My Life in Black and White

  Naturally, Heidi sprang into action. “Taylor! Hey! Wait up!”

  Kendall and Rae exchanged eye rolls, the way they always did when Heidi annoyed them. But they didn’t follow Taylor to the cocoa hut. They didn’t have to—not just because Heidi had already volunteered, but because, since the two of them hadn’t started hanging out with us until seventh grade, they didn’t have the same history with Taylor that Heidi and I did. They didn’t have the same allegiance.

  I know.

  I know I should have followed Taylor to the cocoa hut. I know she was the injured party and I was the best friend. Even in that second I knew that I was wrong not to follow her, but I still didn’t do it. I don’t know why.

  Okay, maybe I do. Maybe a tiny part of me didn’t want to leave Ryan Dano alone with Kendall and Rae. It wasn’t just that they were pretty—tall, willowy Kendall with the legs that stretched on forever, and Rae, whose butt was legendary and whose skin was always tan, even in winter—it was that they could flirt. I knew I was pretty, too, but I always got tongue-tied around boys. Whenever I tried to flip my hair around like Kendall or tell jokes like Rae, I’d end up looking like a goober. And I was determined not to look like a goober in front of Ryan Dano.

  So I remained silent. I watched as Kendall and Rae worked their magic. After they introduced themselves, Kendall did her patented move (combination hair flip with a giggle) and Rae threw out some obscure professional hockey stats that she must have inherited from her brother, Anthony. Then, in classic Kendall and Rae fashion, they started firing questions: “So, Ryan, you go to Weston?” “What year are you?” “Do you play any sports besides hockey?” “Where do you live in the city?” “Do you have a girlfriend?” “Yeah, Ryan, are you, like, taken?”

  Ryan Dano grinned. “Who wants to know?”

  “We do,” Kendall and Rae said in stereo.

  “Actually…” he said, glancing in my direction, as I did my best to fix my gaze on the ice in front of me, feigning indifference. “No.”

  “Seriously?” Rae said. “You’re single?”

  “Seriously.”

  When I looked up again, there were those blue eyes, staring straight at me. His lashes were long for a boy’s—long and dark, which made the blue seem bluer somehow, almost turquoise. In that moment, I remember feeling dizzy, like I might fall over.

  “Do you have any questions for me?” he asked. Nice voice. Low, warm.

  I shrugged.

  Little crinkles appeared around his eyes. “Do you at least have a name?”

  I wanted my answer to be perfect—something so clever and captivating that Ryan Dano would remember me long after his return to Weston Academy. So I narrowed my eyes seductively, jutted out one hip, and said it: “Pussy Galore.”

  The words hung in the air like a bad smell. I wanted to die.

  Then Kendall burst out laughing. “Pussy what?”

  And Rae said, “Wow, Lex. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say pussy before.” She turned to Ryan, whose eyebrows were raised in, what—astonishment? Horror? “Lexi never swears.”

  I didn’t stick around long enough to hear his response. I was too mortified. I just mumbled something like, “Gotta go find Taylor,” and took off.

  Later, when it was just me and Tay eating Pop-Tarts in her kitchen, she let me have it. “I can’t believe you blew me off.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “That was really uncool.”

  “I know.”

  “Kendall and Rae,” Taylor continued, “I get. They are beyond boy-crazy. But my best friend?” She shook her head, frowning. “You’re supposed to have my back. You didn’t even ask if I was okay.”

  It hurt to hear those words from Taylor, but I knew I deserved them—just as I deserved her anger back at the cocoa hut, when, in Ryan Dano’s defense, I pointed out the fact that he had actually apologized to her. Taylor didn’t like that one bit. She accused me of taking his side—of getting sucked in by his Abercrombie looks and choosing him over her. Which wasn’t exactly false.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again. “I really am.”

  Taylor sighed and went on to make her sub-point: that every guy at Weston Academy was an asshole. She knew this for a fact because her brother had gone to football camp there the summer before, and Jarrod told her, in no uncertain terms: those Weston guys are assholes.

  “Maybe it’s an admissions requirement,” I said.

  Taylor smirked down at her Pop-Tart.

  “‘Must be an a-hole to apply.’”

  She was trying not to smile, but I knew I had her.

  “‘A-hole certification required.’”

  She finally cracked, grinned, and threw a chunk of Pop-Tart at me. “You’re a big dork, you know that?”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t believe you introduced yourself as Pussy.”

  “Yeah, well…” I knew Taylor didn’t get the Bond Girl reference, just as Kendall and Rae hadn’t gotten it when they recapped the story in the cocoa hut. And I wasn’t about to set the record straight now. To explain that Pussy Galore was the ultimate Bond Girl would be to admit that I had been trying to flirt with Ryan Dano, which would: A) tick Taylor off even more; and B) be a moot point. Because the guy went to boarding school two towns over. He lived in Manhattan, for Pete’s sake. It’s not like I was going to see him again.

  “So, do you still hate me?” I asked.

  “That depends,” Taylor said.

  “On what?”

  “On how long of a foot massage you’re going to give me for penance.”

  Taylor is a freak about foot massages. She’ll pay thirty-five bucks for a pedicure, not because she cares about her toenails, but because she wants a foot massage. So—even though the last thing I wanted to do after a day of skating was to rub her hot, stinky dogs—I told her that I would. For one hour.

  “An hour?” Taylor laughed and peeled off her socks, shoving her bare feet right up on the kitchen table. “Go to town, suckaaa.”

  I laughed, too. I knew that for as mad as Taylor could get, she never stayed that way. Not like most girls, who could hold a grudge forever. I knew how lucky I was to be let off this easy, and I vowed to myself, right then and there, never to take Taylor’s friendship for granted again.

  I just didn’t plan on Ryan Dano, Round II.

  I certainly didn’t plan on it happening at church the next Sunday, in front of both our mothers, with him in a blazer and button-down and his hair parted on one side, gelled into submission.

  It happened at the refreshment table after the service, while I was pouring myself a cup of punch. “Alexa?” my mother said, approaching from behind and placing a gentle hand on my arm. “Honey, I’d like to introduce you to someone.”

  I was used to her doing this to me. My mother was the only person in our family who went to church regularly. My dad, being Jewish, went to temple, but only on the holidays, and Ruthie had declared herself an atheist in fourth grade so she didn’t go anywhere. Whenever my mom could convince me to join her at church, she had to introduce me to everyone and their dog.

  So I picked up my paper cup and turned around slowly, preparing to meet some white-haired biddy in a hat. Instead, it was a blonde in a brown pantsuit.

  “Sharon,” my mom said, flashing her best hostess smile, “this is my daughter, Alexa. Alexa, this is Mrs. Dano. I just recruited her for the soup kitchen committee.”

  Out of shock, I sloshed a little punch on the floor. But then I recovered, murmuring, “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Dano,” in precisely the manner I’d been taught.

  “Aren’t you darling.” Mrs. Dano smiled and propelled Ryan forward with one hand. “This is my son, Ryan.”

  I figured Ryan would say something like, “Actually, we’ve met,” or “Hi again,” or—this was almost too horrifying to contemplate—“Wazzup, Pussy Galore?” But he just shot me that crooked little smile and made me slosh even more punch on the floor. “Hey.”

&nbsp
; “Hey,” I said.

  At which point Mrs. Dano announced that Ryan would be starting school at Millbridge Junior High next week—ninth grade, same as me—and wouldn’t it be great if the two of us could get to know each other beforehand?

  While I was reeling from this information, my mom was smiling so hard I thought her face might crack. This was her dream come true: me talking to a boy. Not just any boy, either, but one who dressed in quality fabric and went to church with his mother.

  Sure enough, my mom and Mrs. Dano turned and moseyed off together like old friends, even though they’d just met, leaving me and Ryan alone at the refreshment table.

  For a minute, I didn’t know what to say. Then I was like, “I thought you went to Weston.” And he was like, “It’s kind of a long story.” And I was like, “Well, we’ve got time.”

  We talked for an hour. As I listened to Ryan tell me about his dad—how he’d lost his job on Wall Street over a year ago and hadn’t been able to find another one—all thoughts of Taylor vanished. I couldn’t imagine getting pulled out of school midyear, or leaving my friends behind, or moving into my grandparents’ house, but that’s what was happening to Ryan.

  “I can’t believe I’m telling you this,” he said at one point, frowning down at the half-eaten muffin in his hand.

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “I don’t even know you, and I’m unloading all my family crap on you.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  And I meant it. The more Ryan told me about himself, the more I wanted to know. And the whole time he was talking, all I could think about was reaching out and giving him a hug. It wasn’t just the sympathy factor. It was those eyes. That crooked smile. I couldn’t explain it; I just had to hug him. And I could tell, just from how Ryan was looking at me, that he was feeling the same way.

  “You’re not going to say anything, are you?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Of course not.”

  “Especially not to your friend … the one with the attitude.”

  I hesitated. An image of Taylor flashed through my mind—that day in the cocoa hut, the expression of anger and hurt in her eyes—but I willed it away. “I won’t say a word,” I told Ryan. “To anyone.”

  “Good.” He let out a deep breath. “I don’t need your friends thinking my family’s some kind of charity case … especially if I’m going to ask you out.”

  I plucked a fresh cup of punch off the table, took a casual swig. “Are you?”

  “I don’t know. Should I?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  For someone who couldn’t flirt, I must have been doing pretty well, because a minute later Ryan Dano asked me to the movies.

  And I said yes.

  In hindsight, that yes was the stupidest answer of my life. If I had said no, I wouldn’t have had to hide our first date from Taylor. If there had been no first date, Ryan would not have become my boyfriend. If Ryan had not become my boyfriend, I wouldn’t have given a monkey’s nut what he and Taylor were doing together at the party, and I never would have gotten into Jarrod’s car.

  If I had said no when Ryan Dano asked me out, one thing is for sure: I would still have a life.

  Talk to Me

  SOMEONE AT THE hospital tracked down my parents, who were on the Ohio leg of Ruthie’s college tour when they got the call. They took the first flight back to Connecticut and arrived just as I was coming out of surgery. I woke to my mother’s smell, vanilla and rosehips. Her face, floating over my bed, was smudgy with mascara.

  “Oh, my baby,” she said, reaching out to touch the side of my face that wasn’t covered in gauze. “My beautiful baby.”

  Normally, I hated her calling me that, but right then the anesthesia was wearing off and the pain was so bad I thought my head would explode. Literally. Try getting your face bashed in with a crowbar then stabbed with ice picks. Now, add a vat of acid. That’s what it felt like. When my mother’s fingers touched my skin, I started to cry. I cried and cried, but there was no sound. Then a nurse stuck a needle in my arm and everything drifted away.

  When I woke up again, my dad was standing at the foot of the bed, looking rumpled. I’d never seen him look rumpled in my life. “Hey, Beany,” he said, reaching out to squeeze my big toe. “How’re you feeling?”

  I opened my mouth to say my head hurt, but nothing came out. My tongue was a cotton ball.

  “Talk to me, Beans. How did this happen? Step me through it.”

  “She can’t talk yet, Mr. Mayer,” a voice said—gruff, but kind. “You’ll have to wait for the meds to wear off. It could be a few hours.”

  “I’ll wait,” my dad said. Then, “You hear me, Beany? I’m not going anywhere.”

  The next few times I woke up, I felt no pain. Zero. Because when half the bones in your face have been pulverized, and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men are trying to put you together again, here is what the nurses do: jack up the pain medication. Which makes you feel great. But weird, too. Like one of those giant sea turtles at the Mystic Aquarium, floating around and around in your silent tank, while the people on the outside stare at you and flap their mouths and tap on the glass, trying to get your attention.

  Talk to me, Beans. How did this happen? Step me through it.

  By the time I could speak, I didn’t know what to say. It’s not that I couldn’t remember what had happened. The image of Taylor and Ryan together was burned in my brain for all eternity. I just didn’t know what to tell my dad, who’d been working so hard for the past decade that he didn’t seem to realize I’d grown up. To him, I was Lexi Beans. A child. Someone to make pancakes for on Sunday morning. Not just regular ones, either. Animal shapes. Needless to say, I wasn’t about to mention the word kegger in my father’s presence, let alone the words blow job.

  “Give her time, Jeff,” my mother said, pouring a cup of water from the beige plastic pitcher next to my bed. “She’s been through a lot.”

  You have no idea.

  “Drink,” she said, pressing a straw to my lips. “Hydration promotes healing.”

  I marveled at the absurdity of her words. “Hydration promotes healing,” like she was some kind of expert. Like she actually believed herself. She was putting on a good show—calm, competent mother in the no-nonsense Talbots shirtdress. Perfect hair. Impeccable makeup. But I knew she was wigging out. After my surgery, I heard her talking to my dad. They thought I was still under, but I wasn’t. No matter how hard he tried to calm her down, to assure her that I would be fine, my mother kept asking the same hysterical questions, over and over: “What if they can’t fix her?” “What if she’s disfigured?”

  “Do you remember anything?” Ruthie asked now. I couldn’t exactly see her because she was standing on my right side, and my right eye was swollen shut.

  I opened my mouth just barely, like a ventriloquist. “Jarrod hit a tree.”

  Then Ruthie hit the profanity button, which sent our mother reeling. “Shhh, Ruth, language. People will think you were raised in a barn!”

  “Your daughter may be scarred for life, all Dickweed gets is a broken bone, and you’re worried about my language?”

  “Ruth Ann,” my mother said, though it was unclear which bugged her more, the “Dickweed” or the “scarred for life.”

  “Ruthie,” my father said gently. “You’re not helping.”

  “Fine. Forget Dickweed. Rank, ill-breeding maggot pie. Yeasty, rump-fed codpiece. Vain, pockmarked—”

  “Ruthie,” he said again. Not gently. “Knock it off!”

  At which point, my sister shut up and my dad explained to me that they’d spoken to Taylor’s parents. Jarrod was released from the hospital the morning after the accident, with a broken collarbone and a mild concussion.

  “He’s going to be fine,” my mother said, reaching out to smooth the pill-y blue blanket on top of me. “You both are. Thank God.”

  “Well.” My father cleared his throat. “Lexi is going to be
fine.”

  There was a beat of silence. My mother put down the water glass. “What are you saying, Jeff?”

  “I’m saying, Laine, that there may be a case here.” My father launched into lawyer-speak. “Reckless driving. Reckless endangerment. Criminal prosecution. Compensable injuries. DWI—”

  He turned to me. “Was Jarrod drinking before he got behind the wheel?”

  “No, Dad,” I said, which was the truth. Sort of. I remembered Jarrod working the keg, but I couldn’t remember him actually drinking anything. In the car, his breath had smelled disgusting, but not like alcohol. More like sour cream and onion.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” I told my father. It’s not like he asked me if I’d been drinking. And, anyway, I only had one beer. One beer that I didn’t even want.

  “I need to see the police report. Someone must have administered a Breathalyzer…. I’ll put in a call to Frank at the station. Just because Jarrod was released from the hospital doesn’t mean—”

  “Jeff.” My mother stared at my father. “You’re not seriously proposing we sue this boy.”

  “Yes, he is,” Ruthie piped in. “That’s exactly what he’s proposing.”

  “Ruth, please.” My father was agitated now. In full public-defender mode, he fired up his lecture on the distinction between criminal and civil litigation, until my mother finally cut him off.

  “Think of Alexa,” she said. “This is Taylor’s brother we’re talking about. Her best friend.”

  Well, I thought, not anymore.

  My father sighed and then said, “I am thinking of Alexa. That’s exactly who I’m thinking of. The whole point of civil litigation is to ensure—”

  “Hello…” I cut in weakly. “I’m right here. You can stop talking about me like I’m in a coma.”

  “Sorry,” my dad said, cringing. Then, “It’s your call, Lex. Do you want to bring legal action against this kid? Just say the word.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to will away the nausea that had suddenly engulfed my body. Taylor and Ryan. The crash. Everything about that night felt like a dream. A sick, twisted dream.