The Beautiful Between Page 2

  “Jesus. That girl is so fucked-up.”

  “I know. What’s more fucked-up is that we couldn’t take our eyes off her,” I say, and Jeremy looks guilty. “I don’t mean it was our fault—I just mean we couldn’t look away, you know, like the pull to look at a car wreck.” He looks really upset that I called us out for staring at her. “Jeremy, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t look at me. “Jer?” I say.

  “Whatever. Sorry. It’s just, I’ve seen someone who can’t eat more than that, you know. And she really wanted to.”

  I try not to show my confusion. I glance around the lunchroom as though the crowd by the soda machine might give me some clue. Our school has a rule that you’re not allowed to bring your own lunch—you have to eat the lunch that’s served. I mean, I guess you could bring something in, but meals are built into the tuition, so you pay for the food whether you want to or not. Emily Winters and I did the math once, and it ended up being something like eleven dollars a day just for lunch, which seemed exorbitant to us. There are lots of choices, almost all the stuff you could have brought from home: plenty of stuff to make a salad or a sandwich out of, plus whatever the hot meal of the day is, and this is the only school I know of where even the pickiest of girls will eat the hot food—that’s how good it is.

  Alexis is proof, though, that being forced to eat the food the school makes has nothing to do with being forced to eat in general; the cafeteria staff don’t notice or care what you put onto the trays emblazoned with the school’s crest, which has been the same since it opened one hundred years ago. Back then it was an all-girls boarding school, with something like thirty students being trained in etiquette, piano playing, and occasionally literature. Now it’s gained a reputation as one of the most academically rigorous schools in the city, known particularly for how much the girls excel at math and science. I wonder how the school’s founders would feel about that, or about the way that girls and boys spill hungrily into the lunchroom now, heaping food on their trays and holding their forks in the wrong hand.

  Jeremy doesn’t seem to notice the silence that followed his comment, so I decide to change the subject. “Hey,” I say brightly, “I’ve been looking for Kate all day. Wanted to say hi, but haven’t been able to find her.”

  I remember that she was in the nurse’s office the day before. “Is she home sick?” I ask.

  Jeremy looks right at me then. “Yeah, she’s home sick. I gotta go to class,” he says, and starts getting up, so I do too, even though I have a free period after lunch.

  “Okay,” I say, feeling awkward. I mean, it’s weird—he sits down next to me, and then we spend forty minutes watching an anorexic girl eat her lettuce-lunch, and then, as soon as we actually begin talking to each other, he’s scrambling away. Clearly he’s only interested in me for my vocabulary. Clearly he doesn’t actually want to be my friend. Even if his sister thinks I’m super pretty.

  “Studying on Monday?” he asks, resting his hand on the back of my chair.

  “Huh?” I turn to face him, distracted by his long fingers so close to my shoulder.

  He grins at me and I melt, like always. “Monday, Sternin? After school? There’s that physics quiz on Tuesday. Gotta get you ready.”

  “Yeah, definitely.” I say it too fast; I’m so excited that we’re still studying together. I try to slow down. “Sounds good.”

  “Have a good weekend.”

  “You too. Hey—tell your sister I hope she’s feeling better.”

  He shrugs. “Sick or not, Mouse is pretty happy to have an excuse to get out of her French test.” He grins, and as he walks away, it seems to me that people part to make room for him to pass. Just like in Tudor England, where when the king’s presence was announced, everyone had to give him the right-of-way.

  I spend the weekend alternating between studying for physics and the SATs. The physics is so hard that I’ve begun to consider the SATs a break. Emily Winters calls to quiz SAT words with me, but her phone calls irritate me, because they’re interrupting my studying and I have my own rhythm. She invites me over to study with her, but I turn her down. I much prefer to be in my room. Even though it’s not hot out, I have the air-conditioning turned up as high as it can go and I’m curled up on the bed, layers of blankets over me. I like to think that it’s so cold, I can almost see my breath. I like to bury myself under blankets.

  Maybe Emily only invites me because she knows I’m good at the vocab and thinks I can help. I say no because I think studying alone is better. But then I remember how well studying with Jeremy went, that I did exactly what Emily is asking me to do with him and it wasn’t at all counterproductive. I even learned a new word or two. Plus, it was fun.

  I think about calling Emily back, about going over to her house and quizzing words back and forth over a box of pizza like they do on TV or in the movies. But I’m in my pajamas and my bed is so soft, and going all the way to her apartment seems like such a chore.

  My mother pops her head in a few times, wishing me luck, asking if I’m hungry. Sometimes I think she wonders how I can stand to stay in all day, in bed, studying. My mom likes movement; she’s almost never home during the day on weekends. She goes out shopping, meets friends for lunches, takes long walks around the city. When I’m not studying, sometimes I go with her. When I was little, I almost always went along—we rarely used a babysitter, and I was too young to be left alone. I felt very grown-up at lunch with her friends, at restaurants where I was the only kid. I still remember the feel of my legs swinging down from the chair. My mother used to complain that I was kicking her, which always confused me, since I thought I was hitting the table legs.

  Mostly, I’d sit quietly at these lunches and watch; I knew I wasn’t supposed to participate. You can learn a lot if you watch. Most of my mother’s friends were married. They were women with whom my mother had gone to college; women who had been at—or maybe, come to think of it, in—her wedding; women who had known her as a wife. I’d watch the rings that flashed on their fingers and wonder why my mother, for all her stylishness, never wore jewelry. They discussed problems they thought I was too young to understand—fights with their husbands, impatience with their children. Maybe they thought I wasn’t listening; I was given crayons and drew on paper placed over the tablecloth: princes and princesses and the castles they lived in. My mother’s friends always looked to her for advice. No matter that she didn’t have a husband—they wanted her ideas on how to liven up a quiet marriage; how to confront a husband who was overworking, overeating, even sleeping around. I might not have known the mechanics of what they were discussing, but I could tell that it was important and very, very grown-up.

  My mother was always the prettiest woman at these lunches; none of the others could ever compare to her, with her dark hair, her painted nails, her bright lipstick, her fitted clothes. They always looked older than she did—even now, when I see her friends, I can never believe that my mother is the same age. I imagined she had a magic potion some fairy had given her, something that kept her looking young while the women around her aged. I didn’t believe I would grow up to be as pretty as her; I don’t look anything like her. I don’t remember when I stopped accompanying her to these lunches. It’s only now that I realize that I was the only kid there because the other women had husbands to leave their children with.

  I’m in the kitchen when I hear the front door swing open and closed. I’m eating cereal over the kitchen counter, even though it’s three in the afternoon. I haven’t bothered to turn the lights on, so the countertops look gray and dusty, even though our housekeeper just came a few days ago; when the lights are on, you can see that they’re gleaming white.

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Hey.”

  “How’s studying going?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Good.” She’s not really looking at me, she’s sorting the mail. I wonder if she even remembers that I struggle with physics.

  “Well, I’m going to go take a bath,” she
says. “I’ll be out for dinner.” She looks around the kitchen, as though it’s just occurred to her that there might not be food enough for my dinner. “I’ll leave some money in the drawer for you?”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Okay, sweetie,” she says, and heads for her room. I wonder whether having a roommate in college will be like this. Our conversation has been just long enough for my cereal to get soggy. I throw what’s left in the garbage; it’ll be dinnertime soon anyway.

  3

  On Monday, I bring my lunch from the cafeteria to the junior lounge so that I can work on physics. I really should be using my free time to study, though I did take the time to notice that Jeremy wasn’t in the lunchroom before I decided to come up here. The lounge is completely empty, and more comfortable than studying in the library, since I can stretch out on the couches. I want to get some work done now so Jeremy doesn’t think I’m a complete idiot when he comes over later. Between bites of a bagel and vector calculations, I see that Kate has wandered in.

  “Hey, Connelly,” she says, slipping her backpack onto the floor and perching on the couch across from me. “Have you seen Jeremy?”

  I shake my head and pull myself into a sitting position. “Nope. He isn’t in the lunchroom?”

  “I didn’t see him there. He must have gone out for a cigarette or something.”

  “Do you need him for something? I can go try to find him.” The underclassmen aren’t allowed to go out during lunch and free periods, and even I know where Jeremy and his friends go to smoke. There’s a courtyard between a couple of apartment buildings around the corner. Even the teachers know about it, but they don’t care enough to catch anyone in the act.

  “It’s okay.”

  “I didn’t know Jeremy smoked,” I say, trying to make conversation. Kate’s being here is a nice break from studying.

  “Yeah.” She wrinkles her nose. “Makes him smell bad.”

  “Yeah.”

  Kate leans back against the couch, closing her eyes for a second. She looks tired. She opens her eyes and sees my books. “Physics, huh? I never understand it when my dad and Jeremy talk about it. It sounds so hard.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure they’ll tutor you if you need it in a few years.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see,” she says, like she doesn’t really believe it.

  “I mean, if Jeremy has the patience to tutor me, he can tutor anyone.”

  Kate smiles at me. “He likes tutoring you, Connelly. He told me.”

  “I still can’t figure out why he offered—I mean, he could be doing any number of more interesting things than helping a girl like me with physics.”

  I can’t believe I just said that. I’ve been thinking it for days, but I can’t believe I said it out loud. She’ll think I’m trying to get her to tell me why her brother is suddenly interested in my physics grade. She probably knows everything about Jeremy.

  “He just thinks you’re cool. He told me.”

  “He thinks I’m cool?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I can hear how excited I sound. Kate must think I’m ridiculously lame.

  But she grins at me. “Yeah. I mean, you are.”

  It’s such a nice compliment that I can feel my cheeks getting hot; I’m blushing.

  “I thought you said we were dorks.”

  Kate shrugs. “Who says we can’t be both?”

  That makes me smile so wide that my mouth will hurt by the beginning of next period. Kate gets up to leave, and I tell her I’ll let Jeremy know she was looking for him, and she says it’s no big deal, she’ll find him later, but thanks anyway, and good luck on the quiz.

  Okay, I know Kate is four years younger than I am, but she sure seems a lot wiser. But then, someone like Kate wouldn’t have to wonder why someone like her brother was taking an interest in her. Boys like that will probably always be interested in Kate.

  Later that afternoon, I’m freaking out because there’s no way I’m going to pass the quiz tomorrow. None of the studying I’ve done has made a dent. Somewhere between neutrons and panic, there’s Jeremy, leaning against my bed, calmly explaining to me that protons are positive and electrons are negative, and there’s no air resistance in a vacuum, and it’s just like math.

  “That does not help. I hate math.” My heart is actually racing. I’m terrified about taking this quiz. “I feel so stupid.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m only good at this because my father’s a science geek.”

  “Oh?” I remember that Kate said Jeremy and his dad talk about physics sometimes.

  “Yeah, by the age of eight I already knew about atoms and quarks. He used to sneak into my room when my mom thought I was sleeping and give me science lessons. I thought dust particles were molecules until I was eleven.”

  I smile helplessly. “So I’m at a genetic disadvantage, is what you’re telling me.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  It’s quiet for a minute, and when I bend over my notes again, Jeremy says, “Hey, Connelly, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  “By what?”

  “About my father, I mean. I wasn’t … That was insensitive of me, I’m sorry.”

  It takes me a second to realize he means because I don’t have a father, it was insensitive of him to talk about his. Why bring that up? It’s not like I went all sad the minute he mentioned his father. And anyway, as far as Jeremy knows, I’m just a girl whose parents are divorced. That’s not so sad.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean”—he looks visibly uncomfortable—“I mean, your dad passed away…. I shouldn’t be making fun of you for not having a dad to go over physics with you.”

  Now my heart is racing again, and it has nothing to do with math. Curiosity makes my muscles twitch. “How do you know about my dad?”

  Jeremy looks taken aback. “What? I just—you know, people talk.”

  “Who?” I ask, suddenly accusatory. “Who talks? I don’t talk.” I press my fingers into the floor as though I’m about to push myself up to stand. The hardwood floor suddenly feels hot under my hands.

  “Who told you about my dad?” I ask again.

  Jeremy’s face looks like what I imagine mine does when faced with vector equations. I don’t know what to do. I want to be angry at him, but now I feel guilty because I’ve made him look like that. I want to forget that this has happened. I don’t want Jeremy to know how curious he’s made me: How does he know about my dad? And what does he know?

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” I say. “Forget it. People talk, whatever. Let’s switch to vocab so I can feel smart for a while.”

  Jeremy’s face relaxes and he smiles slowly, like he’s being careful about returning to his usual self. “All right, Sternin, but I’m not leaving until you’re set for the quiz.”

  “Whatever, dude. Define ‘peripatetic.’”

  Even princes don’t know everything.

  4

  I have trouble calming down after Jeremy leaves, and not just because I’m sure I’m still totally unprepared for the physics quiz. My skin feels itchy, but not like I have to scratch it; it itches every time I’m still—when I get into bed and try to read, when I turn out the light and try to sleep. I’m thinking about my father, someone I never knew. Or anyway, I have no memory of knowing him, so that’s the same thing.

  This is what I do know, and it’s strange to think this, because I’ve never felt the need to lay it out before. He died just after I turned two, and that’s young enough that you can’t really speak yet, and I read somewhere that you can’t build memories before you have the language to express them. I don’t remember living with him, but I know that before my dad died, we lived in a townhouse a few blocks east and south of here. But I can’t remember the house, or the way the furniture was laid out, or the smell of the carpet on which I took my very first steps. And I don’t know how my father died. It’s always been kind of hazy to me. When I was very young, I had this notion of a man falling off a
ladder, but I know that’s something I made up, a child’s idea of how a person dies, maybe something out of a movie I’d seen.

  After my father died, we moved in with my grandmother—my mother’s mother, who lives across town, on the Upper West Side. Her apartment was definitely not decorated with kids in mind. Everything is white and spotlessly clean. The apartment would be pristine but for my grandmother’s complete inability to throw things away. I think I get that from her—the need to keep things, paired with a compulsion to make things neat no matter how cluttered. I like knowing that—being sure that I got something from her. There must be things I got from my father, things I will never be able to pinpoint.

  We moved to this apartment the summer I turned eight, and I started a new school. My school, Jeremy’s school, the one I still go to. It has kids from kindergarten through twelfth grade, and if you stay there all thirteen years, you get a special picture in the yearbook marked with the word “survivor.” I still remember the first day of third grade: I saw Emily Winters with her mother and father; Alexis Bryant’s mother and father, and her big sister leading her by the hand; even the Coles turned out, Jeremy’s mother holding Kate’s hand—she was still too young to go to our school. My mother held my hand tightly, but I don’t think I even looked at her. I was looking at everyone else.

  It was the first time I felt that I was missing something the other kids all had. For the first time, I could see that we were different, that there was something weird about me, something strange about my not having a father. And for the first time, it made me wonder—that same skin-itching, can’t-be-still sensation I feel now. I didn’t even realize yet that most kids had never lived with their grandparents. My mother and I used to curl up in her bed at Grandma’s and watch TV and eat ice cream until I fell asleep. I always woke up in my room; I guess she’d carry me there once I was sleeping. My grandmother disapproved; she thought my mother was babying me, that I was getting too old to cuddle like that. I never heard her say anything about it; I could just tell by the look on her face when she walked past my mother’s open door and saw us together. Now I assume she was silent because she felt sorry for us: her daughter, the widow, and her granddaughter, the half orphan.