Two or Three Things I Forgot to Tell You (15 page)

Nadia had made the accompanying card herself. It was a sort of birthday-Valentine card—(Mr. Kessler had happened to mention in class that his birthday was this week, and it seemed to Nadia that he'd glanced in her direction, smiling)—in the shape of a heart, of red construction paper, with smaller hearts and flowers in silver felt-tip pen, and carefully printed words:

Mr. Kessler—

Happy Birthday!

Dani A.

In Mr. Kessler's science class, in conjunction with the phenomenon of variations and permutations, they'd recently discussed anagrams: Mr. Kessler had entertained the class by jotting onto the blackboard ingenious examples like “the eyes”—“they see”; “butterfly”—“flutter by”; “desperation”—“a rope ends it.” Nadia had doodled in her notebook NADIA DANI A.

But would Mr. Kessler see that “Dani A.” was an anagram? Would he understand that the name was a secret code—secret between him and Nadia—for
Nadia Stillinger
?

She thought so, yes! For surely Mr. Kessler thought of Nadia as much, or nearly as much, as Nadia thought of him.

She was sure that he would recognize the wriggly shapes and rainbow swirls in the little painting she was giving him—meant to remind him of the PowerPoint slides he'd shown last week in class—many-times-magnified photographs of microscopic creatures called protozoa.

Mr. Kessler was a teacher of science, but his classes were always so
visual
. Nadia felt sad, a stab of loss, that Tink had not seemed to have faith enough in the future, or in her life in the future, to have lived into her senior year at Quaker Heights—if she'd taken Earth and Our Environment with Adrian Kessler, maybe that would have made a difference.

Nadia had hesitated about signing the card. She'd wanted to sign
Love, Dani A.
, but her hand shook so, she could not write
Love
.

Nadia made her decision: She opened the right rear door of her teacher's vehicle and quickly set the glittery faux
-
gold bag inside, on the backseat.

Then she turned blindly away.

Then she was running through a scrim of slow-falling snow. She was too anxious and too excited to return to the school building to call her father's housekeeper—the last thing she wanted was to encounter another friend, or one of her teachers. It seemed that every time they turned around, the girls of Tink, Inc. ran into Mrs. Jameson, who all but clutched at their arms, regarding them with searching, “sympathetic” eyes—
If ever you want to speak with me, in private, about your friend—about how you are dealing with the memory of—your friend . . . Please know that I am available at virtually any time.

Nadia had had several conferences with Mrs. Jameson. She knew that others had, too.

Yet it never seemed to be enough.

The fear was, another girl would harm herself in the wake of Tink Traumer, who'd been such a charismatic and enigmatic personality.

As Tink would have observed,
Imagine the ugly publicity for QHD if there's a Tink copycat!

Nadia made another decision: to walk home.

It was rare for QHD students to walk home, for part of the walk was along a busy state highway.

Mostly, QHD students were picked up by their parents, or by friends' parents. There were school buses, but it wasn't cool to ride them.

Coolest of all was to have a boyfriend like Alex Wren, who could drive you. Or maybe coolest of all was to have your own car and drive yourself.

It was about a mile and a half to the Stillinger house on Wheatsheaf Lane, in a residential neighborhood called High Brook Farms.

She had a fear of being shouted at, if she walked along the road. Colin Brunner and his crude friends.
Nad-ja! Naaad-ja! How's about a ride . . .

That terrible, ugly word they'd posted:
S**t
.

S**t, like d***h. You did not want to acknowledge such words if you could avoid them.

And Mr. Kessler might be driving on Post Road also, and see his student trudging along the side of the road in swirling snowflakes. . . .

If Mr. Kessler pulled the green Subaru over to the side of the road, to invite Nadia to climb inside . . .

Nadia swallowed hard. She was having trouble believing that she'd actually left the gift for Mr. Kessler in the back of his car.

It was a very special gift, in fact. Probably expensive.

He would know what it meant. He would know how Nadia Stillinger loved him.

And how clear her life, now. It had never been Colin Brunner she'd “loved”—all that had been a mistake. All along, it had been Adrian Kessler whom she loved, and would die for.

Oh God. Now—he will know.

Now, no turning back.

3.

THE GATHERING STORM

Nadia walked quickly. Soon she was out of breath.

Unlike the other girls of Tink, Inc., Nadia wasn't an athlete. She wasn't very
physical
, if she could avoid it.

Something was going to happen, she thought—she
knew
—like a gathering storm you could see in the sky above the Atlantic Ocean, off Nantucket Island: massive, bruise-colored clouds threaded with rays of red sunshine like veins of blood.

Beautiful! But scary, too.

Most of August they spent in the beautiful old dark-shingled house overlooking the ocean, on Nantucket. This was Nadia's mother's house, or had been. Nadia felt
so bad
—she could not truly remember her mother in the house. She'd been too young for true memories, and even photographs of her mother were scarce—Nadia's father had hidden them all away, maybe.

Or worse.

So—what was happening was like a gathering storm. Though you could see it in the sky, you
could not prevent it
.

But you could run from it! You could run for shelter.

“Tink, I wish you were here. I need your advice.”

Nadia told herself Mr. Kessler would understand. Tink was gone, but Mr. Kessler was here and he would provide
shelter
.

In his office, Adrian Kessler had told Nadia certain things. He had shared with Nadia Stillinger certain things. He had not told anyone else—any other of his students, Nadia was sure.

He'd touched her wrist, lightly. The skin still tingled!

Through Nadia's body—the tips of her breasts, between her legs where she was uncomfortable sometimes, and could find no comfortable way of sitting; in the region of her heart, which was so suffused with sadness, sometimes—but more often with warmth, hope,
excitement
.

He had touched her all these places.

Not
literally
—but emotionally.

Of course, Nadia had told Mr. Kessler—things. She'd shared with him certain facts about her life that none of her friends knew, and even Tink had not known.

Knowing that Mr. Kessler would
understand
.

Nadia, of course—you must have guessed—I love you.

But I will have to wait for you to grow up.

You're just a girl—sixteen—but in another four years, you will be twenty. And I will be . . .

Nadia had discovered that Mr. Kessler was twenty-seven just this week. And so in four years, he would be just thirty-one.

This was—
old
. But not
really old
, of course.

If he waited for her. If he promised.

Nadia's father was fifty-one. Now, that was
old!

Nadia's father's new wife, Amelie, was twenty-nine. Nadia's aunt Harriet, who was her father's older sister, teased Mr. Stillinger when the new young wife was out of the room—
Is there some equation between you getting older and them getting younger? Where will it end?—
but Mr. Stillinger hadn't seen any joke in this.

Nor did Nadia, overhearing, think it was the least bit funny.

The night before, Nadia had exhausted herself trying to figure out how to give the gift to Mr. Kessler. Lying awake in her bed, squirmy and itchy and feeling a sensation like red ants crawling over her body—her
flabby waist and hips
she hated—and between her legs, the scratchy hairs she hated—thinking of how Amelie saw an
aesthetician
who did
Persian waxing
, a cosmetic procedure Nadia didn't altogether understand, but knew that it was de rigueur if you wanted to wear a very minimal bikini.

When Nadia first heard about this, she'd texted her friend Chloe Zimmer:
A.S. IS SO GROSS DON'T EVEN ASK
.

Between Nadia and Chloe text messages flew back and forth about their S-Ms—(private code for
stepmother
)—since each of the girls had a stepmother.

Though Chloe, at least, didn't have to live with
hers
. Just had to see
the b***h
—(Chloe's abbreviation, funnily expressed as a sort of sneeze)—every third weekend when she went to stay with her father and his “new family” in Westchester County, New York; for Chloe's parents had
joint custody
of her, which made Chloe feel like a dog shuttled back and forth between households.

“What about your mother, Nadia?” Chloe had asked; and Nadia had said with a bright little smile that she hadn't exactly lived with her mother—or even seen much of her mother—since she'd been five years old.

Chloe seemed embarrassed for having asked the question.

“Wow! That must be hard.”

Nadia shrugged, saying, “I guess it was. When I was little.”

Nadia had a secret about her mother she didn't intend ever to reveal, not even to Chloe. Nor had she told Tink.

Nadia had learned from a previous school in Connecticut, where she'd believed she had good friends, that you must never tell anything really crucial about yourself, not even to a close friend.

Nor did friends appreciate
whiners
. Nadia Stillinger was not ever a
whiner
!

And Tink herself had said,
Some secrets are toxic. Not to be shared.

Nadia worried, possibly she'd already told Chloe too much. And Hannah, and Martine—texting them about Mr. Kessler. Mostly Nadia's text messages were playful and joking about “Mr. K.,” but once she'd texted them about the “special looks” that her science teacher gave her over the heads of other students; and the “special help” he'd given her with her lab notebook, so she'd managed to get an A-minus.

Nadia hadn't (yet) told them about the intense conversation in Mr. Kessler's office. How Mr. Kessler had looked at her with such sympathy, and how he'd touched her wrist.

Lightly reproving, he'd said,
You're a very intelligent girl, Nadia. You must have faith in yourself.

Nor had she told them how she felt about Mr. Kessler—
Love him so. Love him more than anyone in the world. I would die for him. I am serious!

If Mr. Kessler had a diseased kidney, for instance, Nadia would
donate a kidney
to him—anonymously.

Or,
Dani A.
would be the donor.

But she hadn't told Chloe. She would not tell anyone.

Just Adrian Kessler—when he called her, after opening the present; when he realized that
Dani A.
was
Nadia Stillinger
.

If only she hadn't made that terrible mistake with Colin Brunner!

(Colin hadn't even been nice to her, really. Just smiling at her so her heart melted—it was that silly! She was such an idiot!—and whatever they'd given her to drink, or slipped into her drink, made her thoughts weird and perforated so it was like carrying water in a sieve to
try to think
with the loud hammering music, and the guys' laughter, and Colin saying,
Nadja? Nad-j-ia? Don't pass out so fast, hey, Nadjjja!
)

If only she'd realized that the person she loved was Adrian Kessler and that he was a superior man—kindly, intelligent, idealistic.

The way Mr. Kessler spoke about global warming! The way he spoke about the future of the planet!

She was shivering, walking in the January wind. The Gap jacket was fleece-lined and she had the hood up, but still she was cold, for the jacket came only to her waist.

Shouldn't have bought straight-leg jeans. That was a mistake. The other girls could wear these, like Merissa, and Anita Chang.

Nothing more uncomfortable than tight jeans, waistband, crotch, knees. She'd been trying to diet—starving herself, practically—but it didn't seem to do any good. She'd eaten—how many?—four, or five—oh God, maybe six—of those little fruit-flavored Dannon yogurts instead of a real lunch that day.

Hannah said you could make yourself seriously sick, eating so crazy.

Nadia said, wanting to laugh,
No Big Deal!

That was Tink, in Nadia's head. Sometimes she wanted Tink gone from her head, but then she'd be stricken with such a sense of loneliness, like when her mother
vanished
, she knew that she could not ever give up Tink.

And Tink had promised never to give
her
up.

Maybe not in actual words. Tink hadn't been sentimental. But there had passed an understanding between them, Nadia knew.

Feeling now a little sickish. Like—a storm at sea, rushing to land.

Just could not think. Since Tink had d**d. She'd tried to tell Mrs. Jameson how sometimes a buzz of mad hornets were thinking for her.

Maybe medication? Antianxiety, antidepressants?

Nadia was scared of meds. She seemed to remember that her mother had taken meds. Or meds had been prescribed for her mother.
How many is too many? How few is not enough?

 

She'd been crushed when Mr. Kessler had scolded her.

In class! Everyone listening!

But then, she'd known what this meant. The special connection between them, that he cared for her, and wanted to help her.

Nadia's way of behaving in public—particularly in school—was annoying to some people, she knew. But she didn't know how else to behave!

If you're beautiful, skinny, smart—you can
be yourself
.

If not, you have to
make people like you
.

Since grade school in Connecticut—(in that confused interlude after Nadia's mother had gone away and there was a new “mom,” Mr. Stillinger's s
econd wife
, of whom no one ever spoke now, especially not in Amelie's presence)—Nadia had cultivated a way of capturing attention as she'd had as a small child, more naturally: widening her eyes—parting her lips—expressing surprise, even awe—curiosity, wonderment; seeming so helpless; in fact, she
was helpless
, and most adults were immediately sympathetic.

Her father, for instance. It was very hard for Mr. Stillinger to discipline his daughter, who might burst into tears at the slightest criticism.

In school, often Nadia was restless, squirmy—too nervous to sit still. If attention didn't focus on her, where
was she
? Frequently she waved her hand to answer a teacher's question without exactly knowing what she meant to say. Sometimes she interrupted other students while they were speaking, blurting out answers before the teacher called her name—“Now, Nadia,
settle down
.”

But Nadia's teachers rarely scolded her. They didn't have the heart. In any group of students Nadia was the most childlike and
yearning to be loved
, and
so sweet
—and apologetic as soon as she realized she'd behaved rudely, clamping her hand over her mouth in embarrassment.

“Ohhh—I'm
sorry
.”

And—“Did I interrupt? I didn't
mean to
.”

The surprise was that Nadia often gave correct answers—
intelligent answers
—though you wouldn't expect so, judging from just looking at her.

Tink had liked her, but why? The girls of Tink, Inc., were
so cool
—why'd Tink care for silly, fat Nadia Stillinger?

She'd almost wanted to ask Tink that question—except Tink would've been embarrassed.

Because I don't see what you see, when you look in the mirror. I see some other Nadia, who's my friend. Got it?

 

It had been shocking to Nadia when at the start of the new term Mr. Kessler, who was usually so polite, funny, and mild-mannered, had spoken sharply to her in front of the class. Nadia hadn't even been aware that she had interrupted another girl who was answering a question—she'd been too excited, enthusiastic. Mr. Kessler had interrupted
her—
“Nadia,
please!
Wait and speak in turn.”

Nadia had been crushed, obliterated. The rest of the class hour passed in a haze of shame and barely withheld tears. When the bell rang, the science teacher relented, seeing Nadia's crestfallen face. As she tried to slink past him, Mr. Kessler said, with a forgiving frown, “I realize that you're very enthusiastic about our class, Nadia, but others are, too. You don't seem aware of interrupting other people, and your behavior might be confused with rudeness.”

Rudeness!

“Ohh! I'm sorry, Mr. Kessler.”

“You seem to become overexcited. Can you count to five?—to ten?—before you fling up your hand?”

“Oh, yes. Yes—I will.”

Nadia's heart was suffused with warmth, with
love
.

The way the handsome young science teacher had looked at her—his hazel eyes, his reproachful-yet-teasing smile.