The Beautiful Between Read online

  “You scared me.”

  “How?”

  “Because I didn’t know anyone was there.”

  “Yeah, you looked like you were concentrating pretty hard.”

  Sometimes I can’t tell whether he’s teasing me or being serious.

  “Listen, Con, I thought I might come over tonight—say around eleven, for a cigarette?” He grins. “See, I’m giving you advance notice. I bet you thought I wasn’t listening.”

  The way he’s made this so simple makes me feel foolish for ever having thought it mattered. His hand has slid from my shoulder to my upper arm, and his grip feels warm. It’s something out of a fairy tale: the prince deigns to touch the lowly commoner, making her weak in the knees. I have to extricate myself from his hold before he notices.

  “Well, okay. See you later.” I step back, freeing my arm, and bump into the card catalog. One of the drawers slides open. It smells like it hasn’t been opened in years. Now my elbow hurts and my face is hot with embarrassment. Jeremy, the consummate gentleman, pretends not to notice.

  “Hey, don’t take it the wrong way, but I couldn’t help noticing you looked kinda lost in physics. Want to study sometime this week, maybe during lunch?”

  I’m grateful for the offer, though it occurs to me that it’s just because of lunch today—without Alexis there to stare at, there was no excuse for our sitting next to each other in silence. Studying would cover up the awkwardness.

  “Yes, okay, perfect.”

  “Okay, see you tonight.”

  I wait until he walks away to rub my elbow.

  It’s still raining when I walk home from school and still raining when my phone rings at a quarter to eleven. I figure Jeremy’s used to seeing me in my pajamas by now, so I don’t even bother with shoes; I shuffle downstairs in my slippers. Jeremy and I huddle under the awning of the building, just outside the lobby.

  “It’s freezing,” he says.

  “Yeah, what are we going to do in a few weeks? It’ll be November.” I immediately regret having said this, having admitted to some assumption that this will keep going on. Jeremy doesn’t seem to notice the weight of what I said. He jokes, “We’ll just have to huddle closer.”

  I know it’s a joke, but it’s one that, being a girl who has admitted attraction to the boy standing a few feet away from her, I read a lot into. Like, does that mean he thinks that by November we’ll be more likely to be standing close, i.e., hooking up or dating or at least being comfortable buddies who don’t mind getting close to keep warm? Because whether we’re buddies now or not, there’s nothing comfortable going on here. I can’t imagine even taking one step closer to him. The most intimate thing he’s ever done is light a cigarette for me in his mouth together with his own.

  God, how come he knows how my father died and I don’t even know if it’s okay to lean against him when I’m cold?

  And then, just like that, he gives me something intimate: “Jesus Christ,” he says, and I can see he’s choked up. Visibly choked up. (Obviously, visibly—otherwise, how the hell would I know?)

  And having been given this window, I have no idea what to do. And I only have a second to figure it out.

  “Jeremy?” I offer dumbly. I’m so flustered; this moment has so much responsibility. A guy like Jeremy Cole is never ruffled. Hell, it’s his job, as prince, to show a good outward appearance at all times. If he is showing this to me, he must either trust me or be so upset that he simply can’t hold it in.

  I know he’ll compose himself before he reveals anything. So I just wait.

  “Jesus. Christ,” he says again, this time much more slowly. He’s looking down at the pavement.

  “I just really love her, you know?”

  Jeremy is still looking down, so I stand nearer to him—he’s taller than I am, so even if he is looking down, if I stand close enough, he’ll be looking at me.

  “Jeremy?”

  “What did you do? I mean, I know it’s totally different, but you’re all right, you’re here and you’re fine, so it must be okay, somehow. There must be a way to make it okay.”

  I am so confused that it’s making me nervous. My hands are sweaty, even though I’d been so cold before.

  “Jeremy, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

  “When your dad was sick—I know you were young, but you must remember. What was it like?”

  What was it like. When my dad was sick. I have no clue. But I can’t let Jeremy see that I don’t know. I will have to think about that later. So I just say, “I’m sorry, Jeremy, I was two years old.”

  Jeremy looks straight at me.

  “But you’re okay now.”

  He seems to need me to affirm this, so I say, “Yes. I’m okay now.”

  I should say something more; something comforting. But I can’t think of anything else. I must have said something right, because he nods, and then he smiles at me. He reaches his arm toward me, and for a second I think he’s going to take my hand. But instead he takes the cigarette from my fingers, which seems even more intimate. It’s gone out—I hadn’t even noticed. Rain must have fallen on it.

  “I better go,” he says, crushing the cigarette in his fingers. “It’s getting late, and you’ve got school tomorrow.” He grins.

  “Yes, sir, and I have to get my beauty rest.” Like I’m royalty too.

  I shuffle away in my slippers, go back to bed to stare at the ceiling. My father was sick. My father had an illness. Why is my mother so scared to tell me that? It’s so normal. It’s so banal. I think I might be disappointed.

  I am nearly asleep when I realize what I missed: Jeremy was talking about Kate.

  9

  In the morning, every decision seems fraught. Cereal for breakfast? Moisturizing shampoo or deep-cleansing? Should I put on makeup? What should I wear? Because whatever else I do, I must wear the right thing today. I’m convinced that the right outfit will show Jeremy I’m sympathetic, but the wrong one will somehow have the power to tell the entire student body that something is wrong with Kate.

  Because I’m fairly convinced that this is something of a secret. Maybe the family is trying to keep it secret; maybe he hasn’t told anyone, and maybe he’s trusting me. Maybe whatever Kate has is whatever my father had, and maybe her family is just as ashamed as mine.

  I try to think of illnesses that people associate with shame. All that occurs to me is AIDS, and that was only in the 1980s, before people knew what they know now. I mean, sure there are people who would still think it’s shameful, but not the Coles. They’re a liberal New York family. They hold fund-raisers for Democratic candidates in their apartment. I remember that in one of my favorite childhood books, there was a girl with diabetes and she kept it secret because she was scared of what her friends would think. But of course, the lesson was always that no one would care; they loved her anyway. And everyone would rally around Kate. She’s every bit as beloved a princess as Jeremy is a prince.

  I ransack my closet and I wonder why Jeremy said what he did exactly—that I got through it, that my father died but I’m okay now. Whatever Kate has, even if it’s what my father had, surely there’s some treatment now, some way to make it something she can, at least, live with. Whatever it is, it won’t kill Kate—the Coles can afford the best doctors in the world; fly her to Switzerland for the most cutting-edge treatment; hire twenty-four-hour-a-day home care; give her anything she needs.

  In the end, I wear jeans. Jeans are so innocuous, and I think it’s innocuous that I’m going for. I pull them on—tight over my hips, looser around my ankles. I even choose the pair that I’ve decided is a particularly ordinary shade of blue, even though they’re last year’s jeans, and not nearly stylish enough.

  If I look plain enough, then it won’t look like anything out of the ordinary has happened. But then I think, as I pull my hair into a ponytail, as I deliberately avoid the mascara next to the bathroom sink, that maybe this is too plain. I don’t want Jeremy to think that I don’t care. I w
ant him to know that I understand he was talking about Kate—that I understand him and I know how much this matters. So I put on some lip gloss, but only a little, because I also don’t want him to think this is somehow exciting to me; that I’m curious, selfish, longing for gossip. And certainly the right outfit can’t help me figure out what I’m supposed to say to him.

  There is no right way to handle this situation.

  Physics is first period. Jeremy is never early to class like I am. They don’t let us into the science classrooms until the teacher shows up, because there are Bunsen burners and all kinds of chemicals in there, and I guess they’re worried about what we’ll touch. So it’s me and the early nerds waiting outside the room for Mr. Kreel, ready to rush in and get the good seats. I’m staring at my feet, and for the first time I think that maybe it’s strange that our school is carpeted.

  By the time Jeremy gets to class, I’m sitting perched in the second row, my notebook and pen at the ready, and the teacher is at the front of the room, waiting for everyone to settle down. It’s only the cool kids who wait until the last minute to settle. I swing my legs back and forth on the stool, but then I realize I’m irritating everyone else in my row, so I stop. But then I start clicking my pen so the tip comes in and out, which is probably even more irritating.

  Jeremy sits behind me like he always does, so I don’t see his face until class is over and we’re packing up. I’m in full panic mode because nothing that Mr. Kreel said today made sense to me. I want to ask Jeremy for help, but I’m also scared to talk to him, because I don’t know the right things to say.

  But he leaves the room without looking at me. I watch his back. How can he be so calm when I’m so nervous? I’ve been so worried all morning about looking, saying, and doing the right thing that I haven’t even thought about my father, and that seems wrong too. I should care about what I now know: he was ill. There was no terrible fall, no fatal accident: he was sick. He was sick, and I think the only reason Jeremy sought me out in the lunchroom that day was because whatever he had is like whatever Kate has and Jeremy thought there might be some wisdom I could impart about how you get through the death of a loved one. He never thought I was cool; he never cared about helping me with physics. That doesn’t make me angry; he was looking for help from me. But I was two years old; a two-year-old doesn’t even know enough to know that she’s getting through something. And I’m just as clueless now. At sixteen, I still haven’t gotten past what happened to my father. How can I have gotten past it when I don’t know what it is?

  I think that whatever’s wrong with Kate can somehow tell me what was wrong with my dad.

  At lunch, Jeremy finds me at the usual table. I’m waiting for him; I have my physics book with me in case we start working. I hurried so I’d be here if he came looking for me. I didn’t even grab food. Now that he’s here, I realize I’m starving and glance hungrily at the bagel table.

  “Sternin. Still no Alexis?” He sits beside me.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, rehab, you know. She’ll be back in twenty-eight days.”

  “That’s the standard. Of course, the really sick ones stay longer.”

  “Of course.”

  Neither of us thinks this banter is particularly funny, since neither of us thinks that Alexis had a drug problem. I decide to test the waters.

  “It’s hard, you know, to see someone making herself sick like that when there are people we love who didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

  I can’t believe I really just said that. I certainly don’t mean it. But I go on.

  “Maybe,” I continue, “that’s why we’re so fascinated by her when everyone else needs to think it was a drug problem, you know?”

  Jeremy shrugs. “Listen, Sternin, no offense, but I don’t like to talk about shit like this in school.”

  I’m embarrassed now for bringing it up, for asking that question.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay—I probably should … I don’t know.” He looks around the cafeteria. Everyone seems to be having so much more fun than we are. Jeremy would never transform all the kids into knights and ladies, the teachers into earls and duchesses. He’d never understand if I told him that I give the different teachers’ lounges names like the Earldom of Literary Greats, the Duchy of Scientific Stresses. He doesn’t see a royal court; he just sees girls in their short skirts, with tall boots and just the right shoulder bags; boys in baseball caps and loose jeans. How does everyone else spend the time that I spend spinning in my head? I would be bored; then I would be lonely.

  Three sophomores walk right past us, blatantly staring at Jeremy. I try not to laugh when one of them slips on her high heel. We’re not supposed to wear high heels to school, and her skirt is so short I can almost see her underwear. Jeremy raises his eyebrows at me to show that he doesn’t find that attractive.

  “You looked freaked-out in physics today,” he says finally.

  I’m relieved, both for the help he’s offering and because this is a topic I know how to talk about. “Oh God, I really, really was. I didn’t know what was going on.”

  “Not to worry, though it doesn’t look like we’re going to get anything done during lunch. Let’s get in some tutoring before tonight’s cig break—I’ll come over around eight, okay?”

  Jeremy is a Physics Knight in Shining Armor.

  “Okay.”

  “Later, Sternin.” And Jeremy leans over and kisses me on the cheek goodbye. In front of everyone. In the lunchroom. I press my calves back against the metal legs of the chair, make myself stay seated, like that kiss was nothing at all.

  After school, I change into my pajamas and swallow three Advil without water, hoping that it will cure my new headache, hoping it will go away before Jeremy gets here. I lie on top of the blankets on my bed. They never deal with emotional complexity in fairy tales. Like, how did Cinderella forgive her father—not for dying, but for not putting her first when he chose the woman he would marry? How did Snow White deal with knowing that her beauty led another woman to such madness? How did Rapunzel survive being locked in a tower, not only imprisoned but never able to set her feet on the ground, something that would drive most people crazy? Did she ever run her hands along the stone floor, wondering what dirt would feel like? Did she ever consider jumping out that window? Did she ever want to cut off her own hair, a fairy-tale version of cutting off your nose to spite your face? And, most intriguing and damaging of all, what about her relationship with that wicked witch? How do we even know she was wicked? The witch fed her and put a roof over her head, high and solitary though it might have been.

  I prop myself up on my pillows, twist my neck so I can see out the window. We’re twelve floors up, and my bedroom looks out onto Madison Avenue. Sometimes, from this window, I can see my mother coming home from one of her lunches, a walk, the supermarket. Sometimes we go to the market together, but whenever I’m not with her, she still picks up exactly the foods I want; I never have to tell her. She knew when I switched from regular Coke to Diet Coke, and started buying it for me. She notices when we’re running low on cereal, even though she doesn’t eat it, and always makes sure there’s a fresh box and non-expired milk. Maybe the witch thought she was protecting Rapunzel, not punishing her. Maybe she thought that if Rapunzel was locked away, no one could ever hurt her. Maybe the witch kept Rapunzel because she loved her, because she was scared that if other people could get to Rapunzel, they would hurt her. And maybe Rapunzel didn’t understand the witch; maybe she was angry at her—but maybe she loved her too.

  10

  Jeremy rings the doorbell at eight exactly. He’s in general much more prompt than I would expect him to be.

  “Hey, the doorman didn’t buzz you.”

  “Nah, they know me by now.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Of course, all those cigarettes.

  Jeremy whips out his physics textbook as soon as he gets to my room, so there’s no question of talking first. I’m reliev
ed—I’d actually done the same thing: I’d laid out all my physics stuff so that it would be waiting when he got here. I’m still embarrassed by what happened at lunch, when I tried to talk about Kate and my father.

  “Where’s your mom?” he asks after an hour or so of working. We’re sitting on the floor by my bed, and Jeremy’s leaning back against it.

  I shrug. “Not sure. She wasn’t home when I got home from school.”

  “Don’t you wonder?”

  “Not really. I mean, it’s her private life, right? She’s entitled to it.”

  Jeremy looks at me strangely. “You mean, she’s on a date?”

  “I don’t know. She could be.”

  “But you wouldn’t ask?”

  I would never ask. I shrug to play it off like it’s nothing. “I guess not.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want you to know if she’s dating someone. I mean, like, she’s worried you’ll feel bad about it.”

  “I don’t think I would. She’s never dated anyone seriously that I know of.”

  Jeremy tilts his neck so the back of his head rests on top of my bed, stares at my ceiling. I think of all the times I’ve spent lying there, looking at the ceiling above my bed, and I wonder if Jeremy’s noticing the things I see—the places where the paint is peeling, the watermark shaped like a dog’s tail.

  “But don’t you know how strange that sounds—that you ‘know of’? She’s your mother.”

  This is getting frustrating, someone attacking our carefully choreographed cohabitation. I know some mothers and daughters are closer. And yes, it makes me jealous, even at my age, when I see them out together, holding hands. But I know that we can’t be like that, not since I was a baby, not since the first day of third grade. Maybe there are too many secrets between us: she can’t tell me the truth about my father; I can’t tell her how I’ve been lying about him—about her too, and about me—since I was eight years old.