Out of Order (14 page)

I think I know where this story is going. I don't want to hear it. Part of me wants to put my hands over my ears like a little kid:
La la la, I can't hear you.
But another part of me is fascinated.

“I could tell he was attracted to me,” Zelia says.

Her voice is hushed. Behind her, the wall clock is ticking too loudly.

“I would see him looking at me. Always looking at me.”

“That's...that's not right,” I blurt out.

Zelia frowns. “Dr. Keller, I'd appreciate it if you could keep your judgments to yourself.”

I don't want to play this game anymore. I wish it really was my mother sitting here listening to Zelia's story. She'd know what to say.

“Anyway,” Zelia continues, “he moved in and we were having these intense conversations all the time...and then he and Lee would be doing their lovey-dovey thing. All over each other. And I hated it. I hated it.”

“I remember that,” I say. I am trying to fit this new version with what I thought I knew, going back over our conversations. “So...then what happened?”

Zelia's eyes meet mine and hold on tight. Her pupils are huge inky pools in her pale face.

“One night Lee was out, and Michael and I were talking. On the couch. I could see him, see how he was looking at me. I just felt like I could do anything, you know?”

“Uh-huh.” I don't know, not really.

“And I just...I just put my hand on his leg, you know? That's all. But he let me. He didn't say anything. We just kept on talking.”

Her gaze doesn't waver, but I turn away and look outside at the darkening sky and the bare branches of the willow.

“Maybe I should turn on a light,” I say.

“Just—just listen, Sophie.”

There is a note in her voice that I have rarely heard. A plea, almost. And she has called me Sophie, not Dr. Keller. I meet her eyes. “Okay.”

Zelia leans across the table and puts her hand on my arm. “It was crazy. The next day, my mom sent me off to my aunt's place. I swear, it was like she knew. She was jealous.”

“Do you think he told her?”

Zelia gives a short scornful laugh and lets go of my arm. “As if. He's not crazy.”

“So...”

“So, I don't know. Maybe she saw how he looked at me.
Maybe she could tell he was falling for me. Anyway, when I came back, he acted all distant. Like nothing had happened. I couldn't believe it. So as soon as I had a chance, I pulled him into my room and told him I had to talk to him.”

“And? What did you say?” I hold my breath.

“Nothing.” She smiles and winks at me. “I just started kissing him.”

“Oh my god. You didn't.”

“I did. And he kissed me back.” Zelia leans back and half closes her eyes. “Sophie, it was so hot.”

“Zelia! He's like...old. And he's Lee's boyfriend.”

She laughs. “Well, he sure kisses better than guys our age.” Her eyebrows draw together, and she stops laughing. “Then all of a sudden he just pushed me away. Just pushed me away and said I was crazy. And walked out the door.”

“And...”

“And that was the day after the party. Right before I called you and asked if I could come here.”

“You said Lee kicked you out...”

“I know. Well, she did. But I wanted to go. I couldn't stand being there.”

I let out a long sigh. “So, I guess that's it? It's over—you and Michael?”

Zelia shakes her head and her lips curve in a cat-like smile. “I don't think so. Because, just before I left, he slipped those earrings into my hand.”

A beam of light pierces the darkness, suddenly illuminat­ing the room. I turn quickly to the window.

“Mom's home,” I say. “Come on. We shouldn't be out here.”

Zelia uncurls her legs and follows me. We duck in the back door just as my mother pulls the front door shut behind her.

THE NEXT WEEK
, Zelia and I walk to school together every day. We don't talk about Michael. She doesn't bring it up again, and I'm relieved. We don't talk about our own lives at all. Walking to and from school, we play our old games—watching people and making up stories about them. We spend lunch hours in the smoking area, often just the two of us, though sometimes we hang out with Jas and Maisie.

“How come Max never hangs out with you guys anymore?” I ask them one day.

They exchange a meaningful glance, and then Jas turns to me and shrugs. “She's doing her own thing these days,” she says. “Doesn't really have time for us.”

I feel like there's something she's not saying.

Maisie just nods. “She's a bit of a loner. Max kind of comes and goes when she wants, you know? Anyway, she finds it hard to be around smokers since she quit.”

A couple of times, Zelia and I go out to the barn together after school. Max isn't there and neither, to my relief, is Tavish. Zelia sits on the fence and watches me practice leg
yielding and half passes in the cold drizzling rain.

The air is heavy and damp, and everything feels slow and tired. I feel like I am waiting for something to happen.

That weekend, it does. My mother has gone out to her yoga class, and Zelia and I are sitting at the dining room table, working on a paper for Mr. Farley's English class. It's about
Lord of the Flies.
I read the book in one night and then lay awake for hours, my stomach twisted so tight I could hardly breathe. I didn't know boys were like that too. I thought it was just girls who had the kind of radar that detected weak­ness, just girls who were vicious to each other when no adults were around. Mr. Farley suggested we talk about one theme, but all I can think about is my middle school back in Georgetown.

Zelia puts her pen down and flips her notebook shut. “I'm going outside for a smoke.”

I just nod and keep staring at my blank page.

HALF ON HOUR
later, I still haven't written anything, and Zelia hasn't come back. I get up, stretch and wander outside to find her.

The door to Mom's office is open. I walk down the path and peer inside. Zelia is sitting on the floor, legs crossed, a pile of papers on her lap.

“What are you doing?” I ask, bewildered.

Beside her is my mother's tall gray filing cabinet. The top drawer is open, and files are scattered on the carpet.

“Zelia! Oh my god. What are you doing?” I grab files and start shoving them back in the drawer.

Zelia looks up. “Take it easy, Sophie.”

“These are my mom's client files! They're supposed to be totally confidential. She always keeps them locked up.”

“Yeah, well, the key was in her desk drawer.” Zelia closes the file she was looking at. “You should check this one out, Sophie. She's a real winner. A Tiffany, I bet. She's been having an aVair and now she's—”

I grab the file. “Shut up, Zelia. Just shut up. I don't want to know.” I'm almost crying now. I can't help it. I cram the file back in the drawer. I know they'll all be out of order, but I just want to get Zelia out of here.

“Why?” I ask. “Why would you do this?” My voice comes out in a wail. I feel sick.

Zelia stands up. “Jeez, Sophie. Relax. I just wondered if your mom had ever seen Michael, you know, as a client. But I guess not, I couldn't find a file for him. And then I just was wondering what kind of—”

She breaks off, eyes suddenly wide and fixed over my shoulder.

“What?” I turn around slowly.

Behind me, framed in the open door, stands my mother. Her long hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, and she is wear­ing a snug T-shirt and black yoga pants. She looks like she has just been slapped. I can actually see the color drain from her face and then flood back in an angry rush of heat.

“Mom,” I begin.

“What exactly is going on here?” she asks slowly. Her gaze takes in the open filing cabinet, the loose pages still on the floor. She shakes her head and her voice comes out loud and cracked. “What the hell do you two think you are doing?” She rushes forward and begins gathering up the papers.

“Mom,” I say tentatively.

She straightens, clutching the loose pages to her chest, and I notice with a sickening sense of shock that she actually has tears in her eyes.

“How could you let this happen, Sophie? How could you?” Her voice is shaking. “People come here and tell me the most private things...My god, Sophie. You know enough about my work to know what you've done. To know how much of a betrayal this is.”

I start to cry. “Mom, I didn't...I mean, I wasn't even...”

We stare at each other for a moment. The room is silent except for the ugly choking sound of my sobs. Beside me, Zelia is motionless.

My mom takes a deep breath. “Sophie, I'm only going to ask you this once, and I want the truth. Did you have anything to do with this? Anything at all?”

I dig my nails into my hands and swallow my tears. I shake my head.

“I want an answer, Sophie.”

“No,” I whisper, “I didn't.”

“Zelia, I think you'd better pack your things and go home,” my mother says. Her eyes don't waver from my face.

“But, Dr. Keller—”

“Now.” My mother's voice is as sharp and cold as ice.

Zelia stares at my mother, wide-eyed. She opens her mouth slightly, as if she is about to argue; then she turns and runs from the room.

As soon as she is gone, I start crying again. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I was working on my paper...I didn't know...”

“Sophie, do you have any idea, any idea at all, how serious this is?”

I don't think I have ever seen my mother so angry.

“I know.” I choke the words out past the hard aching lump in my throat. “I'm so sorry.”

Mom is staring at the files sticking haphazardly out of the gaping drawer. “I'm absolutely disgusted,” she says. “I am just so disappointed in you. How can I trust you after this?”

“I'm sorry,” I say again. I don't know what else I can say.

“Go on,” she says. “You better go say good-bye to Zelia. I'm going to clean up this...this mess...and I want her out of the house by the time I'm done.”

I hesitate. “Mom...I don't know if Lee will let her go home.”

Mom raises her voice. “Sophie, do not,
do not,
try to make this my problem. Lee will just have to deal with it.”

I back away from her slowly, wanting to say something more. To explain. But I don't even know where to begin. There are so many things I haven't told her, starting with everything that happened back in Georgetown. When I decided to leave the old Sophie behind, somehow I left my mother behind too.

I turn away and run into the house.

In my bedroom, Zelia is throwing her clothes into her duffel bag.

She looks up as I come in. “Thanks a lot, Sophie,” she says bitterly. “Just let me take all the blame.”

I can't believe I heard her correctly. “What? I didn't have anything to do with it. Do you have any idea how much trouble you got me into?”

Zelia crams the last of her things into the bag and yanks the zipper closed. It jams, and she swears and kicks the bag in frustration.

“I can't fucking
deal
with this,” she yells. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

I slump on the edge of the bed. “You better call Lee. See if she can come pick you up.”

Zelia jerks the zipper free and closes it. “Fine. Fine.”

She picks up the phone and turns to me, raises one eyebrow. “God. Talk about overreacting though.” She gives a half grin. “Did you see your mom's face?”

I can't meet her eyes. “You better just go,” I say.

“Lighten up, Sophie. It was just a bunch of stuff about some losers who like to talk about their problems.”

Something snaps inside me and comes loose. “Shut up,” I say, standing up. “Shut up.”

Zelia looks startled. “Sophie...”

Anger is rising inside me like a hot suffocating wave. I dig my fingernails into my palms, but I can't stop the words from spilling out. “Did you ever think that maybe
you
should be talking to someone about your problems, Zelia? That maybe it
isn't all that normal to only be able to talk to your best friend when you're pretending she's a shrink? That maybe fooling around with your mom's boyfriend is just messed up?”

Zelia takes a step toward me and grabs my wrist, hard. “And you've got it all together?” she hisses.

I hold my breath. Her eyes are a hot pale blue; they burn holes in me. I can't look away.

“Don't bother calling me,” she says. She throws my arm back at me, grabs her bag and is gone.

I stare after her for a moment. Her boots pound down the stairs, and the front door slams shut behind her with a hollow bang. I can still feel her cold fingers on my wrist, like icy hand­cuffs. I drop onto my bed, bury my face in my pillow and cry.

I MUST HAVE
fallen asleep, because it is dark when Mom comes up to my room She sits on the edge of my bed and puts her hand on my forehead, like she is checking to see I have a fever.

“Mom,” I say. “I didn't—”

“I know,” she says.

We are both quiet for a moment. She sighs and takes her hand off my head. I want to grab her hand and hold it tight, put it back on my head and keep it there, but of course I don't.

“She can't stay here anymore,” Mom says.

I roll over and look at her. Part of me wants to argue, but there's nothing I can say. I swallow hard. “I know. I'm sorry, Mom. I really am.”

She looks so sad. “Me too.”

I think of all the times Zelia has followed my mom around, talking to her, asking her questions. I remember how I used to think that perhaps Zelia just hung out with me because she liked my mother. “You like Zelia, though. Right? You've always liked her.”