I also didn’t point out that working late sounded like a lame excuse. (Aren’t I nice?) Obviously, if she was suggesting dinner w/her fat daughter, she must be ....... fragile.
So I suggested Hard Rock b/c it’s the loudest place I know & we won’t have 2 talk. She agreed, so maybe she had the same idea.
* * *
I’m on my way to the door when my cell rings.
It’s Peyton. “Hey, Cait, what are you doing tonight?”
“Nothing much. What are you doing?”
“Oh, you know … first game of the year, so we’re cheering. You could be too if you’d stuck around.”
“I know. Don’t remind me.” I try to sound appropriately regretful.
“Maybe you can come to the game,” she says.
I sigh. If there’s one good thing about this new school, it’s that I get to miss seeing You Know Who at football games. “I wish I could, but I’m meeting some friends for dinner at Hard Rock. Can I call you tomorrow?”
Dead silence on the other end.
Sometimes it’s just easier to lie.
CHAPTER 11
So I just had to get out of the house this morning. Mom’s moping around—no call from Arnold today—and when the clock hit eight, she called Dad to scream about yet another late child-support check. So hoping to kill, but not literally kill, the two hours before my voice lesson, I went to this French bakery on Crandon Boulevard to drink coffee and write an essay for English class.
Key Biscayne is a Starbucks-Free Zone. But I guess everyone must’ve gone off-island to get their caramel macchiato fix today, because there’s only one person at the bakery when I walk in—the one person I’m avoiding more than anyone.
After we broke up, I’d look for Nick’s car before I went anyplace, to avoid him. But he got a new car, and I never asked what color it is, so now I can’t.
He’s sitting, writing in a notebook. He doesn’t see me. Yet. You’d think I’d enjoy rejecting Nick, after what he did to me; enjoy it like you enjoy slapping a mosquito and seeing it, smashed, still full of your own blood. But it’s not like that. I don’t want to crush Nick. I just want to forget him. I want to turn around, to leave, to run even, but as soon as I start to go, I hear his voice.
“You don’t have to leave, you know.”
I turn back. “What?”
“I won’t bother you. I have class at nine, so I’m going soon. And I meant what I said last time—I’m leaving you alone. So if you want to sit and … drink your tea, you can.” He looks down at his book and shrugs. “Or not. Whatever.” He goes back to reading, ignoring me.
After that, it seems silly to leave. I go to the counter and order my tea (How did he remember about the tea?) because I have a voice lesson later. I decide to get a black-and-white cookie too, because I ran out of the house too quick to get breakfast—which you’re supposed to eat or you get fatter, right? I stand there, trying not to look at him.
But when you try not to look at someone, it’s impossible to look at anything else. My eyes keep going to Nick, the way they used to in seventh-grade Science class, when I sat two rows behind him. I couldn’t take my eyes off him then either.
Don’t stare. He’s still writing in the notebook. I remember Nick used to write—not just homework either. He wrote me poems—amazing poems. Right now he has a book beside him. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t meet my eyes, but I’m sure he sees me seeing him. Even after all this time, I can’t get over his looks. Just like in seventh grade, only hotter. He has these green eyes that stand out against his dark skin and hair, and they seem like they could look right through you. I never quite believed anyone as hot as Nick would be into someone like me. I think that’s partly why I made so many excuses for him—for the way he treated me, even when he hit me the first time. Well, that and the poetry. It was incredible, finding out someone in the “it” crowd had a poetic soul.
I’m fumbling for my pen, but I’m looking at the way the bottom of his hair meets the top of his cheekbone. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that is shocking beside his brown skin. I know how it would smell if I got closer, like bleach and Calvin Klein cologne, with just a hint of the beach where he lives.
And if I close my eyes, I can feel his fist, smashing into my face.
Keep that thought. That’s a good thought.
“Hey! Your tea.”
I see Nick’s eyes flicker up. I turn away, feeling my whole body start to sweat.
“Thanks.” I take my tea. “Um, do you have a pen I can borrow?”
“I only have one, and that’s for the register. I could look in back.” It’s obvious he doesn’t want to.
“No, no, that’s okay. I’ll just read.”
I take my stuff and sit. I rifle through my purse again because, of course, I can’t write an essay without a—
“Need a pen?”
Of course, it’s Nick.
“It’s okay.” I feel like taking something from him will get me all involved.
“I have an extra one. It’s just a Bic from the drugstore. It doesn’t … obligate you in any way.”
“That’s not it,” I snap.
“Then take it.” He’s holding it out, a plain old Bic Round Stic pen. “I don’t need it back. I’m leaving in five minutes, okay?”
“I can give it back.” I realize, after saying this, I’m saying I’ll take it.
“No biggie. It’s a cheap pen. Besides, I know you’ll bite it and get it all disgusting.” He says it like he’s grossed-out but he’s smiling. “You still do that?”
“I try not to.” I walk over, holding out my hand for the pen. I catch the title of his book, The Batterer: A Psychological Profile. He sees me looking at it and, quick as he can, takes his hand and slides the book under the table.
I don’t meet his eyes, but I’m still thinking about that title, The Batterer. I know that battery is technically what Nick did to me. But I never thought he knew it, that he admitted it to himself. Part of me wants to turn away now.
But my hand closes around the pen. “Thanks,” I say.
“No problem.” He sees that I’m still looking at his lap, the book. “I’m … uh, I’m in that class, the one you put me in.”
He means the Family Violence class the judge put him in after I got the restraining order against him. I say, “I thought it was only for six months,” then regret saying anything. He probably screwed up and had to repeat it.
“I didn’t screw up,” he says, again reading my thoughts. “I signed up to retake the class voluntarily. I started … it took me until the end to … really realize why I was there and … what I did to you.” Now, he’s trying not to look at me, like he’s afraid of me instead of the other way around. “Anyway, I’m repeating it, so I can actually learn to be different. My counselor, Mario, says you can’t let anger run your life. You know?”
He looks at me now. I still haven’t said anything. Part of me still wants to get away from him. The other part, a big, big part, wants to touch him, wants to tell him it’s okay. But I remember what my own counselor said about guys’ lies. So I just nod.
He shrugs. “Anyway, I’m going to class in one minute. And I said I wouldn’t bother you, so I guess I should just shut the hell up now.” He starts picking his things up, closing the notebook and putting it into his lap before picking the book up again. He sticks his pen into the spiral of the notebook. He nods, then stands up.
You must speak. Failing to speak gives him way too much importance.
“Um, thanks for the pen.”
“No problem. By the way…” He points out the window at a white convertible. “That’s my car, if you need to avoid me in the future.”
“It’s … nice.”
“My dad would hardly have something lame out in the driveway, right?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s out the door. I watch him getting in the car, and I feel the motion in my legs, like I’m running toward him. I don’t. I take out my notebook and start writin
g—not the essay for English class, but an entry for my journal. I’m writing in my notebook, but I’ll transfer it when I get home.
* * *
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
* * *
Subject: Why does she stay w/him???
Date: August 22
Time: 8:35 a.m.
Feeling: Nervous
Weight: 109 lbs.
When people hear about a girl getting beat up by her bf, they always say the same thing: Why does she stay w/him? What is she, stupid or something? Does she like it? If some guy hit me, I’d just leave. It should be that easy.
News flash: It isn’t. When it happens 2 you, it’s like you’re so far in2 it before you even realize what’s going on.
1st off, guys don’t hit girls on the first date. I was in counseling w/10 other girls, and not one of them got hit before they were really, really ......... involved. I mean, there are signs, warning signs … “Controlling behaviors,” Lucia, my shrink, called them. Like, when he tells you not 2 hang w/your friends anymore (that’s how I traded my lifelong friends for Peyton and Ashley), and makes you call him the second you get home, like 2 prove you’re actually *there* & not someplace else. But Nick—and other guys, I’m sure—always made that kind of thing sound so *reasonable* like he was just concerned for my welfare. So you excuse it. Any1 would.
And 2nd, even when he *does* hit you, he’s all apologetic. He’s saying he’ll *die* if you break up w/him, and you believe him b/c by that time, you know how crummy his life is. You know his mom ditched him when he was 5, and his father has never said 1 nice thing 2 him his whole life. So it’s no wonder he doesn’t trust people. Who would??? And you always feel like if you could just do a better job at letting him know how much you love him, he wouldn’t be that way. So you say you’ll TRY and he does 2.
And 3rd, more than feeling sorry for him, you … LOVE him. I loved Nick. Maybe I still do. I know it’s pathetic.... I thought he loved me, but maybe he didn’t even know who I really was.
There’s 4th & 5th & 6th 2, but those come later. The first 3 are why girls—lots of girls, not just me—don’t “just leave” the second it happens. It’s why we’re stupid. And that’s why it’s so easy 2 look into those big green eyes of his and forget how he *always* said he’d change, forget everything except how good it was when it was good. But I can’t forget the other stuff. I have 2 make myself remember.
* * *
CHAPTER 12
Attack the high notes from above,” Rowena says after my tenth unsuccessful run-through of the Mozart piece I’m practicing.
“What do you mean, from above?”
Rowena moves Fred the cat over so she can reach the sheet music, then points to a high B. “See that?” When I nod, she says, “Now close your eyes and visualize it.”
“Right.” I close my eyes. Rowena has a weird way of looking at things. “I’m visualizing.”
“Picture your voice as a physical being, floating above those notes. So instead of having to reach to get them, you’re dive-bombing from above.”
“Okay.”
“What does your voice look like?”
“Um, a pink line?” I wasn’t really visualizing, but now I am.
“Excellent.”
She starts to play my piece, and I start singing. But this time, I picture my voice dancing above the staff. It works. The music’s easier and it sounds better.
“Excellent job,” Rowena says when I’m finished.
“I wish everything was that easy—just visualize it, and it happens.” I’m thinking about Nick; how seeing him made me sort of want things back like they were before, thinking about how lonely I feel.
“Maybe it is.”
I visualize Nick exploding into a bazillion ex-boyfriend pieces. Better yet: I visualize Misty exploding. I grin.
Rowena looks at the clock. My hour’s over. “So, how do you like the school?”
“It’s great. But the kids there think I’m weird.”
“Really? Are you sure you’re not projecting, that you’re not the one who thinks they’re weird?”
I visualize Gus and his conga line, the part of me that wants to join in with them, and the part that doesn’t. Do I not want to dance because I think I’ll look stupid? Or because I think they look stupid?
I visualize myself, conga-ing. No way.
“I was surprised when you sang yesterday in the auditorium,” Rowena says. “It was really brave of you. Sometimes, you have to be brave to be an artist.”
I think of Nick again.
“I’m brave a lot,” I say.
* * *
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
* * *
Subject: All That Jazz
Date: August 24
Time: 5:22 p.m.
Listening 2: “All That Jazz” from Chicago
Feeling: Happy
Weight: 114 lbs. (That is *so* not possible. I weighed 109 Fri., and I’m STARVING.)
After school, some of us walked over 2 the train station 2gether. I was walking w/Gigi, making fun of how the dancers all walk in 3rd position ALL THE TIME so they look like penguins . . . . .and someone started singing “All That Jazz” from Chicago, just singing, right on the street like Peyton and Ashley said. No one acted like she was weird. They joined in. It was the middle of the day downtown, and these guys in suits with stressed-out faces were looking at us like we were on drugs. But by the time we got 2 “No, I’m no one’s wife, but oh, I love my life!” I was singing 2. It was like being in a musical, and I was one of those people!
It was the first time I felt like, maybe, I could belong at this school.
* * *
CHAPTER 13
Picture the next three weeks, being a replay of the first one. Fast-forward through visuals of me, dancing badly, me, playing the piano badly, me, acting like various furry or feathered creatures or inanimate objects, me, hardly singing at all, and me, hanging with Gigi, who is almost always eating and whose hair has now taken on a pinkish hue. Picture my weight going up and down on a daily basis. Picture Sean, not saying hi to me because, I guess, I don’t rate. Also picture me, not having much to do on the weekends, and sitting home Saturday nights watching Cops with Mom.
Picture lots of oatmeal cookies (I’ve discovered this place called The Pit, where they have machines that sell them).
Picture Dr. Toe-Jam, ignoring Mom a lot of the time. Picture her acting all depressed. Then picture them at our house Tuesday night, Wednesday night, acting like newlyweds.
“It’s weird,” I tell Gigi the Wednesday after the third Tuesday this happens. “He doesn’t take her out on weekends, and she gets so mad I assume they’re breaking up. Then he shows up on a Tuesday.”
We’re on the train. Since I live only one stop from Gigi, we’ve been meeting up each morning. She gets off at my station, waits for me on the platform, and we get back on together.
Gigi takes a bite of her salt bagel. “He’s probably married.”
“Married?”
“Duh. This is a surprise, Cait? You were thinking, what … he’s a secret agent?”
I giggle, picturing Arnold as James Bond. “No, he’s definitely not hot enough.” I stop laughing and think. “I don’t know. It’s weird.”
“My mom dated a married guy when we first moved here. He was the same way. He’d take her out during the week—probably told his wife he was working late. Then on weekends, we never heard from him. He’d say he was out of town or something.”
“Wow. How’d she find out?”
Gigi takes another bite of her bagel and talks with her mouth full. “We saw him at Bloomies with his wife. Man, was that ugly!” A couple of women sitting near us glare at her. I don’t know if it’s because of the see-food or because she’s talking so loud, but Gigi glares back. “We were shopping for sheets, and there he was. Mom goes up to him, and he pretends he doesn’t know who she is, like he thought she was a saleswoman or something. He actually asked which towels
were more absorbent. Mom’s trying to figure out why, when this big blond woman shows up. She says, ‘Jeff, do you prefer the peach towels or the apricot?’”
Gigi says it in this snooty accent, like a cartoon rich lady, and I try not to laugh.
She continues. “So I say I like the peach best, and can we paint my room that color when Mom and I move in. That’s when he starts looking for security. His wife’s going, ‘Jeff? Jeff? What did she mean by that?’ and I go, ‘But you told me we would be a real family as soon as you got rid of your old bat of a wife.’”
That’s when I lose it. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I was just picturing it. I know it’s not funny.”
“It’s totally funny. It was like one of those improvs we do in Davis’s class. And then the Bloomies security guy shows up, and Jeff tells him to get us away from him. The guy looks at Jeff like he’s nuts. ‘I’m supposed to guard the towels, Mister.’”
Now Gigi’s cracking up too. “The next day, Jeff calls and tries to explain—like that’s possible. I’m proud to say Mom told him to piss off.”
“Good for her.”
“Yeah.” Gigi gets serious. “But she was real sad. She felt stupid that she got used that way, like she should’ve known better. Anyway, that’s when I let her talk me back into pageants for a while. I figured it would get her talking about something besides what jerks she thinks men are.”
The train rumbles toward our stop, and the guy announces it on the P.A. system.
“I can’t believe my mom would go for a married guy,” I yell above the noise.
“Tell me about it. I couldn’t either. Maybe all men are jerks.”
Just as she says that, the announcement ends, so she’s screaming, “All men are jerks!” into the quiet car. Everyone stares.
For their benefit, I say, “No comment,” and we both crack up.
But I’m thinking that sounds about right. All my life, Mom’s been trying to impress some guy—first my dad, then other guys. She even flirts with guys I bring home. It’s like love is a competitive sport for her and she needs to win to feel good.