BFF* (43 page)

We were having corkscrew pasta with vegetables and Mom's special lemon-and-herb sauce. The green peppers weren't cooked quite enough for me, so I moved them to the side of my plate. Tarren did the same with her mushrooms.

“Tarren,” Mom said, “I'd like you to come to my swearing-in ceremony. It's the morning of June twenty-third, in Hartford. After, we'll all go out to lunch.”

“Oh, Aunt Nell,” Tarren gushed. “I'm honored.”

I wondered how long it would take to drive to Hartford. If it's more than half an hour, maybe I can take the train. I wouldn't want to get carsick on the day Mom is sworn in as a judge.

Charles was quiet, intrigued by Roddy, who was slowly and methodically eating Cheerios. He picked up one at a time, using two fingers, brought it to his mouth, got it inside, then mashed it with his gums. He still doesn't have teeth. Tarren says he will soon.

“Was it always your goal to become a judge, Aunt Nell?” Tarren asked, as Dad served the salad.

“I really hadn't given the possibility much thought
until recently,” Mom said. “But frankly, after this week, I'm beginning to think it will be a relief.”

“What do you mean?” Tarren asked, wide-eyed.

“I lost a case,” Mom told her. “I lost my final jury trial.” She sounded wistful, almost emotional. This was the first time she'd mentioned the verdict.

“I can't imagine you losing a case!” Tarren said.

“Well, I did,” Mom told her, “and I took it personally, even though I know better.” She kind of sighed as she speared a tomato. “But I did my best and that's what counts.”

Tarren had tears in her eyes. “That is just so moving, Aunt Nell. To know you've done your best even when you've failed.”

Charles looked up, suddenly interested. Then Mom said, “I didn't exactly fail, Tarren. I lost a case that I'd rather have won, that's all. It happens.” She sounded sure of herself again, like Mom.

“It's all about goals, isn't it?” Tarren asked. “In our Life Studies class we had to write down where we hope to be five years from today, then ten, then twenty. It really got me thinking.”

Charles looked over at Tarren. Before he had the chance to pounce, Dad said, “What
are
your goals, Tarren?”

“Well, some of them are personal,” Tarren said, with a glance in my direction, “and I'd rather not discuss them. But my professional goal is to become the
best fourth-grade teacher I possibly can. To make a difference in a few children's lives.”

Charles let out a snort.

Tarren leaned forward in her seat so she could look directly at Charles. “It would be a good course for you to take,” she told him. “Talk about someone who needs to clarify his goals!”

Didn't she know better than to start in with him?

“My goals in life are very simple,” Charles told her. We all waited for more but first Charles reached for his water glass and took a long drink. Then he wiped his mouth with his napkin. With Charles, timing is everything. Finally he said, “My main goal in life is to be Batman!”

“Really, Charles!” Mom said, as Charles lifted Roddy out of his Sassy Seat and bounced him on his lap to the theme from the Batman movie.

Roddy laughed and said, “Da da …”

“I'm not your da da,” Charles said, “but speaking of your da da, is he still soaring?”

Tarren sucked in her breath. “As far as I know Bill is still hang gliding, if that's what you mean. We have almost no contact.”

“Poor little guy!” Charles patted Roddy's head.

“He doesn't need your pity!” Tarren told Charles. “He's going to be just fine.”

“That's the spirit!” Mom said, squeezing Tarren's shoulder.

“Having a runaway father is just one obstacle in his life,” Tarren said. “And we all have our obstacles.”

“Yeah, look at me,” Charles said. “I'm surrounded by mine. My father, the
wimp …
my mother, the
ice queen …
my big sister, the
potato head …
and my little sis—”

Before he had the chance to finish, Jessica pushed back her chair. “I hate you!” she hissed.

“I know that, Jess … but you'll get over it.”

Mom jumped up, her face purple with rage. “You want to hurt us, Charles? Okay, we're hurt! You want to cause pain? Fine, you have! You want to disrupt the family? Congratulations, you've succeeded!” She banged her fist on the table so hard the dishes rattled.

Roddy began to cry. Tarren snatched him from Charles's lap and whisked him into the kitchen, where his screams grew louder. By then Dad was out of his seat, grabbing hold of Mom, who had lunged at Charles, shouting, “Enough is enough!” A glass she'd knocked over rolled to the edge of the table, tumbled to the floor and smashed.

Charles folded his napkin. “Well,” he said, “this pleasant evening seems to be drawing to a close.”

As he began to get up from the table, Dad pushed him down again. “Stay right where you are!”

Charles looked surprised for a minute. The color drained from his face. He didn't move.

“We're not going to tolerate any more nights like this!” Dad shouted. “It's time for you to get your act together. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

Mom stood next to Dad, waiting for an answer.

Charles gave them a long look, then asked, “Is that it? Are you finished?”

“Oh, for God's sake!” Mom said, and I could feel her frustration.

“No, I'm not finished,” Dad told him. “I'm waiting for you to answer the question!”

“I believe I get your point,” Charles said quietly. “Now, may I please be excused?”

Dad didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was flat. “You're excused to help clean up.”

“Thank you.” Charles stood, stacked the dinner dishes and carried them into the kitchen.

I ducked under the table to pick up the broken glass.

“I've had it,” Mom said to Dad. “This time I have
really
had it.”

“We can't give up on him, Nell.”

“I'm not saying we should give up on him. I'm saying he's pushed me to the limit!”

Before I'd collected all the glass, the phone rang. “It's Stephanie, Rachel,” Tarren called from the kitchen.

“Tell her I can't talk now,” I said quietly, from the floor. “Tell her I'll call back.”

B
ut I didn't call Stephanie that night. And later, as I lay in bed watching the clock, I played the dinner table scene over and over in my mind, angry at myself for just swallowing everything I was thinking and feeling—for just sitting there, totally paralyzed, waiting to hear what Charles would say about me, almost disappointed that Jess stopped him before he'd had the chance to finish.

I got out of bed and crept down the hall to Jessica's room. But she was sound asleep, breathing evenly. How could she sleep after tonight? How could anyone?

My stomach was killing me. I needed something to soothe it. I moved silently downstairs with Harry right behind me. When I got to the kitchen, I flicked on the light switch and almost keeled over when I saw Charles perched on the counter, gnawing a chicken leg.

“Want a bite?” he asked, holding it out.

“You just about scared me to death!” I told him, keeping my voice low. The last thing I wanted was to wake Mom and Dad. “Why are you in here in the dark?”

“Is there a family rule against conserving energy?”

I didn't answer. Instead I filled the kettle and turned on the burner.

Charles jumped down from the counter. He opened the refrigerator, pulled out the grape juice
and held it up, as if to toast me. “Here's to you, Rachel Robinson!” He swigged some juice right out of the bottle, then slammed the door. “Here's to my whole fucking family!”

“You better not let Mom and Dad hear you say that.”

“Yeah, right. They'd call the language police. And the language police will drag me to the dictionary to find a more acceptable word for my family, like noble … like self-sacrificing … like—”

“You were despicable tonight!”

“Thanks, Rachel.”

“Why'd you have to hurt everyone? What was the point?”

“The point was to get at the truth.”

“Well, you didn't!” I told him. “You didn't even come close.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really! Mom's not an ice queen.”

“Maybe not to you. After all, you're her clone.”

“I'm not anybody's clone! And Dad's not a wimp, either.”

“Then how come he went to bed for six weeks when Grandpa died? How come he couldn't make it in the real world? How come he gives the Ice Queen all the power?”

“He went to bed when Grandpa died because he was sad.”

“Oh, that's sweet, Rachel. But plenty of people get
sad and they don't climb into bed and pull the covers over their heads for six weeks!”

“He wasn't happy being a lawyer, so he quit. What's wrong with that?” I paused for a moment. “And Mom doesn't have all the power. He's the one who's always stopping her.”

“Right … because he's a wimp! He'll do anything to avoid confrontation!”

“He didn't avoid it tonight, did he? He told you off and so did Mom!”

“You call that telling me off?” He smirked. “I call that pathetic.”

“Mom and Dad are
not
pathetic!”

“Are we talking about the same Mom and Dad? The Nell and Victor with the bedroom upstairs at the end of the hall?”

“I'm talking about
my
parents. I don't know about yours!”

“When are you going to face the facts, Rachel? This is a very screwed-up family!”

“You're the part that's screwed up.”

“I don't deny it. But the rest of you …” He stopped and shook his head.

“All families have problems,” I said, thinking of Steph and how angry she is at her mother for dating the StairMaster.

He laughed. “‘Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.'”

That sounded familiar but I couldn't remember where I'd heard it.

Charles laughed again. “Tolstoy, Rachel. Don't tell me you haven't read him yet?”

“I plan to … this summer.”

“I certainly hope so. I wouldn't want you to fall behind. After all, you've got to be the best.”

“I like being the best!”

“What happens when you find out it's not always possible?”

“I've already found out and I'm surviving!”

He paused, as if I'd caught him by surprise. “You know something, Rachel, you've got possibilities. With a little coaching …”

“I don't need any coaching from you!” I told him. “I'm figuring out life by myself, thank you.”

“Whatever you say, little sister.” He started to walk away.

I called, “What do you want from us, Charles?”

He spun around. “What do I want?” He looked up, as if he'd find the answer on the ceiling. Then he repeated the question, quietly, to himself. “What do I want …?”

I waited, but for once Charles seemed at a loss for words.

T
he next night Charles didn't come to dinner. I wasn't surprised. But even without him at the table, it's become so tense it's hard to eat. The rest of us didn't have much to say until Dad announced we're going to see a family counselor, someone named Dr. Michael Embers.

“I don't see why
we
have to go to a counselor!” Jessica cried, with a nod in my direction. “There's nothing
wrong
with Rachel and me!”

“Because it's
family
therapy,” Dad told her, sounding weary.

“But
Charles
is the one with the problem!” Jess argued, which is exactly what I was thinking.

Dad shoved his plate out of the way. “Please don't make this more difficult than it already is.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of Pepto-Bismol tablets. He popped two into his mouth
and chewed them up slowly. He looked very tired. So did Mom. I really and truly resent Charles for making them so unhappy.

“Well,” Jessica said, “if we
have
to go, I don't see why we can't see a woman!”

“According to
some
people,” Mom said, “there are already too many authoritarian women in Charles's life.”

Does that mean us? I wondered, looking at Jessica. What a joke! Charles walks all over us. We have no authority over him!

O
n Monday night at six, we went to Dr. Embers's office. He shook hands with each of us, but only Charles introduced himself using two names. “Charles Rybczynski,” he said. If Dr. Embers noticed Charles had a different last name, he didn't show it.

He said, “Please, sit down … make yourselves comfortable.”