The Beautiful Between Read online

  He smiles. “At least I have my safety all set.” He lights a second cigarette, but doesn’t offer me one because he knows by now that I only smoke one, and more to keep him company than for anything else. “I just mean … I keep thinking about applying. I’m not worried about where I’ll go and things, but I just keep thinking about doing the applications.”

  Well, of course Jeremy isn’t worried about where he’ll go. Royalty is very well connected. He’ll get in wherever he wants.

  “I keep thinking about it because everyone around me is worried about it, studying hard for the SATs, going on college visits, calling in favors, all of that. So here’s this thing that’s still a year away and everyone is thinking about it and so am I, even though it’s a year away and I don’t want to think that far ahead. But I can’t stop.”

  I wonder for a minute why he’s trying to stop himself from thinking so far ahead. I figure it out just as Jeremy explains it.

  “So I’m thinking about doing these applications and I’m thinking about whether Kate will be there while I do them.”

  Jeremy presses at the corners of his eyes with his fingers. I imagine that in his head he’s thinking: She’ll be okay. She’ll be okay.

  “Anyway,” he says finally, “I wish everyone would just shut up about them so I could stop thinking that far ahead.”

  I feel bad. I’m one of those people, obsessing about my grades and the SATs, joining clubs at the last minute so I’ll have interesting extracurricular activities on my applications. But Jeremy says, “I don’t mean you, Sternin. Just that overall buzz at school.”

  “I don’t think we can do anything about the buzz, Jer.”

  “I know.”

  I wait a second before asking: “How is Kate?”

  “I don’t know. Worse, but I can’t tell. She’s still just Kate. I’m at school when she’s at the hospital, and she’s usually home when I get home.”

  “The school must know—the administration, I mean; they know why she’s absent?”

  “Yeah, of course they know. Everyone knows. Can’t keep a secret at that school.”

  I nod, thinking of Mike Cohen in the lunchroom.

  Jeremy continues, “It’s hard enough to keep a secret in this town.”

  “It’s okay if everyone knows, Jer; there’s nothing you can do about it, so it’s okay. They really do care about you, and about Kate.”

  “I know, but it’s just … I don’t want to accept anyone’s support yet. I don’t want to worry about being polite and saying the right thing. I just want to hang with Kate.”

  “Jeremy, I know it’s frustrating to think everyone knows your business. I mean, imagine how I felt. We’d never said two words to each other and you knew how my dad died—that my dad died.” Jeremy looks apologetic, so I finish the thought quickly; I hadn’t meant to make him feel bad. “But it was okay. Because it doesn’t really matter that you knew.

  “And anyway,” I continue, “maybe it was a good thing, because it’s why we became friends.”

  “Sternin, it’s not why we’re friends.”

  “No, but it’s why you befriended me to begin with.” I pause before asking, “Right?”

  Jeremy looks guilty.

  “It’s okay. You thought I might know something—that I might, I don’t know, be able to give you advice or something.”

  “I did. My parents—I should have told you this sooner—they’re friends with the doctor who treated your father.”

  I don’t say anything. I wait for Jeremy to explain.

  “He was over one night for dinner, giving my parents advice, and he said he thought there was a girl in my class who’d been through it—he said he remembered; he used to work with the guy. Your dad was a doctor, right?”

  I nod. That sounds right. I think I’ve heard that.

  “He said it was a real tragic story, the kind you don’t forget—” Jeremy stops quickly. “He didn’t get into specifics,” he says quietly. “He just assumed I must have known your dad had had cancer. Thought I might want to talk to you.”

  “Oh.”

  “But really, I promise, I wasn’t thinking about it like that. I thought it was a weird thing for him to suggest, really. But then, I don’t know. I guess I thought, Maybe there is something she knows, something she could tell me.” He pauses and looks straight at me—he’s much braver than I am when I’ve done something I’m ashamed of. “I’m sorry, Sternin. It was rotten.”

  “It’s okay. Really.” Jeremy looks so sad, I decide to make a joke. “Hey, I was just glad when I figured it out. I was beginning to think your talking to me was part of some elaborate prank.”

  Jeremy grins. “Still could be.”

  “Nah, I know you like me,” I say, smiling back, looking straight at him. I know that he likes me, however unlikely that seemed before.

  His grin turns sheepish, and he puts his arm around me. “You’re a good friend, Connelly Jane.” He pats my shoulder.

  “So are you, Jeremy Staddler.”

  “Kate could be gone by the time we get into college.”

  He says that quickly, and I think it’s the first time he’s said it out loud. I don’t know what to say. I won’t agree with him. There are always more treatments, more chances. I’m quiet.

  Jeremy’s face betrays nothing. We could be talking about the weather.

  “I never thought I would wish—I was always looking forward to going to college, and now I just want every day to go at a slow crawl, you know?”

  “I understand.” But my muscles are tense, like I’m angry at Jeremy. Angry because he’s already given up, and I feel like he has no right to.

  “It’s strange to think you went through this and you don’t remember it.”

  “I don’t know anything about it, Jeremy.” Even though I don’t agree with him, I want to say something comforting. “But I guess I’m living proof that you survive it.”

  Jeremy nods. “Yeah, I guess you are.” He drops his cigarette to the ground and crushes it with his heel.

  “See you tomorrow, CJS.” He gives me a kiss on the cheek and hails a cab at the corner. I shuffle back up to my apartment and into my bed. I fall asleep without thinking. In the morning, my alarm surprises me, like I didn’t even realize I’d fallen asleep at all. It occurs to me that ever since that night, the night when I found out about the cancer, I’ve been falling asleep faster. Maybe it’s just the fact that Jeremy keeps me up later, so I’m more tired by the time I actually get into bed, or maybe he’s keeping my mind busy—I’ve always fantasized about something or other before I could fall asleep, played a fairy tale in my head to entertain myself. But I haven’t for a while now.

  On Friday, Jeremy invites me over for dinner.

  “Just come home with me after school.”

  I hesitate. “Will your parents be there?”

  “Wouldn’t you come if they were?”

  “Well, yeah, I’m just … I’d like to know what I’m getting into.” I’ve never met Jeremy’s parents, beyond seeing them at school events. I wouldn’t know how to act. Like, before people meet the Queen of England, aren’t they schooled in the proper etiquette: the way they’re supposed to address her, look at her, that kind of thing?

  “My parents will be there. The food will be good. And Kate will sit at the dinner table and look skinny and pale and bald.”

  My face falls. “Jeremy, that’s not fair. You know I don’t care—I mean, I care, of course I care. But you know that doesn’t make me uncomfortable—except for, you know, being upset that Kate is sick. But you know that that wasn’t why I would hesitate to come to your house for dinner—not that I was hesitating, I’d love to come. But you know that I just get nervous—”

  “Jesus Christ, Sternin.” Jeremy looks hard at me. “I know.” And then he launches into his own rambling tirade. “It’s okay. I’m just defensive for her; her hair’s almost really gone now, and I know she’s embarrassed about it. I know you would never look at her like that,
but believe me, you might, without even meaning to. Sometimes I find myself looking at her—she just looks so different, and I’m not used to it. But you wouldn’t stare at her; I should know that.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Jer.”

  “Meet me out front after your last class.”

  The Coles sit at their dinner table in sweats. Well, not Mrs. Cole, but everyone else. I don’t know what I was expecting—that they’d dress for dinner? Jeremy changed into sweats almost as soon as we got there—in his bathroom while I sat on his bed, comfortable now, flipping channels.

  I don’t see Kate until dinnertime. Jeremy said she was sleeping when we got there. She does look like she’s just woken up. She’s wearing a scarf wrapped around her head; actually, it’s pretty stylish, and would look cute if not for the bags under her eyes, the sallowness around her mouth. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a room with someone so sick before. Except, perhaps, my father, when I was too young to remember.

  Jeremy says that on Friday, they order in Chinese food. We sit in the dining room, not the kitchen. The wooden table is glossy beneath our food, and the five of us only take up half of it. The chairs, which are surprisingly comfortable, are covered in what I can tell is very expensive fabric, and I’m scared that I might spill something on it. Usually I douse my Chinese food in soy sauce, but tonight I’m trying to stick to foods I’m least likely to spill. But Kate is sitting across from me, and when she sees my sauceless plate, she says, “Jeremy, pass Connelly the soy sauce.” Looking at me, she grins. “It’s the best part.”

  Mrs. Cole says, “Jeremy tells us you’ve been helping him with his SATs.”

  I look up from my beef with broccoli, which I’m nearly leaning over the plate to eat. My grandmother always said that I should bring myself to the food, not the other way around, to prevent spilling. Only now do I realize this means that I’m eating without sitting up straight.

  “Umm, yes. I mean, it’s not like he needs much help.”

  “You know, we hired him a tutor last year, but he hated it.”

  Most people I know had SAT tutors. Even I had one, for the math section.

  I nod. “Yeah, mine always made me do practice tests.” I cringe, thinking that I should have said “yes” instead of “yeah,” but I continue: “I felt like I could have done that on my own.”

  “That’s exactly what Jeremy said. And the truth is, he didn’t need help with the math, so it was just a matter of vocabulary, that kind of thing.”

  “That’s what Connelly helps me with,” Jeremy interjects.

  “Connelly,” Mrs. Cole says, and I look at her, thinking she’s asking me a question, but then I realize she’s just considering my name. “It’s an unusual name, isn’t it?”

  “It’s my father’s mother’s maiden name.”

  “Oh. Irish?”

  I shrug. “I guess; I don’t honestly know. The rest of my family’s Jewish.”

  “It’s an Irish name,” Mr. Cole says.

  I’m nervous that the conversation might dwell on my family, but instead Mrs. Cole says, “My first name—Joan—was my father’s mother’s first name. I wish he’d thought of something as interesting as her maiden name instead. I can’t even remember what it was—isn’t that awful?”

  I smile at her.

  “And I did the same thing to Kate—my grandmother’s name. Parents should be more creative.”

  “Nah,” says Mr. Cole. “Then you’d have kids walking around with ridiculous names.” He looks at me. “No offense, Connelly.”

  “None taken,” I say, and I grin, at ease because he teases just like his son.

  “You could have named me Staddler instead of Jeremy,” Jeremy says.

  “No. Your father was set on Jeremy.”

  “Mom, you were the pregnant one. I think you could have had your way.”

  Kate speaks up. “She had her way with me. She chose Kate.” She’s been quiet all night; I think she must be exhausted, since she usually talks so easily.

  “That’s right, I did,” Mrs. Cole says, as if, without Kate’s having reminded her, she might have forgotten.

  I imagine Mr. and Mrs. Cole sixteen years ago, fighting over what to name their son. Maybe she’s lying on her back in bed, barely able to see over her big tummy, and maybe he’s lying with his hand on her stomach, trying to see if the baby kicks when he says a particular name, the name he wants. Jeremy. It’s such an intimate moment. And here are their kids, talking about it like it’s nothing. Maybe my father fought to name me Connelly. Maybe my mother doesn’t even like the name. I would never ask her how they ended up choosing Connelly, whether they fought, why my father wanted it. I wonder if my father was especially close with his mother, and whether this was something he wanted to do for her.

  I turn to Mrs. Cole. “Were you close with your grandmother?”

  “Oh, I suppose,” she replies lightly. “As close as one can be to someone when there’s such a generation gap.” I’m disappointed with her answer. I guess I was hoping she would give me more information, something I could apply to myself somehow. I hope my father didn’t settle on my name as lightly as that.

  I’m pleasantly surprised to find that I’m not at all uncomfortable with the Coles. Kate eats her white rice carefully and I can’t help but remember watching Anorexic Alexis eating her food with the same care, sitting next to Jeremy in the cafeteria, as I am now in his dining room. When we started staring at Alexis ripping lettuce into shreds, then picking the shreds up one at a time and chewing them slowly—I never would have imagined that I’d end up here, with Jeremy, at his home, watching another skinny girl. Kate dips each grain of rice—she eats them one by one—into a pool of soy sauce on her plate. (She’s obviously not scared of spilling like I am.)

  The Coles eat small portions—all except for Jeremy, who, like most teenage boys, could eat anyone under the table. Mrs. Cole has one helping of rice and one Peking duck pancake. She takes longer than I do to finish, and I think she must be starving by the time we get up from the table.

  “Kate,” Jeremy says, “want to come watch movies with us?”

  She nods, and we settle in the den to watch TV. Kate falls asleep lying across our laps on the couch. I’ve never, that I can remember, had someone lie on me while sleeping, and Kate’s weight across my thighs is warm. We’re watching our second movie when Jeremy’s parents stick their heads in to say good night, and his father lifts Kate off the couch to take her to her bedroom. I feel her absence on my legs. The Coles, extraordinary though their circumstances may be—the money, the ill daughter, etc.—seem the picture of a family to me. Like something out of a storybook.

  Jeremy surprises me by coming home with me and lighting up outside my lobby like usual.

  “You know, my mother said we could smoke upstairs.”

  “God, my mom would go nuts.”

  “Well, I think the thrill of having a Cole regularly at the house …”

  “Shut up.” It’s the first time I’ve said anything to him about his royalty, his social status compared to mine. Jeremy and I grin at each other. I bring my cigarette to my lips.

  “Jesus Christ, Sternin, you barely inhale.”

  “Hey, I’m here for the company, not the nicotine.”

  Jeremy begins to laugh, but his smile drops abruptly and he presses his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand. “Thanks for coming to dinner.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “I mean it; it was nice having you there.”

  I smile, and Jeremy smiles back at me.

  While I’m getting ready for bed, I feel like there’s something terrible I’ve done, but I can’t remember what. Like I said something wrong at dinner, or stole an ashtray or something.

  It’s awful, but I’m jealous of Jeremy. It’s so wrong to be jealous of someone when the person he loves most in the world is so sick, but I’m jealous of him for having Kate to love. I’m jealous of the way that his parents said good night to us, and
I’m jealous of Kate’s legs across his lap. Worst of all, I’m grateful for Kate’s illness. Without it, Jeremy and I wouldn’t be friends.

  I get out of bed, walk over to my bookshelves. Without turning on the light, I locate my copy of A Farewell to Arms, open it to where I’d stuck that picture of my parents. In the darkness, I can just make out their shapes. I wonder if this is what Jeremy’s parents looked like when they were that age. I put the picture back, put the book back on its shelf, get back into bed.

  I remember how empty my lap felt when Kate was put to bed. I imagine Jeremy walking around with that emptiness every day for the rest of his life.

  And I’m still jealous.

  14

  On Saturday, I wake up frantic, my skin itching. Why haven’t I figured it out yet? How much longer will I walk around without knowing the truth about my father?

  Jeremy comes over in the afternoon to help me cram for the physics midterm on Monday. My mother’s not home, and for a change we sit in the living room, textbooks spread out on the coffee table. Jeremy’s up on the couch. I’m down on the floor, my legs under the table, and I’m trying to work on the vector problem in front of me, but I can’t concentrate.

  “Sternin. Dude.”

  I blink. “Huh?”

  “You’ve been staring at that problem for hours. Do you want me to walk you through it?”

  I look down at the textbook. I actually know how to do this problem. That’s not why I haven’t finished it.

  “Sternin?”

  I look back up at Jeremy.

  “I can’t concentrate.”

  “I can tell.”

  How come Jeremy can concentrate when his sister is so sick and I can’t concentrate when my father has been dead for years?

  “Sternin?”

  “I’m sorry, Jeremy. It’s very nice of you to be here helping me, but I’m not paying any attention. You must have somewhere else …” I trail off, because I think he knows what I’m thinking: Why waste any time here with me when you could be soaking up time with Kate?

  “I don’t want to go home, Sternin. It’s too hard to be there sometimes.”