Her and Me and You (2 page)

I wanted to hit her. Suddenly. Smack both her rosy cheeks and pound my fists into the powdery snow.

“Oh, don’t look so glum,” she said.

Did I look glum? I felt furious. Everything had changed so fast. Dad, Mom, Evie. Especially Evie. Why Ben Ackerman? Why now? Was she
that
eager to leave me behind? “One day I’ll get it I guess.”

“No,” she whimpered, locking an arm around my neck. “You will stay this way forever. Pure and virginal.” She pulled back. “It suits you.”

I shook Evie off and sat upright. “What if I don’t want to stay this way?”

She wrapped her arms around my body, pulling me into a snug embrace. “I love you just as you are. Why is that bad?”

“So you get to grow up and I don’t?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Evie tightened her grip. “Why aren’t you hugging me back?”

I lifted my arms, hugging back. “Better?”

“Yes,” she said, squeezing the crap out of me. “Much.”

*   *   *

Dad made four-cheese lasagna for dinner. Salad. Good crusty bread and butter. Apple pie for dessert. He even let Evie and I down half a bottle of red. I like nothing more than binge-eating with loved ones—but this meal felt shockingly bad. Spoonfuls of Caroline, my broken mother, my philandering Dad. A dash of Ben Ackerman for added richness and flavor.

“Al, you’re not eating.”

“I’m drinking,” I said, raising my cup. Evie laughed. Her lips were purple.

“You want something else? Plain pasta? It’ll take me two seconds to make—”

“I’m not really hungry.” I pouted, jabbing a mound of arugula with my fork. My dad smiled, his brow wrinkling. He shoved a huge piece of sauce-slathered bread into his mouth. He chewed. His chewing drove me crazy. Everything I’d once loved—his sheepish posture, his glasses, his bald spot and dorky humor—all of it, now, drove me up-the-wall nuts.

“I’m going upstairs.” I stood, facing Evie. “You coming?”

She flashed a desperate look at my dad.

“Al, come on, stay down here.” He looked so sad. “We don’t get to do this too often anymore.”

“Right, I know.” I glared at him sideways and shoveled two messy slices of pie onto my dinner plate. “Not my fault.” I shrugged. I looked back at Evie: “Yes or no? You coming?”

“Yes.” She dusted some crumbs off her lap. “Right behind you,” she said, glancing back at my dad.

*   *   *

After the apple pie and wine, we lay on our backs on my bed, our bellies distended and our lips stained red.

“Watch this.” Evie said, sitting up and, groaning, pulling my laptop off the desk and onto the bed. Kitten videos. Kittens stuck in boxes. Kittens taking baths. We laughed. We watched video after video, hysterical. We laughed so hard our insides hurt.

“Why’d you have to go?” Evie asked, rolling onto her side; catching her breath.

“Oh, Eves, come on. I’m right here.”

“Right now you are.” She sat up. “I see you, what, twice a month now?” She frowned. “You could’ve stayed.”

“No way,” I said, slamming my computer shut. “Liz is a complete wreck.”

She stuck her thumb in her mouth and nibbled on a hangnail.

“Besides,” I continued, “you’ve got that guy now. Ben. You don’t need me.”

“That’s different.”

“No it’s not.”

“It is,” she insisted. “Don’t be stupid. He’s a boy.”

“So?”

“So it’s not the same thing.”

I shrugged. I doubted I’d ever love anyone the way that I loved her. I couldn’t imagine making new friends, let
alone loving a boy. “Why’d you hang up on me last week?”

“When?”

“Last week when I called. You were with him, weren’t you?”

“I don’t remember,” she said. But that was a lie, she did remember. She bit down harder on her thumbnail.

“Why don’t you come visit,” I suggested.

“When?”

“Next weekend?”

“Ben has a meet.” She blinked. “I said I’d go.”

“Right.”

She reached for my hand, taking hold, squeezing tight. “You should come.”

“Oh, I don’t know . . .” I said, as if I had friends, commitments,
a life
. “Maybe,” I said. “I’ll let you know how my schedule shapes up.”

6.

If Evie could love someone else, so could I.

Charlotte Kincaid and Libby O’Neil set their trays down at their regular spot by the coffee cart. I waited by the vending machines and watched them sip milk, pop open two bags of chips, and drop napkins on their laps.

“Hey,” I said, jogging toward their table. “Hey, hi.” I stopped, smiled, and dropped my bag on an empty chair. “Sorry about the other night.”

Libby eyed me.

“I told that guy Fred to tell you I was leaving.”

“Which guy?”

I scanned the cafeteria for Fred and spotted him and Adina four tables over.

“That guy,” I said, watching Fred watch me. Charlotte and Libby turned to look. He saluted.

“Fred Bishop?” said Charlotte.

I nodded. “He didn’t tell you I’d left?” She shook her head. I babbled on: “I just, I felt kind of sick and claustrophobic and didn’t know where you were—”

“Sit down, Alex.”

“Oh.” I nodded. “Yeah, okay.” I sat, pulled an apple and a small plastic bag of Triscuits from my knapsack.
Friends. Look how easy.

“So, Alex.”

“Yeah?”

Libby’s face was blank. “How are your classes?”

“Fine.” I nibbled a cracker and watched the twins while I talked. “I like my world lit.”

“Who do you have?”

“Kordova.”

Adina and Fred read novels and picked at their packed lunches.

“Getting to know the Bishop twins?”

I darted my eyes back to Libby. “Oh. I guess.”

“I mean, you’re new, so you should know: People don’t like them.”

I felt instantly, inexplicably defensive. “Why’s that?”

“Why? Because Adina Bishop is a creepy anorexic who is completely obsessed with her brother.” She unwrapped a single square of pink pillowy bubble gum and set it on her tongue. “It’s sick. They’re like, in love with each other.”

I laughed. “Oh, come on.”

She blew a bubble. Then a bubble inside a bubble.

“He dated this girl once,” Charlotte added. “Audrey Glick?”

I glanced quickly at the twins, then back at Charlotte’s square stare. “Yeah?”

“She doesn’t go here anymore. She transferred to Sacred Heart in Brooksville.”

“So?”

“So, you don’t think that’s weird?”

“You guys are funny,” I said, straightening up. I ate another Triscuit. Watched Adina and Fred flip pages and snack on cute foods like berries and ladyfingers. “I have to read for next block,” I said, pulling a beaten copy of
The Odyssey
from my backpack. “You guys mind?”

They shook their heads. “Go ahead,” they said. They didn’t mind at all.

After that.

Fred dumped his lunch scraps and packed up his books. I hovered nearby. “Hi,” I said. He was alone.

“That Charlotte Kincaid. She’s fun, right?”

I smiled. “Right.”

We watched each other for a bit. “Nice sneaks.”

I looked at my feet, dressed in white canvas Keds. “Very fashion-forward. So old they’re new.”

Fred laughed.

“You again.” She came out of nowhere, wiping damp hands against her silk blouse.

“Me, yep.” I straightened up. “How are things?”

Adina ignored the question, grabbed her coat off the back of her chair. She looked at Fred. “You ready?”

He tugged on his blazer lapels and stepped toward me. “What do you have now?”

“French.”

“Walk with us?” He pointed left. “We’re going this way.”

“You two have class together?”

“No,” Adina snapped.

I looked pleadingly at Fred. I couldn’t help myself. I’d never met someone so standoffish and cool.

He smiled sympathetically, talking on. “I’ve got world lit. Adina’s free this block.”

She stopped, exhaled dramatically, and fluffed her skirt. “Okay, I’m going.”

“Where?”

“Outside. You guys . . .
stroll
.” She pulled on her jacket and marched heavily toward the exit.

“Wow.”

“Just—” Fred raised a hand, waiting, watching Adina go. “It’s not personal.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, yes. This is how she is. She’s—” He shook his head, inhaling deep. “Not good with new people.”

“Oh.”

We stood for a bit.

“What’re you doing later?”

“Later?”

“Yeah. Wanna come by after school?”

I laughed.

“I’m serious. We’ve got big dinner plans. Potato samosas. Chutney from scratch.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“Seriously? Your sister
hates
me.”

“She doesn’t, I swear. She’s actually really great.” He touched my arm, then quickly retracted his hand. “Come.”

If Evie could love someone else, so could I
.

“Chutney from scratch?”

Fred grinned. “From scratch, yes. I’m telling you. The girl can cook.”

7.

The house was huge. Stone. Creeping ivy. Small, murky,
lily pad pond out front; glass greenhouse in the back. Inside, it was dark and messy and smelled like pipe tobacco and stale pretzels.

We sat on high stools in the middle of the kitchen, peeling potatoes and shelling peas for Adina’s samosas.

“Something about raw peas . . .” she said, turning her nose up, leaning across the island while rolling a pea between her fingertips. “Here,” she said, pressing the small, green ball against my lips. “Eat it.”

I ate the pea. It was crunchy and tasted like grass. I eyed Adina. She’d been maniacally upbeat since I’d arrived. Friendly. Welcoming. As if she’d been switched with some amiable doppelgänger.

“Good, right?”

“Mm.”

Fred finished another potato and chucked it across the countertop at Adina. She backed up. “What? What’s your problem?”

“Is this it? How many more do you need?”

“I need four.”

“You have four.” Fred stood, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear. He bit the tip.

“Oh no, please don’t,” I pleaded.

“What’s the problem?”

Dad smoked when I was a kid. The smell triggered nostalgia and queasiness. “So gross.”

“No, but tell me how you really feel.” He yanked the cigarette from his lips and tossed it onto the countertop. “Better?”

“Much.”

“You want the tour?”

I looked to Adina, still shelling peas.

“Go ahead,” she said, pushing her hair back with the heel of her hand. “Shoo.” She grabbed a bowl from the cupboard and a potato ricer off the drying rack. “I’ve got potatoes to mash.”

Upstairs was brighter than downstairs. I followed Fred. First, Adina’s room, where every square inch of the floor was covered with books, clothing, old dolls, and broken CD cases; her walls plastered with cutouts, drawings, dried flowers, and
macaroni art. Even her bed was hard to spot. “Impressive, right?” Fred looked at me. “She doesn’t sleep here.”

“Where does she sleep?”

“Depends. Guest bed. Couch. In the summer sometimes she’ll pitch a tent and sleep outside.”

“No shit.”

“No, really.”

Next up: his room. More books, thrift store paintings, records, stereo equipment, packs of tobacco, and rolling papers—but all of it arranged in neat little piles around the room.

“You’re a minimalist.”

He laughed and picked a tiny gray kitten up off the rug. “This is Egg Roll.” He passed me the cat. Its bony body squirmed in my arms.

“There’s another one.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere. Downstairs, maybe? Called Banana.” He grabbed my elbow and a crazy current rolled up my arm. “Come on, let’s look.”

Later, we ate Adina’s dinner on the floor of the drained indoor pool. We sat on blankets over pool tiles. “Why no water?” I asked, taking a big bite of fried potatoey goodness.

“Upkeep,” said Fred.

I nodded like I understood what that meant. “Parents?”

“
In the Dominican. Our Dad. Just this week, though.”

“Dead mom,” said Adina, chomping a pea.

“I’m so sorry.”

She gripped the wine bottle between her legs and yanked out the cork. “Fuzzy memory,” she said with a shrug. “She died when we were kids.” She took a sip from the bottle and passed it on.

“How long have you lived here?” I asked.

“All our lives,” she said. Then: “You must miss home.”

“I do.”

“You like Meadow Marsh?”

“Not really.” I took a quick swig of wine. “I can’t get comfortable.”

I looked at her plate. She’d sliced it all up, mashed the samosas and chutney together and spread it around, but as far as I could tell, she hadn’t consumed an ounce of it.

“Stuffed,” she said, noticing my glare.

“Sure,” said Fred, leaning back.

We all lay back. That’s when I noticed the mural: Two goats and a galaxy of yellow stars.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Adina asked me.

“No.”

She went on. “I’ve never been in love. Fred had a girlfriend once. Didn’t you?”

“Yep.”

“So clingy. . . .”

“Was not.”

“
Oh, come on. She was needy and clingy.”

Fred sat up and sipped some wine. Adina continued. “Neediness. That’s not love.”

“Oh yeah?” said Fred. “What is?”

“Who knows,” she moaned, rolling onto her side. Then: “Any ideas, Katonah?”

I shook my head. She smiled and looped her pinky through my belt loop. I looked down—half amused, half freaked out. “I think it’s just one of those things. . . .” she said. “Like, a know-it-when-you-see-it sort of situation.” She pulled hard on the waistband of my jeans.

8.

“You look high. Are you high?”

The house was packed with people, and the music was so loud I could barely hear Evie’s raspy voice over all that thumping base. “I drank too much, Al. Here. Hold this.” She pressed a red plastic cup to my hand, then hooked her nails into the top of her tights and tugged upward.

This was Ben Ackerman’s post-meet rager.

Yellow and black streamers (Katonah colors) were tied to the wall sconces, vanilla cake was smooshed into the living room rug, and a keg sat in a bucket of melting ice in the corner of the kitchen.