What Happened to Lani Garver (19 page)

I leaned against my kitchen counter, trying to laugh back. "You mean the ones about how Hackett is the only safe place in the universe? And even getting on a bus out of here is unsafe?"

"You're bringing back bad memories." My dad groaned. He was raised on Hackett, too, and didn't share our enthusiasm for the place. "At any rate, I'm glad you're coming. I've been waiting for the day when you felt like you could come back to my house."

"I'm not saying I can come all the time," I put in quickly. "I've got my job at Sydney's now, and ... lots of times I have Sunday cheerleading practices."

"You're very busy," he agreed, though I sensed that he knew that was not the real problem. Certain places give you terrible flashbacks after you've had chemo. For lots of people it's the hospital. For me it had been my dad's town house. Somehow, those flashbacks didn't seem quite as important right now.

"And thanks for helping out my friend. You'll like him. He just needs somewhere to think in peace. We both kind of do."
I flinched a little, because this visit sounded like such a use-job on him and Suhar, and I suppose it was. But he didn't seem to mind.

"You're sixteen. We would expect that when you show up, it won't be alone."

"He's really, really gay, Dad," I repeated again, just because I didn't want to hear a ration of surprise once I got up there.

"Claire, I'm a session musician. If I let people's lifestyles bother me, I probably wouldn't work much."

"But don't bring it up around him, okay?"

"I wouldn't. I take it ... he hasn't accepted his sexuality yet?"

I laughed and realized how much I missed my dad sometimes—probably because he asked blunt questions that made you think, instead of acting like a dad. After a minute of scratching my head, I said, "I think he's fine with who he is. He, like, takes serious offense if you try to tie him up with any adjective."

"Hm. Sounds like he's either in an identity crisis or he blew way past all of that."

"Way past. Which isn't to say he's going to have a ton of friends, you know?"

I heard the screen door opening softly behind me and saw Macy coming through. My stomach twisted up. My thought had been to get some clothes together and be out of the house in three minutes or less.
You should have had this conversation in Philly.

"I have to go, Dad."

"
Call
your mother at work, Claire. Do not leave her a note. I'm not up for any backlash reactions over you taking a bus, and she has my cell phone number—"

"Hey. Who married her? You or me? Why am I the whipping boy?"

He sighed. I felt Macy move behind me, leaning against the counter, as I tried to calculate how much of this conversation would make sense to her. I held my patience while knowing she was trying to get closer so she could hear my dad as well as me. Somehow, Macy having to know everything had never bothered me until this point.

"Okay, compromise," Dad said. "Leave your mom a note. I'll make sure we're at the end of the line fifteen minutes early, so I have nothing to feel guilty about. And Suhar and I will, uh,
forget
to bring my cell phone to the restaurant. Tomorrow ... you and I will speak to your mom together if she reacts badly. Fair enough?"

"I don't know...," I teased him. "I think you should have to do all the talking, being that you're the grown-up and all."

"Did I ever explain to you the difference between a grownup and a god?"

"Save it." I cast Macy a glance out of the corner of my eye. She was watching me like crazy. I avoided saying, "See you soon," before I hung up. No question, I was in a very treacherous spot, which would not be easy to get out of.

She didn't stop watching me after I hung up the phone. "What happened to you after cheerleading?"

I slithered down to the floor on my butt and spouted quickly, "I just needed to be alone. No offense or anything." I didn't want an uproar about where I had been.

"I couldn't find you anywhere! You're giving us heart attacks lately, Claire." She slithered down beside me. She threw an arm around my neck, and I slumped over until my head was on my knees.

"How's your ... food thing? Are you all right?"

Food.
I worked myself back up off the floor, went to the microwave and popped it opened.
Baked lasagna. Oh puke.
Mom had said she was baking lasagna for Mrs. DeGrossa's party tomorrow night, and she liked to heat it twice before she served it. Tasted better the second time around. This mega slice was from the first time around. I pulled it out, swallowing spit, reasoning that if I ate it cold, the cheese and sauce would be more chewy, less slimy.

I flinched as I realized,
You're going to miss your token appearance at Mrs. DeGrossa's party. Mom will freak. You have to make health salad. You have to ditch Macy. You have to be out of here in—
I glanced at the clock on the stove—
in fifteen minutes. Claire, even your wanting to help somebody can mess up the works.

I swallowed more spit, shoved the lasagna into the refrigerator without bothering to cover it, hauled out the cabbage, celery, and carrots.

"Claire, what are you doing?" Macy rose slowly to her feet. "Why'd you put that lasagna away?"

"I have to make health salad for Mom's party tomorrow night. I'll eat it while I'm—"

"There is not a single calorie in that stuff!" She marched over and snapped open the refrigerator. "Okay, lasagna is fat-people food. It would make me sick, too. Look, hot dogs. I'm making you a hot dog, okay?"

I squashed my eyeballs with my palms.
Don't be this nice, please don't be this nice.

"I'll eat lasagna." I just didn't want her doing anything nice for me.

She dumped the plate back into my hands. "Go on, sit while you eat that. You can make health salad afterward. The gang will wait for you. They're over at Sydney's, doing the usual nothing. Scott's dad is taking an overnight to the canyon. The boat won't be back until tomorrow."

I glanced at the clock on the kitchen stove.
Thirteen minutes. Screw health salad. Mom will live without it. Eat, fool.

I trudged into the living room and sat down in my mom's TV chair, catching a fork Macy tossed at me before she plopped down on the couch.

"Please stop watching me like that. I can eat without an armed guard. But when I'm done eating, I can't go with you. I'm, uhm ... going to my dad's."

"On a Friday night?
Why?
"

I took a couple of good-sized bites of lasagna, while she sat there patiently-unpatiently shifting around. According to Lani, there was no point in trying to tell someone that their ears or eyes are inaccurate—they will not buy it. I decided to maneuver things; so like him, I was starting with the facts about Tony Clementi first.

"I'll tell you something, but you have to swear you won't tell."

"Why would I tell? When have I ever told your secrets?"

I chewed a bunch of times, watching her face turn red. As if she hadn't spewed my eating problems from coast to coast as her most recent blab.

"You can't tell, Macy. Promise me."

She zipped her pinky across her heart and stuck it in the air.

"Somebody could get seriously hurt if you tell."

"I promise!" She hollered.

"I lied. I wasn't alone after cheerleading."

She hawkeyed me, and in her true fashion, fell over sideways on the couch after only a few seconds. "Oh my god. You were with
him.
Claire. Why are you doing this to yourself?"

I let it slide, biding for nerve by chewing and swallowing another huge bite. "Tonight somebody kept calling him. Somebody having fun and games on the phone. It was disgusting. Foul. Unbelievably filthy stuff being whispered at him. Like, sex stuff. Like, some guy was coming on to him. Lani kept hanging up. I heard it with my own ears and finally, I hit star sixty-nine. Guess who was calling?"

"Great." She moaned sickly. "Am I supposed to be shocked that stuff like this would be going on around him?"

"I
said,
somebody called
him.
He did nothing. He was sitting there reading a bunch of ... paperbacks."

"The guy reads books because he thinks it's fun. And he flips his butt all over the place when he walks. Don't tell me he's not responsible for some homo phone calls. And since you're asking, I'm taking it this caller was somebody I know."

I swallowed. "Yeah."

Her mouth started rising on the sides as breathy laughs spilled out. Her gaze ate me alive.

"Don't hold out on me." She crawled over and stood on her knees in front of me, gripping the arms of the chair. "Was it ... Larry Boogers?"

"You're way cold."

"Uh ... gotta be somebody in honors..."

I dropped my fork, feeling my gut swerve—too much ricotta cheese, too fast. This was not funny; at least, it would not turn out funny. She was doing like I had been doing, thinking of all the typical male femmes. I had a bad feeling about this. I kept going, only because now I was deep into it, and she'd let me drag her halfway to Philadelphia while gripping my ankle unless I told.

I took another huge mouthful, getting more nerve while chewing and swallowing. Finally, I said, "Think fish frat."

Her smile drooped. "No. Uh-uh, no way."

"Think fish frat, but older. Somebody you kind of don't like."

I had to hand it to her. Even in this unbelievable scenario, she was sharp as a tack, though all my caution did not prepare me for her swift response.

"Tony? Is that what you're trying to say? Uh, no." She marched over to the couch, plopped down, and flipped her handbag up on her shoulder. "That would explain everything, wouldn't it? Tony can take the blame for what happened last night, instead of Lani Garver ... Is that it? Claire, you've been naive and stupid before. Okay, this one's complicated, I'll give you that much. But you didn't see Tony's phone number on caller ID, darling."

"How can
you
tell me what
I
saw?" I demanded.

"I
know.
I was
there
when he got in that argument with Lani Garver."

It was impossible to swallow again, but somehow I managed. "Lani and I
both
saw that number on the caller ID. We're not both dyslexic."

Her eyes darted to the side but came back strong. "Whatever! He had it ... pre-programmed in there, so it would show up! He's snowing you, Claire—"

"How is he supposed to do that!"

"I don't know; I'm not the phone man!"

"You're saying he found a way to reroute caller ID, so that Tony's phone number would show and then, what? He got some friend to keep calling? Or he was having phone sex with this number in caller ID, why? Just in case I showed up?"

"Whatever, Claire. There is no way Tony Clementi called that guy."

I slammed down my fork and stuck a fist into my gut to try and move the food around. I started out with "Macy, darling." God knows she'd said it enough times to me. "How do you know it wasn't
you
who misheard the night before, instead of some unexplainable transmutation of a caller ID?"

"Because!
I know!
" She watched me screwing my fist into my gut and tossed her hands in the air.

"I don't know what to do for you, Claire! You're hanging around with this kid, who's messing you all up. I'm writing this all off to your food problems, okay? And what is this about going to your dad's? Did this Lani talk you into leaving us? To keep you away from people who can talk sense to you?"

I watched her staring back at me with this total look of dread, and I have to say, I was tempted.
Okay, I'll forget what
my eyes and ears tell me. I'll just believe this other thing because ... it would be so much easier. This girl cares about me totally. And trying to change her mind is like rolling a boulder up a cliff.

"Macy..." I wanted to say to just forget it. I wanted to tell her the doctor gave me some prescription and I would be okay after taking it for twenty-four hours, or something, and just to bear with me. But I opened my mouth, and this greasy lasagna must have seen its chance. I flew out of the chair, hauled up the stairs two at a time, and made it to the porcelain throne by not stopping to turn on the light. My knees cracked the floor, and I was never so glad to say good-bye to a meal in all my life.

I remembered from chemo always feeling closer to "normal" after I heaved. At this point, I felt a lot closer to normal. It changed my mind again about what I wanted to say to Macy. Something felt slightly more important than what's the easiest thing to believe, though I couldn't have said what.

I flushed, wanting to sit there in peace, feeling the coolness of the toilet seat on my arms. But Macy bolted in, switching on the light. I slammed my eyes shut, but couldn't miss her trembling voice.

"Jesus Christ. I'm calling your mom!"

"Oh, no, you're not! Just calm down. Give me a minute."

The water was running, and I raised my head. She had a washcloth and was mopping my face off. She accidentally laid into my bandage and the stitches underneath, and I screamed, "Stop touching me! Give me ten feet!"

Then she screamed louder than I did, which I couldn't make out the reason for, but I saw her feet jumping up and down like a small child's. Unglued, supremely.

I got slowly to my feet, grabbed her by the shoulders, and I rattled her around until she looked at me. "Macy. Just calm down. Calmness. Please."

I tried to keep my own voice calm, and she quit pitching the fit, at least, but blinked at me through her tears and kept yelling. "You're losing it, Claire!"

"Whatever."

"You're going to get in some serious trouble!"

"I'm—Okay, I'm in serious trouble."

"Stop with the cool act! Your life is going down the goddamn toilet!"

I looked down at the bowl and figured it wasn't my life I'd just seen going down. "I'll tell you what's making me sick, okay? It's the thought that there are some things I cannot tell you right now. And yet, you are going to nag at me to tell you until I'm driven out of my mind. That's what's making me sick."