Luna (12 page)

“I’ll just work alone,” I told Bruchac.

“You could,” he said. “But you really should spread some of that cerebral cortex around.”

If he only knew how little I had. I looked at Hoyt again and shuddered. “I’ll work alone.”

“Okay, but I can’t give you extra time to finish the labs. No special treatment; I don’t play favorites.”

Did I ask for extra time? Did I request special treatment? “I can handle it,” I said, seething.

“I know you can,” Bruchac said. “That’s not my concern.” In a conspiratorial voice, he added, “It’s everyone else in here I’m worried about.”

Heat fried my face. He couldn’t mean that. As Bruchac returned to his desk, I stared down at the lab assignment for today. Neutralization, normality, titration. Could I handle it? Did I have a choice? Did I ever have a choice? I sighed and X’d out the second name slot.

“I ran into Skip at the gym today,” Dad said at breakfast on Wednesday.

My eyes rose slowly from the problem set I was struggling with. I couldn’t extrapolate the equation; I wasn’t understanding the logic. Bruchac had me all rattled now with his show of confidence. I think I preferred him as a sexist pig.

If Liam heard Dad, he wasn’t acknowledging.

“I asked him about your conditioning program, what I could do to help.” Dad folded the newspaper closed. “He told me you’ve never shown up for practice.”

I fixed on Liam. He feigned absolute absorption in his Wheat Chex. At the end of the table, Mom continued to scribble notes in her Daytimer. Her cell rang and broke the tension. Or heightened it. Dad got all tight-lipped and shifted his attention to her.

“Oh, hi, Andy. What? What!” The crescendo in Mom’s voice prickled my ears. “We got it?” She exploded, “We got it!”

Covering the mouthpiece, she said to us, “We got the Sorensen wedding!”

Liam’s head raised. “Congratulations.” He smiled at Mom. He turned to Dad and said, “I lied to you.”

Mom stood and headed for the living room, jabbering away at Andy. Dad blinked at Liam. “I figured. What I want to know is, why.”

Liam shook his head at the floor. Exhaling a long breath, he answered, “No, Dad, you don’t. You really don’t want to know.” He scraped back his chair and rose. When Liam met my gaze across the table, all I could see was the terror.

“Can I get a ride?” I shot to my feet.

Dad barked, “Sit down, Regan. Both of you. Sit!” I collapsed in my chair. Liam kept walking. “Liam, come back here. I’m not done talking to you.”

“Yes, you are,” he said under his breath. That one even took Dad by surprise. Before he could react, Mom laughed hysterically and wheezed, “She can’t be serious. Feed five hundred people for two thousand dollars? Is she out of her mind? I tell you, rich people can be so
cheap.
”

The front door whooshed open and closed behind Liam.

“I really have to go, Dad,” I said. To chase down Liam, yeah, but that wasn’t the only reason I wanted to fly today. There was an assembly before school that I’d been psyched about for months. An opera performance. In the
Horizon High Notes
before Christmas break an article had run on the last page about the Santa Fe Opera touring schools, trying to promote more interest in the arts. They didn’t have to sell me. With all the distractions lately the assembly had slipped my mind. Yesterday, as Aly was channel-surfing, I caught a snippet of Maria Callas singing
Madama Butterfly
on PBS and it triggered my memory.

I needed opera, especially this morning. The music would help me relax and figure out this stupid problem set.

“Do you know what this is all about?” Dad’s eyes bore down on me.

“What?”

Dad hitched his chin toward the door.

Oh, that. I opened my mouth, then shut it.

“If you know, tell me, because he’s not going to. I don’t know what’s going on with him anymore. He never says boo to me. We used to talk. We used to be able to communicate. Didn’t we?”

Clueless, Dad. You are so not with the program.

Dad’s focus shifted to the living room, where Mom was laughing on the phone still, and scribbling in her Daytimer. “He’s never lied to me before.”

My jaw might’ve unhinged. His whole life has been a lie, Dad, I wanted to say. Open your eyes.

Dad added, “What did I do? What did I ever do to turn him against me?”

“He isn’t against you. It’s just —” I stalled. I blew out a breath. “You expect things.”

“What things?” Dad snapped. “All I ever wanted was for him to be like every other kid. To be like me. I was a normal, happy kid. My dad wasn’t perfect either. Far from it, but I idolized the old man.” He stopped suddenly and swiveled his head to gaze out the patio doors. “Okay, maybe that’s too much to ask. The kid’s a friggin’ genius, I know that. I wouldn’t want him to lower himself to my level, or believe for one second that his doddering old dad might have a pearl or two of wisdom to share. I just think a little exercise would do him good. Sports builds character, teamwork. He’ll need that in life.”

“Jack —” Mom appeared suddenly, her cell dangling at the end of a limp arm. She exhaled wearily. “Why don’t you give it up?”

Yeah, I agreed. Thank you, Mom, for once.

“What?” Dad asked. “Is it so much to ask? You tell me.” Dad met my eyes. Mine!

Why are you asking me? I wanted to scream.

“Do I expect too much of you, too?” Dad said to me. He waited.

“No, Dad,” I answered honestly. It’s the rest of the world that expects too much of me.

I got to school late, even though Dad dropped me off on his way to the Home Depot. The assembly was already in progress. My breath caught. They were doing
La Traviata.
Strains from Violetta’s aria, “E strano to sempre libera” wafted down the hall. “Ever free my heart must be,” I translated in a whisper. It was my favorite aria. I could sing that aria in my sleep, and did whenever I
got
a full night’s sleep.

The double doors nearest me were closed, but one on the opposite end was propped open with a doorstop. I tiptoed in. Adjusting my eyes to the dark, I slipped into the back row. As I curled into a seat hugging my knees to my chest, my eyes closed automatically to soak up the gloriousness of the music.

The soprano’s voice sent shivers down my spine. Such clarity and range. I opened my eyes and squinted to see her. Wow. She was young. Younger than I expected. I’d never seen an opera performed live on stage. When had she started singing? She’d obviously had years of voice training to reach this level, and acting experience, and language classes.

The only language I’d ever taken was Spanish, in eighth grade. There aren’t too many Spanish operas. I’d always planned to audition for choir, but never took the initiative. Never had the courage. I thought I had an okay voice. It resonated in the shower, anyway.

The aria ended abruptly. The show was over. Already? I checked my watch. I could’ve stayed to listen for a year, a life-time. As the stage cleared and the few people who’d attended straggled out, I lingered in the auditorium, absorbing every moment. The feeling, the sense of floating, the transference to another time and place.

The first bell rang for class. Reluctantly, I got up. As I wandered down the hall to my locker, still humming “Sempre libera,” a sharp object poked my back.

“Keep walking.”

Every muscle in my body seized. We had metal detectors at the doors of the school. How could a knife get through?

“Your lunch money or your life.”

“Liam!” I whirled on him. “God.” I restarted my heart.

He clicked his mechanical pencil in and grinned.

“Don’t do that. You’ll make me paranoid.”

“Gee.” He cocked his head. “I can’t imagine how
that
feels.”

I sneered at him. He held my eyes, boring into my soul. It scared me to have him look so deep. He accompanied me to my locker. Five or six girls said hi to him on the way. Satisfied customers. Or girlfriend wannabes.

I spun my combination lock and Liam said, “Can we go again Saturday?”

“What?” I rocked back on my heels. “You really want to?”

“It isn’t a matter of wanting to, Re. Do you have to baby-sit again? I was hoping we could go earlier. Maybe around noon.”

Stunned, I opened my locker and retrieved my English book. “You’re going to let Luna emerge in the light of day?”

“She has to, eventually.”

Why? I wondered. Why can’t you just give this up? Leave it the way it is, the way it’s always been? I turned to say it, but the vibes emanating from Liam made me swallow the words. His need, the longing, they were palpable, physical, flowing back and forth between us as if we shared one vascular system. One heart.

“Are you buying me lunch?” I asked instead. “Lunch at a really nice restaurant. That’s what this will cost you.”

Liam just looked at me.

What?

“Oh, all right.” He huffed like it was a big sacrifice.

“Good. Because if the Materas ask me to sit and I can’t because of you, it’ll cost me like thirty dollars.”

Liam frowned. “I’ll pay you back.” He sounded hurt. Making me feel guilty for caring about the money. It was just a joke, sort of.

The late bell clamored overhead and Liam added, “I better get going.”

He didn’t leave, though. Just stood there blocking my way. “Did Dad say anything after I left?” he asked.

I gulped a lemon. “Not really.”

Liam surveyed the empty hallway behind me. “Did he say he was disappointed in me?”

“No.”

Liam nailed me with a look.

“I’m not lying,” I lied. “He said — get this — he said he’s worried that you don’t idolize him.” I snorted.

Liam’s face welded shut. He lowered his head and let out a ragged breath. For a prolonged moment he didn’t move a muscle. Then he lifted his head and said the weirdest thing: “Dad is my hero. Doesn’t he know that? I feel like I spend my whole life trying to prove it.”

Chapter 13

W
e arrive at the mortuary a few minutes before the service. Grandma’s there greeting everyone, getting consoled. When she sees us, she breaks away from the crowd and bustles over.

“Pat.” She embraces Mom.

Mom says, “I’m so sorry, Virginia.”

Grandma smiles down on me. “Hello, Regan.”

I burst into tears. All the holding back finally catches up.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Grandma hugs me hard. At least she’s not crying. We’d all be basketcases if she were.

“Liam, don’t you look handsome.” Grandma squeezes him around the waist.

He barely flinches. He’s wearing the new black suit he and Dad went out to buy yesterday. The suit is stiff and so is Liam. He resembles a mannequin. I bet if I kicked him he’d crack and split in two.

A mortuary guy in a dark suit approaches Grandma and says softly, “We’re ready to begin, Mrs. O’Neill.”

Grandma nods and we trail her solemnly into the chapel. There’s a pew reserved for our family. Mom slides in first, then me, Grandma, Liam. I catch a whiff of some old lady’s perfume behind us and sneeze. It smells like moldy weeds. When I plug my nose, Mom hands me a Kleenex.

The service for Grandpa O’Neill begins with a song. “Nearer My God to Thee.” It’s nice, and I close my eyes to feel the music. A minister leads us in prayer and quotes a Bible passage. Then he turns around and sits down.

Uncle Phil rises from a side pew and heads for the lectern. Dad and Uncle Joel remain in the pew, their heads bowed. Uncle Phil clears his throat and says, “Let me tell you about my pop.”

I see Dad’s shoulders begin to shake. Uncle Joel loops an arm around Dad as Uncle Phil launches into a story about Grandpa taking them all hunting for elk, the way he did every fall.

Grandma snarls something under her breath.

“What?” Mom whispers, leaning across me.

Grandma twists her head toward Mom. “Phillip hated to hunt. Every time they came home with a kill, he’d lock himself in his room and cry his eyes out. I guess he forgot about that.”

I glance up at Uncle Phil, who’s chuckling over the time Grandpa got chased up a tree by a skunk. He swore it was a bear.

“Jack never enjoyed it either.” Grandma seethes, “Look at them, all three of them. It just makes me sick.”

My eyes widen. I’ve never heard Grandma talk like this. She’s always so sweet and kind. Reserved, like Liam.

His part finished, Uncle Phil shuffles back to their pew. He, Dad, and Uncle Joel all blow their noses. Tears stream down Dad’s face. He’s next up to speak, but waves Uncle Joel ahead.

Grandma leans across my lap and says to Mom, “He beat them, you know. He used to drag those boys to the basement and belt them till they bled. He was a mean son of a bitch.” She straightens her spine and adds, “But they worshipped him.”

Mom shifts uncomfortably. If she’s as shocked as me, she doesn’t show it. Grandpa was always nice to us. To me, anyway. He used to tease Liam about being a sissy. Spar with him; punch him in the stomach. There was an argument once. Loud. Grandpa hit Liam so hard he fell down and Dad charged across the living room, spinning Grandpa around and threatening him with a fist. “Keep your hands off him,” Dad said. “Don’t you
ever
touch my son again.”

I try to meet Liam’s eyes, but he’s got a weird look on his face. He’s staring up at Dad, transfixed.

I guess Mom feels she has to defend Dad because she bends over and whispers to Grandma, “Jack said they deserved it. That they were pretty wild kids.”

“Deserved it?” Grandma’s voice carries. Across the aisle, I see heads turn, eyes lock on us. Grandma lowers her chin. She takes my hand and whispers, “What child deserves a beating? You tell me that, Patrice. What child?”

Mom doesn’t answer. At least, not right away. I’m thinking, Thank God Dad never hit us. He never even spanked us.

A tear slides down Grandma’s cheek and she digs in her purse for a hankie. After blowing her nose, she murmurs to herself, “They were boys, Pat. They were just being boys.”