Split Just Right (6 page)

“RTs? Because of his crooked part?”

“No, because of that elf shadow made from his ears.” But now his part looks stupid, too. I slam the book shut and shiver. Anything related to Ty Amblin always gives me a way more intense reaction than I expect. “I haven’t made up my mind to invite him, you know. He looked, like, so twitty when I saw him with his mom at Strawbridge’s. In that goofy pink—”

“I know, you’ve already said, that pink golf sweater. But I mean, Ty really plays golf? It’s not like he’s wearing it for, like, modeling purposes? His family owns a place in West Palm, and he gets special golf lessons from the pros and stuff.”

“Honestly, though. Do you really see me hanging out with a guy who wears a pink golf sweater?” But all this talking about Ty catches a little thrill in different parts of me, in my fingertips and behind my neck and low in my spine.

I’ve had a thing for Ty since fourth grade, when he came to the annual Rye/Bradshaw Switchover Day and I was assigned as his Bradshaw Buddy. He had soft yellow hair and soft manners and soft little fingernails rounded into china-doll half-moons, so much nicer than my inky, raggedy ones. Then a couple years later, his parents rented a house in Nantucket near Portia’s parents’ house, and we all spent the summer playing tennis and traveling in packs with other local kids to the only movie theater in town. Later, in seventh grade, Ty and I danced every dance at the annual end-of-the-year Rye/Bradshaw Middle School Mixer.

It doesn’t seem like a lot, but when you go to a school that’s all girls or all guys, even the smallest encounters count way more than if you saw that person at school every day.

“There’s like a ten percent chance he’s coming to our basketball game tomorrow. Jess told me. You could ask him then?”

“I’d rather call than do it in person. You can’t hang up if you’re getting rejected face-to-face.”

“Stop, you’re so insecure. If you don’t hurry up and invite him, someone else will, or he’ll be going to the civic center for that boring Bulls game.”

“Bulls games are
so
not boring,” I snap. Sometimes Portia gets too girlish, and I hate being called insecure. “I’d majorly go see the Bulk over this dumb dance if I had the chance.”

“Yuck, how can you even—”

“Hey, I just remembered something,” I interrupt. Arguing with Portia about basketball isn’t worth the time it takes. I lift myself off Portia’s melon-ruffled bed and sit at her dressing table, uncapping one of her dozens of lip liners. I carefully start outlining my mouth. “You said earlier you had important news.”

“I did?” Portia flips through a magazine. “Oh please, oh puh-leez let me lose at least ten pounds by next Saturday to fit into my Vera Wang.”

“Yeah, you did. Remember? On the answering machine.”

I can see Portia reflected in the mirror. She’s pushed in and is kneading her lips over her braces, scraping the soft skin of her mouth over the metal. It hurts, she told me, but she does it to put more poutiness in her lips.

“Stop doing that thing with your mouth, okay, and just tell me.”

“What thing?” She stops doing it, though, and flips her hair into her face. It splashes heavily over her eyes and she drags her fingers through it, flipping it first to one side, then the other. Gold and honey brown streaks catch the lamplight and swirl together like a shampoo ad. Portia’s hair practically has its own personality

“Come on.” I deadeye her and she pulls up to sit on her knees, flipping the magazine to the side.

“Okay, it’s about your mom.”

“My mom?”

“See, I saw her … last night? At the Greenhouse? I was out to dinner with Mom and Dad. Danny, I had no idea.”

I knew it. Mom went on a secret date with Mr. Sallese. He’d been just a bit too friendly with her in the faculty lounge. The Greenhouse is a pretty popular bar and grill restaurant; it’s where Bradshaw girls throw their sweet sixteen parties and where the senior class dinner usually is held. Mom had been sort of mysterious last night about what she was doing. She told me she had rehearsal every night this week, but thinking back on it, rehearsal every night seems like an intense schedule, even for a last-minute Rosalind/Celia switch.

But Mr. Sallese is awful. He’s shorter than I am, not counting the huge helmet of Ken-doll hair that swoops up from his forehead. He has a son, too, named Rocco. I didn’t even think that was a real name. Worse, Rocco plays drums in a grunge band. I see my whole new step-familied life in a flash and it looks crowded and horrifying.

“He’s nice, Mr. Sallese.” I shrug.

“Okay, I totally understand if you want to change the subject? Mr. Sallese, yeah, he’s nice, but he definitely mousses.”

I’m confused. “Wait, Portia, how’m I changing the subject?”

“And anyone trying for that much volume? That might mean hair plugs.”

“Portia, hang on—who was my mom with at the Greenhouse on Tuesday?”

Portia looks straight at me, her eyes round as dimes. She seems nervous.

“With? No, Danny—she wasn’t with anyone. She was, uh, training? To be, uh, a waitress? I think? I’m pretty sure.”

“Oh, yeah, that.” My brain freezes but I keep right on talking. “I only know a little about that, but she’s, like—it’s some acting thing, technique thing. She’s in a new play.” My heart is beating sickeningly fast, and I wonder if fourteen-year-olds ever have heart attacks.

“Ohhh.” Portia looks visibly relieved. “A play about a waitress? That sounds cute. Because it would be kind of funny—strange funny I mean?—if she really was waitressing? Since, well, since so many of us kids go, since so many people go out to dinner at the Greenhouse, you know? You know what I mean?”

“Yeah.” I shove myself into my barn jacket. “Look, I better head home.”

“Okay, yeah, I need to study bio. And Mr. Jackson’ll give you a lift to the station. It’s totally dark now”

“See, Mom gets into method acting. She’s read all that Uta Hagen stuff.”

“Well, then I guess that would be good training and since it’s not for real—Danny, I hope you don’t mind, but can I just tell you?” Portia smiles and presses her fingers to her braces as if she’s trying to hold inside something she wants to shout. Instead she giggles. “Your mom is about the most clueless waitress that I ever ever saw.”

I laugh. Right now it’s just about one of the most unfunny things I’ve heard in a long time, but I laugh anyway “Yeah I bet,” I say “Some things you just can’t act, probably”

And then I escape.

The train, crowded a couple hours ago, holds only a handful of businessmen and women heading home from their jobs. They sit in their overcoats and gray suits and the sounds they make are all muted and polite. A quiet crinkle as they turn the page of a newspaper, a discreet ahem when they clear their throats. I hear one man talking on his cell phone, his hushed voice explaining what time he’ll be pulling into the station. A few of them give me quietly thoughtful looks, like they’re trying to figure out what I’m doing on their train.

Small mysteries are lifting all at once from my brain like a cloud of gnats. The pair of ugly black sneakers that Mom had been carrying around in her basket bag this past week. The dried ketchup smear on her jeans, grossly big and sloppy, even for Mom. The time I tried calling Bellmont to remind her to pick up orange juice and Louis said she wasn’t scheduled to come in that night. “I was there,” Mom had said later, looking mystified. “I was in the box office. Louis sure is losing it lately”

It seems so strange and terrible, thinking of her hiding this job from me. What did it mean? Why wouldn’t she have discussed this with me before? I feel sort of worthless, knowing that for some reason Mom decided I didn’t count enough to confide in about her decision.

“Bide Away,” the conductor calls.

Worthless. Mr. Paulson asked if Ty Amblin was worth my time. I’d never thought about it before. Now I wonder if Mom sees me as a worthwhile person. A person you can explain important things to, even if they’re tough to talk about, like losing your job and having to work as a waitress. I bet if Mr. Paulson lost his job and had to work as a bartender or something, he’d tell Portia. Mr. Paulson was always trying to explain bonds and debt origination to Carter and Portia, no matter how much they whined to him that they didn’t get it. He thinks it’s worth his time, sharing stuff about his job with his kids.

It’s funny, how Mr. Paulson always knows those details about my basketball and guys and whatever’s going on at Bradshaw. He’s a really great dad; I always feel bad when Portia acts rude to him, and I like to think that part of Mr. Paulson secretly wishes that I were his daughter.

The man sitting across from me wears a slouchy gray hat that keeps slipping over his eyes. His face in profile seems tired but friendly. I imagine him turning around. Our eyes lock and there’s a moment of recognition.

“Danny,” he says. His throat catches in a laugh of disbelief. “My darling daughter, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Didn’t you get my letter?” I falter.

“Ah, no, my horrible second wife must have ripped it up. She’s insane with jealousy over my persisting memories of Susan. No matter, I’ll be getting rid of her soon.” He smiles cryptically. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Dad, Mom and I could seriously use your help right now.”

Gray-hat man suddenly shifts and looks over at me, startled. “Did you say something?”

“Oh! No, I mean,” I shake my head quickly, “I just wondered if you had the time.”

“It’s seven fifty-eight,” he says, obviously relieved to stare at his watch and not me.

Mom’s not at the apartment when I get home, but messy traces of her presence remain. The stereo’s on; a half empty can of Coke and a new bottle of aspirin stand next to a crumpled paper bag on the table; and all the cupboards are open from her last-minute dinner search. I look inside the refrigerator and find a note:

Danny,

I’m at Bellmont but won’t be home till late. There’s ten dollars on my bureau for pizza. Study for math!

Love, Mom

I call Bellmont.

“She’s on for tomorrow, not tonight,” says Patsy “You want her whole schedule?”

“Yeah, okay.”

I write out the schedule and fold the paper in my pocket. Then I tug out the phone book, which we’d been using to steady a missing leg of the couch, and dial the number for the Greenhouse.

“Susan Finzimer, please.” I disguise my voice low like a guy’s.

“Jusasec, hon, I’ma transfer you over to the kitchen.” There’s a click and another breathless, “Hold on.” The background noises sound like someone’s crashing plates and silverware to the floor and then, blaring close enough in my ear so there’s no doubt in my mind, Mom’s voice is shouting,

“Hello? Hello? Hello?”

I hang up.

She doesn’t want to tell you because she’s ashamed. She doesn’t want to tell you because she’s afraid you’ll be ashamed. The thoughts cyclone through my brain and refuse to die.

I punch in Gary’s number. This is one of those times when I really need to have somebody say, “Oh, you know your mom; that’s just the way she is. She can be a bit nutty.” But instead I get his answering machine. I don’t leave a message.

“It’s so incredibly stupid of her.” I lie, stomach down, on the couch. “Not to tell me. Like I can’t handle it or something. What is she thinking?” And even as I’m saying all these things out loud, I’m wondering what I do think about it. Because it’s flat-out awful, this image of Mom at the Greenhouse. I see her running around slopping food in front of other people, having to be nice to them if parts are burnt or cold or too spicy, counting tips against our rent.

“She’ll quit in a week,” I predict, addressing the photograph of Rick Finzimer. “You know Mom. She’s scheming up a better plan.”

But there’s no one here to assure me. Rick Finzimer just smiles carelessly, keeping his thoughts, as always, to himself.

F
OUL SHOTS AREN’T ALL
in the flick of your wrist, or in the way you plant your feet at the throw line. They aren’t exactly about the height of the jump or the bend of your knees or the angle of your elbows, either. In my mind, a foul shot is all about timing: the one pivotal moment of release. It’s a moment when your brain and your body flex together, like when you’ve swung up to the highest point you can go on a swing and, right before you begin to fall in a long, swooping arc back to earth, you’re inside a tiny breathless instant when time stops and your heart stops and your thoughts stop and all around you, life is frozen silent.

If I can make my shot right in the middle of that kind of untouched moment, I know as soon as the ball glides into the air that the point is mine.

We’re in the final minutes of the fourth quarter and the scoreboard has been clamped with a pair of 47s, a tie for us and Perry. I grip the ball. I hold my breath, bend my knees, give a last, assured fingertip squeeze. And then, right as I’m about to release the ball from my possession, I see Ty Amblin standing with his friends Jess Bosack and Scott McKinlin, right by the open doors.

And then the ball is gone, spinning out through the air, while the crowd, all eyes and stopped breath, follows its path from my hands to where it bounces off the edge of the basket. A disappointed groan rises in the bleachers. Timing. I waited too long, let my crucial moment get swallowed by the distraction of a clump of stupid guys.

I can’t look at Ty and am thankful when a Perry girl grabs the ball and starts driving it downcourt, throwing us into a tight brace of guarding panic. They score, one of the 7s flips to a 9, and there’s a polite murmur from the bleachers. The time buzzer sounds worse than ten fire drills in my ear.

I walk slowly over to the bench to grab my towel and water bottle, my head down to avoid eye contact. Our coach, Mrs. Sherman, yells something at me like “Buck up, kiddo”—she’s always on everyone’s case about being a better sport and a good loser. I feel empty, my mouth tastes like sweat and dust (
lacks not only zim but also zam, zip, and any emotion in between …),
and the defeat drags my body into a slumpy depression. When I lose a game, I don’t care how I look to my teammates or to the other team. You lost. You’re a loser. That’s all I’m thinking.