This Must Be the Place: A Novel (28 page)

“No, that’s not what—” Oneida crossed her arms and looked from the mirror to the countertop, focusing on the harmless, less judgmental witnesses: the stack of paper cups, the chipped plastic bowl of cotton balls. A foot brush shaped like a big toe. “It’s not what he did, it’s why he did it,” she said. “He did it for me, to show off. Like, I know he likes me, you know what I mean? I
know
he likes me.”

“What did he do?” Mona asked. She crossed her arms too, and shifted from foot to foot.

“No, Mom, that’s not the point. The point is, I don’t know how I feel about what he did. I—there’s a part of me that absolutely loved it, and there’s a part of me that thinks I should call the cops on him. You know?”

Mona’s heart rate rose so high, so fast, she thought she might black out. “I
don’t
know, Oneida,” she said, and put her hand on her daughter’s arm as much to control her as steady herself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I need to. You need to tell me what you did.”

Oneida gaped. “I didn’t
do
anything,” she said. “God, Mom!”

“What did
he
do?”

Oneida shook her off and stomped into her bedroom. Mona followed. Her palms were warm and tacky and her head was buzzing. She hated this, she hated every second of it. Why couldn’t Oneida be six years old, or eight, or ten; why couldn’t she fit in that nightgown like she used to, and look at Mona like she used to, and be the person she used to be?

Oneida jumped into bed and pulled the covers up over her head.

“I didn’t do anything
stupid
, you know, I’m not a complete moron.” Her words were muffled through her blankets. “You really don’t know me anymore at all, do you?”

Mona, shaking, sat down on the edge of the mattress and curled her bare toes in the carpet nervously. Her limbs felt too large, floppy and cartoonish.

“That’s not true,” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—I’m only trying to help. But you have to talk to me. You have to tell me things, OK?”

“You have to tell me things too,
OK
?” Oneida said. “Like—I don’t know, let’s start small.”

“Fine. What do you want to know?” Just posing the question produced an unpleasant dizziness. Answering it felt impossible.

“Am I named after a spoon?”

Mona paused half a beat too long. Her daughter had always been too quick for her.

“Oh my God,” Oneida said, her voice shocked and small. “I knew it.”

“Oneida—of
course
you aren’t named after a spoon, I’ve told you this story a thousand times.
Oneida
is the name of a whole county, a lake, a tribe of people. I read about it in those old encyclopedias downstairs, the ones you love. I chose it for you because it was different and pretty, and I liked that it meant People of the—”

“Standing Stone. I know. I know all the stories you ever told me.” The lump that was Oneida shifted. “I know all the lies you ever told me,” she said.

Mona was too tired to be a grown-up. “What about the stories you tell me?” she said. “Huh? Stories like,
This boy at school did something that might be illegal, but I liked it, and for no good reason I don’t want to tell you about it.
You want to tell me how that story ends?”

“Forget it. You don’t have to worry about me making your mistakes.”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Oneida had pushed the big red button. “What have I ever done to make you think you weren’t wanted? I chose you. I kept you.
You are not my mistake.
” She wanted to rip that stupid blanket off her daughter’s head, drag her upright. Look her in the eye. Pick her up and feel her daughter’s arms wrap around her neck the way they had when she was six, warm and soft and just looking for someone to hold on to.

Oneida’s silence was painful. The lump in the bed rose and fell as she sucked in harsh, audible breaths, and Mona felt a cold dread when she realized she’d brought her daughter to tears. This was her life, over and over again: a place she’d never intended to be, arrived at through no one’s fault but her own.

“Please just tell me what he did,” she said. She rubbed her daughter’s back through the blankets.

“I thought you were my friend.” Oneida’s voice was high and wobbly. “I thought
friends
weren’t bullies.”

Mona stopped rubbing. “I’m not a very good friend,” she said.

Oneida rolled away, hiccuping back sobs. Mona had never felt older, or more exhausted, or less like herself. She didn’t have anything to blame on Amy, not anymore; she had secrets of her own to tell, and she had to tell them soon.

She brought Oneida a paper cup of water and left it on her nightstand. Without another word, she crossed the bathroom and closed her connecting door, undressed, and climbed into bed. Before she fell into a blank, motionless sleep, she wondered if she’d be herself again when she woke up. But then, she probably hadn’t been herself for quite a while. This feeling—this raw, pulsing vertigo—was probably how it felt to finally be awake.

12
Boobs

Oneida announced her intentions on the first day of Eugene’s grounding. As stipulated, Eugene had gone directly home after school. His brain was humming with a million preoccupations: news of his guitar homicide had traveled with a speed and ferocity the Wendy Project could never have anticipated. The antiestablishment badasses and JD fuckups (the
real
Wendys) glared at him, obviously considering recruitment. The majority of Ruby Falls High, however, thought he was completely, violently insane, and their combined animus—token disapproval with a strong current of perverse excitement—was a physical presence.

All day long, Eugene bore the sickening sensation of being scrutinized and gossiped about. It wasn’t at all like when the Wendy Project first took off: then the sheep had been every bit as ridiculous, entertaining, and manipulated as the rumors they were spreading. This was . . . different. Everybody knew: teachers knew, seventh-graders knew, seniors knew. The lunch lady, when she looked up from the scoop of mashed potatoes she flopped on his tray, flinched at his magnificent black eye. There was an implicit understanding that Wendy had finally done the something they’d always known he would, and their moral and social superiority was at long last confirmed.

On top of the subzero atmosphere were three very specific, very troublesome facts:

One: Andrew Lu wanted to end him. Everywhere Eugene went, Andrew followed: he was drinking from the water fountain next to his locker, shuffling three feet back in the lunch line, glaring at him the instant Eugene stepped into geometry, into biology, into bio lab. Eugene
had never noticed how many classes they shared. But then again, Andrew Lu had never had any cause, before yesterday, to blast him with a double-barrel glare that clearly meant
I hate you and I want you to die
. If his life had been a prison movie, Eugene would have been shivved before second period.

Two: He had no clue where he’d find the $300 he owed Astor. He’d woken to a pink Post-it note on his bedroom door with the words
EW: U O Me 300
followed by a cartoon clam sweating giant drops of what Eugene assumed must be salt water. He thought he’d been saving at least half of his allowance for the past six months, but the holey green sock where he normally kept his money yielded a whopping twenty dollars and a fuzzy piece of old gum that kind of grossed him out.

And three: Oneida didn’t look at him once all day.

Of Eugene’s many reasons to be unhappy, the last was by far the most painful.

He was in the middle of constructing a peanut butter and bologna sandwich he didn’t think he had the heart to eat when the doorbell chimed. And chimed again. It rang three more times before he answered it.

At school she’d been wearing her typical uniform—jeans and a T-shirt—but she had changed into a pleated blue skirt with tiny white polka dots. Her sweater was short-sleeved and fuzzy and tight; her hair was pulled back and fell around her shoulders. At first Eugene didn’t recognize her, though that had less to do with the improbability of Oneida Jones delivering herself to his doorstep than with her lack of glasses.

She squinted.

“Crap,” she said, and reached into a bedraggled purple purse. “Sorry, I really can’t see anything without, but I thought I might look, you know, better—” She widened the opening of the bag and scrambled furtively. “Where the hell—?”

Eugene was exploding all over. This was happening.
This was really happening
.

“Ah!” Oneida pulled out her glasses but immediately fumbled them.

They landed on the mud mat and Eugene dove. Oneida stepped back, frightened, probably; he had gone after her glasses like a cobra striking. He straightened and held them out to her.

“You look better with glasses,” he said. “I don’t mean you don’t look, you know, good. I just—I mean, you look like you. When you wear them.”

She took her glasses from his hand silently and slid them on her face. Despite ostensibly being able to see, Oneida didn’t look at him. She stared at her feet.

“Do you want to come in?” he said.

“I—” She cleared her throat. “I’m ready to make out with you now.”

So Eugene was dead. He was dead, and it was official: the afterlife both existed and was awesome. Had Andrew Lu jumped him on his way home? He didn’t remember a fight, but Andrew was smart enough to attack from behind.

Oneida was looking directly at him. “Are you OK? Your mouth is open.”

His teeth clicked as he snapped his jaw shut.

They stared at each other.

“I . . . thank you,” Oneida finally said. “How did you know?”

Eugene’s voice rose higher than it had in almost two years. “Know what?”

“About Andrew. That jerk stole my idea. You knew that, right?” She hugged her arms against her stomach, under her boobs. Boobs, Eugene thought, unable to take his eyes away. What a wonderful, wonderful concept: Oneida’s boobs.

“How did you know that?” she was asking. And then, “Are you staring at my boobs?”

He snapped back.

“I guess it’s all right,” she said, and sighed. “I figured boobs would be part of the deal. Can I come in? It’s cold out here.”

“Yeah, sure, definitely, come in.” Eugene’s pulse thrummed in his temple.

“You’re blocking the door,” she said.

“Right,” said Eugene.

Oneida, on his doorstep, reminded him of a page in the illustrated history of religious painting Astor kept on the bottom of his bookshelf, laid flat because it was too tall to fit upright. She was symmetrical, framed by the late-afternoon sunlight filtering through her hair; and
her face was pale and severely featured and enigmatic. He heard himself laugh, a short, weird bark, and then the icon that was Oneida did something unprecedented for a painting: a corner of her wide mouth twitched up in a confused grin.

“I’ve never actually done this before,” she said, taking a step closer. Eugene felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. “Well, except for the time you kind of . . . jumped me in your kitchen. I don’t think that counts.” When she put her hand on his bare arm, it was warm.

“Am I dead?” Eugene asked.

Oneida paused long enough to say, “No,” before she kissed him. She had to stand on her toes and lean into him for balance, and Eugene, who had never been more excited to not be dead, propped her up and bent down. She didn’t taste like lemonade today; today she tasted like—like butterscotch. Warm, soft butterscotch. With tongue.

The fuck?

“Sorry!” she said, covering her mouth with her hand. “Did I do that wrong?”

“No!” Eugene said. He laughed again, jittery. “I’m sorry, I don’t know, it just—it was a—a surprise.”

“Oh,” she said, and glared at her feet again.

“Come in.” He finally stepped out of the doorway. “Please, please come in. Good surprise! Not a bad surprise.” He was on the verge of uncontrollable laughter, and the only viable solution was to attach Oneida to his mouth again as soon as possible. He held the door, and she stepped into the long hallway, heading in the direction she already knew, toward the door to the living room staircase.

“Wait!” he shouted. She twitched. “Wait, I know someplace else we can go that’s more comfortable.”
Where my sister won’t interrupt us, or my mother, or my father, or Terry, or the FedEx guy.
He grabbed her hand, which was a little damp, and led her down the other side of the hallway, toward Astor’s office.

“Isn’t this the garage?” Oneida wrinkled her nose as Eugene fumbled with the doorknob. “I assumed from the outside—I guess I don’t really care where we go, but I’d like at least . . . a couch?”

“There’s a couch,” he said. “It’s really squishy.”

“Good.” She let out a shaky breath. The primitive part of Eugene’s
brain that had taken control when Oneida’s lips came within ten inches of his own took a moment to collect itself. It was just enough time for him to register the reality of his current situation: he was going to take Oneida Jones into Astor’s office. He was going to let a stranger—but she wasn’t a stranger,
she was Oneida Jones and she was going to make out with him
—see what his father really did for a living. Astor had never explicitly told Eugene to never tell anyone about the forgeries. It was one of the natural assumptions of the Wendell household: of course you didn’t tell anyone about it. The secrecy, the subterfuge, was all part of Astor’s superhero identity, and Eugene didn’t need to be told to protect his dad. Then again, maybe betraying Astor’s secret had never been a problem before now because there had never been anyone Eugene wanted to tell.