A Brief Chapter in My Impossible Life (5 page)

I open my mouth to speak, but my words get caught in my throat. I take a sip of water.

“But why now?”

Dad is quiet for a long time. We work side by side in silence.

“You’ll have to ask Rivka that.”

We put the final layer on the lasagna and it is done.

Cleo is in a mood when they arrive. I assume that Darius has made yet another egregious (SAT word) misstep in his behavior toward Cleo. But I don’t have time to ask because we sit down to eat immediately after they arrive, which is of course half an hour after they were due.

Jules is talking about some woman from her office who may or may not be having an affair with the boss, and I stop and realize that life just never changes. Jules and Dad and Mom sit around and talk about other people in the same way that Cleo and James and Henry and Ivy and the rest of our friends do. The only difference is that the people they talk about are older and I guess the stakes are higher since it appears as if the boss and the woman from Jules’s office are both married.

Cleo is quiet and won’t even look at Jules. This is unusual. Cleo and Jules act more like friends than mother and daughter.

My mom studies Cleo. “Can I get you anything, honey?” Cleo has an untouched plate of food and a full glass of lemonade.

“No, thanks.”

“Don’t mind my daughter, Elsie,” Jules says. “She’s having a tantrum.”

Cleo sighs and drops her fork. It’s clear that she didn’t really want to talk about this at the table, but she also doesn’t want Jules to have the last word.

“No, Elsie. Don’t mind my mother. She’s just being a selfish, unthinking, cruel, and negligent wench.”

Silence. Jake pretends to wipe his mouth with his napkin to hide his big goofy grin. Did Cleo really just call her mother a wench?

Jules says to no one in particular, “Cleo’s angry because Edward wants her in Scottsdale for Thanksgiving and I think she should go.” She turns to Cleo. “And I really don’t see how this makes me negligent. Your father lives in a mansion. He has live-in help. There’s a swimming pool.”

“See? I could fall in and drown.”

“Okay, now you’re just being ridiculous.”

Dad cuts himself another piece of the lasagna, which I must add is really excellent.

“Cleo,” he says, “it might be nice to go to Scottsdale. Get a little sun. Hang out with your dad. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? He must really miss you.”

“Come on, Vince. You know Dad doesn’t give a shit about me. Why are you defending him?”

Dad bristles a little at Cleo’s use of the S-word. Unlike Mom, Dad is a bit of a prude in the language department. “Well, I’m not defending him. But he is your father. I just think it’s important that you keep up a relationship with him.”

“Yeah, I guess I just don’t understand why you aren’t having this conversation with
him
instead of me.”

I’m having a weird kind of déjà vu. Here we are again, sitting around the dinner table, this time with our extended family, Jules and Cleo. Again an absent parent is disrupting our meal. Even though these parents are very much alive and out there in the world somewhere, tonight they are like ghosts hovering around us. And suddenly our dinner table feels really, really crowded.

FIVE

There’s going to be another party at Darius’s house (are his parents ever in town?), this time a small one, on the Sunday night before Columbus Day, which is of course a school holiday and also the day of the demonstration outside the town hall. I agree to go with Cleo even though James and Henry and Ivy are going to Rich Campbell’s. Rich lives on this huge farm, and there’s going to be a bonfire. I love bonfires. Who doesn’t? Even so, I agree to go with Cleo because I’m a good friend. I agree to go with Cleo even though I don’t think Darius likes me, which would make sense, because I definitely don’t like him.

On the night of the party I go over to Cleo’s to get ready. I’m also going to sleep over because I plan on not passing Mom’s sniff test tonight, and Jules is always paranoid about not getting enough sleep, so she doesn’t want Cleo waking her up when she gets home. I’m lying on Cleo’s bed while she sits in front of the mirror trying to tame her unruly hair. She’s wearing jeans and black boots and a T-shirt I made for her that says
PROM QUEEN
on it. Just in case you haven’t picked up on my brand of humor, the shirt is supposed to be ironic. She puts on some lipstick that’s barely noticeable, and when she turns around she looks beautiful, elegant even.

“How do I look?”

How can she not know how she looks? For Cleo, things like beauty and elegance and grace come naturally. I can remember when we used to take ballet together, and at the recitals, when it came time to curtsy, she would walk right to the center of the stage with her perfect posture and her Shirley Temple curls and the world just stopped. But for the life of me, I could never get that moment right.

“You look amazing,” I say. “On the other hand, I look like a total slob.”

Cleo cocks her head and checks me out. I can see her mind working. She recognizes a challenge, and she’s gearing up to meet it. Where I see a slob, she sees potential. Where I see nothing special, she sees a blank canvas. I’m wearing cords and a button-down oxford. She goes over to her dresser and pulls out a black long-sleeved shirt with a V-neck, made of some kind of spandex blend.

She throws it at me. “Put this on.”

By spandex I don’t mean to make it sound like some shiny, cheesy workout wear or anything. It’s just a long-sleeved T-shirt with some cling in it, and when I put it on I have to admit that it’s a drastic improvement. Unlike Cleo, I don’t have gigantic boobs. I don’t even have medium-sized boobs. But somehow this black shirt gives the impression that there is more there than meets the eye.

Cleo looks pleased. “I don’t know why you insist on hiding your assets. You’re hot. If only you could see that.”

She’s right. I don’t see it and I don’t believe that anyone other than Cleo sees it, and anyway, Cleo is probably just trying to be nice. I’m fine. I’m passable. There are other things just as important as being hot, like being smart and responsible and a good listener. But it never seems like these things matter to guys, and isn’t that what we’re talking about here?

I take another look in the mirror. Cleo’s right. Even I can see that this new look brings out something in me, something that has nothing at all to do with my grades or my listening skills.

The party is already in full swing when we arrive. Everyone is hanging out in the living room listening to more of Darius’s horrid music. To his credit, when we walk in Darius stands up and kisses Cleo in full view of his friends. She looks like she could die right there. He gives me a kind of awkward hug and offers to get me a drink.

“Beer? Wine cooler? Something stronger?” The taste of the beer from Darius’s last party is still fresh in my memory. I tell him I’ll take vodka mixed with whatever kind of juice he has in the house. Cleo doesn’t take anything. She’s the designated driver.

“Someone’s in the mood to party,” she says to me as Darius walks over to the bar. I figure I’ve earned it. It’s been one of those weeks. You know the kind. A disappointing grade on a French test I really studied for, a stupid fight with my brother, a comment made about me by someone I hardly even know, which I learned about through the Twelve Oaks grapevine, where information travels at the speed of light. It was this girl in one of my classes named Brianna, and she said I was full of myself. It bothers me, even though I can’t believe I’m letting someone whose name is
Brianna
get to me, because I really don’t think that I am full of myself. Or does thinking you’re not full of yourself show that you have such a high opinion of yourself that you actually
are
full of yourself? Now I’m getting confused.

Anyway, it was one of those weeks. And do you notice how I’m pretending as if that yellow scrap of paper with the Cape Cod phone number written on it isn’t burning a hole in my desk drawer?

I take a huge gulp of the drink Darius brings me and then cringe. Not because of the burning sensation of the alcohol but because of the nasty flavor of whatever Darius mixed it with.

He looks at me apologetically. “All I could find was this ginseng stuff my mom drinks. She’s a total health freak.”

I’m not sure how this accounts for the impressively stocked bar, but I figure maybe his dad is the big boozer and stays home getting drunk while his mom goes off on her yoga retreats. Then I realize that of course I don’t know anything about Darius or his family, and I wonder for a minute what people who don’t know me come up with to account for my dark hair and olive skin in a family full of pasty blondes.

I decide not to cling to Cleo all night—she really wants to be (and be seen) with Darius. And besides, I should mingle because I certainly don’t want to appear as if I’m full of myself. So I go over and sit on the sofa next to Tim Whelan.

He has a beer in his hand, and I wonder if drinking that stuff actually makes your breath smell of pee, but I don’t think that would be an appropriate conversation starter. Instead I ask how his team did yesterday because I know enough about Tim Whelan to know he plays varsity soccer.

“We did pretty well. I mean, we won and that’s great, but we should have played a better game. We were weak on defense.” Then he looks at me with this funny expression. “But you don’t really care about this at all, do you?”

Now I’m totally paranoid. Does everybody in the entire school know me as the girl who is full of herself?

“Relax,” he says. “I’m kidding. It’s just that I’ve never seen you at a game or anything.” He smiles at me.

Oh. Now I get it. Tim isn’t trying to be rude. This is his weird way of
flirting
with me. It must be the shirt. I take a closer look at him. He’s kind of cute even though I don’t usually like the athletic types. It’s October and not exactly sultry out, but he’s wearing baggy cargo shorts, a blue fleece pullover, and a pair of Tevas. He has big brown eyes, a large forehead (which is a nice way of saying that his hair seems to be receding prematurely—very prematurely), and a small scar just above his upper lip. We sit there for a long time drinking our foul-tasting drinks and talking about soccer—he thinks Jake will make varsity next year—the school paper, some of the teachers we both have, and that horrible movie I saw last month, which he thought was pretty funny. I’m starting to get a little bit buzzed, and I feel sort of warm inside, and even the music isn’t bothering me anymore. I don’t even know how much time has gone by. And by the way, Tim’s hand is on my knee.

He stands up and stretches.

“Let’s go refresh our drinks.” He leans down and looks in my cup, then leans in a little closer to take a whiff. “What the hell is in there?”

“Ginseng.”

He looks confused.

“I think I’ll go for a wine cooler this time.”

We get drinks, and then he suggests we go sit outside. Now, I’m not stupid. Full of myself, maybe, but not stupid. And I haven’t had so much to drink that I can’t see where this evening is headed. But even though I’ve never really noticed Tim Whelan before tonight, like I said, he is kind of cute and it feels nice to be with him. Plus as Cleo pointed out, I do look hot, and I think it might feel really good to kiss someone.

I guess it’s time I make a major confession. Here goes: I’m pretty inexperienced with the whole guy thing. I mean, I think I have a lot of basic knowledge, but I’m kinda light in the actual hands-on experience part. Lots of girls my age have already had sex, and Cleo is going to get there pretty soon if she isn’t somewhere doing it right now, and it’s not like I’m ready to have sex yet, but I can count on one hand (okay, two fingers) the number of guys I’ve kissed, and one of those times it was during a game of truth or dare when I was in seventh grade. The other time was some real kissing (and a hand up my shirt) at a party last year, but it was with this guy who was in town visiting his cousin and he went back home to Cincinnati the next morning. Am I pathetic or what?

If Tim had asked if I wanted to go upstairs, I think I would have freaked out and said no way. But outside seems safe. There are stars outside. So we go sit on the grass with our drinks, and it doesn’t take long before we’re totally making out. And it feels really nice. Everything else just sort of falls away, and maybe for the first time in ages I’m not thinking of anything other than the way he smells—like apples—and the way his lips and his hands feel. I’m lying back in the grass. My head is kind of spinning. Or is it the Earth? Well, whatever it is, it’s spinning fast. Really, really fast. And I’m prone to motion sickness. I get up, quickly straighten out Cleo’s spandex shirt, and run over to puke in Darius’s bushes.

This is not my finest hour.

Tim waits until it’s clear that I am done doing what I’ve been doing and approaches me slowly. From a good five feet away he asks if there is anything he can get me.

“Just some water. Thanks.”

You can’t possibly know how sorry I feel for myself right now. Tim Whelan was kissing me. He was touching me. Me!

He hurries into the house and returns with a large plastic cup filled with lukewarm water. I drink it all in almost one gulp. My head is no longer spinning. My nausea has vanished. I’m suddenly 100 percent stone cold sober. Tim is still keeping his five-foot distance. Does he actually think I’m going to puke on him?

Just then Cleo appears. I could almost kiss her, I’m so happy to see her, although considering what I’ve been doing for the past few minutes, I don’t think she’d appreciate that. She says that it’s time for us to go home, and again I feel this rush of gratitude toward her because I know we don’t really have to leave yet but she’s trying to rescue me from these bushes and this party and this whole evening.

We haven’t been in the car two minutes before we’re both laughing pretty hard.

“So you were like totally making out with him and then you just excused yourself and hurled all over the bushes?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I think he really likes me.”

“Ooooh…Tim…mmmmm…” Cleo is making kissing sounds. “Huuuuhhhhh.” Now the sound of someone throwing up.

“Stop. You’re killing me. I’m sick from laughing.”

“You are such a little slut!” Cleo reaches over and kind of pushes me. “Tim Whelan! I guess he’s pretty cute. He’s got those really hot soccer guy legs.”

I didn’t notice his legs. And he was even wearing shorts! I’m light-years behind Cleo. It’s always been this way with us even though I’m a full four months older than she is. Tim has hot soccer guy legs, and I didn’t even think to notice.

“So,” I ask her after we are done having our laugh at my expense, “anything I need to know about you and Darius?”

“No,” she says. “We talked about it tonight, but I don’t want to do it at some party when there are all these other people around. I want it to be…I don’t know what I want it to be, but I don’t want it to happen like that.”

“Well,” I say, “that makes a lot of sense to me.”

We pull up in front of Cleo’s house, and I’m relieved to see that the light in Jules’s room and all the other lights in the house are out. I’m home safe.