The Key to the Golden Firebird (6 page)

“I'm not even going there,” he replied, shaking his head.

“What?”

“You know what.”

“School stuff doesn't count,” she said.

“Since when? I've always been way behind you. This is the only thing I've done better at first.”

The flattery lifted May's spirits a bit, but she didn't want this to show.

“The only reason I have to learn is because my mom has all
these jobs she needs me to do,” she said.

“That doesn't matter,” Pete replied. “The best part about driving is that you can just sit and think or play music. Whatever you want. You're totally on your own.”

May turned to him. He was too tall to sit with his knees tucked up, like hers were. He had to stretch them out.

“I want that,” she said seriously.

“So, come on. Back in.”

The car was slightly cooler when they got in, but this didn't last long.

“I've got an idea,” Pete said. “We're going to play ‘let's pretend we're in England.' This is how it works: You drive on the left side of the road. That way you can see how close you are to the curb.”

“So I watch out the window?”

“Bloody right.”

Pete was using the same strange voice that he'd been trying out on Saturday.

“We're going to do this without the accent, okay, Pete?”

“You got it,” he said, again with the accent.

It took about an hour of going back and forth between the left and right sides, but she eventually managed to drive on the correct side at the correct distance from the curb. But an hour in the punishing heat of the car drained them both, and they turned around and headed back to May's house.

“So, what do you think?” he asked. “Want to do this again?”

“Yeah,” May said. “It was good. I think I almost got it.”

“You did get it. You were fine.”

“So what's the catch?” May asked.

“Catch?”

“I'm just waiting,” she said. “I know you have something planned. I know I'm walking into some plot of yours.”

Pete snickered. “Just wait and see.”

“Yeah,” May said, getting out of the car. “I can hardly wait.”

One of May's ultimate pet peeves was when people said to her, “Your dad's in a better place now.” Like he had moved. May always wanted to say, “Yes. He loves it in North Carolina.” Or, “He says Spain is amazing.”

May resented the idea of anyone else thinking they knew where her dad had gone. She didn't know where her dad was. Not even physically. His body had been cremated, and the ashes were being stored somewhere. She had never asked where because she didn't want to know. As for the spiritual part (which was what the “better placers” were talking about), she got the impression they were talking about a heaven where he was floating around in the clouds, consorting with famous dead people.

The other thing they seemed to be saying was that death was a great thing. That was probably the part that made her so angry. It was like they were telling her she should be happy that her father had dropped dead because he ate too much fat and didn't exercise enough and clogged up his arteries. That was what her mom had explained to her, anyway. She said it could have been heredity or stress, but May had seen her father eat enough chili cheese dogs to know the truth.

On some level, she blamed him for it. He'd been a big guy to start with, and he'd just let himself get bigger. Mike Gold was definitely not a dieter. He was the kind of guy who just
liked to let things go and have a good time. That was probably why he'd liked Brooks most of all and allowed her to do whatever she wanted. That Brooks was lazy, that she did the minimum amount of work at school or at home—her father never seemed to notice. As long as she could hit a ball with a stick, she was a wonderful human being. So Brooks coasted by, and May picked up her slack or dealt with the consequences.

For example, here May was at five thirty-five on Thursday morning without a single pair of clean underwear to her name. And why? Because in the week and a half since Brooks had quit the softball team, she had yet to actually complete any of the newly assigned chores that their mom had given her, including laundry. This meant May had to sneak into Brooks's room (she didn't make much effort to be quiet) to try to find some clean underwear.

Under ideal conditions, the ride from the Northeast Philadelphia suburbs to Girls' should have taken only half an hour. But May's bus served another private school on the edge of the city, so there were other stops to make, and there was rush-hour traffic to take into account. In the end, she had to be at her bus stop just after six.

As her bus rumbled through downtown Philadelphia, over the Schuylkill River and down into University City, past the dignified stretches of the University of Pennsylvania buildings, May was fast asleep with her head against the window. Her bus hit a huge pothole at Thirty-third and Chestnut, causing May's head to smack into the window, waking her. She didn't mind. She counted on that pothole to be her alarm clock.

Linda Fan, May's best friend and her constant companion
since day one of her freshman year at Girls', was sitting on the stone bench by May's bus stop, where they met every morning. Linda lived twenty blocks north and a few tree streets over from Girls', in a condo on Locust Street. She usually just woke up a half hour before school, threw on her uniform, and hopped on the subway.

Linda's parents could afford to live where they did because they were both doctors at Jefferson Hospital and Linda was an only child. She never had to worry about having enough underwear in the morning, because her family had a woman who came in three times a week to straighten up the house and take care of the chores, like the laundry. The only bad part of the deal was that her cousin Frank was living with them while he went to Drexel University, which was very close to their house. Frank was an engineering student with five pet snakes. Unfortunately, snakes terrified Linda, so she missed a lot of sleep.

“I'm dead,” Linda said as May approached. “Very, very dead. I'm not even done with my history paper. I'll have to finish it and print it out at lunch. I would have gotten it done last night, but Frank was letting Harvey out for his weekly crawl, so I couldn't even think.”

“Which one is Harvey?”

“The Burmese python,” Linda said, getting up. She was almost a full head shorter than May, so May always had to look down when they were talking. It was an unusual experience since May was the runt of the Tall, Blond, and Wonderful family. “Anyway, I had ten minutes on the subway this morning to work, but Aubrey had to re-create this entire conversation she
had with her boyfriend last night so I could analyze it. You know, because I'm a licensed psychologist, right? Do I wear a sign on my back that says Overshare with Me?”

“Yeah. A really little one.”

“I thought so,” Linda said. “So, do you have any personal information you want to share with me?”

“I'm wearing Brooks's underwear.”

“Again?”

“She's supposed to do the laundry—but it's been over a week. You know Brooks. She doesn't do anything.”

“Is she still seeing that guy?”

“Dave?” May said. “Yeah. More than ever now.”

They walked up the front steps and in through the ornate doorway of the school. Herds of maroon-suited girls hurried in all directions.

“What about you?” Linda asked.

“What about me?”

“Aren't you getting lessons from Pete?”

May nodded.

“So?” Linda said. “How's that?”

“We've only gone once, a week ago on Monday. It was fine.”

“You haven't complained about it at all. You always complain when you see Pete.”

“He's behaving.”

Linda hmmmed.

“Don't do that,” May said.

“Do what?”

“Make that noise.”

Linda smiled innocently.

“Anyway, I don't even know what's going to happen when I do get my license,” May went on. “We only have the one car, really, and it's not like I'll suddenly have this amazing life even if I
can
drive.”

“
When
you can.”

“Whatever. The only reason I'm getting my license at all is because my mom can't count on Brooks to do things. We can't afford the extra insurance right now.”

“But it will help,” Linda said, “with getting a life.”

“How do you get a life?” May asked. “I mean, does it just show up someday?”

“Getting outside of your house for something other than school or work is probably a good place to start.”

“Well, that isn't going to happen,” May said.

 

Palmer was happy out on the field, with the dirt, the grass, the blinding sun. Heat, cold, sweat—no problem. Outside, it wasn't quite so obvious that every part of her body was weirdly
long
, like she was actually a short person who had been stretched out of shape. It didn't matter that she had no chest or that she had the gangly walk of a girl who really only knows how to run. On the field these were advantages. On the field she was the pitcher—the star.

Here in the locker room, though, with the gels and lotions that smelled of peach and coconut, the body buffs, the blow-dryers, the exfoliant scrubs, the intense conditioners—this was where it all fell apart. This was where it was all too clear that Palmer was fourteen and flat, with perennially oily hair, chewed-up nails, and skin that was always either windburned
or sunburned. In here, Palmer was just a gawky freshman. It had been different when Brooks was here. Brooks had always been so popular, so loud. She was the shortstop and the talker, and Palmer was the quiet, intense pitcher. That was how Palmer liked it.

Now she was just Palmer, naked, struggling to pull a scratchy towel around herself. The towels she brought were always too small, so she had to hunch to cover herself up.

Diana Haverty was sprawled out over most of the bench behind Palmer's locker, wrapped snugly in the thickest red towel Palmer had ever seen. She was examining her toes, which were tiny and cute. Her toenails were painted an Easter-egg blue.

“I don't know if I like this color,” Diana said to no one in particular.

“I think it's nice.” Emma, the third-base player, turned from her locker to join in the examination of the adorable digits. “Who makes it?”

“Hard Candy.”

“Stila makes a color kind of like that, but it's a little glossier.”

“Really?” Diana said. “I need to pick something for my prom pedicure, and that's what I want: a light gloss, but sort of like this.”

Palmer looked down at her own big feet. She quickly threw on her grocery-store flip-flops and hurried to the shower with her little basket. She preferred being the first one in and out. As she dripped and flip-flopped her way back, she stopped short when she heard Diana say Brooks's name.

“Is she really dating Vatiman?” Emma was asking.

“That's what I heard. I don't know. She doesn't call me anymore.”

“Isn't Vatiman a dealer?”

“Something like that,” Diana said. “That girl Jamie I always see them with…psycho. Seriously. I had four classes with her last year. She's a total head case.”

“I heard that.”

“But you know Brooks,” Diana said. “It was just a matter of time.”

One of them mumbled something. Palmer knew instinctively that it must have been about her.

“I know,” Diana said. “It's a shame. I really wish I could help.”

Palmer stood there, unsure of what to do. It wasn't like she could just turn around and leave. Quietly she came back over. As she'd expected, Diana and Emma pretended like nothing had been going on. Diana looked over as Palmer tried to dry herself without removing the towel.

“That was an amazing curve today, Palmer,” she said. “Really good. Are you going to a pitching coach?”

“No,” Palmer said.

“Your arm is getting stronger.”

“Thanks.” Palmer hastily pulled on her shorts and her fleece top. She pulled her wet hair back into a heavy ponytail. Within a minute she was hefting her bag over her shoulder, ready to go.

“See you tomorrow,” she said softly.

“Do you need a ride today?” Diana asked.

“No.” Palmer shook her head. “My mom is coming for me.”

“Hey,” Emma said. “Palmer.”

Palmer stopped and turned around.

“Is Brooks really dating Dave Vatiman?”

“I guess.”

Diana and Emma exchanged a look.

“I have to go,” Palmer said.

Her mother was waiting for her in the parking lot. Palmer climbed inside the minivan, roughly tossing her bags into the backseat. She didn't speak for the first few minutes of the trip, prompting a few quick glances from her mother.

“What are you going to do?” Palmer finally asked.

“About what?”

“About Brooks.”

“What about Brooks?”

“About softball.”

“What do you want me to do, Palm?” her mother asked. “I can't make her play.”

“So you're just going to let her quit?” she asked.

“She's old enough to make that decision.”

Palmer turned and stared out the window.

“May's at work right now,” her mother said. “She'll be back around seven. You can either warm up something when you get home, or you can wait and have dinner with her.”

“Fine.”

“Don't get upset, Palm.”

Palmer had every reason to be upset. Every reason in the world. And the fact that her mother didn't understand why made it even worse.

In Palmer's eyes, Brooks had given up everything and left her alone.

 

As she hung up her apron in the storage room after finishing her short evening shift, May's eyes fell on her name tag. It read
Lirpa
. She'd been wearing it for three hours and hadn't even noticed.

She pulled the apron back down and went into the shop. Nell was leaning against the counter, eating her dinner, which consisted of painfully pungent kimchi and large squares of wiggly tofu.

“What's this?” May asked, holding up the tag. “I just fixed it.”

“It's April, spelled backward.” Nell grinned, pinching up a clump of cabbage with her chopsticks. “Have fun finding the label maker again.”

May tried to smile, because this was supposed to be funny. She returned to the storage room and deposited the apron. While she was there, she couldn't resist looking around for the label maker. It was no use. Nell had probably bricked it up in the wall or something. When she emerged, she found Pete leaning against the counter, already immersed in a chat with Nell. He didn't seem to mind having her talking into his face with her tear-inducing kimchi breath.

“Tech,” Nell was rambling. “That's cool. I'm really into tech. Technical stuff is so important in theater. So many people don't realize that—they think it's all about the actors.”

“Yeah,” Pete agreed. “That's true.”

Pete was wearing an open long-sleeve shirt over a T-shirt for Grant's recent production of
Brigadoon
.

“You do, what, lights?”

“Lights and sound,” Pete replied. “Mostly lights. Some construction, too.”

“I act,” Nell said. “I did a lot of shows in high school. I've done some Shakespeare and some modern plays and some plays that my friends and I wrote.”

“You wrote some plays?” Pete asked, looking impressed.

“Yeah.” Nell nodded. “I had two years of playwriting classes in high school. I've written at least twelve or fifteen short plays and three full-lengths. They were all pretty experimental. We did them in alternative spaces. We did this kind of political play in the men's bathroom once….”

“You didn't go to Grant, did you?” Pete asked.

“No.” Nell laughed. “I went to the Albert School.”

May turned around to roll her eyes. Pete stood up and wiggled his fingers at her.