Keeping the Moon

  “Here,” Isabel said, coming back into the room suddenly and dropping a box in my lap. The model on the front had dark brown hair, almost black, with a tinge of red in it, and she smiled up at me. “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  I didn’t know what Caroline Dawes had triggered in Isabel but I wasn’t about to question it. After the day I’d had, any change seemed like a good idea.

  “Okay,” I said. And behind me, reflected in the mirror among all those other beauties, Isabel’s pretty face almost, just almost, smiled.

  “Ouch.”

  “Hush.”

  “Ouch!”

  “Shut up.”

  “Ouch!”

  “Will you please be quiet?” Isabel snapped, yanking what had to be a fair amount of skin with another pluck.

  “It hurts,” I said. She’d searched for some ice cubes, but no luck: she’d forgotten to fill the tray the night before.

  “Of course it hurts,” she grumbled, tipping my head further back. “Life sucks. Get over it.”

  Obviously, we wouldn’t be best friends immediately.

  To distract myself, I looked over at the mirror. “Who’s that girl?”

  “What girl.” Another yank.

  I had tears in my eyes. “That one,” I said, pointing toward the chubby girl in the turtleneck. “In the yearbook picture.”

  She gave another good yank, then looked where I was pointing. “My cousin,” she said distractedly.

  “Oh.”

  “She’s a real looker, huh.” She switched the tweezers to the other hand, flexing her cramped fingers.

  “Well, she’s,” I said, “I mean, she’s very . . .”

  “She’s a dog,” she said, settling in to start on my other brow. “It’s no secret.”

  It was always so easy for beautiful girls. They never could understand how lucky they were. But I knew her cousin, knew what she was going through. And I couldn’t take my eyes off her, even as Isabel worked to transform me.

  She was finishing my eyebrows, just plucking stray hairs here and there, her face close to mine.

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” I asked her.

  She sat back, putting down the tweezers. “You know,” she said, “when you say stuff like that I just want to slap you.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” She picked up her beer and took a swallow, still watching me. Then she said, “Colie, you should never be surprised when people treat you with respect. You should expect it.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t know—” I began. But, as usual, she didn’t let me finish.

  “Yes,” she said simply, “I do know. I’ve watched you, Colie. You walk around like a dog waiting to be kicked. And when someone does, you pout and cry like you didn’t deserve it.”

  “No one deserves to be kicked,” I said.

  “I disagree,” she said flatly. “You do if you don’t think you’re worth any better. As soon as you saw that girl today you crumpled. You just opened the door up and let her stomp right in.”

  I thought of Mira, how much it bothered me that she hadn’t fought back. “She’s—”

  “I don’t care who she is,” she said, waving her hand as she interrupted me, again. “Self-respect, Colie. If you don’t have it, the world will walk all over you.”

  I looked down, running my tongue over my piercing.

  “See,” she said, “you’re doing it again.”

  “I am not.”

  She lifted my chin so I had to look at her. “It’s all about you, Colie.” She touched one finger to her temple, tap tap tap. “Believe in yourself up here and it will make you stronger than you could ever imagine.”

  There is something infectious about confidence. And for that one moment, with my eyebrows burning and my eyes watering, I believed.

  “And good hair never hurt either,” she said, grabbing the dye box off the floor. “Come on. I’ve got plans later but if we hurry we can get this done now.”

  I just sat there, peering in the mirror at my reflection. One small change, but I looked different already.

  “Let’s go!” she yelled from the kitchen. I took one last look at myself, framed by all those beautiful girls, and went to put myself in her hands. But when she sat me down in a kitchen chair and tipped my head back over the sink, telling me to close my eyes, I could think only of that one girl, her dorky fat cousin, as the water splashed all around me.

  chapter seven

  I was on my way home when I bumped into Norman.

  Literally. I was walking backward, waving good-bye to Isabel, when I crashed into something solid.

  “Mmmpht,” it said, and there was a thump and a clatter. I turned around to see Norman, lying underneath a huge painting with only his feet and head sticking out. He blinked at me.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.” I was alarmed. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said easily, carefully moving the canvas and sitting up. It was a strange night, balmy, with the wind coming off the water in a curvy kind of breeze. My shorts were flapping against my legs and everything smelled like rain. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t be.” He stood up, flexing one of his wrists, which cracked. He was wearing a T-shirt that said CAN’T STOP DANCING! in worn, white letters. “I was just going to drop this off,” he said, nodding toward the canvas.

  “What is it?” I said. The breeze blew across us again, ruffling the trees. I could hear thunder off somewhere, a low grumble like someone clearing his throat.

  “Oh, just this painting I did,” he said. “It’s part of a series.”

  ‘You paint, too?”

  “Yeah.” He tipped it back and looked at it, then rested it against his legs again. “Well, my best stuff is this kind of object sculpture. I’m really into bicycle gears right now. But I’ve been working on this series of paintings for my portfolio for art school. It’s kind of experimental. This one’s of Isabel and Morgan.” He turned it around so I could see.

  They were both in sunglasses. Morgan’s pair was red and cat’s-eye shaped, with black edging; Isabel’s, big and white, took up half her face. They were sitting at the counter at the Last Chance. Morgan was resting her chin on her hand, and Isabel had her lips pursed, as if she was about to blow a kiss. Even if I hadn’t known them, I would have understood they were close. All they were was right there to see.

  “This is great,” I said. He shuffled his feet. “I’m serious, Norman.”

  “Well, it’s okay,” he said in his lazy way, turning it so he could look at it again. “I’m really interested in the idea of anonymity and familiarity. And sunglasses, you know, are so indicative of that. I mean, they’re worn by some people to hide themselves. But they’re also a fashion statement, meant to be noticed. So there’s a dichotomy there.”

  I just looked at him. Even after a month of knowing and working and talking with Norman, this was the longest, most complicated thing I’d ever heard him say.

  “Norman,” I said, as the thunder rumbled closer, “that’s amazing.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. It got me into art school, anyway. Now I just have to finish the series.” He picked up the painting again. “I only have three so far. But I promised when I finished this one I’d bring it over so they could see it.”

  I remembered, suddenly, the portrait of Mira and Cat Norman that hung in the living room.

  There was a loud boom right behind us, over the water, and I heard Mira’s front door fly open and slam shut in the wind.

  We both looked up toward the house, lit up yellow and bright in the increasing darkness. And then I saw Mira slipping past window after window, her hands pressed against her face.

  “What’s going on?” I said, but Norman was already halfway up the lawn, the canvas banging against his leg. There was another clap and it started to rain, hard, splattering my bare arms.

  “Cat Norman!” I heard Mira call out as we
came up onto the porch, the door still swinging and banging in the wind. “Where are you?”

  “Mira,” I yelled, grabbing the door to silence it. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t find him!” she yelled back. The wind was blowing through an open window on the porch, a few loose papers whirling past. “Cat Norman!”

  “It’s okay,” Norman said. “He’s around here somewhere.”

  She stepped into the doorway of the back room, her hair sticking out around her head. “I could hear him a few minutes ago, but now . . . you know how he’s scared of storms.”

  I jumped at another thunderclap: it was close. “Stay there,” I said, as Norman rested his painting against the front bay window, out of the rain. “We’ll find him.”

  “Damn cat,” she grumbled, disappearing from sight again.

  “Cat Norman!” Norman called from the other side of the porch. “Here, boy!”

  “Where is he?” Mira said as she passed a second time. “It’s that dog again, I know it. . . .”

  “He’s got to be around here somewhere,” I told her. “Don’t worry.” And then I stepped back outside.

  It was pouring, the treetops swaying back and forth. Isabel was out on the porch of the little white house, watching the storm roll in across the water.

  “Cat Norman,” I said, peering under the bushes. The grass was wet and stuck to my feet. “Here, boy. Come on.”

  “Nor-man,” I heard Norman yelling, around the other side.

  “Nor-man,” I repeated.

  Lightning hit close enough to shake the ground beneath me and flicker the lights in the house, and I was beginning to think Cat Norman would have to ride this one out alone when I met up with Norman in the backyard. He’d been checking his room.

  “We should go in,” he said. There was a flash, another big bang, and above us the birdfeeders, swinging madly in the wind, rained down a shower of sunflower seeds.

  “He’s probably under the house,” I told him as we ran up the back steps, the rain hard on my shoulders. We huddled under the slim awning and I reached for the knob. It was locked.

  “Shoot,” Norman said.

  “Mira,” I yelled, banging on it. “Open the door.” The wind came up hard behind us, blowing rain and birdseed against my legs.

  No answer. I knew she was probably at the front of the house, peering into the bushes by the steps, Cat Norman’s favorite hiding spot. The open windows had let in enough wind to blow almost everything off the table: napkins were circling in midair, placemats scattered colorful and bright across the floor. I could have tried to force the door, but knew well that the LOCK STICKS OCCASIONALLY.

  “Mira,” I repeated, shouting. “Open up, okay?”

  “She can’t hear us,” Norman said.

  I kept banging as the rain came harder, stinging now, and the windchimes next to my head, clanging crazily, left their nail altogether and flew off into the yard, still singing.

  “Mira.” I pressed my hand against the glass as the wind pushed me against the house. “Come on.”

  “We have to make a run for the front door,” Norman said in my ear. “Are you ready?”

  I turned around. It was raining so hard I couldn’t even see the water, just a blurred gray wall in front of me.

  “Ready?” Norman said. He glanced at me.

  “I—” I said, swallowing hard.

  “Set?” Norman said.

  Another flash of lightning, and I knew to wait, to hold my breath for what would follow.

  “Go!” he shouted, grabbing my hand and yanking me down the stairs, just as a huge boom rose out of the darkness in front of us. I think I screamed.

  We ran right into the noise, the ground shaking as my feet touched it, but we kept going, his hand laced tight in mine. I could feel rain against my eyes, in my mouth, splashing in my ears.

  When we ran up onto the front porch, soaked, I was completely out of breath. I leaned against the door and closed my eyes.

  Norman was still holding my hand, his palm warm against mine.

  “Man,” he said. He was grinning, but shakily. “That was intense. ”

  “I can’t believe we made it,” I said.

  He smiled, then looked down at our hands. I let go, quickly, without even thinking.

  Norman slid his hand into his pocket.

  I felt something. Something wet and hairy, brushing across my leg with slow, ambling laziness.

  “Meow,” Cat Norman said simply, parking his big butt by my foot and looking up at me. “Meow.”

  “I hate you,” I told him. He didn’t flinch.

  “Dumb cat,” Norman said, reaching down to scoop him up. He opened the door and dropped him inside.

  The wind was dying down now, the rain reduced to a constant stream, rattling through the gutters and overflowing the drainpipe. I was sure Cat Norman had already found his way to Mira’s side, to be gathered up in her arms and forgiven, as always.

  “Well,” Norman said suddenly.

  “Well,” I said.

  He leaned closer to me, squinting. “You look different,” he pronounced. “Don’t you?”

  I touched a hand to my dripping hair, remembering my afternoon in Isabel’s hands. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess I do.”

  He nodded, smiling. “It looks good,” he told me, in that slow, earnest way of his. “It does.”

  “Thanks.” All I could think of was him holding my hand, tight, as we ran into the storm. Hippie Norman. So not the guy for me. But still.

  Stop it, I told myself. No matter how nice he was acting, he’d heard what Caroline Dawes had said. Of course he wanted to hold my hand. And do everything else that you do with girls like me.

  “I have to go in,” I said abruptly.

  “Oh, right,” he said quickly, a bit surprised. He glanced at the painting. “I guess I’ll just take this over later, when it stops raining.”

  “Okay,” I said. “ ’Bye, Norman.”

  “Yeah. Uh, ’bye.” And he started backing off the porch, down the steps. “’Bye,” he called again when he was halfway across the yard.

  I went in and shut the door. He’d only grabbed my hand out of instinct, to pull me along. I knew that.

  But I waited, watching him until he was out of sight, before I turned and went up the stairs.

  Mira was in her room with Cat Norman; I could hear her alternately cooing and chastizing him. I closed the windows in the back room, gathering up the papers and placemats, then turned off a few lights and went outside to retrieve the windchimes from the birdbath, where they’d landed. The inside of the house felt unsteady and loose, like it had been breathing hard, all the pent-up air pushed out and away.

  In Mira’s studio, cards were strewn everywhere, some open, some shut. As I collected them I read each one, each separate way of saying I’m sorry . . .

  . . . for your loss, for it is hard to lose one who added so much.

  . . . for he was a good man, a good father, and a good friend.

  . . . from all of us who worked with her, and whose lives she touched.

  . . . he was a friend and companion, and I will miss seeing you two walking each morning together.

  Dead ex-husbands, dead co-workers, even dead dogs. Thousands of apologies over the years.

  I dried myself off and fixed some soup, then sat down to watch wrestling, out of habit, alone, as Mira moved around upstairs, running water for her nightly bath. Rex Runyon and Lola Baby had reconciled, but there were already problems. The Sting Ray and Mr. Marvel’s partnership was being sorely tested by several ongoing defeats to Tiny and Whitey, and during a match between some unknown and the Swift Snake the referee was thrown completely out of the ring onto the ground, landing with a crash. And the crowd roared.

  During a commercial I flipped a few channels and found my mother: some news program was covering her antifat crusade through Europe. She was in London now. On TV my mother looked even better than in person: her skin glowed, her smile was broad. For the
first time I realized how similar she and Mira were—the way they waved their hands around excitedly while they talked, drawing you in.

  “So, Kiki,” said the interviewer, a round-faced Englishman with a clipped accent, “I understand you have a new philosophy you’re speaking about on this trip.”

  “That’s right, Martin!” my mother replied cheerily in her go-go-go infomercial voice. “I’m speaking to everyone out there who sees themselves as a caterpillar, but knows that somewhere in them lives a butterfly.”

  “A caterpillar?” Martin looked skeptical.

  “Yes.” My mother leaned forward, fixing her eyes on him. She said, “There are a lot of people out there, Martin, who are watching this as they’ve watched a million other fitness shows and infomercials, longing for results. But they’re caterpillars, watching butterflies. And there’s a crucial step in there. They still have to become.”

  “Become.” Martin shifted his clipboard to the other leg.

  “Become,” my mother repeated. “And that’s where I come in. I am the work between those caterpillars and this world of butterflies. They all have the potential. It’s been there all along. They just have to become.”

  And there was that sparkle in her eye, bright enough to reach across an ocean and still get me. My mother believed, and she could make you do it, too. She’d believed me all the way out of forty-five-and-a-half pounds. She’d believed us from living out of the car to having anything we wanted. And now, she would believe millions of people from depressed, Burger King-scarfing caterpillars into gorgeous, thin, brightly colored butterflies.

  Later, as I put away the dishes, I caught a glimpse of myself in the window: my hair different, the new shape of my eyebrows affecting my entire face. A work in progress, Isabel had allowed as she stood back and admired what she’d done. I’d been a caterpillar for so long, and although I had shed my cocoon in losing my fat, my coat, and the years that led me here, I wasn’t a butterfly yet. For now, all I could do was stand on the ground and look up at the sky, not quite ready yet to leap and rise.

  chapter eight