by Tish Cohen
A girl completely unworthy of the man who raised her.
“Are you going to grow up to be just like Daddy?” asks Isabella.
“Nah. I’m more of a math nerd.”
With the still-unforgiven Leo turned toward Griff, Carling tips her head back and lets some guy with long bangs snake the inside of her mouth with his tongue. The ultimate punishment. Then she pulls away, checks that Leo didn’t see, and turns to me. “That reminds me, London,” she says. “A few of us are getting together Saturday afternoon to work on our calculus. You’re welcome to come … if you want.”
Saturday afternoon. Mandy arrives Saturday morning. But our weekend together can be rearranged, can’t it? Carling, however, cannot.
I knock the roving hand off my rib cage and hoist myself out of the bobbing heap of anonysexuality. “I want.”
chapter 14
need-blind
“You’re cooking dinner for Charlie? Dude. I beg you to reconsider and let the man live,” Mandy says into the phone that night.
“Hilarious.” I lean across the stovetop to adjust the burner flame. “He’s not feeling great these days. I’m just trying to be a …” The words get caught in my teeth and I have to sweep them out with my tongue. “A good daughter.”
I’ve decided to step up and make Charlie’s life easier in ways that go far beyond the odd game of Scrabble. I’m going to make all our meals. Tonight’s dinner is more like breakfast: cheese-and-spinach omelets, sliced tomatoes, toasted bagels. I slide the spatula under one side of the egg mixture and prepare to fold it over.
“Just don’t threaten to do the same for me Saturday night,” warns Mandy. “I’d like to live to see my birthday because I’m pretty sure Eddie’s going to propose.”
“And then what? You’ll have a two-year engagement?”
“A year and a half. And he’ll be roped up good until I graduate.”
Mandy has been my best friend since third grade. When the teacher had us make paper chains to decorate the classroom for Christmas, Mandy poured white glue on her palm, spread it around, and peeled it off like a second layer of skin after it dried. I was fascinated enough to invite her over after school. So Mandy stuffed the glue bottle in her pocket and we peeled our palms until her mother picked her up and took her to swimming lessons at four thirty.
I’ve never wanted to spend a day apart from her. Not until today.
“I kind of have bad news about that.” I’m keenly aware I’m the worst friend ever. A true friend doesn’t drop her pal just to spend a couple of hours with some girl she barely knows, no matter how fascinating her gravelly voice and billboard undies. But somehow I find the strength to go from lousy friend to dirty rotten liar. “I know it’s last minute and everything, but I have to hole up and study all weekend.”
There’s a long pause. “You’re cancelling our weekend to study? That is just wrong.”
My omelet folding, like my dependability, has failed. I overshoot and slop wet egg and melted cheese over the side of the skillet and onto the stovetop, which I’ll have to clean up before Dad gets any manic scrubbing ideas. “This school is different, I told you that. I’m in Honors Math, and if I don’t keep my grades up, I’m screwed.”
“You’ve always been in Honors Math.” I can hear the pout in her voice. “It never stopped you from hanging with me.”
“I know. The workload here is completely ill.”
“I got someone else to ride Bo for me, plus Eddie has to work.”
Which makes me feel worse. While I’m bettering my social life at Carling’s under the guise of teaching her calculus, Mandy will be stuck at home staring at her yellow-flowered bedroom walls and listening to her parents fight. “I’m sorry. I don’t have a choice. There aren’t that many spots at Ivy League schools. Even fewer if you’re going for the Baxter scholarship.”
She groans. “Do I even want to know?”
“It’s a Harvard scholarship that gives preference to Ant grads. But it’s ‘need-blind,’ meaning anyone can apply, rich or poor. So my complete lack of fundage won’t even help me. Only perfect grades will.”
Mandy doesn’t say anything for a long while. I hear a bit of crunching, then, “Seriously, Sara. People like you and me don’t go to Harvard.”
Irritation rockets through my veins and I realize that, for the first time in my life, having a lid on my potential has been suffocating me. Even with top grades, my future used to look something like the ramshackle bungalows back on Norma Jean Drive: homely, with ceilings so low I could touch them on my tiptoes. But it’s as if a quake has taken place. The pressure on the earth’s plates has caused a huge seismic burp, temporarily allowing me to scrabble to higher ground, groomed Ivy League turf I never had access to in the past. But, as with all seismic activity, further shifts can change things again, so the smart girl climbs while she can. “Hey,” I say. “I’m not even seventeen. Don’t squash my future just yet.”
“You want to go to Boston U and become a principal at Finmory, remember?”
“I still might. The Ants wouldn’t even expect that much from me if they knew I was the janitor’s kid.”
“Sara … how can they not know?”
“I haven’t told them.”
“You mean, as far as these bug people know, your dad is not your dad?”
“Kind of. I said something about my dad being some kind of doctor. These kids are different, Mandy. It’s not acceptable to come from nothing. Believe me; you’d have done the same thing in my position.”
Mandy is silent and I hear a flicking sound in the background. I don’t have to see her to know she’s picking at the bottom of her shoe. It’s been her nervous habit since we were kids. “See, that’s where we’re different,” she says. “I may be the daughter of a cable repairman and a receptionist, and I may live in the lamest town on the planet, but not for one second have I ever thought I come from nothing.”
“That’s not what I meant. It’s not a class thing. It’s—”
I don’t get the chance to explain. She’s already hung up. That I deserved it makes it worse.
Dad comes in and sits at the table. “Who was on the phone?”
I drop the phone into its cradle and set Dad’s dinner on the table. Over-toasted bagels and crippled omelets. “Mandy. She can’t come this weekend.”
“That’s too bad. You could have used a little fun.”
“Yeah, well. Now I can study.”
He doesn’t comment. As he eats, he lines up the salt and pepper shakers in front of his plate. Then pushes them slightly to the left. Then the right. Then moves them closer to his juice glass, where his folded napkin, glass, and the shakers now form the letter L. Wait a second, not quite perfect, because he’s adjusting the napkin now, making it straighter. There. Now the L is as flawless as a glass/ napkin/salt and pepper shaker L could possibly be.
I watch as he dismantles the L, then lines it all up again. This time the napkin and the shakers make up the long arm of the L, and the juice glass becomes the short part. Lining things up like this is not a good thing. It’s not a sign of neatness or boredom or an extreme fondness for the middle section of the alphabet. It’s a sign his OCD is spreading into the tiniest corners of his life.
“You used to take pills for it, right?”
“For what?”
“You know, lining things up and stuff.”
“Dr. Harris put me on an antidepressant for a while. But the side effects were overwhelming. My concentration was off.”
“Why don’t you see Dr. Harris anymore?”
He stabs a piece of egg and stuffs it into his mouth. “What for? I’m managing quite well now.”
His denial feels like food poisoning, piercing my stomach wall. I wonder if he believes himself. “But did he ever give you any guidelines? Like, how to tell if your OCD has gone from being just an annoyance to being something more?”
He takes a long sip of juice, sets down the empty glass, and wipes his mouth. “He said as
long as my behavior remains within about twenty degrees of the spectrum of normal daily functioning, I am fine to manage on my own.”
God. We’ve sailed way past that one. “It’s good we have his number. You know, just in case.”
Dad shakes his head. “I suspect that number wouldn’t do us much good. Harris died about a year and a half ago.”
My math brain starts clicking and whirring as it tries—and fails—to find a solution it can live with.
(my unhappy father × tabletop items becoming letters of the alphabet) - normal daily functioning + one dead doctor = one Russian pawnbroker coming back from the dead
Early Saturday morning I wake to Dad shaking my shoulder and asking me to run to the corner market for milk for his coffee. Seeing as today is his birthday, I have no choice but to peel my bones from the warm, squishy mattress and step out onto the icy floor. Still half-asleep, I gather my hair into a ponytail and pull on a pair of paint-splattered gray sweats and fleecy boots. By the time I reach the foyer, I’m at least alert enough to take the back door to the alley to eliminate any chance encounters with early-morning Ants who might wander into Brighton. It’s happened before.
It’s even colder than I imagined outside. I step into the alley and shiver in the weak sunlight, pulling my sleeves down over my hands. In the parking area, heaving a trash bag into the Dumpster, is Noah, wearing nothing but wrinkled shorts and a torn undershirt that looks like he’s been living in it for days—stained, with a collar so stretched out it’s falling off one shoulder. His dreads are glued together in long, wormy tufts, like licorice ropes that’ve frozen together.
“Geez, it’s cold,” he says when I wave.
“Yeah.”
He hurls a couple of pizza boxes into the recycling bin, then reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes. After lighting up he tosses a spent match on the roadway. “You’re Charlie’s kid, right?”
I nod.
“He’s a pretty cool guy. I helped him with the van the other day.”
“You’re the one who drives the Bentley?” I point at the shiny black car.
He nods. “You a friend of Carling’s?”
Simple question, really. All I have to say is yes or no. But the answer isn’t that clear. What he should have asked is, do I sit behind Carling in math class and analyze her lineup of underpants? Did I go through a half tube of gel trying to style my hair like hers before school this morning? Have I ever grabbed hold of her boyfriend’s chest? Worn her skirt? To any of those questions, I could squeak out a definitive yes. But as it is, I can only mumble, “Kind of. You work for her family all the time?”
“Kind of.” He laughs to himself. “Not a bad job, riding around in a fancy car. Hanging out with a fancy family. I don’t have much in the way of relatives myself, so this kind of works for me.” He sucks on his cigarette, exhales, and analyzes my face. “I worry about that girl, though. She’s like a kid sister to me. But I can’t be around all the time, you know?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not just her driver.” Another drag on his smoke. “I keep her safe.”
“Keep her safe from what?”
“Mostly herself.” He tosses his cigarette onto the pavement and flicks it away with his bare foot. “Carling Burnack is none too stable. Haven’t you noticed?”
“Kind of.”
“Her father’s nuts, and Carling … I adore her, but she’s capable of just about anything. You’d be wise to avoid her.”
He’s right. I should stay away from Carling.
Trouble is, I can’t.
chapter 15
slush snooker
Carling Burnack’s house is like no other house I’ve seen. Perched on the edge of a hill, tangled up in zillions of tree branches, it’s a big white brick box that is seriously confused with itself. It’s all at once ancient and modern, obnoxious and impressive, beautiful and repulsive. The three-car garage tucked beneath the house appears to be dug straight into the hillside, the open doors revealing wide-eyed cars peeking out like worried moles, watching as I park my rusted ten-speed against dead cedar hedge and walk around the property in search of the front door.
Following a leaf-strewn path down one side of the house, I eventually find a door toward the back. Windows on either side of the door flaunt hanging mobiles made of glass discs in reds, purples, golds, and blues. They look like kindergarten art projects of Carling’s that nobody ever thought to take down. Slinging my book bag over one shoulder, I suck in a big breath and ring the bell.
The air is filled with the smell of Sunday-night dinner. Like beef and gravy and mothers who wear aprons. Looking around, I notice a brown paper bag by my feet, folded neatly at the top, and a large aluminum tray. There’s a note taped to the foil lid of the tray, and I bend down to read it.
Grace,
Heat the roast for one hour at 350. Potatoes for 20 min. Better times ahead, darling.
Ted sends his love.
xoxox, Barbara
Just as I stand up, the door swings open. A tiny woman in a gray dress and running shoes steps out from behind it. “You come for Miss Carling?” she says in a troubled whisper.
I nod.
She steps to one side and motions for me to enter. Before she closes the door, I say, “There’s some kind of food out there.”
“No,” she says, refusing to look. “No food.”
“There is, see?” I point.
The door thumps shut. She says nothing, just waits while I take off my boots, then motions for me to follow, leaving Barbara’s roast and Ted’s love to rot on the porch with the autumn leaves.
The hallway is wide enough to allow for busloads of tourists, and the walls are smothered in art of all sizes. Tiny architectural drawings in plain black frames are squashed between massive canvases splashed with hallucinogenic blotches of what looks like dried vomit. And speckled between these are African masks and photos of a big, hairy man, probably Carling’s dad, shaking hands with Tom Hanks, Matthew Broderick, and a blonde woman with cropped bangs and huge black glasses.
I slow in front of a drawing framed in copper. The frame and the surrounding white mat are enormous, but the pencil drawing in the center is no bigger than my palm. It’s a badly done sketch, scribble, really, of a bus and a couple of stick people holding guitars. I peer at the signature—Elton John. Wow. The guy’s clearly no artist, but I’m guessing this little doodle is worth a fortune.
The old wooden floorboards are so warped it feels like we’re walking over hills. The housekeeper’s spongy shoes are completely silent—between her soundless footsteps and the way she refuses to look me in the eye, it’s as if she barely exists.
We pass dark, cavernous rooms full of building-block furniture that seems uncomfortable as hell. Everywhere are messy stacks of magazines, journals, and humungous books—piled high on coffee tables, pushed under spare chairs and deep into corners. I slow at the door of what must be Mr. Burnack’s recording studio. Double glass doors etched with sunburst patterns lead into a black room covered floor to ceiling on one side with buttons, dials, flashing red lights, and knobs. Other than the enormous keyboard at the base, the whole right side of the room looks like the cockpit of a plane. The desk is nearly empty but for a row of silver disc trophies—Tony awards, I assume—the ultimate prize for anyone working in theater.
The dining room has three walls lined floor to ceiling in books stacked as haphazardly as the others, most threatening to tumble over the edge and onto the floor. The fourth wall is a floor-to-ceiling window looking out on the patchwork of autumn leaves outside, as if to remind the owners that there’s a world beyond these walls. The table is made entirely of glass, with cone-shaped stools of every color tucked underneath.
The maid stops and presses a button on a panel, and I realize we’re standing in front of an elevator. Our four-story apartment building doesn’t even have an elevator, and Carling has one in her house. I must appear shocked because the woman smiles to herself. Stainle
ss-steel doors slide open, and it takes every ounce of control I can muster to pretend this is all normal.
Inside, she presses a button marked B, the elevator lurches, and we begin to descend. Then she looks at me. “You are from Ant School?”
I nod. “I’m new.”
“Too nice friend for Miss Carling.”
I’m confused. Did she mean I’m too nice to be friends with Carling or that it’s nice that I’m friends with Carling? Her tone was so flat I can’t tell. Then the doors slide open and we’re in the basement, in a caramel-colored rec room with a pool table, a roaring fire in a double-sided stone fireplace, retro-looking pinball machines, and music thumping from floor speakers. Isabella and Carling have pool cues in their hands, and Sloane fiddles with an enormous machine on a bar counter. Willa, perched on the edge of a cushy chair, pecks away on a laptop. Everywhere, spread across the butterscotch carpeting, are calculus textbooks, binders, calculators, pencils.
They look up.
“Hey, London,” Carling says. Then she waits. Maybe for my reaction to the room, which is the most incredible basement I’ve ever seen. Back home, our cellar had a cement floor, cheap paneling, and a TV with an antenna made from a coat hanger. Stained acoustic tiles lined the ceiling, and the only entertainment was a couple of puzzles with missing pieces and a Twister game with a spinner held together by gum.
“Hey,” I say, as if bored.
“We’re taking a study break to cheer up Carling,” says Sloane. “She’s bummed that Leo won’t do her.”
“I didn’t say that,” squeaks Carling. “I said he gets all weird about things. It’s fine for me to take off my shirt, but when it comes to him, he gets all hostile. How are we ever going to have sex?”
Sloane sips from a paper cup and squints in disgust. “How long have you been dating now? A year?”
