Girl Wonder (15 page)

Though Mom smiled at this, the corners of her mouth were tight.

“Read us yours, Milton,” my brother said.

“‘Help! I'm being held prisoner in a Chinese bakery!'”

Everyone laughed, but somehow this got James Henry talking about a project he was working on for social studies about Communism and torture—which was a total mood killer.

Amanda leaned back and stretched. “Neal—I hate to be a party pooper, but we should leave soon if we're going to get any work done tonight. We've got a big tournament coming up the first weekend in January,” she explained to my parents. “In Southern California.”

“Charlotte didn't mention anything—” Mom began.

Before I could stop her, Amanda said, “It's just for policy debate.”

I bit into my fortune cookie to buy myself time. It got really quiet, and I grew aware of how loudly I was chewing. “Oh, didn't I tell you? I've switched to dramatic interpretation.”

“Our coach was the one who suggested it,” Amanda chimed.

“Charlotte's very talented,” Neal—reading the situation—rushed to say. “Her writing is great.”

Milton looked at me. “What kind of stuff do you write?”

“She wrote a hilarious essay for her debate application,” Neal said.

I gave him a grateful smile.

“It was pretty good,” Amanda agreed. Then she grabbed her purse. “Neal—we really do have to go.”

Ever so slightly, Milton shook his head.

At the front door, Dad handed Neal his business card. “If you want to show me any of your writing, I'd be happy to take a look. It sounds like you're taking the right steps to get ahead.”

“Thank you.”

It was a grizzly evening. The trees lashed madly in the wind. Clouds billowed like jellyfish. Chilled, I wrapped my arms around my body.

“They're smart kids,” Dad observed as they got into the car. Was he wondering what they saw in me? Did he suspect, as I secretly suspected myself, that they were way out of my league? That I was the butt of their jokes?

“You never told us your fortune,” Milton said.

I'd stuffed the slip of paper into my pocket without reading it. Moving underneath the porch light, I read the words aloud. “‘The world may be your oyster, but it doesn't mean you'll get its pearl.'

“Tell me something I don't know,” I muttered.

Mom rested her hands on my shoulders. “Oh, honey—you're my pearl.”

Closing my eyes, I leaned back and surrendered myself to her warmth—little suspecting this would be the last time that simple comfort would be enough.

A
manda pulled off the cover to her hot tub. Steam rose into the frigid air. I was wearing a red bikini from middle school that I'd bought on a whim and hadn't worn since my sudden onslaught of boobs because it was so revealing. Surprisingly, it still fit. It was late night toward the end of January.

Amanda unwrapped her towel and stepped buck naked into the hot tub. The girl couldn't get enough of her own body. “What happens if your parents come out here?” I asked. “Won't you be embarrassed?”

“They know how I look.” She shrugged, lowering herself until she was neck deep. “They changed my diapers when I was a baby. Besides. They're not weird about modesty. Unlike
some
people.”

I stepped into the hot tub and slid down to my shoulders.

“So. How are things with boy wonder?” she asked.

“I'm sick of the secrecy,” I said, hating myself for revealing my insecurities to Amanda, but desperately in need of her advice. “I'm thinking of saying something to him about it. What do you think?”

“Neal's a complex guy,” she said, tracing circles over the surface of the water. “I don't know that he'd want to place limits on a relationship by defining it. You should give him some space,” she added. “Guys like it when they have to work for your attention.”

“How much more space does he need?” I cried. “It's not like I'm following him around or anything.”

“You wear your heart on your sleeve,” Amanda said, snapping the water with her finger. “Don't you know that about yourself? If Neal so much as looks your way, you light up like a Christmas tree.”

Was she right? Was I somehow too…adoring? I glanced off into the darkness so she wouldn't see the hurt in my eyes.

Amanda sighed.

“What?” I asked.

“I miss Boone. Long-distance relationships suck.”

“Guys everywhere check you out,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably. “I know you've had some flings at the tournaments. How come you don't ever give those guys a chance?”

“High school guys?” She faked a gag. “Besides—Peterson says it makes me more intimidating that I'm getting a reputation for being such a heartbreaker. I'm taking one for the team!”

“Amanda Munger,” I said sarcastically. “Team player extraordinaire.”

She fixed me a pointed glare. “I carried us. In every single round. In case you've forgotten.”

I dunked beneath the water and held my breath, giving myself a moment to think.

“You did it to win,” I said when I resurfaced. “It had nothing to do with being part of a team.”

New York, New York. The Big Apple. The City That Never Sleeps. From the moment we landed, all I wanted to do was sleep.

My head pounded. My body ached. I felt hot, then cold, and then hot again. Because I wanted to enjoy the trip, I didn't say a word to my parents about being sick.

On our first full day, we went to MOMA. I stood a long time in front of the van Gogh painting
The Starry Night
, studying its whorls and waves. Docents—mostly tall, elegant women in pearls—moved in and out of the gallery. The slow click of their heels made me think of water dripping in a cave. They fielded question after question about van Gogh's insanity.

Squinting at the painting, I tried to feel a glimmer of his craziness. But what I saw instead was his fervor for the natural world. The painting was so alive—the town and the landscape and the atmosphere all mingled together into something animated and breathing. Everything about it, every last detail belonged there. Every brushstroke had a purpose.

I started to feel dizzy and stumbled backward to sit down on a bench.

“What's wrong, honey?” Mom asked, coming to my side.

“I don't know,” I said as a single tear dripped down my face.

She felt my forehead. “Jesus, Charlotte. You're burning up.”

She ushered me out and hailed a cab on Fifty-third Street. Then she sent me back to the hotel.

New York, New York. Bright lights, big city.

I missed the gourmet dinners. I missed the Broadway shows. I missed everything except for the extra mints that the woman from housekeeping gave me. They were stale.

To pass the time when I wasn't sleeping, I worked on memorizing a selection from
The Glass Menagerie
. Dramatic interpretation, the kind of debate I was now supposed to be concentrating on, involved me reading—with inflection—a published piece of literature for seven to ten minutes. If you wanted to win at dramatic interpretation (DI, it was called), you had to ape the personalities of losers and freaks (well-adjusted characters being too boring to merit the attention of the judges). Here lay the problem—at least from my point of view: if I did too good a job portraying my characters, people might start to associate me with them.

I didn't suck at DI. But I wasn't very good. I didn't
want
to be very good.

At least the other performances were usually interesting enough to hold my attention. And no one ever asked me if I had a speech impediment, which counted for a lot.

New York, New York. City of dreams.

Obviously, we didn't go on any drives to colleges. The last thing anyone wanted was to be holed up in a poorly ventilated space with me.

Not that it mattered. What could a college trip possibly mean to a person who'd failed to turn in a single application? The deadlines had come and gone, without me.

In a way, I was proud of myself for refusing to waste time and energy on something that wasn't going to amount to anything. I knew there'd be hell to pay once my parents found out. My mom would blame herself. My dad would blame me (and my mom). James Henry would be embarrassed about the fact of our being related (like he already was). What could my family do, though? At the very least, I'd bought myself a few months of freedom. Three. Maybe four if I was lucky. For the moment, I could breathe. As for the rest of my life—wasn't it mine to ruin?

James Henry aced his interview at Columbia. No one expected anything less.

Then, on our last day in New York, Mom got to meet Meeghan. They went out to tea. She'd been very quiet since that meeting. Distracted.

“What's she like?” I finally asked on the plane ride home when my dad got up to go to the restroom. “Agenty?” I wiped my nose with a tissue. How could one person produce so much snot?

“Young.” Mom stared out the window. “Competent. Brilliant.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Very.”

New York, New York. The city so nice they named it twice.

Though I hated to admit it, Mr. Peterson had been right to pair Neal and Amanda as partners. They were like dancers the way they sensed each other's needs without having to use words. Neal was an excellent speaker, articulating his point of view in calm, measured tones. As a listener, you instinctively believed what he was saying because he conveyed great trustworthiness. He was the perfect counter to Amanda.

She always made the closing statements. Watching her give that final speech was not unlike watching a tigress close in on its prey. Weight on her toes, eyes locked with the judges', she'd pound her fist into her palm to underscore the fault lines in the opposing side's arguments, arguments that were often more rational and better researched than her own. Yet every time, she sealed the deal. She was so convinced of her superiority, she convinced the judges too. She convinced everyone.

In late February, on the way back from a tournament in Eugene, Oregon, we stopped for lunch at an IHOP. While the rest of the team swarmed the booths inside, Neal, Amanda, and I took over the patio.

Amanda quickly brought the conversation around to her new favorite topic: Ecstasy. “The rave was the best time
ever
,” she said for like the hundredth time since Presidents' Day weekend. “It's such a bummer you were in New York.”

“We danced all night,” Neal said. “I usually hate dancing.”

“X really opened me up,” she said, taking a sip of ice water. “You can't imagine how good it feels. It's not addictive or anything. It just makes you really happy, you know, kind of slows things down and speeds them up.”

I nodded like I understood.
Happy
.

Amanda glanced at Neal. “Remember how we shared brain waves?”

“How could I forget?” he said, smiling a little.

Amanda's phone rang. She made a face. “Boone,” she mouthed, and scurried out.

“They're having problems,” Neal said.

“I'm sure they'll work it out,” I said.

Neal shrugged. “I think it's over.”

My heart began to hammer. I felt like there was a bird trapped in my rib cage. Neal cared about me. I was positive. A guy couldn't fake being turned on. But I was dying for him to solidify our relationship. Like maybe call me his girlfriend. Or change his Facebook status to
in a relationship
.

I concentrated on drowning my fries in a pool of ketchup. Neal leaned in close. Our foreheads almost bumped. In spite of myself, I looked up. His eyes were as cool and deep as glaciers.
You own me
, I thought. Surely everyone could see this thing burning between us.

He placed his hand over mine, flooding me with relief. It was still there. What we had. Unfortunately, right then Amanda returned and plopped herself down. Neal let go of my hand. I made a face and nudged her foot, hinting at her to scram.

“What?” she asked. “Why'd you just kick me? Are you trying to tell me something, Char?”

My face turned red. I mumbled something about having a leg twitch.

“Maybe you're getting Tourette's,” Amanda said, helping herself to some of my fries.

“Be nice,” Neal said, giving Amanda a hard look.

The bus started up, and the rest of the team filed quickly out of the IHOP.

Mr. Peterson beckoned to Amanda, who rolled her eyes. “He probably wants to strategize.”

Standing behind Neal, staring at the nape of his neck, I realized that it was imperative that he know I was as game as Amanda when it came to trying certain things. I leaned forward and whispered into his ear. “I did some thinking when I was in New York. I want to be open to new experiences. Mind-expanding experiences. You know what I'm saying?”

M
y mom lay under a mound of covers, a pillow drawn over her eyes. This was her second migraine this week. I scanned the room. Mom's side, strewn with books, student papers, coffee cups, coins, and brochures for trips to exotic locations (that she never took), needed a good tidying. On the other hand, Dad's half was as spotless as the hotel suites he now frequented. Once again, he was out of town. Surprise.

This time, I hadn't bothered to ask why. I knew.

I knelt beside Mom. “Is it cool with you if I spend the night at Amanda's?”

“Of course,” she murmured, spacey from painkillers.

“I don't have to go,” I said, half hoping she'd ask me to stay.

“I could use the quiet.”

Is Dad having an affair?

Silence.

With Meeghan?

Silence.

“Do you need anything?” I asked. “Water? Drugs? An ice pack?”

Ask me to stay.

“Have fun tonight, kiddo.”

My eyes stung with guilt. She was going to let me deceive her.

Two squirrels started up a game of chase in a maple tree outside. Their feet clattered briefly on the bark. As gently as I could, I shut my mom's windows and closed her curtains. Then I left.

Moments later, we were driving. Or rather, Amanda was driving and belting out the lyrics to “The Killing Moon,” an old Echo & the Bunnymen song. Lately she'd been fancying herself as something of a rock diva. She reminded me of Pink, though she'd be pissed if I told her this. Amanda thought Pink was a hack.

“Where are we going?” I shouted as we passed the turnoff to her house.

“The mall,” she said, cutting down the volume. “We need costumes for tonight. The rave is a masquerade. BTW—I've invented a friend for us. Her name is Melody. My mom thinks we're spending the night at her house and that you two are helping me to prep for the Berkeley tournament.”

“Your poor mom,” I said. “You're evil. You know that, right?”

She grinned. “That's why you love me so much!”

To avoid a weather-induced traffic jam, Amanda exited the freeway and took the back roads into Bellevue. Some of the puddles we splashed through were as deep as ponds.

“Are you nervous about Berkeley?” I asked.

“I don't get nervous,” she said, rapping her knuckles against the window. “Besides, Neal and I are beyond ready.”

Her lips twitched with a mysterious smile.

Though the garages at the Bellevue Square Mall were mobbed with Saturday shoppers, we had no problems parking since Amanda left her Jeep with the valet. Wandering through Nordstrom's, we tried on sunglasses and earrings, tested lotions and eye shadow, and grabbed at the free samples the store models were offering. As we walked through the juniors' department, I saw that prom dresses were already on display even though the dance was months away. My hands reached out as if possessed to touch the luxurious fabrics.

Amanda tugged my sleeve. “Let's try some on!” She pulled out a strapless magenta number and pressed it to her body. “Yeah?”

“It's cute,” I agreed. “You could probably buy a car for what it costs.”

“Not anything I'd drive. Here,” she said, pulling out a plain gray dress. “This looks like you.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said. “It's boring.”

“Remember—you said it. Not me.”

I took a step back. “What are you saying?”

“Geez. Lighten up! You're no fun today.”

A saleslady unlocked a huge dressing room for us to share.

Amanda quickly stripped down to her lacy thong and flapped her boobs in my face.

“Freak,” I said, disgusted with myself for playing right into her game. “You should go to prom naked.”

Amanda thought the first dress made her hips look too big. The second one washed her out. The third one was the strapless magenta gown. She sucked in her stomach while I zipped her up. Letting out her breath, she gasped, “Oh my God!”

The dress hit halfway down her shins—tea length. It made her skin shimmer.

“Wow!” I said.

She clapped her hands to her cheeks. “I have to get this.”

“You don't even know if you're going to prom,” I reminded her.

“I'll wear it tonight,” she said, sucking on a strand of hair, “I'll be a prom queen. My mom's wedding headpiece can be my tiara.”

She danced down the hall to the three-way mirror. “It's way cute from the back!”

Just to see how bad it would look, just to see how insulted I should be, while Amanda was gone I locked the door, undressed, and slipped the gray dress over my head.

What I saw when I turned to face the mirror astonished me. The dress skimmed my frame without being tight, fluttered just about at my knees, and the spaghetti straps deemphasized the broadness of my shoulders. The color matched my eyes almost perfectly. I looked beautiful, not in a loud, dazzling way, but in the quiet way of the moon.

Amanda rapped on the door. When I opened it, she looked shocked. “Jesus, Char. You look—”

“It's four hundred ninety-nine dollars,” I said.

“Too bad,” she said. “It's worth every penny.”

“What if you bought it?” I suggested. “We could return it tomorrow.”

She frowned. “No. You have to be something totally different than me. We don't want people thinking we're twins.”

“I don't think that people are going to think—”

“Besides,” she interrupted, “Nordstrom's is way too classy a place to cheat.”

When I walked out to the mirror, the saleslady gushed, “That dress was made for you.”

“My friend can't afford it,” Amanda said. “She's just trying it on for fun.”

The clerk furrowed her brow. I couldn't tell if it was because she felt sorry for me, or if she was pissed that I'd wasted her time.

I was still fuming when we headed out to the thoroughfare of the mall. It wasn't fair that Amanda always got to be the center of attention. It wasn't fair that she would outshine me tonight as usual simply because she had the money to do so.

“What's wrong?” she asked, readjusting the dress bag she was now carrying.

“I'm hungry,” I said quickly.

“Thank God! You seriously need to eat. You looked gaunt in that dress.”

“I've lost like five pounds. It's not a national emergency.”

We ordered slices of pizza and Cokes and took them over to the fountain to eat, where it was bright because of the skylights. The water echoing off the cement structures muffled the din of the mall activity and made it sound as if you were hearing everything from a great distance. Ignoring the signs that said please do not throw coins into the fountain, Amanda tossed a quarter into the water.

“Aren't you going to tell me your wish?” I asked sarcastically.

“That's bad luck. You wouldn't approve anyway.” She smiled to herself.

Lucky lucky lucky.

She bit into her pizza and watched it lovingly as she pulled it away from her mouth, using her fingers to sever a runaway strand. “This is heaven. Why did you let me get it? I have to throw it away if I want to fit into my dress.” She stood up and walked off to find a trash can, leaving me to wonder why she hadn't offered it to me if she was really so concerned about my weight loss. I was actually still quite hungry.

While she was gone, I watched a couple of goth girls striding through the mall like they owned it. Their steel-tipped combat boots clicked the floor in unison. Ornate crucifixes dangled from their necks. They were noticeably out of place at Bellevue Square, and I wondered if they'd come here to feed off the reactions of the other shoppers.

They gave me an idea.

When Amanda came back, she was beaming. “I just remembered. We have a Tin Man costume up in the attic. The school put on a production of
The Wizard of Oz
when Keith was a senior. I could paint your face silver. You could wear gray tights.”

The Tin Man? The trusty Tin Man? Stiff? Rusty? In need of lubrication? Could anything be less sexy?

Just then, a frazzled woman walked by. She was literally dripping shopping bags. Two young children—obviously hers—trailed in her wake. One of them tripped and landed on her mother's Prada heel. The woman spun around abruptly, her nostrils flaring like a horse's. “Do you need me to
show
you how to be good?” she asked.

The kids went mute. Their eyes were like puddles as they tried not to cry.

“Actually,” I said, turning slowly back toward Amanda, “I've decided you're right. We should be different tonight. I'm going to be a dominatrix.”