Leftovers Page 11

  The only thing is, I didn’t realize how totally dedicated I was to getting even.

  I just didn’t know.

  No, I’m not trying to justify my actions, but I’ll tell you this: It felt damn good to give out, instead of receive. To act, instead of being acted upon.

  What, you think that sounds spiteful? All right, then think of it like this: Sooner or later, the current inning ends and even the catcher gets a turn at bat. And if he’s been roughed up and knocked down enough, then there’s a real good chance he’s going to deck the other team’s pitcher with a line drive of his own.

  It’s called provoking a reaction. Except the instigator never really knows exactly how the victim’s going to react, does he? But that’s the chance he takes when he instigates. That maybe things won’t turn out the way he’s planned. That maybe his victim’s got a hammer in his pocket and only needs to be pushed one more stupid inch before—

  No, no, no, I didn’t crown Kimmer with a hammer. I didn’t even touch her.

  But I got her good. She paid, and she learned.

  Ardith says I paid, too, but I don’t mind. It was worth it.

  Oh, was I smiling? Well, it wasn’t all bad. In fact, some of it was a total blast.

  Make no mistake: what we did to get here, we did together.

  What? Where did I learn so much about baseball?

  From my father, back when we were still a family, and all on the same team.

  Do I love my parents?

  Next question.

  No, better than that, rewind to New Year’s Day.

  Chapter 13

  Blair’s Story

  Ardith’s kicked out and you’re in the bathroom, peeling off your bloody, black panty hose, while your mother waits in your bedroom. You hate her being alone in there with your stuff, so you change your tampon and put on a velour bathrobe. Throw your clothes in the hamper and pad down the hall to your room, pausing in the doorway.

  Your mother is pulling the last pushpin from the “Rainbow Bridge” poem and removing the sheet of paper from the wall.

  It’s out of her hands and into yours before either of you knows how it happened.

  “I bought you a frame for that,” she says, watching as you skirt the bed and place the poem out of her reach on the desk.

  “I like it the way it is,” you say, smoothing the paper’s edges.

  Frowning, she traces the faint, pure white square that remains on the wall where the page used to hang. “I can’t believe the paint in here has darkened already. Is it this bad in the rest of the house, too, or only where you’re smoking?”

  You open your mouth to deny the accusation, but shut it. Smoking is the lightweight violation, the lead-in to the list of punishable offenses, and you have a feeling you’d better save your best for what comes later.

  “I’m glad you didn’t lie to me just now,” she says, perching on the edge of your bed and patting the spot beside her. “Come and sit down. We have to talk.”

  You’re wise to her action. Change of venue, change of tactics. You pull out the desk chair and sink into it. “I can hear you fine from here.”

  Her mouth tightens. “All right,” she says, nodding. “You’re angry at me for embarrassing you in front of that girl. I can understand that.”

  You shrug. She’s wrong, but you let it slide because anything you say can and will be used against you.

  “But you have to understand something, too,” she says in a voice that’s soft in the middle but hardening at the edges like old cheese. “We trusted you to act in a mature, responsible manner and you betrayed that trust. You risked not only your, but our entire future by bringing illegal drugs into the house. God only knows what could have happened.” She frowns but she isn’t really seeing you, she’s seeing a potential monkey wrench tossed into the works. Somehow you’ve become the melanoma waging sneaky, silent mutiny while she attends to the more important business of becoming a Your Honor.

  “Don’t worry, it won’t happen again,” you say, just to end the whole thing.

  “Oh, I know it won’t,” she says, picking up Wendy’s urn. The lamplight catches the prism-cut glass and shoots sharp, golden diamonds across her face. “Your father and I were wrong to allow you so much unsupervised time. We see that now.” She places the urn on the nightstand and shakes her head, as if unable to understand affording the past such a prominent and unavoidable position in the present. “We’re grounding you to all outside activities until you’ve reearned our trust.”

  “Fine,” you say, folding the bathrobe cuffs to your wrists. No higher, though, or the knife notch in your arm will become visible. It’s healing nicely, thanks to Ardith’s aloe vera gel, but you’ve both examined the wound and are in perfect agreement: you’ll carry the scar.

  “Fine,” she says, rising. “Now get dressed. A water pipe broke on the Vineyard so the Lunas have been kind enough to invite us all to an open house at their home instead.”

  “I thought I was grounded,” you say, picking at your sleeve.

  “Behave and get dressed,” your mother says evenly. “Camella Luna says Dellasandra is eager to see you again. I told her you felt the same way.”

  Liar, you think, and when she leaves, you lock the door behind her. Kneel and root around in the folds of the old, plaid blanket still gracing the orthopedic mattress planted near your bed. It’s become a shrine of sorts, similar to the crosses you’ve seen staked out along highways or tacked to ravaged trees. You haul out a velvet box. The locket is from Ardith and holds a snip of Wendy’s fur. You fasten it around your neck and get dressed.

  Your mother lets your father drive her Mercedes to the Lunas. The house is historic, the massive, fieldstone front completely covered in ivy. Squared-off hedges line the walk and ancient trees tower over the expansive lawn.

  “Camella says this used to be a hundred-acre estate but it was divided up and sold off during the Depression,” your mother says.

  “Impressive.”

  “You know what I see when I look at this place?” your father says, ambling around the car and joining your mother on the brick walk. “Sky-high maintenance bills. Give me a new house any day of the week.”

  “Cooperate, and you’ll soon have one,” your mother says and starts, as if suddenly remembering your existence. She and your father exchange looks.

  A surge of hate washes in and pools in your chest.

  Dellasandra, stunning in scarlet cashmere, answers the door.

  “Happy New Year, dear,” your mother says, smiling and stepping into the fragrant, decorated foyer. “It’s so nice to see you again. You look lovely. Is that the new Betsey Johnson dress your mother was telling me about?”

  “Mm-hmm, thanks. My parents are in the main drawing room right through there,” Della says, reaching past your startled father and locking onto your arm. “Hi, Blair. What took you so long? Come with me to get a cranberry juice.”

  Your mother’s schmoozing dies on her lips.

  Dellasandra leads you off and the sleek, glittering crowd casts fond glances as she passes. A politician even you recognize calls, “Come on over here, Della, and give your old pal a hug.”

  “Can’t right now, I’m on a mission,” she says, waving and herding you into a deserted sitting room. “This is the back way to the ballroom. Come on, I’m really thirsty.”

  “Mind if I take my coat off first? God.” You undo the buttons, ignoring her sulky look, and hold out your coat. “Where should I put this?”

  “Here,” she says, taking and slinging it across a chair. “Now come on. I just ate salted cashews and I’m so thirsty I’m spitting cotton.”

  “You know, bossy people don’t last long in public school,” you say, following her through a maze of rooms and finally to the juice bar.

  “Not bossy, assertive.” The sparkling starlight shot from the crystal chandeliers dances in her eyes. “And I know it’s rude to correct a guest, but this is my house, Blair, not a public school, so…” She shru
gs, your beheading complete, and turns her attention to the bartender, ordering a cranberry juice with three ice cubes and two stirrer straws.

  You wait your turn to order, but it never comes. The bartender is hypnotized by the sight of Dellasandra’s pursed lips sucking on the slim double straws.

  “Yum,” she says, dimpling up at him. “I love cranberry juice. Especially the color.” She drains the glass and draws at the bottom until the ice cubes squeak in protest. “Another one, please.”

  You ask loudly for a Coke, but your request dies an unfulfilled death as Della leans forward, planting her elbows and resting her breasts on the bar while explaining the use of cranberry juice in preventing urinary tract infections to the mesmerized bartender.

  And finally you realize that the monopoly is your punishment and you decide you don’t need this. You can be ignored anywhere.

  “Later,” you say abruptly and take off through the crowd.

  “Wow, you walk really fast,” Della says, catching up and clinging to your side. “What’s the matter, weren’t you thirsty? Are you hungry? We have lots of food over there. Want some?”

  “Not really,” you say, refusing to look at her.

  “Hey, stop.” She halts your flight and waits until you meet her gaze. “I was being an attention hog, wasn’t I? I’m sorry. My mother says I have to give other people a chance, too, but I like attention. My mother says if I don’t mature and grow out of it, then I’ll just have to become a movie star and spend my life posing for the paparazzi on the red carpet. Don’t you think I’d make a great diva?” She laughs at your startled look and leans closer. “You know what? I’m glad you’re pretty. I mean, I know it’s not nice to say because people with pimples can’t help it, but I think they’re so gross. There was this homeschooled girl I used to play with sometimes, and she had the ugliest whiteheads all over her face. It was so hard to look at her. She was very self-conscious about them.”

  “Really,” you say, at a loss and hating it. If Della were anyone else you’d ask if she was high or on meds or something, but the specter of your scowling mother makes you swallow the words.

  “Uh-huh.” She nods and her hair crawls across your arm. “My mom says nobody’s perfect, though, not even me, and that compassion is a very important step in emotional maturity. Do you think that’s true?”

  “You’re twelve,” you say stupidly.

  “Right,” she says, as if your statement makes perfect sense. “My mother says I’m well-developed for my age but that I shouldn’t let it go to my head because girls who get their periods early might also be at a higher risk for certain types of cancer.” And then in the next breath, “Look over there. See how short that girl’s hair is? I would never get my hair cut short. It’s my crowning glory. My mother brushes it every night before I go to sleep. It is the best feeling. Does your mother do that for you, too?”

  “What the hell was in that cranberry juice?” you mutter, and of course she hears you and lets out a gurgle of laughter.

  “Sugar,” she says, giggling. “I’m very susceptible. You’re funny.”

  No you’re not. She’s just easy to entertain.

  “Hey, that’s a nice locket,” she says, fishing it up off your collarbone and dropping it when you back away. “I have a gold one that was Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis’s. My parents gave it to me for my tenth birthday. Do you know what they had inscribed on it? ‘Our Pride and Joy.’ Meaning me. They say I’m the best thing that ever happened to them. Isn’t that nice? Is your locket inscribed? What does it say?”

  “Nothing,” you lie, and the afternoon stretches on.

  Your mother is pleased with your good behavior and says so on the way home. She also confesses that if you hadn’t been so amenable to the idea of reform, well, she and your father had considered either sending you to live with your grandmother or to a private boarding school.

  There is no camaraderie in this shared secret. It’s a barely veiled warning.

  You don’t care. All you want to do is get back to school and see Ardith.

  But your mother comes downstairs the next morning and says she’ll drive you in today. She’s distant, distracted, and any ground you might have gained yesterday is lost because your hair isn’t smoothed back into a ponytail and you’re wearing too much mascara. She goes through your wrist bag, removes your makeup, and shakes the stray tobacco flakes from the bottom onto the counter.

  “This is going to stop, too,” she says, sweeping them into the garbage.

  You’re glad you had the foresight to wedge your cigarettes into your bra when you heard her coming. Glad you thought to wear the baggy red sweater she bought you for Christmas and that the black mesh T-shirt underneath it traps the pack and lighter in place. You have extra makeup in your locker at school, so you wedge your brush into your back pocket, smooth your hair into a ponytail, and conform without a peep.

  Surface accommodations complete.

  The traffic is bumper to bumper, the ride tense. You turn on the radio but she overrides your station with a Billy Joel CD. You toy with your seat belt latch and she lashes out, asking why you just can’t sit still and behave for five minutes.

  So you do. You turn your face to the window and sit stiller than death while humiliation seeps from your pores and anger rushes your exhales.

  But nothing your mother has done so far is worse than sitting in the parking lot, watching Ardith get off the bus alone and stumble past you. Nothing is worse than knowing your mother is responsible for the pain in your best friend’s eyes.

  The bell finally rings. You go straight to homeroom and at the next bell you hook up with Ardith and relay the bad news. She’s more numb than shocked.

  Your history class is interrupted as Gary saunters into the room.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he says, sliding into his seat.

  “Page one hundred and thirty-two,” the teacher says irritably.

  A moment later, as the teacher is droning on about filibusters, the whispering starts and a ripple runs through the room. You wait, anticipating the moment when the gossip surges your way, but instead of immersing you, it somehow divides and flows around you.

  You poke the stocky kid in front of you. “Hey,” you whisper, certain he’s heard you because his ears are turning red and they always do that when you talk to him. “What’s going on?”

  Someone snickers.

  The kid hunches over his desk, then leans back and stretches his arms behind his head.

  You take the note and whisper, “Thanks.”

  Unfold the paper. Read it.

  You & Ardith are gay. She just beat up

  Marvin and got in trouble.

  Your head jerks up. “What?”

  “I said, ‘I hope you’re taking notes because you’ll be tested on this,’” the teacher says. “Pay attention, please.”

  “Sorry,” you mutter, suddenly aware of the class’s voracious scrutiny.

  So you play to the audience you refuse to look at, paste on a lirgas face, and roll your eyes like “whatever” while your mind scurries to connect the dots.

  The gay thing is easy to track; big-mouth Gary and the night at the swim dance.

  But Ardith’s fighting with Marvin stumps you. What could he ever have said to make her disregard her carefully maintained boundaries and launch herself headfirst into the center of the adult universe?

  It must have been bad, so you get a bathroom pass and track her down.

  When you find her, she tells you everything and a dull pounding sets in behind your eyes because this is simply not acceptable.

  It is not all right.

  And while Ardith is hollow with fear, you discover you’re anything but empty.

  So you try to soothe her and spend a moment brushing out her cowlick. The gentle, rhythmic motions of brush-smooth, brush-smooth eases the despair in her eyes and reminds you of another friend you loved, and who fell victim to a malicious force.

  And that’s not all right, either.<
br />
  The fullness inside of you demands satisfaction.

  Kimmer needs to bleed. She needs to pay for hurting Ardith with some pain and humiliation of her own.

  But she’s powerful, popular and protected; there’s no real way to get at her directly and come out of it without being punished…

  Oh, yes there is.

  “But what if—” Ardith says uneasily, watching your brisk preparations.

  “Don’t worry.” If this works, if you really are the mountain and if Jeremy really can’t resist the challenge, then you’re home free. If not…

  You sweep out of the bathroom. The fullness has infiltrated your mind and mapped out your victory. You don’t question it. Whatever fuels you now will carry you through this and out the other side.

  Your bathroom pass expired ten minutes ago so you buzz into the nurse’s office for Midol and to cover your butt if the teacher asks where you’ve been. You scan the cafeteria, then plow on to the gym, your ugly sweater bumping the backs of your thighs with each stride.

  Jeremy has an early lunch and usually spends it shooting baskets with his buddies. You danced with some of those idiots over Thanksgiving.

  You pause outside the gym and hear the rhythmic fwap! fwap! of a bouncing basketball. Heart racing, you open the door and saunter in.

  Six guys playing ball. Shirts and skins. Jeremy is a skins.

  Nola, one of Kimmer’s friends, is perched high on the bleachers near the front of the gym. She’s bent over a book, so you disregard her for the moment. Smile to yourself as the players spot you and the game hiccups.

  You wedge your hands behind your butt and lean back against the wall beneath the shirts’ basket. Square your shoulders—posture counts—and watch as one of the shirts loses the ball to Jeremy.

  He pivots and dribbles down the court. Sneakers slap and squeal against the glossy, wooden floor and the air grows turbulent as the players rush toward your basket.

  Jeremy shoots. Scores.