Her and Me and You (5 page)

“I don’t—” I stopped. Had I screwed up? “I called because I missed you.” Then, quickly: “You’re gonna stay mad forever?”

“I’m not mad.”

“You are.”

“I’m not, Alex, I’m really not.” She sounded so tired. “I just don’t know what to say right now.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Stuff’s different. Don’t you think?”

“With us?” I took three short, hysterical breaths.

“Are you crying?”

I was.

“Please don’t cry.”

I couldn’t stop.

“Please, Al, you’re making me feel guilty.”

I wondered how everything had changed so fast. At the
start of the year, Evie was my world. Mom and Dad were together. I had a dog. “I’m sorry I called.”

“Don’t be like that.”

I wiped my nose on my sleeve. “Well how do you want me to be?”

“I don’t know. Don’t be upset.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Al.”

“Yeah?”

“Take a breath.”

“Why?”

“It’ll calm you down. Come on, inhale deep—”

I did.

“—and hold it.”

17.

I spent most of my free period outside, high up, legs
dangling off the edge of the brick wall by the science wing. Twenty minutes spent catching up on leftover lit reading; the other twenty, obsessively moping over Evie. I’d been trying to pinpoint the exact moment things went wrong with us—me leaving Katonah? Evie uniting with Ben? My lackluster reaction to their scorching affair?—when Fred approached carrying a small paper sack.

“Hey, Polar Bear.” He tossed me the bag, then scaled the wall. “Aren’t you cold?”

I nodded, thrilled to see him.

“For you,” he said, gesturing to the sack, settling in.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

I looked inside. Chocolate. Heaps of black, glossy, misshapen chocolate.

“They’re caramels.”

I pulled two from the bag, grinning. “Here,” I said, handing him one. I ate the other. Sweet, sticky, bitter. “Oh wow.”

“Right?”

“No, these are, like, amazing.”

He watched me. I touched my lips, covering up. “Don’t stare,” I said, chewing, beaming. “How’d I get so lucky?”

He looked away. “I just . . . felt like giving you something.”

“You sound like Adina.”

“Do I?”

“You talk alike,” I said. Fred’s head was cocked. I flashed on him kissing loads of girls: girls from my lit class, girls from my old school, Audrey Glick, Anne Frank. Fred with . . . “Anyways.” Fred with
me
. “Thanks. A lot.”

“Don’t thank me.” He ate his caramel. “Can I look at you now, or no?”

“Wait.” I wiped my top lip. “Sure.”

He glanced up. Smiled. “So.”

“Mm?”

“Speaking of Adina . . .”

“Oh. Yeah. The other night, right?” Humiliating.

“I’m so sorry about that.”

“No,” I stuck my tongue between two molars, trying to loosen a bit of stuck caramel. “I mean, that’s fine. I’m over it.”

“You did nothing wrong. You know that, right?”

I shrugged. “I do that sometimes—talk too much?”

“No, you don’t.”

I pulled another caramel from the bag and handed it to Fred.

“Thanks.” He squished it between his thumb and pointer finger. “She’s just—”
Anorexic and moody? A liar? A saint? In love? In crisis?
“She’s got a lot going on.”

“Oh yeah?”

He popped his second caramel, continuing, “I mean, she’s
amazing
.” He looked at me. “Really loyal.” Then looked away. “She’s just—she’s got some shit she’s working on.”

I tried to catch his eye again. “Like what? What’s she working on?”

“I don’t mean anything
specific
, just
issues
. Everyone’s got shit they’re not proud of. Don’t you?” He looked up, finally. “Or are you perfect?”

“Yes,” I said mindlessly. “Perfect.”

He smiled. “Thought so.” He ran his tongue over his left incisor. Then: “Will I see you later?”

“You’re going?”

“I just wanted to give you those.” He gestured to the brown paper bag. “You have plans later on?” He hopped off the wall.

“Nope.”

“Wanna walk to Chester Hill? Get sandwiches?”

“
Bagel
sandwiches?”

Fred laughed and looked at me crooked.

“What?” I said, feeling psychotically giddy. “I like bagels.”

“Three fifteen?” He was jogging backward toward the building. “Meet here?”

“Three fifteen.” Then, “Wait, Fred!” I hollered, waving one tacky hand. He stopped, treading air. “Thanks again.” I shook the bag.

“Anytime,” he said, saluting. He reached for the door.

One forty-five p.m. Between blocks.

Adina grabbed me on my way to world lit. “Katonah—”

“Hey!” The promise of bagels. I was still maniacally peppy.

“Your jeans.”

I glanced down. Adina was on her knees now, wiggling her finger through a tiny tear at my knee. “They’re holey.”

“I know.”

She stood up, squinting. “You never wear dresses.”

“I’ve got one.”

“I’m going to Goodwill after school,” she said.

“Oh, uh-huh.”

“I’m going to look for something lacy. Wanna come?” She poked at a smear of dried paint on my thigh. “I’ll buy.”

I laughed, flattered and a little afraid. Alone time with Adina? She’d either cuddle me or kill me.
Tempting, but
. . . “I would, I’d love to—but I’ve got plans. With your brother, actually.”

“Plans with Fred?”

“Yeah.”

“
Today
?”

“Mmhmm.”

She looked pale and pissed, so I said, “You should come,” but didn’t mean it.

“I can’t.” She grimaced. “I just told you.
Goodwill
.”

Okey-doke.
“I’m gonna be late,” I said, pointing down the hall, toward lit. “What about this weekend?” I asked, making up.

“What
about
this weekend?” She curtsied and did a little pivot, heading off.

I waited till quarter to four. I waited by the wall, freezing and swearing and scanning the courtyard for Fred. I jumped in place to keep warm, checked my watch twenty times, tried Fred’s phone twice (direct to voicemail), then circled the building, hoping I’d been wrong about our plan. Had I misunderstood?
Should I check the bathrooms? The infirmary?
I ended up at my car, clutching my keys too tight and trying him one last time. “Hey,” I started after the beep. “It’s Alex. We were meeting at the wall, weren’t we? By the science wing? It’s ten till now, I’m headed home. If you get this, call me?”

18.

Deirdre Kincaid.

“Honey, pass the cheese, will you?”

Deirdre and Mom sat side by side, lapping up heaps of linguini and casserole. Charlotte was next to me, picking at her dinner.

“What is this?” Charlotte asked, cautiously nibbling at a forkful.

“It’s a casserole,” I said, annoyed, passing the bowl of grated parmesan to my mother. I’d spent an hour and a half salting, rinsing, assembling, baking.

“No, I mean, what’s inside?”

“Tomatoes, ricotta, and eggplant.”

“Tasty,” Charlotte offered, taking a timid bite. She looked nothing like her mother, who was skinny, with short,
sensible hair and glasses. Charlotte’s hair was long and loopy. Her boobs were big. “Cook much?”

I dropped my fork.

“Alex makes really good banana pancakes. Right Al?”

I nodded at Mom. I was ready to break something. Charlotte’s veiled insults, Fred’s vanishing act—

“Char.” Mom again. “Do you and Al see much of each other at school?”

“Alex spends most of her time with the Bishops.”

“Oh, right! The twins.”

“Hettie Whitmore’s kids,” Deirdre whispered.

“Oh.” Mom nodded glumly, then sucked back some wine.

“Who’s Hettie Whosiewhatsit?”

Deirdre smiled at me. “The mother. Hettie Bishop. Whitmore was her maiden name. Your mom and I went to school with her.”

“She died, when? Ten, twelve years ago?”

I looked at the mush on my plate, picturing two lonely babes. I felt sad, then mad, remembering I’d been stood up. “Bathroom,” I said, getting up. Time to check my phone. “Be back.”

I darted up the steps to my room, bolting for my cell. One missed call. From Fred. I dialed back.

“Hey!”

“You’re alive.”

“Alex, I’m so sorry. I just got your message—”

“What happened to you?” I was panting from the run upstairs. “I waited till four.”

“Adina got sick. She threw up last block and begged me to take her home.”

“Oh,” I said, relaxing slightly. A sick twin. “Is she okay?”

“Apparently. She’s downstairs making gingersnaps.”

Or not.
“So . . . So why not call?”

“I did. I texted. Or, I had Adina text you from her phone on the drive. My cell died.”

“I didn’t get any text.”

“I saw her send it.”

“I didn’t get any text,” I repeated. I flashed back to Adina’s pissy, pale face in the hallway at school. She hadn’t looked sick to me. “She puked, huh?”

“Yeah.” He paused. “I’m really sorry, Katonah. Seriously. I feel like an asshole.”

“No, don’t. It’s okay,” I said. I was relieved. I’d been screwed over, clearly, but not by Fred. “I have to go. The Kincaids are here.”

“Who?”

“Charlotte Kincaid. And her mom.” I sighed. “Charlotte’s mom and my mom . . .”

“Right.” He was silent for a bit. I pictured him with the phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, assembling a cigarette: a dusting of tobacco, one tight roll, a lick.

19.

Late afternoon. Dark already. Sitting on a towel in Grams’s
garage going through boxes of crap from Dad’s house: old photos and books. Random kitchen equipment (a bread maker, a Cuisinart, a set of Cutco knives). Plastic containers stuffed with summer clothes, baby clothes, Mom’s cream lace wedding dress. And found, in the back corner, between Mom’s car and my bike, a box labeled alex, filled with diaries, yearbooks, letters from Evie. Folded notes written on loose-leaf. Who’d packed this up? Me? Mom? I picked a letter out and read the first few lines.

Hi. Can I copy off your worksheet? Can we bake something later on? A pie? A cake? A block of brie? Can we swim? Too cold or no? What’s Shapiro wearing? An ascot? What the fuck’s an ascot anyway? I crack myself up.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” I’d called. I couldn’t help myself. My heart was heavy with weepy nostalgia. “What’re we doing?” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, come down. Eves, please?”

“Now?” she asked.

“No, I don’t know. Next weekend, maybe?”

“I mean . . .”

“Eves, I’m in Grams’s garage. I found all these letters.”

“What letters?”

“In a Ziploc. Stuff from, like, Western and Eagle Hill.” Junior high. Grade school.

“Well, what do they say?”

“I don’t know, just—come down. We can look together.”

She paused.

“You don’t want to?”

“No, I do.”

“You’re sure?”

She took a quick breath. “I mean, I want to. I just—”

“What?”

“If I come, we’re gonna fight.”

“We won’t.”

“We might.”

“No, we’ll swear on it. Now, okay? No fighting.”

“Promise?”

Easy. “Yes.” Our troubles, done.

“Okay.” Her voice was high now.

“Come Friday?”

“All right.”

“Bring clothes for two nights.”

“You’re sure?”

“Mm. It’ll be great. We’ll do something fun.”

“Meadow Marsh has fun?”

“Oh, barrels full,” I joked. “They sell it by the crate on exit ramps off Ninety-Five.”

20.

Ten a.m., Sunday.

Hovering in front of the fridge, shoveling yogurt into my mouth while searching the veg bin for something more—black banana? I grabbed it, then bumped the fridge shut with my hip.

Ding-dong,
the bell
. Seriously? Who was here? Mom was upstairs, asleep still. I slid across the floor in socks and tugged the door open. “Adina.”

“Hi,” she chirped. She was wearing a yellow peacoat, red lipstick, and had her hair pinned back in a wave. “Can I come in?” She rubbed her mittens together. “So cold!”

“I’m not dressed.” I tried to block her view inside by spreading my arms wide.

“What’re you doing?”

I dropped my hands, embarrassed. “Nothing. Come in,” I said, stepping aside.

She pushed past me, stopping a few feet short of the plush plaid sofa. “Sweet.”

I cringed. “It’s my Grams’s. Most of our stuff is still back in Katonah.”

“Huh.” She undid the top two buttons on her coat and took a seat.

“You want anything? Water?”
Why was she here?

“Nope.” She smiled. Sparkled. “I heard you never got my text.”

“Oh.”

“I got sick off a bad ham sandwich.”

“Fred said.”

“He told you about the sandwich?”

“Not the sandwich, no.”

“Well I got sick right after I saw you.”

“Mmhmm.”

“You don’t believe me?”

Well, Adina, you don’t look like you eat sandwiches.
“Sure.”

She brightened. “Great. Get dressed. We’ll go out.”

I wasn’t going anywhere. I had my whole day planned. Black banana,
Odyssey
essay, shitty Showtime movie marathon, ice cream dinner. “Where to?”

“Goodwill,
hello
. Clothes, remember?”

“Oh.” I ran a hand over my holey sweats. In a minute I’d run upstairs and slip on my holey jeans.

“What? Why are you just standing there? Get ready,” she
snapped. “If you’re quick I’ll buy you a coffee and croissant on the way.”

“Is that padded?”

“Where?”

“The shoulders, come’ere.” Adina curled her finger forward. “Yup,” she said, jabbing around my collarbone. “Take it off.” She spun around, pulling the dressing room curtain aside and going in search of something new. We’d been doing this for more than an hour. Dresses, blouses, corduroy pants. I peeled off the violet polyester. I had nothing else to change into.