The Symptoms of My Insanity (18 page)

“Hello? Why are you— Where were you at lunch? Remember the tickets? I was all by myself with no change and—”

“Okay, get ready, people!” Jenna turns and shouts out to everyone. “We’re going to start running act two in fifteen minutes!” Then she walks down the auditorium aisle, right past me.

“What is wrong with you?” I’m on her heels, following her out of the theater.

“Nothing’s wrong with me. I just don’t feel like talking to you right now.”

“You don’t feel like— Why?”

Jenna stops and turns, her clear blue eyes clouding.

“What?” I practically screech out. “What did I do?”

“What did you do? Like you don’t know what you did?”

“I don’t! If I knew what I did, I wouldn’t have to ask you.”

Jenna just shakes her head and walks right past me again. So I follow her around the corner and to the vending machine alcove. Finally she bursts out, “Why did you tell Nate that I wanted to date him? That I wanted to hang out with him? Why would you do that? Why would you say … that I—” She stops and swipes a finger against her now wet cheek. But more tears are falling fast, and soon she’s rapidly zipping her fingers against her cheeks, one side at a time, like windshield wipers. I feel like I should hand her a tissue or put my arms around her or something, but when I take a step closer, she turns her back to me.

“Jenna, I just thought … you liked him … and he liked you … so I think what I told him, or what I first told Blake was that maybe—”

“Yeah,” she says, spinning around, “
you
told
Blake
I wanted to
date
Nate, and he told Nate I wanted to date him, and Nate told
me all about it last night.
He’s just sitting there with Jacob while I’m trying to watch the stupid square dance, and he’s laughing at me like I’m some idiot, like I’m some sort of desperate, crushed-out— Why would I— You humiliated me!” She folds into herself like an accordion, heaving for breath between sobs.

“What’s so humiliating?”

“Why did you have to talk about me with them? Why would you do that?”

“I’m sorry, I just thought that you liked—”

“And Meredith? You’re like best friends with her again now? Do you two just sit around talking about me too?
Why did you tell her to call me last night? What did she tell you? Did she—”

“What? I don’t know why she called you. I—”

“She said you suggested it, that she wanted to … Did you talk to her about what I told you about my cousin, about Amy?”

“No. Wait, does she know? She hangs out at those parties too, so maybe she knows someone who—”

“You’re so clueless!” Jenna shouts, shaking her head. “How am I supposed to be best friends with someone who’s so completely clueless all of the time!” She pushes past me down the hall and through the swinging band room doors. I just stand there, frozen, watching the doors swing.

I’m not sure how long I stand there. A minute? Ten? Finally, I make my way down the hall and back to the theater, but I pass the auditorium and head to the studio instead. It’s hard to walk. I feel like my skeleton’s been shocked out of my body and then put back in all wrong. When I get to the studio, I can barely turn the knob on the door. It’s like I have feet for hands or something.

Eventually I manage to get inside and set up my supplies; not that it matters since I’m just sitting at my table now staring at a pile of finished sketches. Apparently I’m clueless. I guess Jenna did tell me she wanted to boycott dates for the dance, but I obviously wouldn’t have tried to set her up with Nate or push her to go out to the party with me if I believed her. If I knew her reasons. Yes, I was distracted and not exactly a great best friend when she told me about Amy.
Still, that doesn’t change the fact that she just told me yesterday about something that happened back in September about a cousin I’m not sure she’s ever mentioned before. Did she just expect me to figure it out all by myself, that I’d just be magically thinking,
You know what? I probably shouldn’t set Jenna up with Nate on the off chance that she hates boys now because her cousin Amy got dumped by a guy after having sex with him.

So no, Jenna. I’m not clueless. You’re just not keeping me … well-informed.

I shake away the image of Jenna crying and start to cut and assemble more photos with my mirror fragments when I hear my phone buzzing. I dig it out of my backpack, knocking Pam’s now rock-solid baby quiche onto the floor. It’s a text from Blake: Pik you up @ 11 tomor!

Okay, I know it’s really lame to get excited about a text message, especially one that completely butchers the English language, but so far this text is the only good thing that’s happened today. I stare at my phone, blurring out everything else. I even start to smile. But then I catch sight of the empty space on the pottery shelf where Ina’s sculpture used to live, and everything I’ve blurred out snaps back into focus. I flip my phone open again and reread Blake’s text, wishing there was a way I could just fast-forward to tomorrow, and erase all of my snapshots from today.

I’ve tried on six different but basically the same sweaters and it’s only ten a.m. I pull off sweater number seven and start rifling through my short-sleeved shirts instead. Because what if it’s hot in the museum? I don’t want to walk around releasing knit-induced body odor as I point out art to Blake, who will be here in—unghhh—less than an hour.

After battling myself to sleep last night, I missed my alarm this morning and woke up to Leroy using my body as his own personal kitty bed. My stomach’s been flipping all morning, but in this good way, like telling me that today is going to be one of those great days; maybe the kind where you end up officially having a date to a dance.

I find a short-sleeved shirt that’s not totally wrinkled and throw it on. Then I hear music coming from Mom’s room down the hall. Is that …
West Side Story
? It’s confirmed as I round the corner to see Natalie Wood dance across Mom’s mini TV, wearing silly hats and singing about feeling pretty. From the bathroom I hear Mom singing along in her own unique key.

… and I pityyyy any girl who isn’t mee toooday.
La la la la la la la la la.

Mom jumps, turning around quick when she catches me laughing at her in the mirror. “Hey sweetie, good morning. AMC is having a movie musical marathon today.
Tommy
was on earlier.”

“Good, Mom.” I smile.

“
… see that pretty girl in the mirror there
—” She sings out again, gesturing to me with a hand full of lotion. Then she circles the tips of her fingers to her cheeks. She has three different kinds of moisturizers: one for sun damage and revitalizing, one for anti-aging and firming, and one moisturizer for … providing moisture, I guess.

Mom fans her face with her hands to dry off her newly applied layer while dancing and now singing backup.

“…
who? who? who? who? meeee! such a pretty meee.
” She sashays her hand across her body, accidentally painting her tunic with tinted moisturizer. “Shoot, shoot, shoot!” She sighs, looking down at the mess and then shakes her head and grins at me because I’m laughing at her. I follow her out of the bathroom and lean against the bedpost as she grabs another flowing blouse from her dresser. “You excited for today? Should be fun,” she says, quickly taking off her tunic and grabbing the replacement.

“Yeah, I think so.” Then I stifle a gasp. I struggle to keep my face still through a brief but disturbing glimpse.

Mom’s saying something about the most direct route to Detroit, and the freeway versus Orchard Lake Road. I nod,
still seeing her empty bra, her curved, rising ribs, and the bumpy outline of her spine when she bent down to get her blouse.

“Mom,” I start, but then don’t know quite how to say it.

“What, sweetie?” she asks, leaning closer to her reflection, securing her earrings in place.

“You look so thin. You’ve … lost weight, huh?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really … Do I look it?”

“Yeah, you look … Mom, you look
really
thin.”

“Oh stop, Izzy.” She gives me a quick closed-mouth smile as she shakes her head and walks to the closet. She returns slipping on a pair of high heels.

“I know you’re not eating as much and …” I stop. The confession that I’ve read her web post weighs down my tongue.

“No, I know. It’s this sinus infection—drainage, I think … going to my stomach, nauseating me. But just to be safe I’ve made an appointment with Dr. Madson, so—”

“Oh, really?” I swallow my confession down. “You have a new appointment with Dr. Madson. Why?” I’m trying to sound casual, as if I don’t already know the secrets of LindaSky46.

“He just wants to do some testing, routine stuff, just a checkup. And you know I’ve been feeling a little under the weather, with this cold, and I’ve been … just … having some trouble with nausea so— Oh is that him?” She rushes over to the window that overlooks our driveway, reacting to the sound of a car pulling up. “Nope, false alarm,” she
declares, now craning her neck around like it’s a submarine periscope to get a full view of the driveway.

I join her on Blake Watch at the window. Maybe me going to the DIA today and out to a party tonight isn’t such a great idea after all. How long has Mom had this appointment? You can’t just make a last-minute appointment with Dr. Madson. You have to schedule it pretty far in advance. And you don’t just go see him for checkups or colds either. I’m about to bring this up when Mom squeals, “He’s here! That’s him!” and we watch Blake pull into the driveway, his little sister, Jillian, in the passenger’s seat.

Mom swiftly turns around, giving me a rapid once-over.

“Where’s your cardigan? Are you bringing a cardigan? You need to wear a cardigan.” She’s inches away now, fussing with every single aspect of my appearance at once. It’s like she’s suddenly transformed into an aesthetic Swiss Army knife, with combs, and glosses, and sprays popping out of her body from all directions.

“I’m taking a cardigan with me, don’t worry,” I say, escaping from her beauty tentacles and heading down the stairs.

“No, no, put one on now. You can’t just walk around all day wearing a short-sleeved shirt,” she badgers, following me down the stairs. I grab my cardigan and my coat from the banister.

“And that shirt’s wrinkled. Did you pull it off your floor? It looks terrible. This is an event. You really have to be aware of how you present yourself, sweetie.”

“I’m aware,” I say under my breath as she once again tries
to control every detail of my life and body while refusing to tell me anything about her own.

“Well, you’re obviously not aware, Izzy. If you’re planning on going public with a—”

“Mom! I’m not going public. I’m just—” And then the doorbell rings, and I stop. Deep breath. I open the door, telling myself that this afternoon I will focus on Blake, who’s standing in front of me right now in, oh thank God, just a T-shirt and jeans. And he looks great.

•   •   •

I tried to win points with Jillian right away by letting her stay in the front seat, which I now wholeheartedly regret. I usually don’t mind riding in the back, except in this case, where one side is occupied with shopping bags, and the other side, where I’m sitting, is cramp-city, since Jillian’s levered her seat all the way back, like she’s in a lounge chair or something.

“So we can take Jilly around and check some stuff out, and then drop her off with my mom, and go see that performance art lady, and then, just like hang out? Sound like a plan?” Blake taps his fingers rapidly on the steering wheel while he waits his turn at the four-way stop at the end of my block. He seems even more jumpy now than he did the other night at my house. Maybe it’s because I’ll be meeting his mom.

“Yup, sounds great,” I say, and catch Jillian checking me out in her pulled-down visor mirror. She gives me a toothy
grin, and I see her teeth are stained red, probably from the cherry Tootsie Pop she was working on that she’s now rested in the cup holder between herself and her brother.

“You remember Izzy, Jills? From art camp?” Blake asks her.

“Nope,” she says.

Blake gives me a shrug.

“Well, it was a couple summers ago,” I say, shrugging back, “and I wasn’t her main counselor, so … So Jillian, you’re in second grade?” I ask.

“Third,” she corrects me, picking up the Tootsie Pop and putting it back in her mouth.

Don’t think about the germs, Izzy. Just smile and ask another question.

“And do you like making art?”

“Do you make sculptures?” Jillian asks me.

“Oh, um, sometimes. Mostly I draw and paint, though.”

“Are you in any museums?”

“Um, nope.”

“How much does your stuff cost?”

“Well … I haven’t ever sold anything yet.”

“You haven’t?”

“Izzy’s still in school, Jillian. Just like you,” Blake tells her. Jillian nods at her brother, contemplating the fact that we’re both still in school. Then she pulls the Tootsie Pop out of her mouth and some of her reddish-brown curls get stuck to the candy.
Oh, God.
She drops the hair-covered sucker back in the cup holder and addresses me again through her visor mirror.

“My friend Tiffany’s older sister, she lives in New York and her stuff is in places there.”

“Wow, that’s pretty cool,” I say, humoring her.

“My mom likes her stuff that she made, and Tiffany’s older sister, the stuff that she made, she sold, and she sold one painting in New York.”

“Wow, that’s really great,” I say, hoping I understood all that correctly.

“One painting buys a whole apartment, did you know that?” she asks me.

“Oh. Well … wow. So … how old is Tiffany’s sister?” I ask.

“She’s really old. Like eighteen.”

I nod, and see Blake laugh a little to himself.

“Hey Jillian,” Blake says to her, “Izzy can do drawings that look real, that look just like the real thing.”

“Like a photograph?”

“Yeah, just like a photograph, but she draws and paints them. Isn’t that super-cool?”