The Year of the Gadfly (15 page)

“I have an appointment in town,” she said. “But here's my number.” She fished in her bag, pulled out a pen and scrap of paper, and wrote her number on the back. “Call me this weekend. Now that I'm making the big bucks, I can buy you a PBR or something . . .” She seemed to lose her train of thought, and I realized that she was just as nervous at seeing me as I was at seeing her. She was just better at hiding her emotions.

“We'll talk,” I said.

“Yes,” she agreed, and her lips curled upward in an uncertain smile. Then she turned and walked out ahead of me, her long hair sighing against her back.

For the rest of the day, Hazel elbowed every other thought from my head. I imagined her tutoring students, her freckled fingers correcting some poor kid's bungling of Vergil. I pondered whether I could get her hired as a part-time Academic League consultant. It was a wonder Pasternak wasn't already outsourcing for extracurriculars and hiring tutors to telecommute from Mumbai.

I began to fantasize about what our partnership might be like. I imagined that we'd create mnemonic devices to help the kids remember the ancient Roman rulers and have a running bet over how long it would take somebody to say cunnilingus instead of Caligula. I saw us knocking over a shelf of Bunsen burners while making out in the school's lab closet and cracking each other up with bad science jokes about our explosive sexual activities. But these were juvenile fantasies. Part of me wished I were sixteen again, but an alternate version of my teenage self: silly and intoxicated instead of overly intellectual and conversationally inept. I tried to conjure up a modern-day fantasy involving Hazel and myself, but I couldn't. I didn't know her anymore.

Hazel and Justin and I had attended Mariana from kindergarten on, and though she was a year above Justin and me, we ended up in the same science clubs and computer electives. As kids we romped for hours in the woods behind our homes, enacting elaborate fantasy worlds, building makeshift weapons, battling imaginary Orcs. Hazel was never the damsel in distress; she was the leader of our small warrior band. She issued orders and we obeyed. She even named us. Justin was the cowardly lion, a moniker he didn't mind, because, as he once told me, “That's the kind of thing you expect from an older sister.” I was much less reconciled to my nickname—Mr. Tumnus, a reference to my small stature and pointy ears.

When you're young, you don't realize there's a direct relationship between your perceived invincibility and your vulnerability. I may not have had Masters of the Universe biceps, but I had a masterful mind and so, I assumed, I had the emotional armor to match. I didn't know that with a single glance a girl could melt the strongest metal. I certainly did not believe Hazel was capable of such a thing. We were buddies, pals. Allies.

Then one night when I was fourteen, my view of Hazel underwent a dramatic reconstruction. A few headgear-encaged geeks from the science club were sleeping over at our house, watching
Mystery Science Theater
in the basement. Just before this, a science experiment in our kitchen had devolved into a massive shaving cream fight, and my mother had sent us one by one to the upstairs shower. At some point I realized I'd had too much soda and skipped on up to the second-floor bathroom. I must have been in a real hurry, because it didn't even occur to me to knock.

Hazel was standing in the shower steam, not two feet from me, her wet hair dripping onto the bathmat, her breasts level with my face. To my fourteen-year-old eyes, her large pink areolas were like ice cream cones licked flat. She was only fifteen, but she seemed perfectly matured to me. I was struck dumb by the brown, tan, and chestnut spots that speckled her torso, stomach, and breasts. The tops of her feet were freckled as well as her toes. The freckles seemed to be moving, audibly crackling, and suddenly my eyes were drawn to the coarse conflagration between Hazel's legs. The freckles were like sparks shot from that fire.

Hazel's nipples hardened as the cold air rushed in from the hallway, but she neither screamed nor covered herself. In fact, she looked me over like I was the naked one, her eyes zeroing in on my crotch. I wanted to run, but I could only stand there, cupping myself, listening to her hearty peals of laughter.

After this, she acted like nothing had happened. Her laughter hadn't been cruel, I realized years later, but joyous, as though to suggest that my embarrassment was foolish, unnecessary.
After all,
she seemed to say with that killer curl of her lip,
what man (or boy) can look at me and not feel aroused?
It would be another two years before I learned that there was one boy unsusceptible to her charms, and that, sadly for Hazel, he was the only boy who mattered.

Still, from that moment forward, I was obsessed. By high school, we spent all our time together, meeting regularly for the Academic League. Our proximity tormented me, but I kept my frustration bottled up. I did not want to turn out like Justin, decomposing into a lovesick pile of compost. So I turned the Hazel switch to Off and engaged the security lock. I should have known that some doors don't stay shut, no matter how much cement and steel you put over them.

LILY'S FAVORITE DAY
of the week was Sunday, because this meant brunch with her grandmother. The tradition was sacrosanct. Amelia Morgan cooked a large, unhealthy meal, standing over skillets of greasy eggs and bacon in her silk charmeuse blouse and pearls. After everyone had stuffed themselves full, they lounged around the polished dining room table.

“So how are things at school, honey?” Amelia said on this particular morning.

“The guidance counselor asked to see Lily last week,” Elliott said, surfacing from his
Times.
“The teachers believe she has confidence issues.”

Maureen shook her head as she turned the page of her
Berkshire Interiors
magazine. “Amelia, we've told Lily again and again that she's no different from anyone else.”

“You're the one who won't let me drive, Mom! Who won't—”

In tandem, Maureen and Elliott put down their reading material.

“That is in the best interest of your health,” her mother snapped.

“Which we've discussed ad nauseam,” her father muttered.

“Lily, what did you tell the guidance counselor?” Amelia asked gently.

“I said as long as nobody had put an Albinos Only sign over the water fountains, I'd consider myself equal.”

“That was an inappropriate thing to say!” Her father shook his head but couldn't contain an amused smile.

“The guidance counselor told me not to joke about the ‘trials of other minority groups.'”

“My goodness.” Amelia licked her lips and her lipstick glistened. “Before long, the school will be calling you Melanin Challenged.”

Her grandmother was right. And yet despite Mariana's attention toward political correctness, Elliott had grown quite upset the year Mrs. Kaplan sent him a letter asking him to add a menorah to the Christmas display or remove the tree. “What's next,” he'd said, “a Buddhist shrine and some Wiccan doodad?”

Lily had always known the few Jewish families at Mariana to be different. As children, the Kaplan twins were the ones eating chalky Oreo-cookie knockoffs at lunch and refusing ham-and-cheese sandwiches on playdates. Of course, now that she was older, she understood the real implications of being Jewish at Mariana. Neither the Kaplans' parents (both scientists) nor Hazel Greenburg's mother (an artist) belonged to the local country club. Neither Mrs. Kaplan nor Mrs. Greenburg attended the exercise group or book club that Lily's mother organized. When Mrs. Kaplan did make an appearance at a school event, Lily saw how coldly deferential the other mothers were toward her. She could tell the exact moment when they noticed Mrs. Kaplan's ring finger, bedecked by a slim gold band and a noticeable lack of Mariana housewife bling. Over and over, she saw their eyes lift ever so slightly, their distaste mingled with pity.

“Lily's doing just fine,” Elliott told his mother and his wife. “And Lily, two years from now you'll be off to a terrific college in a city where you won't need a car.”

Lily's mother nodded her approval. “Lily, you know we'll drive you anywhere you want to go.”

 

After breakfast, Lily and her grandmother went for a walk. Amelia walked a mile every day regardless of the weather. The afternoon was frigid, but Lily would happily submit to extreme levels of discomfort for one-on-one time with Amelia. So grandmother and granddaughter bundled up in thick shearling coats and set off. There was no one else outside, and the world was gelid. Even the chimney smoke seemed frozen in place above the rooftops.

They walked for a while without speaking. Then Amelia said, “You've been sighing every thirty seconds since we left the house.”

Lily kicked a pebble on the ground.

“So come on, honey. Spill.”

Lily shrugged. “It's complicated.” And it was. Her project in the art studio was progressing. Since she first started observing Veronica Mercy and the others, she'd filled half a sketchbook with notes. The pages resembled detailed mathematical proofs. If Lily could only crack the code, she'd figure out the girls' secret. And she was getting close. Veronica was paying more attention to her these days, drifting over frequently to examine the truly ugly ducklings in her painting, or comment on her skin and eyes.

On the other hand, the Justin situation had declined. Her non-answer policy had only encouraged him. He watched her unabashedly, his pale blue eyes shining with an intolerable mixture of anxiety and elation.

Amelia raised her head to the frosted sky and examined the quiet street as though seeing it for the first time. “I'm seventy-three, kiddo. I've been around more blocks than you can imagine, and most of them weren't half as attractive as this one.”

Lily wished there were no Justin in the world. “Well, there's this b—”

“A boy!” Amelia clasped her mittened hands together, delighted.

Lily pursed her lips against the cold and shook her head.

“It's one of
those
situations . . . Lily, if he can't see you for who you are, he's not worth it.”

Amelia's eyes were bright with cold, but stern. As elegant as her grandmother was, Lily knew her philosophy was encapsulated in the simple belief,
Don't take shit from anyone.

“It's not like that,” she said, and began to explain about Justin, about his longtime crush, about how he'd slammed his foot into the gym wall after losing the last Academic League tournament and fractured his foot.

“Well, is this Justin unattractive?”

“No.”

“Does he treat you poorly?”

“He treats me too well. He's always giving me things and offering to help me with my homework. Once when I tried to thank him, he shook his head and thanked
me.
Like I'd done him this big favor. He's so awkward.” They walked in silence for a moment; then Lily said, “I just want a normal boyfriend.”

“What's your young man interested in?”

Lily remembered the dragonfly. “I think he collects bugs. And he reads everything.”

“An intellectual.”

“A loser.” And then she thought, but didn't say,
Like me.

Amelia frowned.

“His brother was responsible for the locker vandalism, Grandma.”

“Your father said the vandals weren't caught.”

“I know, but—”

“How would you feel if people judged you because of things your father did?”

“Oh, they do, Grandma. You have no idea.”

“Then you don't need much convincing. This young man sounds like a good person. A genuine person. And popular boys are vain.”

“Not all of them.”

“Okay, for argument's sake then, let's assume the popular crowd isn't any more superficial than the unpopular crowd.”

“Okay. That seems fair.” Lily stopped and looked up at Amelia's house. They'd already made it four times around the block, but neither of them wanted to finish the conversation in front of Lily's parents.

Amelia looked squarely into Lily's eyes and smiled. “Well, given that assumption, everybody is exactly who they are.”

“Real deep, Grandma.”

“It's actually quite simple. You meet somebody, you get to know them, and you judge them based on your own standards. Your opinion of this boy may turn out to be completely valid. But as of yet, you don't have enough evidence.”

“He broke his own foot, Grandma!”

“Lillian, you don't really
know
him. You haven't had a single substantive conversation with him. And I know high school runs by different rules than the rest of the country—I was once your age, I get it. But honey, out in the real world, your attitude makes you a snob.”

Lily's face burned. As usual, Amelia was right.

“You know why the world is filled with war and misery? It's because people let their emotions lead them this way and that when they should be using their minds. Like I said, your suitor may be totally wrong for you, but you'll never know if—”

“If I don't try him on? He's not a sweater!”

“Point taken. But you're acting as though you must make a definitive decision about this boy and stick to that decision for eternity. One date, Lillian, isn't the be all and end all.”

 

That evening, Lily sat on her bed, staring at the phone. She picked it up and put it down half a dozen times. When she was talking to her grandmother, life seemed straightforward, like a well-organized closet. Rationality, she thought. Common sense. If only these things defined the parameters of her life.

Lily looked around the bedroom that her mother had furnished for her: at the curtains and the carpet she did not choose, at the bedspread that had appeared one day, many years ago, as though randomly deposited from the sky. She hated this room, yet she'd never complained or tried to change it. The guidance counselor was right; she wasn't assertive. She did what was expected of her, and the expectation at Mariana was that you didn't date from the Trench. But that wasn't rational. And in all honesty, Justin wasn't bad-looking. Lily dialed his number. This wasn't the be all and end all, she thought to herself. But then why were her hands shaking?