playing in front of Nordstrom and not at Carnegie Hall—but it’s a tolerable sound track.
“Two point four percent,” Miney answers with uncharacteristic precision. I do not ask her how she arrived at that number, but estimating that she’s been to at least one party a weekend for half a decade, this means she’s been proximate to throw-up about six times.
“Those are reasonable odds.”
“Little D, you’ll be fine.”
“What if the football team is there?”
“They will likely hide from you, since you are, like, the Ultimate Fighting Champion now.”
“In UFC they don’t abide by rules. I abide by rules. I fight with honor.”
“Right.”
“Can you please also give me instructions for dancing?”
“Excuse me?”
“I need instructions for dancing. Like how do I move my body to music in front of other people? Break it down. Step by step.”
“Seriously? Dancing isn’t one of those things that come with instructions. It’s not like putting together Ikea furniture.”
“Please help me.”
“Well, first of all, this is not the sort of music that will be playing.” She motions to the pianist, who is bald and bearded, which I’ve always found to be a bizarre combination. You would think you would want cranial and mandibular hair consistency.
“No Ravel’s Bolero. Got it.”
“No classical music, period. They’ll probably just play all the crap that’s on the radio.”
“I amend my original request. I need instructions for dancing to noise.”
“You just move your body to the beat. Feel the music.” Miney puts her arms up and sways to sounds I do not hear. She closes her eyes, leans on the tips of her toes, and jumps. After approximately ninety seconds, she stops and looks at me. “Your turn.”
“I don’t think so.” Miney doesn’t respond. She just waits.
“Fine.” I copy her, jump up and down, though I don’t actually jump down, which is a misnomer. I let gravity do its job. My sneakers make discordant squeaks along the marble floor.
“No. Stop. You look like you’re having a seizure. Think of dancing like having a conversation but with the music instead of with another person. It’s all intuition and instinct.”
“Right. Because I’m good at all three of those things. Intuition, instinct, and having conversations with other people.”
“Little D, sarcasm becomes you. Seriously, though, you got this. Just like when you’re talking to Kit, follow her lead. Look for the cues. If the song is fast, you move faster. If it’s slow, move slower, more intimately. Maybe for you it won’t be about instinct.”
“Then what will it be about?” I ask.
“Well, you’re good at details, right? Noticing the small things? And you know how to listen. Like really listen in a way no one else can. So maybe use those skills? Do it your way.”
“You’re not making sense. Dance my way? I don’t have a way.”
What to Say Next Page 18
