Out of the Box (11 page)
Understanding hits me like a wave, and even before he introduces himself, I know who he is. He doesn't look like the stuffy, serious professor I imagined, and he seems happier than I thought possible, considering all he's been through.
“I'm Facundo Moreno,” he says, holding out his hand.
I shake his hand and introduce myself, my voice catching in my throat. I know so much about him that he doesn't know I know, and I have no idea what to say that won't sound weird. “I guess tango's pretty popular in Argentina.”
“It is now,” he says. “Not so popular in my father's day though. The government made it illegal for big groups of people to get together, so no one gathered to dance it. A lot of people forgot how.” His eyebrows pull together slightly, like he's reliving a painful memory, and I look away to stop from confessing everything.
I glance at my aunt, hoping she'll rescue me, but she's still talking, waving her hands around and laughing.
Someone behind the long pharmacy counter rings a bell for attention. Facundo smiles at me, says he hopes I enjoy the talk and hands me a card. “If you have any more questions about Argentina,” he says.
I feel my face go hot, and I mumble, “Thank you.” I wish I hadn't come, or at the very least, I wish Facundo were a terrible person who didn't deserve the family heirloom I know I should be giving him.
“I
notice you haven't been spending much time with Sarah this past week,” Jeanette says one morning a few days after the tea talk. She's spreading a piece of toast with orange marmalade from one of the ancient dust-covered jars of preserves that she found in the basement yesterday. No way am I going to eat anything that old. “Did something happen between you two?”
I stare into my cereal for a few seconds and finally shake my head. “Not really. I've been busy with the bandoneón. Besides, we don't really have much in common anyway.”
“Oh?” Jeanette asks. “You guys got on like a house on fire when you first met.”
“Maybe we ran out of things to say.” I'd rather feel guilty for a white lie than admit to my aunt that I have no idea what to say to the guys Sarah wants to hang out with. I don't want my aunt to pity me or, worse, try to fix me.
“I can't imagine either of you ever suffering from a lack of conversation topics.” She takes a bite of her toast, closes her eyes and smiles. “I remember the summer we made this marmalade. It was so sweltering in here that we got a hot plate and did most of the canning outside.”
“You helped with canning?” I ask.
“Hey, don't sound so shocked. I do know how to do a few things in the kitchen.”
I do a bad job at stifling a laugh, and she throws a tea towel at me. I catch it and throw it back.
“Anyway,” she says, “don't change the subject. We were talking about you and Sarah. What's up?”
“Oh, I don't know,” I say. “She's trying to meet lots of new people.”
“And you don't want to.”
“Not really,” I say. “Besides, I think she's figured out I'm not exactly Miss Popularity.”
“She's ditched you?”
I shrug. “She's always inviting me to stuff, but she invites these guys we met too.”
“And you don't like them?”
“They're fine,” I say, exasperated because there's no escaping Jeanette when she wants to know something. “I don't know what to say to them, though, and as soon as they find out I like reading and playing bandoneón, they'll think I'm weird, and since I'll be leaving soon anyway, I'm sure Sarah will pick them over me.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Jeanette grabs the edge of the table with both hands. “You've just written off your entire friendship based on what you're afraid
might
happen?”
I slurp the last spoonful of milk and lean back in my chair. “It's not like it hasn't happened before.”
“Not with her,” Jeanette says.
I shrug. “I should go practice. Frank's given me a lot of work to do.”
“Give Sarah a chance, Ellie.” She hesitates for a second. “It might be good to have a friend here, you know.”
Something about the way she says it makes me look up. Her eyes are bright, but I see tension in her face too. She snatches up the tea towel and folds it into a tiny, nervous square before meeting my eyes. “I wanted to let you know that you'll always have a home with me, Ellie, whenever you need it.”
“Thank you.”
“What I'm saying is, you don't have to go back at the end of the summer, if you don't want to.”
“
What?
” I can't believe she'd take the game of favorites this far, but equally unbelievable is how I'm flooded with images of walking to school with Sarah, doing homework in the friendly quiet of this kitchen and riding my bike to bandoneón lessons for the rest of the year. How can I get mad at Jeanette when I'm obviously so willing to imagine the new life she's suggesting?
“I mean it,” Jeanette says, leaning her elbows on the table. “You don't have to make any decisions right now, but I'd like you to think about it. Don't worry about offending me, no matter what you decide. I promise to back you up, no matter what.”
I could quit violin lessons, self-defense class and French lessons and just read, hang out with Sarah and practice bandoneón
.
I might get to go to some tango concerts. If I hang out with Sarah at school, maybe I'll learn to make friends as quickly as she does.
“Think about it,” Jeanette says. “I don't mind talking to your Mom if you want me to.”
My images of life in Victoria burst like soap bubbles. “What would you tell her?”
“How much you're blossoming here, how you have access to a world-class bandoneón teacher and how much he thinks of your playing.”
I wince. “My parents don't know about the bandoneón. I never told them.”
“No problem. I did.”
“Oh.” Now Mom has undeniable proof that I've been keeping things from her. That'll be enough to send her imagination searching for a million other secrets I must be hiding. If Jeanette asks her to let me stay here for the year, she'll be convinced I've become an Uncontrollable Teenager for sure.
I
need a good twenty-four hours to figure out what to say to my parents. Not about moving hereâI haven't made that decision yetâbut about the bandoneón.
Withholding information is a big deal in my family. Like I said, my parents believe in discussing everything with me, from their first sexual experiences (“knowledge that might help you make your own decisions”) to what they're presently arguing about (“as a member of the family, you deserve to know”). They've always assumed I would be open with them too, and I have been, until now.
“I was wondering when you'd get around to telling us,” Mom says when I bring up the bandoneón. “Why did you keep it a secret?”
I can think of no safe way to answer this, so I choose the least painful version of the truth. “I wanted it to be a surprise. You know, I show up at the end of the summer able to play a whole new instrument?”
Mom says nothing at first. “Why wouldn't you want to share your excitement with us, though, as you experience it?”
“I didn't know you'd find it so exciting,” I say. “I know Dad, for one, hates anything that sounds like an accordion.”
Another long silence. Dangerously long. I brace myself.
“I wish you'd tell me what's going on,” she whispers. “You keep saying everything's fine, but if it were really fine, you'd tell me things. Why don't you tell me things anymore?”
I don't know how to respond to that, and I guess my silence lasts a moment too long, because I hear her take a deep breath, and I know any hope of rational conversation is gone.
“I can't stand this anymore,” she cries. “We need to talk. I'll get on a ferry first thing tomorrow morning. I can be there by nine.”
“No,” I say too quickly, then scramble to save myself. “I mean, I'd be happy to talk to you, but no, we don't
need
to talk. Everything's fine. I love you, Mom.” She's crying quietly enough for me to add that I didn't mean to hurt her, and I'd love to see her, but I also understand that work is very busy and I wouldn't want her to fall behind to come over here when everything'sâ
“Everything's
not
fine between us!” she wails. “I can hear it in your voice.”
I cast a pleading look at Jeanette, who's suddenly standing next to me. She holds out her hand for the phone, but I know I have to say something to calm Mom down before I hand her over. “I'm sorry, Mom. I don't know what to say.”
“Just let me come,” she says. “I need to see you.”
“Iâ”
Jeanette snatches the phone before I can say any more. “Gloria, what is going on?”
Even from a foot away, I can hear Mom's garbled moan.
“Why are you second-guessing your own daughter?” Jeanette asks. “Has she ever lied to you before?â¦No, she's not. In fact, it took considerable courage for her to tell you how she feelsâ¦Of
course
you're still welcome to come. When have I ever locked my door on you?â¦Forget the poor-me stuff, Gloria. She doesn't hate you. She simply said you don't need to come here on her account. That's
good
news. Nothing worth wailing about.”
Jeanette turns and finds me staring at her. She shoos me away with one hand, but I stay rooted to the floor, wondering why Mom hasn't slammed down the phone yet. I think, too, about my dad hiding away in his basement office. I suspect he won't be coming out to comfort her this time, and part of me wants to clamp a hand over Jeanette's mouth. The other part of me wants to reach through the phone and shove my mother across the room.
I turn and run.
I
'm not much of a runner, and by the time I reach the end of the block, I have to slow down. I storm across Douglas Street to the park and head to the stone bridge over Goodacre Lake. Sarah and I often came here on hot days to watch turtles sunning themselves on the rocks. It's a breezy evening now, though, so the turtles have all hidden away, and Sarah's probably holed up with her family playing a happy game of Scrabble. Her dad probably made a chocolate cake, and all five of them are savoring each mouthful, basking in their perfect family-ness.
“Hi there.” It's Sarah, of course, the last person on the planet that I want to seeâwell, second-last, after my mother. She is sitting at the water's edge, poking a stick into the dirt next to her.
“What are you doing here?” I mean it as a curious question, but I admit it comes out a bit harsh.
She looks startled. “Why shouldn't I be here?”
“I mean, I thought you'd be with your family.”
“Nah,” she says. “Jennifer's at music camp, and my parents and Wylie are watching some movie about dinosaurs.”
“Oh.”
I sit down on the grass, kind of beside her but a little bit apart. It would be rude to leave, but I don't want her to feel like she has to talk to me either.
Neither of us says anything for a while.
“So what's up with you anyway?” she asks, poking at a bit of algae floating on the water.
I swallow. “What do you mean?”
“Why have you been avoiding me lately?”
I wish I hadn't come here tonight. I wish a giant UFO would suck me up and take me away, never to return. I close my eyes, but nothing happens. When I open them, Sarah is still there, waiting. “Iâ”
“I was good enough for you when you first got here, but now you've found better things to do? Is that it?”
“What?” I ask. “No, that's not it atâ”
“Then what?” She's jabbing at the algae now.
How do I explain that she's got it backward? How do I say that I don't know what to talk to Michael and Steve about, that if it weren't for her hanging out at the petting zoo in addition to looking glamorous, I never would have even tried talking to her? How do I say any of that without sounding pathetic?
“If I did something to make you mad, why don't you just say so?”
“Why is everyone so convinced I'm mad at them, for god's sake!” I'm surprised to find myself shouting.
Sarah jumps up. “Don't yell at me, Ellie. I'm not deaf, and I didn't come to the park to get yelled at.”
“I'm sorry,” I say. “It's been a rough day.” I tell her about my conversation with Mom.
She sits back down. “Sounds like she needs some serious help.”
“That's what Jeanette says.”
She finds a stone and tosses it into the pond. “What do you think?”
“Maybe. Jeanette wants Mom to see a therapist.”
