I scooped up a cowering Dogma and carried him to the door of Phoebe's building, a brownstone I'd never seen before. I hadn't even known what block she lived on. As Phoebe started up the stairs, she dragged her braced leg behind her. She had invited me in, but since the news had said the storm would continue into the evening, I thought it best to hurry back to our apartment, especially since Moxie was with me.
I ran the rest of the way home, stopping only twice to catch my breath. By the time I reached our building, it was so dark out that it looked like evening, except for the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the sky.
As we waited for the elevator, Moxie shook, spraying water all over the mirror in the lobby. I glanced at my reflection. Ugh. I looked like I'd just plunged into a lake fully clothed. My hair was plastered to my head and my white T-shirt, clinging to my skin, revealed the complete outline of my bra.
“Hey there.”
The elevator doors had just opened. J.D. was standing inside. Holding an umbrella. Grinning.
“Got caught in the rain?”
He kept grinning. He stepped around me. He couldn't peel his eyes away from my boobs. If Moxie hadn't dragged me into the elevator, I doubt I would have moved.
“Sara, right?”
Sara? Didn't Mom tell him my name the first time we met?
“Sammie,” I said through chattering teeth.
“Right.” J.D. nodded. “Sammie.”
As the doors closed, Moxie shook muddy droplets all over my knocking knees.
The phone was ringing as I unlocked our door. Racing to get it, I bumped into the air conditioner in the entranceway, exactly where the delivery guy had left it three days ago. I caught the phone on the fourth ring, just as the answering machine picked up.
“Hello?” I pressed the Stop button. It made five loud beeps as the tape began to rewind.
“I found out who it is.” Kitty's voice was barely audible.
“What?” I asked loudly. Moxie was shaking again, right next to the futon this time.
“It's not Jack's ex.”
“Who is it?”
“The girl who lives in your house!”
Oscar Mayer Wienerette? I was incredulous. “How do you know?”
It took Kitty ten minutes, between whimpers and wails, to describe how she'd been overcome with a psychic impulse to drive around my cul-de-sac yesterday evening. And what should she spot but Jack's Jeep parked in front of my place? As soon as she'd gotten home, she'd dialed his cell phone. He said he'd call back later, neglecting to mention that later wouldn't be till the following morning. And when Kitty confronted him about it, he neither denied nor apologized, just saying that his head was all messed up right now.
As Kitty sobbed, I began to shiver. Partially because that's a horrendous thing for your first lover to tell you. And partially because of the irony that the girl who inhabits my room is probably fooling around with Kitty's boyfriend. But mostly, I was overcome by the notion that Kitty, for all her perfection, had been jettisoned for the new kid on the block.
“I feel so awful,” Kitty said after a long pause. “Everything in Ithaca reminds me of Jack.”
A clap of thunder boomed and Moxie scurried under Mom's bed.
“Sammie?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I could come visit you this weekend? I really need to spend time with someone who will listen to me.”
Ninety bucks an hour, I was tempted to say, is my going rate now. But when I opened my mouth what slipped out instead was: “Yeah, sure you can.”
“Great,” Kitty sniffled, “because I already called Greyhound about bus fares for Friday.”
When we hung up, I continued to shake. I really needed to take a hot shower. As I peeled off my T-shirt, I remembered what Mom had said the other day: I just said yes when I should have said no.
Oh, well. I sighed, flinging my bra and underwear into a heap on the floor. What's done is done.
Mom didn't cancel her interview with the friend of Shira's friend after all. At first I took it as a good sign. On Thursday evening, she pulled Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway off the bookshelf. As I was hunched over the subway map, figuring out the best route to the bus station, she kept murmuring and reading me passages from chapter 9, “Just Nod Your Head—Say ‘Yes!’
So I'm not sure what happened between then and Friday morning, when her interview was scheduled at the private school. I awoke to the sound of Mom grinding coffee beans in the kitchen. As I padded into the bathroom, I noticed her tan summer suit laid out across the bed.
But when I actually got a look at her, sitting at the kitchen table swirling her coffee around in its mug, I knew something was up. Her face was pale, the halfmoons under her eyes practically black.
“I didn't get a wink of sleep last night,” she said glumly.
I poured myself a glass of grapefruit juice, two for the price of one at the local supermarket. As I sliced a bialy and dropped it in the toaster, I noticed Mom's pen-and-ink cityscape crumpled in the kitchen trash. I felt my throat tighten.
“I'm not even sure I even want to be an art teacher anymore. …” Mom's voice trailed off.
When the bialy popped up, Mom jolted forward, like she'd gotten an electric shock. Just as she did, her blouse, slippery in its dry cleaning bag, slid off the bed, the metal hanger clattering against the floor.
“You look stressed,” Phoebe pronounced a half hour later. “I can see it in your face.”
We were sitting on a bench in the dog run, watching Moxie and Dogma romp around with a pair of pugs.
“I don't know.” I sighed. “There's a lot going on.”
“Kitty?”
I nodded. “That's part of it.”
“Just so you know, my offer still stands.”
Yesterday, when I'd told Phoebe that I wasn't exactly thrilled about Kitty's visit, she'd suggested I bring her up to the dog run.
I'll cat-sit. Phoebe had giggled. Get it? Like her name is Kitty?
I got it, I'd groaned.
But I really hope it doesn't come to that. The thought of introducing them makes me feel uneasy, especially since Kitty has this tendency to be ultrapossessive of me. Like this past spring when she got all huffy because I'd hitched a ride home with a girl from chorus rather than lingering until her softball practice ended.
Just as we were saying good-bye, Phoebe fished around in her backpack and produced a rubbery potato-shaped object.
“Here.” She handed it to me. “You can have this.” “What is it?” I asked, gripping the tightly packed beanbag.
“It's a stress ball. Squeezing it is supposed to help reduce tension.”
I massaged it in my hand. I can definitely see how this could absorb negative energy. But why do I have a feeling that there aren't enough stress balls in the universe to reduce the amount of anxiety inside me?
I arrived at Port Authority twenty minutes before Kitty's bus was due. Pacing at the gate, I squeezed the stress ball. The bus terminal reeked of a nauseating blend of gasoline and body odor. If Phoebe thought my face looked tense before, she should see me now, after I'd just listened to the message back at our apartment.
Mom wasn't home when I dropped off Moxie. I'd assumed she was at her interview already, until I noticed the red light flashing on the answering machine. I'd pressed the play button, only to hear:
Beep
Nine-forty-seven A.M.
Hello. (A woman paused to clear her throat.) This is Karen Drabick, Shira Rosenthal's friend. I'm sorry to hear that the interview isn't taking place after all. Please get in touch with me if you'd like to reschedule. Thanks so much.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Kitty was the first one off the bus. She was wearing khaki shorts and a tank top, with a trendy messenger bag strapped across her chest. I saw her at least a minute before she saw me. As I watched her glancing around the terminal, I felt like I was seeing her for the first time—this tall, Nordic, confident-looking stranger. I
t made me want to turn and bolt in the other direction.
“There you are.” Kitty strode toward me. Her eyes looked tired but her face was tan, her nose sprinkled with the freckles that crop up every summer. “I didn't see you at first.”
As we hugged, I was swamped with emotion. This is Kitty Lundquist. My soul sister for eight years. One of my only links to my life in Ithaca. Maybe I've been overreacting. Maybe all this business with Mom and Dad has screwed with my head. Maybe it'll be good to spend the weekend with her after all.
Less than an hour later, here's why I would eat those thoughts:
We hadn't gone two stops on the subway when Kitty mentioned Marla Mueller for the twentythird time. I guess I was distracted, trying to determine whether we should board the uptown local or express train, because I didn't register who Marla Mueller was. When I finally asked Kitty, she snapped: Marla Mueller is only the person who lives in your house, who's screwing my boyfriend. Haven't you been paying attention?
When we arrived back at the apartment, Mom was buried under her covers with the shades drawn. As I closed the door so we wouldn't disturb her, I whispered to Kitty: Now you see what I'm talking about. To which she replied: Actually, I don't think your place is as small as you described.
I finally decided that the only way I'd survive this would be to bring Kitty to Central Park, to the dog run, anything but stewing in the apartment. And that's when it started to rain, for the first time since last week. And rain. And rain.
By Saturday evening, I was about to go out of my mind. The rain was still coming down, mostly just drizzle by this point. Kitty and I had only braved it once, when we dashed out to Tower Records to rent a movie. We hadn't been able to agree on anything. Kitty wanted to rent a comedy, to bring her up. I suggested tear-jerking dramas, to show that our trials aren't as arduous as we think. Slapstick won out, with Kitty insisting on the new Austin Powers movie.
I handed my video card to the guy behind the counter. He was pale and slight, with metallic silver fingernails and lusterless black hair that had home dye job written all over it.
“Austin Powers.” He nodded at me in a subdued, goth sort of way. “Cool choice.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I actually—”
But Kitty cut me off. “She wanted a Julia Roberts movie. I had to twist her arm to get this.”
He raised his pierced-with-several-hoops eyebrow as his gaze panned from me to Kitty and rested there. “Julia Roberts is so cheesy.”
“Amen,” Kitty answered, flashing her I-know-you-findme-sexy-but-I'm-way-way-out-of-your-league smile.
Once Kitty and I were on the street, I pulled Phoebe's stress ball out of my pocket and began working it in my fist.
Shira was there when we returned to the apartment. Yesterday evening, when Mom finally dragged herself out of bed, she'd called Shira to explain how she'd gotten last-minute cold feet about the interview. Shira must have reassured her that she'd do it when she was ready because Mom had sighed and said, At this point it feels like I'll never be ready, which made me doubly relieved that Kitty was still in the shower. Before they'd hung up, I heard them make a plan to check out a new Thai place tonight.
As I was setting my umbrella in the tub to dry, Kitty explained to Shira that her real name is Katarina and her father is originally from Stockholm.
“So that's where you get your height,” Shira said. “Actually, my maternal grandmother is over six feet.”
I flopped onto the futon, watching Kitty dazzle Shira with her grace and eloquence. Adults are always impressed upon meeting Kitty, shaking their head when they discover she's still in high school.
Shira set her empty coffee cup in the sink as Mom searched the closet for a light sweater.
“That's quite a necklace.” Kitty pointed to the ropes of turquoise and silver around Shira's neck.
“Thanks.” Shira reached up and touched it. “It's Native American, from the Southwest.”
“Was it made by the Navajo?”
“Yes.” Shira nodded enthusiastically. “Someone I work with took a trip to New Mexico.”
The second they were out the door, Kitty flounced down next to me. “Your mom has always gravitated toward Earth women.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “Shira's the original Venus of Willendorf.” Kitty crammed a pillow under her tank top to emphasize the curvaceously chunky prehistoric statuette that we'd learned about during the art and culture unit of global studies last year. “And what was up with her neverending necklace? She looked like some kind of rapper.”
“Why did you tell her you liked it?”
“I didn't say I liked it. I said it was quite a necklace. Which, I might add, it was.”
“You still shouldn't have said anything.”
Kitty turned to me. “What's eating you? Ever since we left the video store you've been acting like someone died.”
“Nothing,” I said as I stomped into the kitchen and started up water for hot chocolate. How could I tell Kitty that I was sick of hearing her drone on about her life? Whether Marla Mueller would give Jack the youknow-what that Kitty had been denying him. Whether Marla Mueller was a mid–high-school crisis or the Real Thing. Whether she'd put on a few pounds over the summer. And if so, whether she should go on this new protein diet her father has been recommending to his patients.
As Kitty yanked at her nonexistent love handles, I was tempted to say, Unless there's body fat in freckles, shut your fucking trap! If there's anything that can push me over the edge, it's girls who are bonier than runway models complaining that the skin on their thighs is cellulite.
Right before we went to sleep, Kitty suggested we give ourselves pedicures with the polish she'd brought. I'd selected Brazenberry, which I splashed on in about a minute and a half. Kitty, after inserting a cotton ball between each toe, meticulously applied two coats of Teak Rose. As she waited for the second layer to dry, she glanced up at me.
“We really are different, aren't we?”
I didn't say anything right away. But later, as we were tucked under the sheets on the futon, I was ready to talk more about it. I was lying on my back, with my hands under my head, my elbows splaying out like wings. Kitty was turned on her side, with her foot touching my shin.
“Kitty?” “Mmm …” “About what you said before, about us being different …”
“Mmmhmmm …”
I paused, trying to find the right words to express how it seems like we've grown apart this summer. And how it's really important that she listens to me also. I wanted to say it in a diplomatic way, so it didn't make her defensive but still got the point across.
That's when I noticed Kitty's steady, rhythmic breathing. I sat up and leaned across her. Even though the lights were out, I could tell she was fast asleep.
I settled back down again, shifting positions so she was no longer touching my leg. Maybe it's not so much that we've grown apart as that I've grown up. That I've been dealing with a pretty tough situation, not highschool drama but a real-life crisis. That I'm not the same person I was two months ago.
It's strange. I always thought Kitty and I would be best friends forever, e-mailing daily throughout college, raising our kids in adjoining backyards, barbecuing skewers of shish kebab on warm summer evenings.
Then again, I always thought my parents would be RozandJames forever, and look where that got me. Who knows? I mean, it's only a trial separation so far. But sometimes it seems like a separation just prolongs the inevitable, the Big D. Like with this much water under the bridge, how can we ever go back to the way things used to be, all of us living together in the Ithaca house? And let's say we do, how can I be sure it won't fall apart again?
But if there's anything I've learned in the past few months, it's that the only thing that's certain in life is that nothing in life is certain.
The rain finally stopped on Sunday morning. When Kitty popped up a little after seven, the sky was clear and the sun was beaming through the windows.
>
“I don't think Marla Mueller is going to last, youknow-whats and all,” she said, inspecting her toenails.
I yawned loudly. I swear, if I hear the name Marla Mueller once more, I'm going to slap duct tape across Kitty's mouth.
“There's someone I want you to meet,” I said, stretching my arms above my head.
I was at the end of my rope. Kitty's bus was at onefifteen, which left us six more hours. Which meant that if Kitty mentioned Marla Mueller every five minutes, a conservative estimate, I could potentially hear her name seventy-two more times. Which, in the end, would require a lot of duct tape.
“Didn't you hear me?” Kitty asked. “I said, I don't think Marl—”
“Well, I said, there's someone I want you to meet.” Kitty glared at me. “A guy?”
Why does Kitty look so shocked by the notion that I would introduce her to a guy, as if she's the only one who can commune with the opposite sex?
“No.” I glared back. “Just a friend.”
“As long as I can get some coffee on the way. I don't think I've ever gone this long without a cup of coffee.”
We'd only been in the dog run a few minutes when Phoebe arrived. But it was long enough for Kitty to complain that:
it stank of dog-doo.
wood chips were scuffing her new sandals.
the sight of slobbery slaver dangling from the snout of a nearby mutt was enough to make her want to puke up her iced cappuccino.
I was about to ask her where she came up with slaver when Phoebe unlatched the metal gate and jogged toward us.
“You must be Kitty!”
Kitty seemed surprised that Phoebe knew her name.
“I'm Phoebe … and this is Dogma.”
As Dogma wagged his stubby tail, Kitty looked Phoebe up and down, pausing at her knee brace. Phoebe flopped down next to me on the bench so I was sitting in the middle. I massaged the stress ball in my hand. I could already feel tension in the air.
“Funny,” Phoebe said, after a bit, “I didn't picture you as a collie.”