A few moments later, the television began to mutter. Food Network, probably.
When Mom got started with the Stoli, she confused watching other people make food with actual cooking.
I crept downstairs an hour later. Mom was passed out on the couch, a washcloth over her eyes. Paula Deen was spazzing about peach cobbler. I covered Mom with an old comforter she‘d crocheted when she was pregnant with me.
Ever study someone who‘s sleeping, Bob? I mean, really looked at them? Maybe your wife? In movies and books, lovers do that all the time. There was this one television show from way back—science fiction, Bob, so my guess is you being so black and white, it never crossed your radar—where this alien race has this ritual. Each partner spends the whole night awake while the other sleeps because that‘s when everything artificial falls away. What you see then is what‘s behind the mask: their true face.
Which begs the question, Bob: when you stared down at me after the fire, what did you see?
Who?
And speaking of masks, let me tell you a secret, Bobby-o.
When I was little, I played dress-up. Not just Ariel. I used to sneak into my mother‘s closet and slip into silken dresses that smelled like spicy roses and wobble in high heels.
When I was little, I sat at my mother‘s vanity, an antique with five mirrors, so there were many me‘s, each in her own world. Each me brushed her hair with our mother‘s heavy silver brush. We drew in lips and eyes and colored our cheeks with our mother‘s makeup.
Each me was different from the other and yet the same, like the angles of a triangle or the facets of a diamond.
When I was little, our family gathered for pictures. We smiled. We touched each other. None of that was a lie yet.
There‘s this great Coppola film, Bob, The Conversation, where the real story lies in nuance: how who you are and what you‘re prepared to hear influences your perception of what‘s actually said. There‘s this one scene where this woman stares down at this drunk and then says something about how this poor guy was once someone‘s baby. Once up a time, someone loved him; he was cherished, but now he was just a used-up lush.
That‘s us, Bob. I look at those pictures and remember I was my parents‘ baby girl.
Matt wasn‘t gone yet, and we were a family.
What I remember of them, Bob, is love.
Asleep, my mom‘s mask was gone, and there was the ghost of a pretty girl who‘d been brave enough to read her poetry to a young and handsome Harvard surgery resident while they picnicked on a beach by the clear blue sea.
And I remember, Bob, how when I was little?
My mother was a queen and I wanted to be just like her.
Only here I was, almost all grown up and still just me, with a mom who got shit-faced six nights out of seven and a psychotic asshole of a dad. Matt was the only pure one left, and he was gone.
c
After I tucked my mom in, I made myself a PB&J with the dullest butter knife I could find and ate over the sink. Then I loaded my dirty plate and Mom‘s empty vodka glass into the dishwasher. If I had any guts, I‘d have pitched the Stoli, but we both know better, Bob.
Instead, I slotted the bottle into its hiding place. I turned off Paula, and then I went to bed.
13: a
Almost a month later, I watched from my hiding place in the library as Danielle and the other girls on the cross-country team did speed drills. Danielle led, her blonde ponytail streaming like a mane, but that wasn‘t saying much. She might be fast but only because the other girls ran on their knuckles. Danielle‘s form was crap: a human pogo stick with way too much up and down instead of glide and push, glide and push and stretch. If you‘re a runner, Bob, you‘ll know what I mean. All her energy was going into lift, not speed. Mr.
Anderson stood with a stopwatch in one hand, and when Danielle passed, he said something, which seemed to piss her off because she peeled out of formation, hands on hips, and scowled as she scuffed grass.
I glanced at my watch. Her time for the two hundred was in the toilet, five seconds slower than just the week before. I looked up again in time to see Mr. Anderson blow his whistle and then motion for the other girls to finish up and gather round. Danielle was doing her Drama Queen sulk on the bleachers. Maybe she‘d gotten into Mr. Anderson‘s face one too many times and he‘d made her sit out the rest of practice. About time. I‘d watch her cop an attitude—in class, on the track—and marveled that he kept her on. The guy had the patience of a saint.
Either that or he liked the abuse.
School had settled down. My classes were easy; my favorite was chemistry (big surprise); I got along with . . . okay, okay, I avoided most people.
Except Danielle.
I wasn‘t sure it was all about David. David was Mr. Anderson‘s TA, and so I couldn‘t help but see him every day. We said hello, and he tried talking me into being on the homecoming decorating committee so I could meet other people. I begged off with the excuse that I lived so far away, blah, blah, blah. Eventually, he stopped trying but was still friendly enough and that was fine.
Still, Danielle never wasted an opportunity to make some kind of snarky remark.
When Dewerman got it into his head that we would do this extra project all about creativity and suicide, that was, of course, all my fault. We were supposed to pick a name from a list of famous writers who‘d killed themselves and then figure out if there was something in what they‘d written that explained why suicide was an option for them. Thank God, Grandma wasn‘t on the list. Not even Dewerman was that clueless.
―Be creative, people,‖ Dewerman said. ―I want you to decide for yourselves whether what you‘re reading is great literature or simply called great because the author checked out. Examine the web of connections that make up a person‘s life and then follow the strands, see if they really are connected.‖
Confusion. One guy raised his hand. ―Uhm . . . but what‘s the assignment?‖
―Socrates said the unexamined life is not worth living. Is the only reason we read these books because a critic tells us to?‖
―No,‖ said some wit, ―because it‘s assigned.‖
Danielle, scowling at me but talking to Dewerman: ―So, I‘m confused. Does this mean you want us to write a paper or maybe a poem or something in that writer‘s style, or paint a picture or what?‖
―Yes,‖ said Dewerman, which set off another gust of laughter and only made Danielle shoot more death rays my way.
To date, I hadn‘t chosen anyone from Dewerman‘s dwindling list. I don‘t know what I was waiting for. Inspiration, maybe. Or maybe I figured my person would be the writer no one else wanted, which would be fine.
c
I know you‘ll find this hard to believe, Bob, but despite how nice he was, I avoided Mr. Anderson, too. Maybe my lizard brain— the part that tells you when to run and when to blend into the scenery—was sending up flares or something. Or I was keeping my head down, I don‘t know. I just wanted to get through the day with a minimum of drama.
But avoidance isn‘t the same as being oblivious. I wasn‘t. I . . . I watched him. From my spot behind glass in the library, mostly, or if the librarian wasn‘t there when I arrived in the morning, I waited outside, on the curb, out of sight. That way, I could watch as Mr.
Anderson came in from his morning run (Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays) or bike ride (Tuesdays and Thursdays). The woods were west of campus, so when Mr. Anderson burst from the woods, the rising sun caught and held and turned him golden, like a Roman god. I liked watching him move, the glide of his body parting the air, the cords of his muscles as they worked. You could see how strong he was. He might have suspected I was there, but he never let on and didn‘t look my way. When I walked to my locker every morning, there was always music swelling from his classroom—jazz, classical, opera, some oldies—and I could smell him, fresh from his shower: wet and dark green and mysterious as the woods.
Yet, in class, he treated me like everyone else, so much so that our very first hour together on that first day took on the quality of a story I‘d told myself. Not a lie, but not exactly real either.
I also wasn‘t the only one to notice him. One day when he announced that he‘d be looking for a new TA, a girl beside me muttered she‘d be happy to assist Mr. Anderson any way he wanted. Which made all the girls snicker, even Danielle. Not me, though.
I made it to lunch maybe twice a week, whenever I could screw up the courage to wolf down a sandwich at a corner table where no one else sat. David threw the occasional meaningful look, usually when Danielle was busy gabbing with one of her minions, but my gaze always skipped away. Mr. Anderson would glance my way, maybe nod or smile but never approached in front of the other kids. I like to think he was sensitive enough to know how that would make me look more pathetic than I already felt. Since he had cafeteria duty three times a week, he knew I skipped lunch more times than not. Considering I had gym the period before, my go-to excuse—showering, changing back into school clothes—was legit. For the rest of the lunch period, I also got to know the graffiti in just about every stall in every bathroom.
Maybe two weeks after school started, though, I had a close call. The first bell had already rung, and I was stepping out of the bathroom, figuring to scoot to the library for study hall, when I looked up and saw Ms. Sherman standing there, her arms folded over her chest. She aimed a forefinger. ―You were supposed to stop by my office last week. We had an appointment right after lunch, if you remember. I know you got the slip. Why have you been avoiding me, Jenna?‖
―Uh . . .‖ Had I gotten a slip? I couldn‘t remember. ―I‘m . . .‖
―Ms. Lord?‖ Both Ms. Sherman and I turned as Mr. Anderson came up. ―Ms. Lord, what are you doing? We need to get started. . . . Oh, hey, Rosalie. I‘m sorry, did you need Ms. Lord? Can it wait?‖
―Well.‖ Ms. Sherman looked as surprised as I felt. ―I was just checking in. She missed an appointment.‖ To me: ―So you‘ve been helping Mr. Anderson during your study halls?‖
―Uh,‖ I said. ―Some?‖ Had I made that sound like a question?
