The Weight of Zero (27 page)

Before group, Mom and I stop off at home so I can change my shirt. I take the bloodstained sweater downstairs and sprinkle it with OxiClean powder and soak it in cold water in the laundry sink, just like Lorraine told me to.

Michael was weird when I said good-bye to him at the hospital. He was beyond embarrassed and could barely look at me. It was a little before two in the afternoon, and Mom was waiting in the front lobby for me. Michael had just gotten fourteen stitches, so I wasn't expecting him to be his usual jolly self, but this was still surprising. Before I left, we had watched the video Tyler had sent that some kid had taken of the incident. Tyler actually punched Farricelli twice after Michael went down, his blows rage-fueled and effective against the cane-dependent Farricelli. But Michael took no joy in Tyler's vengeance.

“I'm really sorry about this, Cath,” he said. “You missed a full day of school and your sweater is ruined. I'm sorry I'm such a wimp.”

Minutes later, once I was inside the Accord, after an awkward hug in front of Lorraine and Tony, he had texted: “Im sorry you had to see me like that”

I texted back that I was proud of him and that he was really brave to defend Tyler and not pass out or anything when he got hurt. He responded with only :(. I texted that if I didn't have to work this afternoon, I'd come over and hang out with him.

There was no response.

“Why can't you come over?” Kristal asks for the second time. It's our break at St. Anne's and we're in the girls' bathroom. Alexis is still blowing off Kristal and stayed in Room Three for the Fig Newtons and orange juice.

During discussion, John asked me about today's kind-of fight that my boyfriend was in. John hadn't actually seen it, but at least three Cranbury students posted videos, so he was able to give me some details that I had missed from my distance of three feet away.

Kristal heard the whole gory story, so I feel okay telling her that I'm not sure what's going on with Michael and that I don't want to make any weekend plans yet. I know for sure I'm headed to the Pitoscias' on Friday. Nonny had texted Lorraine while we were waiting for the plastic surgeon and demanded that I come over on Friday for a special dinner for “saving” Michael. And I want to keep Saturday open.

Before today, I had never seen Michael like that—angry and humiliated. Maybe I thought he wasn't capable of those emotions. It's ridiculous to me now, that I could think he's this one-dimensional personality. I'll ask him to come over on Saturday. Mom would love that.

“But, Cat, it's Wednesday,” Kristal says. “He only got some stitches. He'll be fine by the weekend. You can't be seeing him the entire weekend, right? What about Saturday afternoon or Sunday afternoon?”

“I'm not sure.”

“I need to show you what I ordered off the Internet.” Kristal whispers, her lips centimeters from my ear. “For my vaginismus. I'm freaking out.”

“What?”

Kristal reaches for my wrist and squeezes. “It's insane!” she whispers. “It's a dilator kit. With different sizes—”

“Wait. What's a dilator?”

Kristal drops my wrist and looks at me like I'm an idiot. “You don't know what a dilator is?”

I shake my head and Kristal says, “Jesus, Cat. What century have you been living in?”

I stare at her. She's like sandpaper on a rash right now.

“Just go home and Google it.” Kristal shuts down. “It sounds stupid, me telling you. I don't even want to talk about it here.” She takes a step closer and stares at my neck. “Tell me that's not a hickey.”

In the mirror, I see a small red smear on my neck, close to my collarbone. It comes off with a wet paper towel. “It's blood. From Michael.”

“That's a relief. That hickey stuff is so trailer park,” she says. A double-edged-sword comment—not only is she callous about Michael's injury but she's pulling a class thing, asserting her superiority.

The bitch in me snaps to attention. “Did you see the earrings Michael bought me?” I ask brightly. “For our anniversary?” I despise girls who parade their boyfriends around, trying to rack up points in the “I'm Better Than You” sweepstakes, yet here I am.

Whatever. This is a defensive maneuver to negate the class comment.

But it lands on Kristal like a direct-hit drone strike.

“They're beautiful,” she says slowly, and I can almost see her brain working, thinking how she's got a new set of dilators and I got new earrings.
Which one of these is not like the other?

“I've got to make a phone call before we start up again,” Kristal says suddenly, pulling open the bathroom door. Her bangle bracelets chatter. “See you in there?” Without waiting for my answer, she exits, leaving me alone.

And for the first time in at least a month, since the
cuckoo, cuckoo
incident in the computer lab, I feel something on the back of my neck. It's the breath of my old acquaintance, Zero. That shrewd fucker has been waiting in the wings, biding his time for the inevitable cracks to appear. So he can seep back in and flood me. He's getting bolder again.

Not now. Not yet. I lean close to the mirror and whisper loud enough for Zero to hear, “Fuck off.”

“Catherine, you sit here.” Nonny beckons me to the chair at the head of the table. Michael, Anthony, Lorraine and Tony all freeze in place.

“Did you just call Michael's friend by her real name?” Anthony yells. “Catherine, you've broken the land-speed record. Nonny never calls any non-Pitoscia by their first name until at least one full calendar year has passed along with a lunar eclipse. Jesus, Michael, you should've tried to take out Farricelli like three weeks ago.”

The last comment wipes the fake smile right off Michael's bandaged-chin face. Something is definitely wrong. I haven't seen Michael since Wednesday. He missed school yesterday and today. All his texts were one-word responses to my questions. Then tonight, he greeted me at the front door, dressed in a ratty old Paoletti's Landscaping T-shirt and baggy sweatpants, with a lukewarm hello, his eyes glued to a spot right above my eyes. I thought for sure he'd notice his snowflake earrings. Before I put them on, Mom helped me polish them with her silver cloth to make them extra shiny. Michael didn't notice, he just turned his back and left me to follow him down the hall to the kitchen. I halted, the tail of his shirt in my hand. He had to stop, but he only turned halfway to face me.

“Hey,” I said softly, pressing my cheek against his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Sure.” Bland. Generic. No eye contact. He pulled away and began walking again.

No connection. After two days of no physical contact, he still won't look directly at me. The world feels off-kilter.

And now there's no quick smart-ass comeback to Anthony's Farricelli comment. Instead, Michael drops into his chair and spoons a heap of rigatoni onto his plate. No one else has even sat down yet.

“Oh, bro, this is getting really old. You've got to drop this sad-sack shit, like, now,” Anthony says.

Lorraine immediately referees, “Ant, just leave him be.”

“Can you all please just stop?” Michael asks, his eyes not leaving his plate. “I mean, Catherine's here. Do we have to start this again? If anybody says another word, I'm leaving.”

Of course it's Nonny who says a bunch of words. Words of the surgically precise kind that peel away the layers of denial and doubt and expose the raw nerve. Nonny says loudly, “Michael, he feel
bad.
He
embarrassed.
He want to hit the Farricelli boy and he
miss.
I say good. Michael don't break a fingernail for that
stronzo.
”

The legs of Michael's chair screech on the tile floor as he whips back from the table. “Jesus Christ!” He charges out of the kitchen. A door opens somewhere, then slams shut.

What the fuck? Is he going to leave me here? The Pitoscias, all of them, study me with expressions of pity. The cloth of my blouse must be vibrating, my heart is beating so hard. My face is on fire, and I start to sweat, but inside, I feel cold. Is Michael breaking up with me? Right here in front of his whole freaking family?

And then the moment is over. Michael yells, “Catherine!” and in his tone, I can hear it. The way it cracks a little on the
rin
part of my name. It's not me. He's just beyond mortified. That he failed spectacularly not only in front of me and Farricelli and Tyler and the rest of the school but also in front of Anthony, the cool, take-no-shit older brother with the college expulsion and DUI arrest who, paradoxically, Michael will never live up to.

What is it that Sandy said? How do we deal with pain? This is Michael's pain. And he's not dealing very well at the moment.

I so get it.

“Excuse me,” I say to Michael's family.

“I'm sorry about that, Cath,” Lorraine says. “Get him calmed down and come up whenever you guys are ready to eat.”

Anthony shakes his head. “Michael's a drama queen. Everyone knows Farricelli isn't fully charged. The kid runs at like fifty-eight percent. It's no big deal—”

Tony puts up a hand. “What about this don't you get? How many times do I have to explain that your brother…”

I don't hear the rest. Michael is waiting for me, red-faced, on the basement steps. He lets me pass him and closes the basement door behind me. Downstairs, the room is dark, lit only by the giant TV on the wall. It is black velvet down here, the exact cozy cave that I need. I slink onto the soft sofa, my heart slowing. Michael joins me, but he's still wound tight. I can feel the rage inside him, radiating from him in waves.

I reach for one of his balled fists and work my fingers inside it. Once again, our hands talk before our mouths can speak.

“Cath,” Michael starts, and then shakes his head. “How can you even stand to come here tonight? How can you still want to see me? Didn't you see any of the videos? I'm such a loser.” His voice is ragged.

I move closer and rub his back. “Stop saying that. I think you were great. Defending Tyler like that.”

He rolls his eyes. “Like a complete wimp? Who couldn't even hit Farricelli's fat fucking head? I mean, Jesus Christ, his forehead alone is like a freaking billboard.”

I don't mean to start smiling, but his description is cracking me up inside. “Nah, it's smaller. I'm thinking minivan.”

He looks at me and a slow grin forms above the huge chin bandage. “Gee, thanks. I feel better now.”

“You should. Seriously.” I rest my forehead against his. We're so close that his eyes merge into one. “Even if you were a Cyclops, I'd still want to be your girlfriend.” I kiss the tip of his nose.

Michael pushes me back gently so he can study my face. “So you're telling me what happened doesn't turn you off? You're not, like, skeeved out or anything? When I almost passed out? And almost
threw up
?”

I start to massage the tops of his shoulders, which are knotted tight with tension. “I especially like that part.” We both laugh. “This doesn't change my feelings for you at all. The part that sticks with me is that you're a loyal friend. Got that, Pit Man?”

“Got it,” he whispers.

I scoot closer and we come together. Michael pulls his head back and we start to kiss, sweet and light. But then it deepens. Ignites. Like all the worry and stress of the last couple of days, all the negative energy is rechanneled. We're kissing with a new intensity, and between the warm lips and tongues and hands, I only vaguely register the cotton gauze of his bandage against my own chin.

Michael pushes me back so we are lying on the sofa. His back is damp with sweat and his mouth is moving lower, down my neck, my collarbone, going even farther. Then his hands are under my shirt. He's pulling me even closer to him, unhooking my bra. It has never been this way between us before—rushed, fast. But it feels so good.

“You are so beautiful.” His breath is deliciously hot on my ear.

His weight on top of me feels so solid, so right. We fit together perfectly. He lifts himself to gaze at me, intense lust in his expression. As he unbuttons the first two buttons of my shirt, his dark eyes hold mine. With that same Mona Lisa boy-smile. And in the flickering light of the TV, the image of his face imprints itself on my brain. Permanently.

“Is this okay?” he whispers huskily, reaching for the third button.

It strikes me that I could love this boy. I could really love him. And then the second truth hits: I can never be with him that way, experience sex with him. It would be beyond cruel to share that with him, to be so intimate, when he's only met the facade of Catherine Pulaski. The real Catherine has to die when Zero crash-lands, and I don't want to hurt or scar him forever.

I feel cold suddenly. I button my shirt and manage to separate from him. “No, we better not. Not now.” I stand up.

Nonny calls to us from the top of the basement steps, “Michael! Michael! You done being a baby now? Bring Catherine up. I got dinner here for you. It's getting cold.”

“Jesus,” Michael mutters, before yelling to her, “We'll be up in five.”

He stands and moves close to me, cupping my face gently in his hands. “Cath, I've never felt this way before. I think—”

“C'mon,” I say, cutting him off. I can't hear this. I don't want to know how he feels about me. It cannot be said out loud. I'm not ready to let him go yet, but I can't add any more to the cloak of guilt I wear for Mom. It's too heavy for me now. “Nonny is waiting for us.”