Confessions of the Sullivan Sisters (21 page)

ONE OF THE BOOKS WE READ IN ENGLISH THIS YEAR WAS
The Winter’s Tale
by William Shakespeare. Maybe you already guessed that.

I was reading it in the cubicle before my next tutoring session with Cassandra. She was a few minutes late, and when she came in she asked me about the book.

“That’s Hermione, the queen of Sicily.” I pointed to the marble statue on the cover. “This play is about a family feud. Leontes, the King of Sicily, thinks his wife, Hermione, is cheating on him with his best friend, so the friend runs from Sicily in fear for his life. Leontes puts Hermione in jail for treason and orders their baby daughter, Perdita, killed.”

“That’s cold,” Cassandra said.

“Yes it is. It’s so cold Hermione dies of heartbreak in the arms of her friend Paulina.”

Cassandra said, “And then her ghost comes back and haunts him.”

“No,” I told her. “But that would be good. After Hermione dies, Leontes finds out that he was wrong about his wife and his friend. The knowledge of the terrible injustice he has done turns
his heart hard as stone. Then, years later, Perdita, the baby who was supposed to have been killed, miraculously reappears, all grown up and engaged to marry the son of Leontes’s friend, whose name is Polixenes. Leontes and Polixenes end their feud. Leontes says, ‘If only Hermione were alive to see this happy day.’”

“But she’s not, and it’s
all his fault
,” Cassandra said. “What is it about this story that sounds so familiar?”

I ignored her taunt. “Paulina says that she has made a statue of Hermione so lifelike Leontes will think she is alive. She takes everybody to her country house to show them. When Paulina casts a spell over the statue, a miracle happens: The statue comes to life! Hermione is alive again and reunited with her husband and daughter. And Leontes is very sorry that he ever lost faith in her and in his friend.”

“How does the statue come back to life?” Cassandra asked.

“Paulina casts a spell over it. She says, ‘Music, awake her; strike! ’Tis time; descend; be stone no more…. Bequeath to death your numbness.’”

“And the statue comes alive.”

I nodded.

“And then what?”

“Hermione says something like, ‘I had faith this day would come, when my beloved daughter would be found and my husband would beg forgiveness.’”

“And then what?”

“Everyone is happy. The end.”

She took the book and looked it over. “Is there a movie version?”

“I don’t know. It’s not the most popular Shakespeare play.”

Then we settled down to work, and we actually got some math problems done that day.

The receptionist stopped me on my way out of the Learning Center that afternoon. “Larry wants to see you, Sassy.”

The receptionist nodded toward an open conference room where Larry Gant sat sorting piles of workbooks. He looked up when I walked in.

“You’re Sassy Sullivan, right?” I nodded. “Okay, listen. I’ve got some bad news. Cassandra Higgins’s mother stopped in today after she dropped off Cassandra, and she was unhappy.”

“Unhappy?” My stomach dropped, the way it does when a roller coaster heads down the steep part.

“Yes. She says Cassandra isn’t learning anything here. She says the two of you have hardly covered any math at all. She says all the two of you do for your hour is talk and tell crazy stories to each other. Is that true?”

“Um, yeah, it’s true, but Cassandra’s math grades are going up.”

“That’s what Ms. Higgins said. But she said that’s because she’s helping Cassandra with her homework at home. After Cassandra comes back from what’s supposed to be tutoring.”

“Oh.” What else could I say? I had no defense. My failure at math had bitten me in the butt yet again.

“That little girl hasn’t got time to sit here and listen to your problems. You want a shrink, you’ve got to pay one. And I’d suggest you find one who’s better qualified than an eleven-year-old.”

“Are you saying I’m emotionally disturbed?”

“I don’t know anything about you,” Larry said. “You seem nice. All I’m saying is we can’t have you coming here and wasting people’s time. We’ve got to think about our reputation as a place of learning, you know what I’m saying?”

A bit of phlegm rose to my throat. I tried to clear it but my voice sounded froggy anyway. “Yes.”

“So I hope you won’t be hurt by this but we’ve got to let you go. I know you’re a volunteer but volunteers have still got to do the work.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I tried to tell you I wasn’t any good at math.”

“Yeah, I should’ve listened to you. I thought you were just being humble.”

“No, I was telling the truth.”

“I get that now. You still could have made an effort.”

“You’re so right. I’ll leave now.”

He nodded and went back to sorting books. I walked out of there as fast as I could so he wouldn’t see me cry.

I sat at the bus stop, unzipped my backpack, and stuck my head into the main pocket so I could cry in peace. I felt so ashamed. Not that I wasn’t a good math tutor—that wasn’t news to me. But that I had let Cassandra down. Because I wasn’t a good person. Now I wouldn’t see her anymore. And I didn’t even get to say good-bye.

That was my punishment.

CHRISTMAS WAS COMING SOON. NORRIE WAS GETTING READY
for the Cotillon and the house was in an uproar. I went up to her room one night just to lie at the foot of her bed and read while she did her homework. I like to do that sometimes. Of course, we usually end up talking and not getting the rest of our homework done.

I was lying across the bottom of the bed, and she was propped against the headboard, reading and pressing her feet into my ribs, but not in a bad way. I put down my book and watched her face while she read. She was frowning, and her eyes weren’t on the pages. They were staring at the squares of color on her quilt, unfocused.

“Are you excited about the Cotillon?” I asked her. Her face drooped into an even less happy expression, but she said, “Uh-huh.”

I rolled onto my stomach and squeezed one of her feet through her white gym sock. “What’s wrong? Is it Brooks? He’s a nice guy. I can picture him being somebody’s uncle someday, or grandpa. The kind that writes silly poems just for you on your birthday.”

“I know.” She picked at the quilt without looking at me. “That’s the trouble, isn’t it? I’m not ready to be grandma to somebody’s grandpa yet.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I said. “I just meant that he’s nice. Like you can trust him.”

“He seems like you can trust him. But that doesn’t mean you can. How can you ever know that about someone?”

“I don’t know.” I have been thinking about this a lot lately. I know how people see me. They think I’m the saintly one. People are always saying I look like a Christmas angel.

But we know better, don’t we? I’m not a good person. I volunteered to tutor because I wanted to help someone, and I didn’t help her at all. Because I didn’t really want to help her. I wanted to help myself. And I was so bad at tutoring I got fired. Fired from a volunteer job. That’s pretty sad.

And when Bubbles died, Takey was sad but I wasn’t. I pretended to be sad, but I really didn’t care that much.

And then there’s Wallace. I killed a man. But whenever I try to tell someone, they don’t take me seriously. Because I look like a Christmas angel, not a killer. The only person who understands how bad I really am inside is you. And maybe Cassandra.

So Norrie might be right. Brooks seems like a wonderful guy, but maybe on the inside he isn’t. Maybe he’s mean. Maybe he’s secretly plotting the destruction of the human race. How can anyone know? It’s just like on the news—whenever someone cracks and kills somebody, the killer’s mother and even his neighbors always say they can’t believe it, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. The
guy who shot all those people in the 7-Eleven—that’s what his mother said about him. But people are dead. You can’t deny it.

“Robbie’s mad at me,” Norrie said. “About the Cotillon. He doesn’t understand: I have to do it. Or everybody will get so upset.”

“Maybe he’s not right for you if he doesn’t understand.”

“That’s what everybody says. That’s what Claire says. But he is right for me. That’s the problem. He doesn’t understand because he feels how right we are for each other and he thinks I’m denying it by going to the ball with Brooks.”

She really looked sad for a girl who was about to have the best night of her life.

“Why do you think Jane’s tattoo won’t wash off?” I asked. Jane’s friend Bridget had drawn a skull and crossbones on the back of Jane’s neck and it wouldn’t come off. It had been on there for weeks now.

“I don’t know,” Norrie said. “Maybe she’s marked for life.”

On the morning of the Cotillon, the house began to fill with flowers. The phone rang and rang; Miss Maura was always answering something, the phone or the door or Takey’s requests for chocolate milk and demands to stick ’em up, while Ginger strutted around using her bossy voice on everyone, especially Norrie. Jane sidled through the rooms, peeking at the cards that came with the flowers and sneering. I got something in the mail that day too—a note from Cassandra. She’d left it for me at the Learning Center and they’d forwarded it to my address. It said:

Norrie came downstairs in her white dress when it was time to leave for the ball. She looked so beautiful and grown up. It felt like she was getting married, only we weren’t invited to the wedding. Miss Maura said we would stay home and have our own special Cotillon—the Fondue Cotillon—just her and Jane and Takey and me. We were going to sit by the fire and eat cheese fondue followed by chocolate fondue.

Jane and I were invited to a “Screw the Cotillon” party—sorry, Almighty, but that’s what it’s called—for people who weren’t debuting, at Matt Bowie’s house. Matt was escorting Phoebe Fernandez-Ruiz to the ball but his brothers Philip and Sean weren’t going. The plan was to crash the Cotillon afterparty at the country club later. Takey threatened to blow our brains out if we went because he didn’t want to be left home alone with Miss Maura. He’s always home alone with Miss Maura.

But after eating all that fondue, Jane and I both wanted to get out of the house. Jane had been suspended from school for a while by then and hadn’t seen any of her friends in a long time.

After Takey went to bed, Jane and I headed out to the Bowie farm in the blue Mercedes. Next year Norrie will go away to college and the Mercedes will pass down to Jane. Then me. We’ll see if it lasts long enough for Takey.

Once we got off the expressway and onto the dark country roads, Jane leaned back in her seat and drove with one finger. We saw the bonfire in the distance, from half a mile away over post fences and horse fields. Sometimes when we go to the Bowies’ farm I try to picture you as a girl my age, going to a party for the Bowies’ grandmother.

The field near the big house was littered with cars. We parked in a faraway row and walked toward the bonfire. I had texted Aisha and Lula and they’d promised to come, but they weren’t there yet.

The big house was decorated for Christmas, outlined in white lights with electric candles in the windows and a fluffy evergreen wreath on every door. The pond was frozen over and lit with floodlights. A girl pirouetted on the ice while six boys battled over a hockey puck, slapping at each other with wooden sticks. At the bonfire, Philip Bowie’s girlfriend, Katie, handed out marshmallows for toasting and oversaw a huge thermos of hot chocolate.

Jane’s friend Bridget to Nowhere came over and said, “Finally you’re here. Nobody will talk to me. Come on, let’s go inside and see if Sean’s in there.”

Jane looked at me. “You want to come? See if Lula’s inside?”

“Send her out if you see her,” I said. I wanted to sit and stare at the bonfire. I threaded two marshmallows on a long twig and
held it over the flames until they caught fire. Then I blew them out and ate the charred remains. I wandered over to the pond to watch the skaters. It was funny how the hockey players skated around the pirouetting girl, who acted as if she were all alone on the ice, spinning to some imaginary music. Then I went inside the house. I figured Lula and Aisha must be in there by now.

They were, drinking cider by a big stone fireplace. “Remember when you fell into that hole at my house?” Lula said. Her house was finished a couple of months ago, and that room with no floor has a floor now. It’s a music studio, with special acoustics and even some recording equipment. Lula’s little sister is very serious about the flute.

“That was so weird,” Aisha said.

“I remember,” I said.

“It seems like a long time ago now,” Lula said. “Did Norrie go to the Cotillon tonight?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I hope I’ll get to go to the Cotillon when I’m a senior,” Lula said.

“You will,” Aisha said. “I probably won’t.” Her family is from Pakistan. They’ve lived in Baltimore for about twenty years. I know that’s not usually long enough to be debutante material—unless her father was the deposed king of Pakistan or something like that, instead of just an orthopedic surgeon. But maybe, when our year comes up, you could use your influence to get Aisha into the Cotillon. I know I’m in no position to be asking favors. But it would be a good deed. You and I could make a deal: I’ll go if she goes.

After a while, Jane found us and said we were all going to the afterparty. Lula and Aisha were very excited to ride along with us.

We piled into the car. Bridget and Bibi sat in the front with Jane, and I squeezed in the back with Aisha and Lula and Tasha. Jane played the radio while we drove down the dark farm roads toward the expressway. Even the indie rock station was playing Christmas music. I heard a song I liked, a woman’s voice wailing about someone being gone two thousand miles. We sang along to all the songs while we zoomed down the highway toward the city. The roads were pretty busy, it being the last Saturday before Christmas. Everybody was going to parties, just like us.

The club’s parking lot was full, so we parked on the street and walked a few blocks. A bitter wind blew. The doorman opened the door for us and music poured out. We looked around. The debutantes had arrived and were draped over the furniture in their gowns and pearls. Claire ran over as soon as she saw us.

“Oh my God, you guys!” she cried. She had news. I couldn’t tell if it was good or bad, but she definitely had news. That’s how we found out about Norrie running away. Even Jane was impressed.

At first I was scared and worried that Norrie was never coming home. Jane said, “Of course she’s coming home,” but a flicker of doubt clouded her face. Ever since Norrie met Robbie she’s been a different person. We don’t quite know her. She’s always been the most sensible and responsible girl in the family,
and here she was running away with a man who is seven whole years older than she is, leaving our beloved Daddy-o in the middle of her debutante ball, and infuriating everyone else, most of all, you.

Love made Norrie go crazy. I hope it will never happen to me.