Very in Pieces (12 page)

It's like he's speaking another language. “I don't think we have one of those.”

“An oven?”

“Funny.”

“I tell you what, you invite me over some night and I'll cook you something. I make a mean set of spare ribs.”

“That sounds like a line.”

“A line would be me telling you I make a mean French toast.” Dominic leans in. “Which, by the way, I do.”

“What's this all about, anyway?” I ask.

“I thought it was witty banter.”

“No. I mean all of this. You and me.”

“There's a you and me?” he asks, leaning on my cart with his wolf smile in full effect.

“You know what I mean. Chatting me up, writing on my locker—”

“When was I chatting you up?”

“Right now as a for instance. And then trying to get me to come out of chemistry class.”

He looks confused for a moment, and then he says, “Oh, that. I wasn't waving to you.”

Immediately my cheeks are turning pink and warm: my stupid body betraying me.

“I mean, I did wave at you once you saw me, but I wasn't trying to get you to come out of class. I've got a”—he pauses—“a friend in that class.”

“Who?” I demand.

“Never mind.”

“Yeah, right. I'm sure you've got lots of friends in AP Chem.”

He smirks. “You don't think I'm smart enough to have friends who take AP classes?”

“It doesn't seem like your circle, that's all.”

“Maybe I don't believe in the narrow boxes of the typical high school experience.”

“You don't have to believe in them, but they're there.”

“Says you.”

I frown.

“You know, if you want me to come and get you out of class, I can.”

“You wish.” Not a witty comeback, but I'm unnerved by him—his smile, of course, but also the casual way his body leans into mine. I turn away from him, hoping my face isn't too pink, but I know I am flushed all over. His hand is right next to mine on the shopping cart handle, our pinkies touching. My
mother chooses that moment to come around the corner. Her peasant skirt is trailing behind her and she's holding a box of Twinkies. She looks at Dominic and she looks at me and then she looks at Dominic again and a slow smile spreads across her lips. “Why hello,” she says.

“Hello,” Dominic replies without moving his hand off of the shopping cart.

“I'm Annaliese Woodruff,” she introduces herself.

“I know,” he says. “Very's mother. I'm Dominic Meyers.”

“Are you a friend of Very's from school?” she asks. Nicely played, Mom.

Dominic turns to me. “I don't know, Very. Am I?”

“We have English together,” I say.

“How nice,” Mom says. “You know I had Ms. Staples, too. She was practically a brand-new teacher back then.”

“You did?” I ask.

“Didn't I ever tell you that? We didn't start off on the right foot. It was my fault. I walked into that classroom and before she even said a word I told her my name and that she shouldn't expect me to write any poetry ever. She told me that was a shame. And I said it's not like poetry was genetic. And she said, I'll always remember this, ‘Of course not. But it is bloody. And it is essential. Everyone should try it at least once.'”

“So did you?” Dominic asks.

“Did I what?”

“Try poetry.”

My mom cocks her head to the side. “Never.”

“Never too late, right?” Dominic asks her, and gives her a softer version of his wolf smile, which of course she just eats up.

“You're right. Though I think you're better off working on Very. Get her to try writing poetry, maybe make a little art.”

Dominic looks at me with eyebrows raised. “Something tells me that she'd be just as stubborn about it as you were.”

This makes my mom laugh. Not a belly laugh, but a tinkling, trilling laugh. She says, “Oh, Very and I aren't much alike.” She looks him up and down. “But then, girls are ever-changeable, aren't they?”

“I can't say I've ever tried,” Dominic replies.

“Oh, but you ought to. Everybody should try it at least once.”

“Mom.”

She shrugs.

“Well, I should get back to the meat,” Dominic says.

“Do you cater?” she asks him.

“Me or the store?”

“Either.” She's still holding the Twinkies in one hand.

“The store doesn't, and I've never thought about it before. I was just telling Very that I'm a whiz in the kitchen. Maybe with her help I could whip something up for you.”

“It's a college event, and I haven't been too happy with the company we've been using.”

“Mom.”

“Right. It was nice meeting you,” my mom tells him. She holds out her hand. I half expect him to take it and give it a kiss, but he just shakes it. Mom looks at his hand, his face,
then back at me, and then she, honest to God, gives me a wink, which of course he can see. “I'll be in the next aisle. When you're ready.”

We watch her push the cart away, and I expect him to say good-bye and head back to the meat section, but instead he says, “Hey, are you going to the party Saturday?”

The party. My mom's party? “Whose party do you mean?”

“I don't know. Nobody's party. Everybody's party. Up in the woods behind the ice rink.”

“Well, that's a dumb place for a party. It's bound to get broken up.”

He gives me a funny look. “There's a party there every year at the start of school. Everyone goes.”

Not everyone, evidently. “I hadn't really decided.”

“You should go. It'll be cool.”

“Are you asking me to go with you?” I ask. He laughs, but I say, “Because I have a boyfriend, you know.”

“Christian Yoo, right? Bring him along.”

“Maybe I'll talk to him and see if he wants to go.”

“You do that.”

I can tell he doesn't believe me. “Or maybe I'll just go on my own.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Good. I'll see you there.”

“Okay,” I agree.

He grins and shakes his head. He's probably figuring I'll never show, and he's probably right. A party up in the woods doesn't sound like a good time to me, and anyway, I need to
help with my mom's art-department shindig. “I need to finish my shopping.”

But before I can go, he takes a step closer and says, “You, me, brisket.”

“I prefer French toast,” I tell him.

And for the first time, I end the conversation with the upper hand.

Mom of course cannot let the appearance of Dominic slide. I try to distract her by asking her about the Twinkies, and this works momentarily. “Lard!” she exclaims. “Did you know that the filling is made with lard? It says ‘animal shortening,' but I can read between the lines.” She shakes her head as if disgusted, but throws the box in the cart all the same.

Ramona appears carrying the rainbow sprinkles, a notebook with a kitten on the front, and a bag of frozen mangoes. “We should make smoothies,” she says.

“We should. Do you know Very's friend who works here?” Mom asks.

Ramona looks around. “Britta works here? Or Grace?”

“A boy. Dominic.”

“Dominic Meyers?”

Mom looks at me. “We need to get going,” I say.

She manages to keep quiet while we check out, but as I drive us home, she reclines in the passenger seat and peppers me with questions about Dominic. Who he is and where he lives and how long I've known him and what he says in English class and doesn't he have a devious smile, but in a good way. Mom
puts her feet on the dashboard and begins to pluck the stem and leaves from an oversize strawberry. “Tell me about him, Ramona.”

“Ramona doesn't know him,” I say.

“I know
of
him.”

I imagine her telling Mom about Dominic's side job selling pot. She could tell Mom about the graffiti on my locker. She could tell her how he cuts class and hangs out in the library. She could tell her any number of things, but all she says is, “He seems nice enough. He's a good artist, too. I hear he's wicked smart.”

I've never heard this about him, but hearing Ramona say it, I realize it's probably true.

Mom turns around in her seat to look at Ramona. “Book-smart or smart-smart?”

“He reads a lot, but I think he's more smart-smart.”

“What's the difference?” I ask.

“The difference?” Mom replies. “The difference is everything. I'm certainly glad to hear he's smart-smart. That's what you need in your life.”

“Am I not smart-smart?” I ask.

“Oh, of course you are.”

“You're more book-smart,” Ramona says.

“You're both, Smart One. Don't worry about it.”

“I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of this. It was just me talking to a guy I know from school.”

Ramona digs through one of the grocery bags. “It's not a big
deal. It's just, you know, I've never seen you interested in, like, reaching out before.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said. You've got your friends, and you stick with them.” She pulls the sprinkles out of the bag and gives them a gentle shake. It's a neutral thing to say—most people, after all, have their friends and stick with them—but the way she says it makes it seem like an insult. “Dominic Meyers doesn't seem like your kind of person.”

“What kind of person is that?” I ask, as if I hadn't just challenged Dominic with the same argument.

“You're just you, Very. That's all.”

That's all.

And in that moment, I decide I'm going to that party.

i.

OVER THE WEEK, THE
sculpture grows. Each day I note the changes. The bottle caps are closest together in the lowest right-hand corner of the garage—the one nearest the front of the house—then spread out so they look like points on a scatter graph. There are some aluminum cans, too, cut open and splayed out, though they peel back from the wall like birds' wings. Some are label up, but others show their silvery insides. Most of those are on the bottom of the garage, layered on one another and the building like shingles, with a few bending around to the front of the house. When the sun hits them, the glare is intense.

Wednesday, stems of copper pipe twist from the ground up the side of the house, stiff as toy soldiers. It is a false step, I think, these harsh lines against the soft contours of the rest of the piece, but by Thursday, they have been moved back against
the garage, and their arcs have been taken in by the curves of the sculpture.

A bird begins building a nest inside one of the crooks, weaving the sticks through with yarn.

And all the while, more and more and more bottle caps. They are growing into clusters. Hundreds of them. Where do they all come from?

Britta says that soon the artist will slip up and leave some salient detail, but I hope he won't. Maybe it's Dominic, and maybe it isn't, but I think that once we know one way or the other, the sculpture will stop. The mystery is as much the point as the piece itself.

Grace still thinks we should have a stakeout. “I'm going to wear a beret and dark sunglasses and be incognito as an artiste.”

The pace of the development seems to be gaining. It's like the bigger it gets the faster it can change: an exponential function. It's living things that usually chart that way. Yeast expanding or a field of flowers blooming. And so it seems that the sculpture, too, is not so much being constructed as being cultivated, the gardener in shadows.

ii.

Only four people are allowed to sit at each table in the library. Ms. Blythe has semipatiently explained to us more than once that there have been actual studies done that show that
productivity goes down and volume goes up once you get more than four students together at a library table. So we clump together on the floor on the far side of the stacks, by floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the playing fields.

Christian and I have our chemistry problem set out, Britta is working on her early-action essay for Brown, and Grace and Josh are supposed to be working on Chinese. Only they each grabbed a copy of this Christian teen magazine that the library subscribes to. It sits on the shelf between
Teen People
and
Fish &
Game
. Grace laughs. “Okay, so this girl writes in that her boyfriend keeps pressuring her to have sex. She doesn't want to lose him, but she knows it would be wrong to give in and have premarital sex.”

Next to me, Christian regrips his pencil. We still haven't had sex since he came back. Maybe he discovered the Bible while he was up at his lake house.

“And?” Britta prompts.

“Well, their advice: ‘This young man has been led off of the Lord's path and now he's trying to take you with him. You've done the right thing by resisting. Now, try to help him. Invite him to youth group meetings at your church or offer to read the Bible with him. If he's strayed too far, you might not be able to help him. Leave him to fall into the hands of our Lord, Jesus Christ. Remember: God is always testing us. If you give in to this boy, you will fail God's test.'”

“That'll go over well,” I say. “No sex, thanks, let's read some scripture instead.”

“I'm sure he'd respect her decision if he really loved her,” Christian says.

Does Christian think I don't want to have sex with him? I sort of tried that night we were studying in the basement, but he was focused on trying to get me to go to Minnesota with him, and anyway, I doubt he would ever do it when his parents were home. We could go to my house. Dad's never around, and Mom is always on the couch or in her studio.

Josh interrupts my thoughts. “Not a chance.”

The problem with my house is Nonnie. Not that she'd care that I was having sex. It's just that it's hard to be home without wanting to be with her.

Outside, someone is walking across the field in faded jeans and black boots. Dominic.

“Where's that hoodlum going?” Christian asks.

“He's not—” I start to say. But maybe I shouldn't draw attention to my friendship, or whatever it is, with Dominic. “Wait, am I doing this right?”

“Hold up,” Josh says. “Did you honestly just use the word
hoodlum
? What is this, 1953?”

“Hoodlum. It's a word.”

“Are we going to the soda counter after school? Maybe to a sock hop?”

“It's a word.”

“So is
greaser
. But I'm not saying, ‘Hey, look, there goes that greaser Dominic Meyers cutting class again.'”

Britta looks out the window. “You don't know that he's cutting class.”

“Sure. He's just heading out across the field as part of an independent study,” Christian says.

“I have the elements all lined up, I think, but it doesn't look right.” I slide my notebook over toward Christian.

“An independent study in economics,” Josh snickers. “You know, supply and demand, price points, that sort of thing.”

Christian laughs.

“Knock it off, guys,” I say.

“What?” Josh asks. “He can't even hear us, seeing as he is outside and we are inside.”

“What happened to hall-monitor Very? You were ready to bust him on the first day of school,” Christian reminds me, but it doesn't feel like a joke anymore.

“If you guys don't start focusing, Britta's not going to get her essay done and she won't get into Brown, and I won't pass chemistry, and I won't get in anywhere, even with Mr. Tompkins's punny recommendations.”

“Sorry,” Christian murmurs.

“Right, Grace,” Josh says. “Let's get back to this Chinese stuff.”

“By the way, my parents were wondering if you were going to come to Minnesota with us or not.”

“Oh . . . I haven't really had a chance to think about it.”

“Hey, Very, isn't that your sister?” Josh asks.

“No, she has art right now,” I say. But as I look over my shoulder, back through the stacks, I see Ramona sitting in one of the carrels. She has a couple volumes of
Encyclopaedia Britannica
in front of her and is carefully tearing out pages. “Oh crap,” I mutter.

“What's she doing?” Christian asks.

“Oh man, is she a little cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs?” Josh asks. “That is so sexy. Is she seeing anyone?”

“You know, ‘crazy' isn't usually at the top of the list of things to look for in a potential girlfriend,” Grace tells him.

“Do you think you should go talk to her?” Britta asks me.

“Yeah,” I say, still watching Ramona. She has a small pile of pages in front of her. Grace taps my back as if pushing a button to start me walking toward Ramona. “Stop,” I hiss when I get to the study carrel.

Ramona looks up and doesn't seem surprised—nor does she stop. With a raspy
shriffft
she tears out a page from the
V
volume.

“You can't do that,” I say.

“Nobody will even notice,” she replies.

“It's a library book.”

“At least I'm using it.”

“This isn't using; this is destroying.”

“You should have seen the dust on these. No one has touched them in years.” She adds the page to her stack before closing the volume and picking up another. “I'm saving them.”

“It's vandalism.”

“That's your opinion,” she says.

“No, I'm pretty sure that's a fact. Hey, you've got the
V
volume right there. Why don't we look it up?”

“Your friends are staring at us.”

I look over my shoulder. Grace lifts up her magazine, and
Christian tugs on Josh's shirtsleeve, but Britta keeps looking right at us. “Stop,” I say again.

“Don't worry, Very. It won't rub off.”

“What are you talking about?”

She pushes the books to the back of the carrel and picks up her stack of pages, which she shoves into her bag. Sidestepping me, she says, “See you later.” And that is that. I pick up the encyclopedias and put them back on the shelf, right where they belong.

“What just happened?” Josh asks when I get back to them.

“Nothing. I don't know.” My face is hot, and I am sure the whole library is watching us. Ms. Blythe will be coming around the corner any minute, and I'll have to try to explain something that has no explanation.

Christian takes my hand in his and gives it a squeeze. “What did she say?”

“She said she was using them.”

“Maybe it was an art project. Mr. Solloway loves that sort of thing,” Grace suggests.

“Right,” Britta agrees. “And it's possible that Ms. Blythe actually set those books aside for kids to use. You know, old books she was going to get rid of anyway.”

“And Ramona was probably just messing with you, letting you think she was actually tearing up a library book,” Grace finishes for her.

“Exactly,” Christian says, giving it a stamp of finality. “It was just Ramona being Ramona. It was nothing.”

“It sure didn't seem like nothing to me,” Josh says.

“Drop it,” Grace tells him.

And for once he does.

In the car that afternoon Ramona doesn't mention it and neither do I. I think about telling Mom, but when we get inside she's up in her studio actually working, and I don't want to disturb her. Anyway, everyone said it was nothing. Everyone except Josh, who, let's face it, is not the best judge for this sort of thing. So it's nothing. Just Ramona being Ramona and messing with me.

She slips out the back door and makes her way across the lawn, where she disappears into a stand of trees, as nimble and insubstantial as the pixie she was in Nonnie's poem.

iii.

Britta, Grace, and I are in Mr. Tompkins's room after school, making posters for the peer counseling group's Wellness Fair. We've been here for an hour already and the halls are silent. Even Mr. Tompkins is leaving, and he's our club adviser. First, though, he tells me some more about Professor Singh, and asks if I've read any of her articles. “Working on them,” I tell him, not exactly truthfully.

He smiles and says good-bye. “Just shut the door when you're done. It'll lock behind you.” He claims he needs to get ready for hiking one of the four-thousand-footers tomorrow.

“Total lie,” Grace says once he's gone. “He has a date tonight. I can smell it on him. I wonder what kind of girl he dates.”

“Not seventeen-year-old students,” Britta says.

“The age of consent in New Hampshire is sixteen.”

“Good to know you've done your research. So tell me, what is the average length of jail time for a teacher who has sex with a student?”

Outside the window, someone laughs, loud and uncontrolled. I am writing the list of the groups that are coming on a big sheet of blue poster board.

“It's too bad they wouldn't let us have Planned Parenthood come. Or at least someone who would give out condoms.”

“Yeah, that would go over real well,” Britta says.
“Local school gives out condoms, story at eleven.”

“Hey, you're the one who wants to get into Brown. Spearheading a campaign to bring birth control to your peers seems like something they would love.” Grace leans back from her own poster. It's a giant heart and the words
Love Your Body
in curly script.

“Do you guys know about that party tomorrow night?” I ask.

“Whose party?” Britta asks.

“Nobody's party, I guess. It's just out in the woods.”

“Oh, one of those crazy keggers,” Grace says.

“You know about it?” I ask.

“Well, maybe not specifically that one, but I know people have them out there from time to time. Back by the skating rink, right?”

“How stupid is that?” Britta asks.

“I know, right?” I say. “It's like flashing a light and saying, ‘Police! Come arrest us for underage drinking!'”

“Freezing your ass off and drinking cheap beer,” Grace says. “No, thanks.”

“It's weird that we weren't invited, though, don't you think?” I ask.

“It's not an invitation type of party, Very,” Grace says. She sees me writing
Hartley's Homeopathic Healing
and adds, “Ugh. My mom took me there once. They gave me these pills that were the size of grape tomatoes and they always broke in my mouth and were all oily.”

“Do you even want to go?” Britta asks me.

“My grandmother thinks I need to get out more. Mom, too.”

“Well, your grandmother is dying—” Grace begins.

“Grace!” Britta interrupts.

“What. She is. Your grandmother doesn't have much time left, so she's all
carpe diem
, and your mom, well, she's your mom.”

“Meaning?” I ask.

“Vicarious reenactment? I don't know. I just know she's the only adult who likes me better than Britta and it's because I curse like a fucking sailor.”

“It's true,” Britta says. “Trust me. You don't want to go to that party. Why don't we all go to my house and have an eighties moviefest instead. Some Brat Pack or maybe
The Princess Bride
.”

“Something from this century, and I'm in,” Grace says.

“There is no one of our generation who holds a candle to Ally Sheedy or Molly Ringwald.”

“Ally and Molly don't interest me,” Grace says. “And the boys in those movies have the worst clothes. Popped collars? It's like the whole decade was filled with douches.”