Never Enough (22 page)

I sat there with my mouth open, but nothing was coming out. Mom stared down at her food, avoiding both of us, and I was glad for every second that passed when she didn’t ask me about Josh.

“So anyway”—Claire snapped her head from me and
switched gears instantly—“I thought maybe I’d go into fashion design. I could see myself doing something like that. Creating new styles.” She barely took a breath. “To be responsible for something like that—wow, it’d be a lot of pressure, Mom, but I think I could do it. What do you think? Is it a good choice for me? I’m going to talk to the state college tomorrow about their fashion design program. What do you think Dad will say? Will he like the idea?”

I studied my food. Each kernel of corn, each roasted potato, trying to keep straight what was real and what was only illusion. She just changed the subject like it was nothing, but it felt like a warning:
Keep your mouth shut, Loann, and I’ll keep mine shut.

Dad walked in the door just then, which only added to the surreal feeling. He caught up on Claire’s fashion design plans quickly, since she was, apparently, the only one with the ability to talk.

“Well, it sounds like a great major. You’ve got to decide soon if you want to get in for January, honey. But what about performing-arts school?”

She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “I’m really glad you’d let me try,” she said, “but I just don’t think it’s the right direction for me. I’m just going to finish the summer ballet production . . .” She glanced at Mom. “. . . and then I’m taking a break for a while.”

Mom took another bite but still wouldn’t make eye contact with me. Did she really think I had been lying about Claire’s eating problems? Did she think I would make that all up because I was jealous? I’d heard of siblings who fought maliciously, I’d seen them in movies, but it had always seemed so far removed from our close relationship, I could barely process this.

“What night is that production, again?” Dad asked.

Mom stopped chewing. She took her napkin off her lap and placed it beside her food carefully. “I’ve told you a hundred times,” she said in slow, measured words. “It’s this Thursday, the eighteenth.” Her anger and confusion from earlier needed an outlet. She’d found one.

I took a small bite of potato, but it sat on my tongue, unchewed.

“Oh, the eighteenth,” he said lightly, but I knew where this was going. Something work-related had most definitely come up on Thursday the eighteenth.

But then Claire interrupted.

“You really don’t have to come. I mean, it’s just another boring recital, and to be honest, it’s not much different from the last one.”

As if Mom hadn’t heard Claire, she said, “I have a busy life too,” aimed right at Dad.

He held up both hands like he was under arrest. “I didn’t say . . .”

“Hey! It’s okay. Please don’t fight about this,” Claire said louder. “I mean it, you guys,” she went on. “I appreciate you wanting to be there, but I’d almost rather you not be. I’m kind of embarrassed that Mrs. Avery chose such a similar program to the last one. You’d be bored to death, I swear.”

Suddenly it all made sense to me. Claire didn’t want them to go because Claire didn’t want them to see the way she looked.

Mom and Dad stared at each other, and I could tell Mom was still brimming for an argument, but Claire wiped her mouth, stood, and cleared her half-full plate. “It’s settled, then,” she said. “Nobody needs to take time off work for me.”

There was silence around the table as Claire headed for the kitchen, and then came back through for the stairs. I waited for her to close her bedroom door before I said, “I think you should go. Both of you. She says she doesn’t want you there, but she really does. She needs you to
see
her,” I said.

If they didn’t agree, I’d have to come right out and tell them everything about what I saw today. I’d have to force them to go upstairs right now and confront her. I
had
to. But then I wondered if Claire would only work harder to hide it. They needed to see this for themselves.

Mom nodded. “I’ll be there.”

And surprisingly, Dad did too. “Thursday night. I’ll go mark it in my phone.”

When I found Claire back camped out on the couch later in the week, I said,
“Oh, hi,” in surprise. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?” I had no idea why I asked this. I just didn’t know how to talk to her after the dinner episode. Now that she’d come right out and spoken about me and Josh. Now that she’d hidden what she was doing to herself from our parents and I had secretly strategized to get them to her ballet recital.

She shifted her legs underneath her and reached for the TV remote. “They changed my schedule.”

Even though I didn’t completely believe her, I was relieved at her normal, non-threatening response. “I’m getting a snack,” I said on my way to the kitchen. “Want anything?”

Claire shook her head, engrossed in some judge show on
TV. Just before I reached the kitchen door, she called out, “Unless you want to mix me a protein shake.”

Her words had an underlying meaning.
We’re not okay yet. You need to earn it, Loey.

And I wanted to earn it. I couldn’t stand feeling so guilty or worried or confused. I nodded. “Sure.”

In the kitchen, I propped the blender into place and opened the fridge to grab the skim milk. Mom’s coffee cream sat right beside the milk carton, and I stared at the two containers. It didn’t take long to decide. Claire didn’t have a single fat cell. Somebody had to stop her from wasting away.

With sudden clarity, I grabbed the cream and poured most of the container into the blender. I put the container back into the fridge, rotating it behind the skim milk, and dumped a scoop of protein powder into the running machine. After pouring it into a cup and washing the blender, I carried her drink and my chip bag back to the living room.

I set her cup on the coffee table and pulled at the top of the chip bag.

“Should you be eating those, Loey?” Claire glanced at my thighs and then reached for her shake.

I opened my mouth to say something, but then closed it again. It hurt, of course, even if I had wanted her to be as concerned about my eating as she had been about Jasmine having a sandwich. Then again, I deserved this after what I’d done
with Josh. And I didn’t have the strength to throw anything back at her. It didn’t feel like there was any strong part left in me, and I wondered if Josh had taken that from me too.

Claire flipped channels incessantly and I wondered what had
her
so edgy.

She stopped flipping and grimaced at her drink. “What did you use, Loann?”

“What do you mean?” I felt my face flush and tried to take even breaths to hide my sudden heart palpitations.

She stood and marched for the kitchen. I thought about following, but I was also pretty petrified to be in the same room with her. How did she
know?

Seconds later, she strode back through the kitchen door with the coffee cream container in her hand. “It’s almost gone, Loann. Did you use
this
in my protein shake?”

I swallowed hard and gave my head a minuscule shake.

How would Claire have even known how much had been in there? But somehow she did. I probably couldn’t skirt around this one. “Um, I don’t think so,” I said.

“You did!” She glared at me, her eyebrows pulling together until they were almost one. It made her look a little crazy. At first I thought she had caught on to my scheming. But then her voice softened slightly. “You can’t make mistakes like that when you’re making my food. Okay, Loey?”

I nodded, my throat dry. “Okay.” I was so uncomfortable,
I headed for the door. “Um, I forgot some stuff at the café.”

I rushed outside and back to the Arts Club, glad to see Marcus still there. Since a line had formed for coffee, I slid behind the counter and helped Marcus before he had a chance to ask. I felt like I could breathe for the first time in the two hours since I’d left.

“You missed me that much?” he asked when he passed me two coffees for customers. “You had to come back?”

A blush warmed my face. He’d made a few comments here and there that I wasn’t sure were flirtatious hints, or jokes. “Couldn’t stay away,” I replied, meeting his eyes for just a second. But I didn’t want to get flustered and mess up orders, so I turned back to the next customers and tried to concentrate.

Marcus didn’t talk to me about anything other than coffee until our line of customers slowed down.

“So is this going to be a regular thing now? You taking the hum-drum out of all my evenings?”

Was he flirting?
He took a step closer and raised his eyebrows.

“I—uh—didn’t even know you worked nights,” I said, kind of stalling, kind of prying to see what he really meant by all this.

“Whenever I can.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I’ll be in tomorrow night for sure,” he said in a brighter voice. “You should come. We could make it like a regular date.”

He gave me a little friendly nudge with his elbow to my arm. Like it had been a joke.

“Actually, my sister has this ballet thing tomorrow night,” I said, letting out a big breath. “It’s—pretty important that I go.”

“Yeah?”

I swallowed, feeling a bit of betrayal at the thought of telling anybody about this. But how could I expect Marcus to open up to me if I didn’t open up to him? “Claire, she has some pretty big problems,” I said.

I told him how I’d found her suntanning in our backyard. “My mom wouldn’t really listen because Claire’s been telling her stuff about me being jealous.” I shifted and decided to gloss over the bit about Josh. “Anyway, I’m not sure my mom believed me, so I convinced her to go see for herself at the ballet production, even though Claire doesn’t want any of us to go.”

Marcus nodded. “Wow. Is she going to be mad?”

“I’d been trying not to focus on that part,” I said, cringing.

“Well, I’ll miss you,” he said, giving my hair a little ruffle.

*   *   *

The next night, my family got dressed up: me with my camera—at Mom’s request, Dad with his smartphone, and Mom with her uppity “I’m a ballerina’s mother” attitude.

Claire had been picked up by one of the other dancers a couple of hours ago, still with no idea we were coming. She’d
looked so cheery, I felt even guiltier about my deception. But my parents needed to know.

Mrs. Avery’s ballet troupe was more about performance than the other local school, so we’d been going to at least four productions a year for as long as I could remember. As usual, Mrs. Avery was racing around the lobby, saying hellos and finishing up last-minute details for the show when we arrived. She hurried right over when she saw Mom.

“Beth! I’m so glad you could make it. Claire didn’t think you’d be able to.”

Another pang of guilt stabbed at me.

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss a single show.” Mom gave Dad a pointed look, since we all knew he’d missed several over the years. “They really do grow up so fast, don’t they?”

Mrs. Avery nodded. “I’ve kept the auditorium cool. I really hope Claire’s skin rash won’t be a problem.”

I looked up. Mom’s face contorted. “Her . . . what?” Mom asked.

Mrs. Avery glanced away and I sensed she had somewhere else she needed to be. “I’ve felt awful for her. Such a beautiful girl, and with so many skin problems at such a young age. She’s been a real trooper, practicing all summer in her sweats, even though we knew she must be dying from the heat.”

Mom held a curled hand in front of her mouth. Mrs. Avery went on.

“I’m sorry, Beth, but I really have to catch our music man over there.” She nodded at Dad and me, then hurried away.

When Mrs. Avery was out of earshot, Mom avoided my eyes and whispered, “Have you heard anything about a rash?” to Dad.

We moved into the auditorium slowly, like none of us really wanted to.

The production started and I fiddled with my camera on my lap, glad to have something to hold on to. I wondered how my parents would take this—seeing what Claire had been doing to herself when she couldn’t hide it under layers of clothing. I doubted Mrs. Avery would allow sweats in one of her shows.

I tapped nervous fingers on my camera as three large scenes went by with no sign of Claire. I wondered if she
had
dropped out without telling Mom. But no. Mrs. Avery seemed to think Claire would be dancing. When I glanced over, Mom’s eyes were doing that hard-blinking thing, which meant she had questions too.

Mom gasped, which brought me back to the moment. All the other dancers wore slim, tank-style bodysuits. But Claire appeared onstage in thick tights that reached to her ballet slippers and a long-sleeve fitted top under her tank. Even through the material, Claire’s bony knees and knobby joints made her look like one of those wooden puppets, the
kind that wouldn’t have a hope of balance without a puppet master manipulating the strings from above. I figured God must have her strings, because otherwise I didn’t have a clue how she could stand.