The Beautiful Between Page 3

  I did not like this apartment when I saw it for the first time. At my grandmother’s apartment, my mother’s and my bedrooms were right next to each other. We shared a wall, so from my room, even with the door closed, I could hear Mom moving around; hear her voice on the phone, her radio in the background when she read. This apartment is laid out completely differently, with two bedrooms on opposite ends, each with its own bathroom. The kitchen and living room are in the middle, with an alcove for a dining room in between. It is an apartment for two people to be separated in. I didn’t like it. But my mother was so excited the day we moved in, I knew better than to say anything. My grandmother had helped her pick the apartment out. Maybe she thought its layout seemed good for a single woman and her child: we’d each have so much privacy. My grandmother’s cleaning lady was there to help us unpack; she still comes here once a week and uses the same cleaning products she uses at my grandmother’s, so our apartments smell the same. The day we moved in was the first time I was aware that my mother and I felt differently about the same thing: I was sad and she was excited. “You’ll be so close to your new school,” she said, squeezing my shoulders.

  The afternoon after my first day of third grade, my mother came to pick me up. I’d calmed down, having mostly forgotten about what I’d seen that morning. Everyone else was picked up by their mothers too, or, if their mothers worked, by a nanny. But after we got home, after I’d watched TV and paged through the chapter book the teacher had promised we’d read soon, I began to have the same sensation that had gripped me that morning. There was something about me that was different—something I didn’t quite understand, something that made me nervous. The pages of the book seemed to stick together, and the words looked so big, and it seemed impossible that I would ever know what the letters meant when they were strung together. And I was a good reader—I’d been reading books more difficult than this all summer. I didn’t want to face the next morning at school, because what if the next morning, all the fathers would be there again and I’d have to be different again.

  I had to tell my mother why I couldn’t go back. So I slid off my bed and walked across the apartment toward my mother’s bedroom. I still wasn’t used to what a long walk it was; we’d only been living here a couple of weeks. My mother’s door was closed, but I opened it without knocking; I’d never had to be bashful about going into Mom’s room at Grandma’s house. The lights were out and Mom was lying on her side, turned away from me. But she was above the covers and fully dressed, so I supposed she was awake.

  “Mommy?”

  She rolled over and flicked on the light next to the bed. Her eyes were very red, and her hair was frizzled.

  “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

  I climbed onto the bed and snuggled next to her. She still wears the same perfume. Sometimes, when I smell it, it takes me right back to her bed, to the pillowcases that smelled like her.

  “I don’t want to go back to school tomorrow.”

  Her face became alert, and I was relieved. I was worried that she’d tell me I had to go, but instead she looked genuinely concerned, like this was a grown-up problem.

  “Did someone say something mean to you? Did the teacher say something?”

  “No.” Why would my nice new teacher have said anything?

  I could feel her body relaxing next to mine; could feel her arms around me becoming less stiff, her fingers loosening their grip on me. She brushed the hair out of my face. “Then what’s the matter, sweetheart?” And now it didn’t sound like she thought my problem was grown-up enough. I tried to explain.

  “I’m different from the other kids.”

  “Everybody’s different, sweetie,” she said, and even at that age, I knew she was patronizing me. I had to make her understand that I couldn’t go back.

  “How come we don’t have a daddy like everyone else?” I knew, by then, that my father was dead and what it meant to be dead, but that didn’t explain why I didn’t have a father.

  My mother’s arms became stiff again. Her face went white, and her hands held my arms so tight that it hurt—later I would see red marks where her fingernails had been. I don’t think she meant to hurt me; I don’t think she had control over her muscles at that moment.

  I was terrified. My question had upset my mother like nothing I’d ever done. Worse than when I spilled cranberry juice on the sofa; worse than when I had knots in my hair that she had to untangle. She didn’t say anything, and all I wanted was to undo what I’d done.

  So, in my infinite eight-year-old wisdom, I said, “It doesn’t matter, Mommy. I know it doesn’t matter. I’ll go back tomorrow. I promise.”

  And this seemed to work. Her body relaxed, but not completely. I could feel the tension still in her muscles, like she was nervous, anxious, that I might ask again, even if it wouldn’t be for a very long time.

  I left her room and went back to my book. That night, I fell asleep in my own bed. The next day, when she dropped me off, I let go of her hand and walked right into the school by myself, past the kids who were crying because they didn’t want to leave their moms, past the moms who were hugging their kids tight because their kids didn’t want to be left. I didn’t want my mom to worry about me. I would turn off whatever was inside me that made me wonder why we were different.

  After that, my mother always walked me to school and always came to pick me up, and I always dropped her hand and went right in, and then came out and took her hand for the walk home later—exactly like the other kids I watched so closely. I believed I could keep her calm, could make her happy. I didn’t ever want to talk about my father again, and I didn’t ever want to feel that skin-itching curiosity over him again. If I could just make myself be normal, then there would be nothing to wonder about. I just had to figure out a way how.

  And then, one day, Emily Winters came into school and told me that her parents were getting divorced. She said the word loudly, almost proudly, because it was a big grown-up word with all kinds of big grown-up implications.

  I tried not to smile; I knew I shouldn’t smile at Emily’s very serious grown-up news. But I was excited, because here was the normalcy I’d been looking for. Lots of kids had divorced parents—there were two boys in our class whose parents were divorced, and at least three kids in the other third-grade class. This was a new school—no one here knew us from before, no one here knew my dad was dead. So I decided to lie.

  “You know,” I said, “that makes us the only divorced girls in Mrs. Focious’s class.”

  Emily seemed to think I was an expert on divorce. I told her my father left when I was only two, that I barely remembered him. No need to be curious anymore: now I was an expert; now there was nothing I didn’t know, because I got to make it up as I went along.

  Emily said her father was moving to Chicago, but she’d still get to see him all the time. “He’s getting a big house with an extra room in it just for me. And he promises that he’s still going to visit all the time—he’ll even still pick me up from school sometimes.”

  “That’s great,” I said wisely. My father had to be even farther away than Chicago, somewhere I couldn’t get to—far enough that it would make sense that I never saw him, that he never visited. It had to be another country. Europe was too cool, a place the lucky kids got taken to on vacation. I thought of South America, but that was too strange, too exotic; there’d be too many questions.

  “My dad lives in Arizona,” I said, the lie rising easily in my throat.

  “I’m actually really lucky,” Emily continued. “My parents are getting joint custody.” She said the new words slowly, as if they were big in her mouth. “My brother says that there’s a girl in his class who never sees her father, because her parents hated each other so much, they never wanted to have to see each other again.”

  I jumped at the explanation. “That’s like my parents. I haven’t seen my dad once since he left.”

  “Wow,” Emily said, her eyes growing wide. “That’s real
ly bad.”

  “Yeah,” I said, proud of myself for the lie, happy to be like the girl in her brother’s class. “But I’m used to it. It’s always just been me and my mom.”

  Emily and I walked around holding hands for the rest of the day. When I got home, I almost told my mother about the lie. But my mother didn’t believe in lying; she’d told me a thousand times that good girls didn’t lie. So I didn’t tell her, even though I wanted her to know that I’d found the one lie that I was sure was allowed, the one lie that would make everything okay.

  But, even though I never asked about my father again, things still weren’t the same. On the nights when I would go into her room to watch TV, my mother didn’t hold me like she used to, and we each got our own bowl of ice cream. When I turned nine, she bought a TV for my bedroom, so our nights of TV and ice cream became much fewer and further between. I knew if I said anything to her, it would just bring her back to that day on her bed, to her arms stiffening around me.

  I invented a fairy godmother who’d stay with me until I fell asleep—no magic pumpkins, no glass slippers. Just imaginary arms around me until I slept. I looked forward to bedtime. I fantasized about the prince who would come to love me, and about the fairy godmother, always there, putting me into the carriage, arranging my dress just so. I still do; I still look forward to bedtime, and I still imagine my fairy godmother taking care of me; I play a movie of her in my head.

  As soon as fifth grade started, I insisted on walking to and from school by myself, even though I didn’t know any other kids who got to walk alone so young. I lied to my mother and told her everyone else got to, and she believed me, even though she could easily have asked the other parents. We live so close to the school, maybe she was sure I’d be safe. Maybe she watched me from the living room window. When I look back on it, it’s amazing I never walked into oncoming traffic. I’d spend those few blocks completely inside my head, imagining my fairy godmother was walking with me. And having her with me, I felt safe. She made me brave. Once, I knew I’d gone too far when, after school, I forgot she wasn’t real and I poured two glasses of milk instead of just one. My mother was in the other room, hadn’t seen me do it, and presumably hadn’t heard me talking to the fairy godmother, but my cheeks were hot as I poured the extra milk into the sink. When I put the extra glass in the dishwasher, it felt like I was hiding something.

  No one ever thought I was lying about my father—by now, half the kids in our class have divorced parents, and why would anyone invent such a mundane story? And I never leave the room or make uncomfortable faces when kids talk about their dads. Never sigh with jealousy when people complain their dads are too strict, too hard on them, too embarrassing. I laugh when people talk about the annoying things their fathers do. Everyone knows my parents had a messy divorce when I was too young to know the details, and everyone accepts that, because plenty of kids are in the same situation. But now Jeremy has broken my lie and my skin is itching, as though curiosity could be turned back on like a light.

  5

  It’s Tuesday, and Kate’s absent. Actually, she’s been missing a lot of days since the school year began; I’d just never really noticed before. Now I kind of miss her. I want to spend time with the girl who thinks I’m cool, because maybe then I’ll start to believe it myself.

  After the physics quiz, I try to catch Jeremy’s eye—I actually think I did well, and I want to thank him for his help—but it’s the last class of the day, and he rushes out like he has somewhere he has to be. Probably track practice or something. Of course, Jeremy is the star of every team he joins.

  At lunch on Wednesday, Jeremy sits next to me and we begin our Alexis-staring contest. I joke that we’re actually losing weight too; we’re so fascinated by watching her that we forget to eat.

  “We’ve gotta get ourselves a new table,” Jeremy whispers to me.

  I grin, though certainly I know that if Jeremy leaves this table for another, he isn’t going to take me with him. He could fit in at any table. I’m not so sure about me.

  “No, seriously,” he continues. “We’ll start our own table. Healthy eaters only.” He turns his chair around so it’s facing away from the table, and I do the same. He looks around at the cafeteria. I never counted how many tables are in here, but I can tell that Jeremy has.

  “’course, it’ll be tough; most of the tables are taken.”

  “Yup. We’ll have to get here early, claim one right away.”

  He winks, like we’re on a mission now. “Good call.”

  The lunchroom is packed. There’s a crowd around the table with pastries and bread on it—this means they’ve brought out a fresh batch of bagels that are still warm. I even see a teacher or two pushing to get to the bagel basket.

  Brent Fisher is walking toward us. He’s a senior, but he knows Jeremy pretty well.

  “Hey, Cole, can I talk to you a second?” He crouches by Jeremy’s chair.

  “What’s up, Fisher?”

  How do boys know how to use last names like that? Makes them sound so cool.

  “Well, it’s about Marcy McDonald.”

  Marcy is a junior at another school, but everyone knows who she is. She’s beautiful, and Jeremy dated her for most of sophomore year, but at the start of this year he was single. I don’t think anyone knows why they broke up: the gossip mill is never as strong in the summertime; people go away—on vacation, to country houses, to fancy college-preparatory summer schools.

  “I know you guys were pretty tight last year,” Brent begins, and Jeremy shrugs. “But she and I were hanging out last weekend, and I … Well, dude, I’d really like to ask her out. But I know things ended badly between you guys—”

  Hmm, I think. Really?

  “—and I don’t want to, you know …”

  “Dude, don’t worry about it. Marcy’d be lucky to have you.”

  “So we’re cool?”

  “Completely.” Throughout this whole exchange, Brent hasn’t so much as looked my way. I wonder if it’s one of those unwritten laws on how to converse with royalty.

  “Thanks, dude.” Brent looks genuinely relieved as he turns to walk away, which makes me think that things have already moved forward with him and Marcy and he’d been scared it would get back to Jeremy before he got the okay. Huh, I think, Fornication Under Consent of the King. Just like in feudal times.

  Jeremy turns back to me. “Marcy, man. Good luck with that chick.”

  “That must have been a bad breakup,” I try, curious to know what happened, hoping he’ll elaborate.

  “Whatever. I’m sure she has nice qualities. I used to think so, anyway.”

  Maybe she cheated on him. But that’s unfathomable. Why would anyone cheat on Jeremy Cole? I decide to change the subject. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you—how’s Kate doing? She’s absent again today. She must not have been faking, huh? I mean, is she really sick? The flu’s been going around something awful.”

  “Going around something awful?” Jeremy smiles wickedly. “You know, Sternin, sometimes you talk like a grandmother.” I blush. “Catch you later, Granny,” Jeremy says, and he gets up and heads to a different table—where he’s met enthusiastically, of course. I knew he didn’t mean it about starting a table of our own.

  Now that the physics quiz is over and Jeremy’s vocab has improved, I wonder if maybe our—I don’t know what to call it: friendship? flirtation? exchange of skills?—is over. I pretty much assume it is. It never was anything; Jeremy is just that guy who can hang out with anyone, so he just chose me for a few days there. That’s all.

  I am very nearly floored when the phone at home rings later and it’s him. First of all, the call comes late, after eleven, and I don’t really have any friends who would call that late on a school night. That’s the kind of thing only your very best friend would do without worrying about getting you into trouble with your parents. I’m not particularly social once I get home at night; I’m Rapunzel, locked up in my tower to study, with no late-n
ight callers.

  I’m groggy as I say, “Hello?”

  “Sternin, hey, what’s up?”

  “Not me.” I recognize Jeremy’s voice. It’s thrilling to hear his voice on my phone, even if he’s upset my bedtime routine.

  “Huh?”

  “I was half asleep, Jeremy.”

  “Oh, dude, it’s not even midnight. Jeez, Connelly, let your hair down once in a while.”

  Not quite the fairy-tale request, but he is a modern-day prince after all.

  “Wanna hang out?” Jeremy continues.

  “Now?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s eleven-thirty on a Wednesday night. I’m in my pajamas.”

  “So? I’ll grab a taxi. Just stand outside with me while I have a cigarette.”

  Why is he compelled to take a cab all the way up here—his family lives a good thirty blocks away—to stand outside my building with me (in my pajamas) to smoke a cigarette? That’ll take him less time than the trip up here. But I’m curious.

  “Okay, sure.”

  “Great. Come down in fifteen minutes, okay?”

  “Okay, see you soon.”

  My muscles feel so tight that I practically bounce from my bed and into the bathroom. My skin looks awful, greasy from the lotions I douse it with before I fall asleep—all kinds of clear-pore stuff that promises to prevent breakouts. My hair is dirty and flat. I should put on some makeup. I should change my clothes.