Authors: S. Walden
“And garlic bread, Clara,” Beatrice whispered as they walked over to the stove. “I just think it’s divine.”
“It is pretty divine,” Clara said dropping a clump of noodles on her plate.
Clara’s birthday dinner was everything she could have hoped for. Ms. Debbie made the best homemade spaghetti sauce, but it really wasn’t about the food. She enjoyed the company and listened happily as Beatrice chattered on about her day at school and her plans for when she got married. Evan asked Clara what her plans were when she got married, and Clara flushed crimson. She couldn’t think of anything to say, so she took a bite out of her garlic bread instead.
She felt a tiny flutter in her heart as she watched Ms. Debbie place the blue, yellow, and pink twisty candles on her birthday cake after dinner. Seventeen of them, and Beatrice told her it was imperative she blow them all out at the same time if she wanted her wish to come true.
“And when did you learn the word ‘imperative’?” Clara asked.
“Oh Clara,” Beatrice replied, dismissing her with a small wave of her hand. “I’ve known that old word for ages.”
Clara laughed at Beatrice and then laughed while Beatrice, Evan, and Ms. Debbie sang “Happy Birthday” to her. No one started or ended on the same note, and Clara was unsure if Evan even knew the tune.
“Make a wish, Clara,” Beatrice said.
Clara did then blew out the candles with one breath.
Beatrice wanted to give her present first. She pushed it onto Clara’s lap as they sat around the living room after eating cake.
“I went with Ms. Debbie to the mall, Clara!” she squealed. “When you were at work one day. Do you like it Clara? Do you?”
Clara held up a pale pink long-sleeved T-shirt speckled with faint flowers. The flowers sparkled ever so slightly, almost iridescent.
“I wanted to get you something you could wear in the winter,” Beatrice said. “Do you like it?”
“I love it, Bea,” Clara said placing the shirt back in the box. “It’s so pretty.”
Beatrice squealed and clapped her hands. “It’s not over, though,” she said, and shoved a small box into Clara’s hand.
“That one’s from me,” Ms. Debbie said.
Clara hesitated before opening the box. It looked like a jewelry box, and she couldn’t imagine what Ms. Debbie would have picked out for her.
“Go on, Clara!” Beatrice said impatiently.
Clara unwrapped the box and opened the top. She gasped when she saw them: two small silver earrings in the shape of knots. She had wanted them for ages but could never afford them. She picked them up, looking at the earrings and then at Ms. Debbie. How could Ms. Debbie afford them?
“Those are sterling silver, miss, so I expect you to take very good care of them,” Ms. Debbie said. Her words came out as a gentle admonishment and Clara grinned.
“Ms. Debbie,” Clara said. “Thank you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Ms. Debbie said waving her hand carelessly, but she was clearly pleased with Clara’s reaction and pleased with herself for taking Beatrice’s advice in choosing those earrings.
Evan saved his present for last. He hoped she would like it. He couldn’t imagine she wouldn’t, but he was unsure about the note he wrote her to go along with it. He deliberated over the words for days. He thought he was pretty good with words, not in a poetic way, but in a conversational way. And so he wrote and rewrote, striking sentences he thought were sappy. He started with a long letter and whittled it down to three lines.
Yes, three lines are much better
, he thought. Much more
him
. He watched as she unwrapped the small package, her face flushed and shining from all of the attention heaped upon her throughout the evening.
Clara sat motionless holding the book. It was small, a first edition she noted immediately. She could tell by the size of it, the smell of it, the worn edges and navy binding before she even flipped to the copyright page. The words were sprinkled across the cover in muted filigree:
The Wild Swans at Coole
and underneath,
W. B. Yeats
.
She opened the book and saw a small piece of paper folded once over within. She opened it and read the words to herself, not words of the poet but of the boy who wanted to make her birthday special:
Dear Clara,
I don’t think I could ever write you anything “as cold and passionate as the dawn,” but I got you a book filled with the poems of a man who can. And has.
Happy birthday.
Yours,
Evan
Clara stared at the note, unable to speak, unable to lift her eyes to his because she did not trust herself.
“I didn’t want to write in the book,” Evan said softly. “Even though Kathleen Clearwater already had. I didn’t know if my words would diminish its value.”
“Never.” Clara looked at him then.
“Clara, what does the note say?” Beatrice asked.
“It’s private,” Clara said never taking her eyes off of Evan’s face.
“Oh,” Beatrice said disappointed. The word “private” made her ache to get her little fingers on the letter. “May I see the book, Clara?”
“No Beatrice,” Clara said gently. “Not yet,” and she watched Evan smile at her, her heart full and overflowing, her hands cradling the sacred text.
“Will you read a poem to us, Clara?” Evan asked.
“Oh, please do, Clara!” Beatrice said. “Poetry is soooo romantic!”
Ms. Debbie chuckled and took a sip of her tea.
Clara opened the book and read the first poem, the book’s title. When she finished, she heard Ms. Debbie’s voice from far away.
“My favorite,” Ms. Debbie said quietly. Clara had no idea.
They sat around Ms. Debbie’s living room well into the night, laughing and talking and telling jokes. At no time during those precious hours did Clara think anything other than her life was perfect. Simply perfect.
“Clara, I’m tired of sandwiches,” Beatrice complained. She looked down at her plate and scowled.
“Me too,” Clara answered. “We’re going to get the electricity back on soon. I promise.”
Beatrice sighed deeply and took a bite of her sandwich. “And I hate bologna,” she muttered with her mouth full.
“Since when?” Clara asked. She took a bite of her own sandwich.
“Since always,” Beatrice said moodily. She slapped her sandwich on the plate.
“You’ve always liked bologna, Bea,” Clara responded. “Why do you hate it now? What’s going on?”
Beatrice looked at her sister and shrugged.
“Bea?” Clara pressed.
“Because Maggie said it’s poor people food!” Beatrice blurted then promptly closed her mouth.
Clara didn’t respond at first. She let her sister go through all of the emotions one feels when she’s been attacked for something she cannot change, something out of her control. But Clara could change it. And she thought she found her solution. It was dirty and wrong and would send her straight to hell, but it was a solution.
“I mentioned bologna sandwiches and Maggie screwed up her face and said it was poor people food,” Beatrice clarified.
“I see,” Clara said finally.
“It’s not your fault that we have to eat them,” Beatrice replied.
The sisters sat quietly staring at their plates. Neither took another bite. Clara considered the sum in her bank account. She really couldn’t afford to withdraw anything. But then she looked at Beatrice, elbows propped on the table and her hollow face cradled in tiny hands. Her arms were too skinny, Clara thought alarmingly. She looked defeated, and suddenly Clara grew spontaneous.
“Let’s go,” she ordered. She sprang from the table and grabbed her purse. She checked her wallet to be sure she had her ATM card.
“Where are we going?” Beatrice asked.
“Out to dinner,” Clara said. She stood at the front door with car keys in hand. “Are you coming?”
Beatrice’s face lit up. “Yes!” she squealed and shoved past her sister through the front door. Clara smiled. She hadn’t smiled since her birthday a few days ago. It felt good to smile, knowing she was making her sister very happy and not caring about the cost.
She followed Beatrice to the car.
“Take your time, Bea,” Clara warned. “Or you’ll make yourself sick.”
“Can I get more fries?” Beatrice asked between bites.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Clara said. “And you have plenty of fries there. Eat those first and then see how you feel.”
They were sitting at a local neighborhood burger joint, their table overflowing with more food than they’d seen all week. For the first time in ages, Clara did not look at the prices of any of the food items when she ordered. She knew she had the cash to pay. The bills were balled in her fist. She didn’t even feel irresponsible about it. She wanted to tell the electric and gas companies to go fuck themselves as she ordered burgers and two fries, milkshakes and large sodas, even brownies for dessert.
“Can I get ice cream?” Beatrice asked after taking a large swallow of her strawberry milkshake.
Clara laughed. “You’ve got a milkshake, Bea!”
Beatrice looked at her confused. “It’s not ice cream.”
Clara smiled and took another bite of her burger. She was vaguely aware of the group of girls who walked in. She could hear them talking—that loud obnoxious talk that wants to be heard—and tried to ignore them. But then she glimpsed one of the girls, and her chest tightened with a mild panic.
“How much more do you think you can handle?” Clara asked her sister lightly. She wanted to leave but didn’t want Beatrice to think anything was wrong.
“Lots more, Clara,” Beatrice said. “Please let’s not leave yet.”
Clara nodded and glanced at the group of girls. They had seen her and were whispering to one another.
“Well, what about if we just take all of this stuff with us?” Clara suggested.
“I don’t want to go home,” Beatrice whined. “It’s too cold.”
“But we can put on a fire. That would be fun, don’t you think? Like camping,” Clara offered, fighting the building panic.
“No,” Beatrice argued. “I want to stay here.”
“Bea,” Clara begged then went mute.
“Are you dating Evan?” the girl asked, standing with her hands on her hips.
Clara looked up at her. She recognized the girl from P.E. Her name was Rebecca, and Clara thought it was too sweet a name to be given to this girl.
“Well?” Rebecca prodded.
“No,” Clara answered. She wasn’t sure but thought it was safer to say “no.”
“Then why is he talking to you at school and sitting with you in class?” Rebecca asked. “Why does he hold your hand?” She made it sound like Evan held her hand on a regular basis. The truth was that he only did it once.
“It’s really none of your business,” Clara replied. Her cheeks turned bright red.
Rebecca’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay, it’s so my business because do you see that girl over there?”
She moved aside and pointed to a girl with long jet black hair who was flanked by two other girls. It was Amy, and she looked like a china doll—an angry china doll. She glared at Clara.
“Yes,” Clara said.
“Well, she’s my best friend. And she dated Evan last year. And she’s, like, totally trying to get him back. And you’re in the way,” Rebecca said. She leaned on the table and shoved her face in Clara’s. “So get out of the fucking way.”
Beatrice jumped up from the table. “Don’t talk to my sister like that!” she screamed.
“Pipe down, you little brat,” Rebecca replied. “I mean, honestly Clara. Look at you. Do you think Evan actually likes you? He’s probably just playing around with you. I wouldn’t be surprised if a huge, embarrassing prank was coming your way. I’m just trying to help you out.”
“If he’s so mean, then why does your friend want him back?” Clara asked boldly.
“Well look how fucking smart you are,” Rebecca said. She paused, then smirked. “Amy likes the bad boys.”
“Sounds like low self-esteem to me,” Clara shot back, instantly regretting her words.
Rebecca narrowed her eyes. “Look bitch, you better step aside,” she spat. “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, talking to a guy who wouldn’t date you in a million years. It won’t change a thing. You’re still poor. You got that? Poor. White. Trash.” She said it softly, enunciating each word with sharp disgust—three perfect tacks that slid out of her mouth and punctured Clara’s heart.
Beatrice glanced at her sister and saw the brimming tears. Rebecca saw them, too, and curled her lips into an evil grin. And then she screamed as she felt the milkshake splash all over her shirt. Beatrice froze in disbelief at what she had just done. The empty cup was still clutched in her hand as someone walked towards them swiftly. It looked like the store manager.
“What is going on over here?” the manager asked angrily. He looked at Rebecca and then to Beatrice. The tell-tale cup dripped the same pink liquid that soaked Rebecca’s shirt.