by Tish Cohen
“Good. I’m going out tonight, Dad. To a party at a hotel by the park.”
He looks up. “I can’t drive you.”
“It’s okay. I’ll get a ride with a friend.”
“Her parents?”
“No. Her driver.”
“Should be enjoyable. Do me a favor, sweetheart. Take the garbage out when you go.”
“No problem.”
He picks up the paper again and I notice his enormous hands are road-mapped with thickened skin so raw and red they’re nearly violet. He’s bandaged them in places, but what skin remains visible is cracked so deep at the knuckles his fingers could crumble and fall right off. I leave the room and return with hand cream from the bathroom.
“You should wear gloves, Dad.”
“Hard to clean properly with gloves on.”
I press a kiss onto the top of his head, then drop into the chair beside him, pick up one of his hands, and work cream into his devastated skin. “I saw the lawyers’ papers.”
He looks up at me, smiles sadly. “I figured you might have when I found them on the chair. But I was hoping they’d slipped.” Neither of us speaks for a bit. Outside, a police siren grows louder, then fades into nothing. Dad reaches into his pocket and pulls out a long envelope. He removes a large ticket and slides it in front of me. American Airlines. Roundtrip. Boston to Paris. Logan International Airport to Charles de Gaulle. I laugh angrily. Just like that, the umbilical cord can be reattached without any surgery at all.
“She wants you to come out and see her,” Dad says, slipping the ticket into my purse.
“Yeah, right. That’s happening.”
“I don’t think there’s a whole lot of choice involved. Her lawyer wants to make it part of the custody agreement—that you spend school holidays with your mother.”
“Tough for her lawyer. I’m staying with you.”
“You can’t. It’ll cost me a fortune to fight.”
“I won’t go. She’s the reason …” I stare at his palms, which are shiny from wear, and rub the cream in harder, hating my mother more than ever. “I won’t go.”
“Sweetheart, the law is the law.”
Something in me snaps. I stand up, grab my purse. “That’s where you’re wrong. The law is not the freaking law. The law can be bent and twisted and wrapped around your neck, did you know that? And I’m going to find some kind of Thin Skull rule that will get me out of it.”
His eyebrows squeeze together in a deep fissure. “I’ve never heard of any Thin Skull—”
“Of course you haven’t. You never took pre-law. You never took anything.” I grab the trash bag from the kitchen and stomp toward the front door. “No matter what Mom said about your career, you never did anything but read about cars. Which is why we’re in this gigantic mess to start with!” The door slams behind me, blotting out my father’s stricken face.
Outside in the back alley, I pull the plane ticket from my purse and drop it into the trash bag. With a mighty heave, I swing it into one of the garbage cans and walk away.
chapter 21
dress your tiger in corduroy and denim
Brice opens the door and, right away, I’m grateful he’s wearing pants. He looks at me, says hello with his eyebrows, then growls to the air behind him, “Gracie, they’re picking us up in seven minutes!”
I step inside. “You’re going out, Mr. Burnack?” If it’s at all possible, the man looks even scarier dressed up in black trousers, brownish blazer, and black mock turtleneck than he did in his hairy legs and boxers.
He’s restless tonight. Distracted. For a minute I’m not sure he remembers me. “Dinner with the lawyer. I can break any law I want tonight. He’s got my ass covered.”
“Yeah, well, someone’s got to cover it.” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I regret it. It sounds like I was referring to his pants. Or, rather, his lack of pants. Which, of course, I was. It just wasn’t meant to sound so horribly obvious.
There’s a terrible moment where he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Sweat dampens my chest and underarms. I’ve offended Carling Burnack’s father—a man so powerful he can walk around undressed—and I can no longer breathe.
His face cracks and he coughs out a deep laugh, setting his paw on my shoulder and leading me into the house. “You’re all right, kid.”
I follow him past the messy living room and down the hall toward the back of the house, slowing when I realize something is missing. It’s the Elton John drawing. It’s gone. All that’s left in its place is a hook on a wall. If Brice were any less Brice-ish, I might have asked if he moved it to another room, just to make conversation with him.
As we pass his recording studio—so completely strewn with papers this time I suspect he might have had a temper tantrum in there—Brice bellows through my ear, through my brain, through my soul, “Gracie, you’re down to five and a half!”
Feminine shrieking from the back of the house grows louder as we approach the den. “The girls are back here,” he says. “No doubt trying to figure out how to pour my good scotch into their purses.”
“So, your musical opens next week,” I say.
“It does. We’re expecting a full house. Actually having trouble with scalpers buying up huge blocks of tickets in anticipation of cashing in on all the hype.”
“Wow.”
“Wow is right. My manager tells me it’s a better indicator of a show’s success than a great review.” He winks at me. “These scalpers are like wolves. They have superior instincts.”
“Good luck. Or maybe I should say break a leg.”
He glances down at me and half smiles.
We walk into the den, a comfy-looking room with light brown leather sofas, wooden tables and wall unit, and old brass lamps. The bar along the far wall is lined with cut-crystal canisters filled with liquids ranging in color from pale yellow to deep brownish amber, and shallow glass bowls brimming with cashews and Jujubes.
Carling looks up from the longer sofa where she, Isabella, and Sloane are watching MTV. Sloane waves me over with the controller and I lower myself down into the cold leather chair next to them.
“Love your sweater,” says Carling.
Isabella grunts and turns back to the TV. “Every vintage shop in New York carries those.”
At the bar, Mr. Burnack pulls out a gleaming crystal bottle and pours himself a hefty drink. “A little toast to my girl, who scored the third highest grade in Honors Math this week. Ninety-five percent.” He drinks hungrily, then gives Carling a cuff to the chin that is intended to be gentle. “I am so proud of my Ladybug.”
With a jerk of her shoulders she backs away from his touch, then forces a grin that’s too wide to be real. “All thanks to my new study buddy.”
He looks at me. “What have we done without you all these years, Sara?”
“Yes.” Isabella’s head snaps around. “What would we have done?”
The inside of Brice’s limo smells like rich leather, woodsy cologne, and Sloane’s cinnamon Tic Tacs. As soon as the car pulls onto the bumpy cobblestones of Sycamore Street, the driver, Horace, an older man with gray beard and laughing eyes, calls out to us, “The Four Seasons is a grand hotel, ladies. I stayed there on my wedding night. You should fit right in with all the glitterati.”
“Thanks, Horace,” says Sloane, who is sitting beside me while Carling and Isabella look on from the seat facing us.
Something about the way the girls ignore his attempt to make nice makes me hurt for Horace. I spin around in my seat and say to him, “When did you get married?”
“Centuries ago,” he says with a laugh. “My brother works the front door. If you see a short guy named Arthur, tell him I’ll be over for dessert after his shift. And tell him this time I want the good stuff. None of those animal cookies he keeps for the kids.”
“Arthur. No animal cookies. Got it.”
“He’ll be easy to spot. A bit less gray hair than me, but not nearly as good looking.”
B
efore I can answer, Carling leans forward and presses a button. The barrier rises up from behind my seat and shuts him out. “No more small talk, London. It’s irritating as hell.”
“God, Carling. I was talking to him.”
“It’s time to start the party.” She pulls out a small funnel, a bottle of Evian water, and a handful of small plastic vials with colored lids, and dumps them onto one of the seats. She pulls the lid from the closest decanter. “Grab yourselves a glass, girlfriends. Tonight we drink the good stuff.”
“But your dad marked the bottles,” says Isabella. She moves closer and whispers. “Seriously. You don’t want to get him mad.”
Carling shrugs her away. “Shut up and pass me your glasses.” She sets the glasses on a ledge and fills each about halfway. “This shit’s expensive, so no sipping until we hit smooth pavement.” Once four glasses are filled, the decanter is nearly empty. Carling sets the funnel into the neck of the decanter and pours in the water. Then she holds up the plastic vials. “Food coloring,” she says. “I’ve become something of an expert on re-creating the exact hues of the world’s finest scotches. Two drops of yellow. One drop of red, which we’ll neutralize with a splash of green….”
We watch as the two colors explode into colorful clouds inside the decanter. Eventually, the shaking of the car mixes them together. “I don’t know. Doesn’t look much like the color of the scotch,” I say.
“Watch and learn.” She holds up a bottle of soy sauce and lets two drops plop into the funnel. About sixty seconds later, we’re staring at some fine-quality scotch.
“Loser,” says Sloane, tying her tangled hair into a knot. “It’s not going to taste like scotch. You’re still going to get murdered and I’m so not getting my hands bloody as we pick up your severed limbs.”
Carling feigns shock and hands us our drinks. “I didn’t touch Daddy’s booze. If my father’s ever sober enough to notice, Horace did it. We all saw him, didn’t we?”
Isabella giggles into her drink.
I say nothing. There’s no way on earth I’ll rat on that man. “Why does your dad have a driver anyway? Why not drive himself?”
“Small matter of a DUI,” says Carling. “In case you haven’t noticed, Brice is something of a career drinker. Helps him forget he was once famous.”
Isabella nudges her. “But his new musical will do it for him.”
“Yeah. This is it for him. If the reviews are good, he’s made his comeback. If reviews suck, he’ll implode. He’s totally freaked out. Yells at everyone, fired his manager.”
“The reviews will be amazing. You’ll see,” says Isabella.
“Whatever.” Carling peers down at her pumps and taps her toes together. “So, ladies. Tonight’s the night. I’m going to have sex with Leo.”
Is it too much to ask not to hear about this? I’m aware things must be going on between Carling and Leo, physical things, but I try to wipe these images out as soon as they form in my head. I cough out an unconvincing laugh. “Where? In the car?”
“Wherever. Maybe I’ll sneak him into my bedroom later, who knows?”
“What about us?” says Isabella, looking alarmed. “We’re sleeping in your bedroom.”
“You’ll just vacate until I’m done with him. God, Izz. I thought you’d be happy for me.”
“I am,” she says quickly. “Of course I am. You and Leo are perfect together.”
The car goes quiet, no sounds but the hum of the engine and the sipping of scotch. To break the uncomfortable silence, Sloane shrieks, “One-two-three, swap to the right!” Drinks move to the floor and all three girls yank off their tops and pass them to the girl on their right. Carling’s sweater goes to Isabella, Isabella’s blouse goes to Sloane, and Sloane’s silver sequined top lands on my lap. Carling shivers in her white camisole and tugs on my sweater. “Hurry up, London, I’m freezing here.”
“What? You want my sweater?”
“Rules, London,” says Carling. “When someone calls a swap, you swap.”
“Seriously? But I’ll be freezing.”
“Swap,” snaps Isabella.
I pull my sweater off, pass it to Carling, and tug the sequins over my head.
Carling buttons up and admires herself. “I love this sweater. It’s so ironic, like you’d see on a drive-in ho from the fifties.”
Isabella nods and narrows her eyes at me. “And so versatile. Just the kind of piece to take the poodle-skirted town slag from backseat to abortion clinic.”
I try not to react, but fail. “It’s not slutty,” I snap, feeling an angry flush thump across my chest. My mother was no town slag even if she did get herself into an affair that would rock the entire Finmory High School community.
I never meant to listen in on my mother’s phone call. There I was, lying on the sofa watching some skater-dufus on Judge Judy get nailed for paintballing his landlord’s new truck, when Mom’s car pulled up. It was hot for June, so hot that the living room windows were pushed all the way up and the breeze that drifted in smelled like a sunburn.
I sat up and watched her. She was talking on her cell phone and was insanely slow gathering her purse and walking to the front door. Only she didn’t come in. She lit a cigarette, leaned against the porch railing, and kept right on talking.
Her voice was what caught my suspicion. It wasn’t her usual voice at all. This voice was all flirty and sexy. As if she weren’t someone’s mother. Someone’s wife. As if she were somebody’s girlfriend, or wanted to be.
It was wrong to silence Judge Judy and listen. But that’s exactly what I did.
“I do not!” Mom said, laughing. I could hear her suck on her cigarette, then a long stream of smoke curled up past the half-moon-shaped window in the door. “I have never in my life eaten like a bird on a first date. I like to think I’m a bit more modern than that.”
A long pause, followed by a softer voice. “That’s because you made me nervous back then. I was afraid I’d choke or get a piece of broccoli stuck between my teeth. You’d never have spoken to me again, much less gone out with me.”
She couldn’t be talking to my dad. Charlie was definitely not the kind of guy to get offended by a sprig of broccoli between someone’s teeth. On the floor, maybe, but not in the teeth.
Her purse dropped to her feet. “Well, I guess we all can’t be as unself-conscious as you, baby. You’re used to being stared at all day long.”
Baby.
She laughed. “That’s why you’re a teacher and I whip up purées in the back of a restaurant where I can’t be seen.” A short pause and her voice dropped to a near whisper. “I know, babe. I’m counting the seconds. Why don’t you meet me earlier Friday? Cancel your last class. It’ll be the ultimate gift for a bunch of high-school students desperate to start summer holidays.”
There was only one high school in Lundon. Mine.
“I love you too, Michael.”
And only one teacher named Michael. Mr. Nathan, my science teacher.
chapter 22
the carling burnack who cares
Carling blows a drunken kiss to the limo from behind the great glass doors of the Four Seasons Hotel. Then she leans against the glass and grins at us through the wavy net of streaked hair lying across her face. “Ladies, we are free.”
“Couldn’t you have faked that Samantha’s party was closer to the actual party?” Sloane pouts and tilts her head to the side. “The T is such a hassle. So much walking.”
Isabella swipes her lips with blue-pink gloss. “I don’t mind. I walk everywhere. Makes me feel like a New Yorker.”
“It’s only a few stops,” says Carling. “The boys are meeting us on the platform. Anyway, we’ll stink of Brice’s finest scotch. Which, when combined with T exhaust, should make us smell like we took a private jet over from Rome.”
Not me. I took one sip of my drink and felt my throat catch fire. I fake-sipped the whole way here and when the girls stupidly stuck their heads out the windows to howl at boys at a red light,
I dumped my scotch into their empty glasses. No one seemed to notice the gift from the alcohol gods when Horace forced them back inside.
“Anyway, I like the T,” says Carling. “Remember when we were in kindergarten, Sloaney? Throwing fishy crackers at the third rail during field trips was the best part.”
“Why? Can you see it spark?” I ask.
“Je-sus.” Carling looks at me, shocked. “Don’t they have subways in London?”
Before I come up with an answer, I’m saved by Sloane. “I heard a story,” she says, “where this college guy stood on the platform and peed on the third rail and the electrical current raced back up his urine stream and killed him.”
“Impossible,” says Isabella with great authority. “But you can die a urinary death by candiru. If you pee in a South American river, this little heat-seeking fish can follow the urine stream and swim into your body. Once inside, it flares its barbed fins and gets lodged in your flesh. Has to be surgically removed.”
Sloane says, “Once again, Latini, you make me retch.”
I watch Isabella push her lip gloss into a flowered container and slip it into a special lip-gloss-shaped pocket in her purse—so nonchalant, so assured of her superiority. But the way she labors over her possessions, her lopsided friendship with Carling, her tales of revulsion, expose her as anything but. I’m still incensed by her abortion-clinic remark about my mother’s sweater, and something inside me splinters. “It’s a sign of insecurity, you know,” I say.
“What does that mean?” she says, shifting her weight.
“Dropping these sensational facts like tiny conversation-busting bombs to make yourself sound superior. It’s a sign of insecurity.”
Isabella doesn’t answer right away. Two splotches of color bruise her cheeks.
Sloane bursts out laughing. “Go, London!”
Isabella sweeps through the doors, which are being held open by a man in a uniform with gleaming brass buttons. She calls back. “I’m not even going to acknowledge that remark with an answer.”
Of course not. Because you don’t have one.
