Until It Hurts to Stop

No argument there, I think, but I don’t say it. I expect Adriana to make up with Raleigh, and I don’t want to say anything that can be used against me.

  Adriana goes on. “She had a hell of a nerve, saying that about Ethan getting answers from Matt. When she nearly got kicked out of West End for doing Scott Brewer’s homework.”

  “What?”

  Adriana mops off her face. “Oh yeah,” she says, her voice still fierce. “At the end of eighth grade, she wrote about four English papers for Scott. They nearly got expelled. And the worst of it was, she thought he was in love with her, but once she couldn’t do his homework anymore, he acted like he didn’t even know her name.”

  I vaguely remember Scott Brewer—a boy with a bland, pretty face and a self-satisfied smirk. Much like Raleigh’s own smirk, in fact. It’s hard for me to imagine Raleigh doing extra work for so much risk and so little in return. “Why did she do it?”

  I hand Adriana another paper towel. She wets it and wrings it out, keeping her eyes on the sink. “She really liked him. It’s the closest she ever came to having a boyfriend. He was using her, but she never saw it until the end, when her parents got called into school.”

  It hasn’t hit me until now, but I’ve never seen Raleigh with a boy. With groups of boys, yes. I think of her joking with Luis at the basketball court, polished and self-assured. Drawing the other boys toward her, and then walking away as if they couldn’t hold her interest. But—a boyfriend, a close relationship? No. Not unless she had one in Italy.

  “She made a total fool out of herself,” Adriana says. “Which Raleigh never does. But you should’ve heard her talking about Scott this and Scott that, how amazing he was, how in love with her he was. . . .” Grimacing, Adriana presses the towel to her eyes. “That’s why it’s so unfair for her to be a bitch about Ethan. She should know how I feel.”

  Adriana might as well expect sympathy from the bathroom sink she’s leaning over, but I won’t waste my breath telling her that. I’m far more interested in Raleigh’s past, anyway.

  “Why didn’t they kick her out of school?”

  “She would kill me if she knew I told you this. But—do you swear not to tell anyone?”

  “Yes,” I say. Though I’m not sure if I mean it. Why should I keep any promise to Adriana, or agree to protect Raleigh?

  Adriana lowers the towel, glances around the empty bathroom, and drops her voice. “Raleigh’s parents almost broke up that year. Her father was involved with someone else and everything. That’s why they went to Italy, so her parents could work on their marriage—which I guess they did, because they’re still together. So, because Raleigh was having such a hard time at home and was leaving for Italy, anyway, they decided not expel her. And Scott ended up transferring to Hayward so they wouldn’t expel him.”

  So much for the “zero tolerance” policy against cheating that West End always used to brag about. Even now, more than two years later, I resent the school officials for not expelling Raleigh. God knows it would’ve made my life easier.

  But beneath my anger is a seed of surprise that Raleigh is human.

  Not that her troubles excuse what she did to me. According to Adriana, Raleigh’s problems happened in eighth grade, and she started her war against me early in seventh.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything,” Adriana says, dabbing at the mascara stains on her cheeks. “It’s just—she makes me so mad sometimes.”

  “I know,” I murmur.

  “Please promise me you’ll keep it to yourself. Her family doesn’t need this hashed over again.”

  “Mm,” I say, which I tell myself could be a yes or could be a no.

  Raleigh, a cheater. Nearly expelled. Used and dumped by Scott Brewer—a trap I would’ve guessed she’d be too smart and too self-centered to fall into.

  It’s the first time I’ve ever seen any real weakness in Raleigh. And something dark and strong stirs deep inside me, an energy I’ve never felt before.

  I know that Sylvie would tell me to pretend I’ve never heard all this. Not only because she doesn’t know my full history with Raleigh, but I can’t imagine her encouraging revenge— against anyone, for any reason.

  But . . .

  Oh my God. After all Raleigh did to me. If she had known such things about me, she wouldn’t have hesitated to use them. Maggie, why did you really go to Italy? Hey, Maggie, do you wipe Scott Brewer’s ass for him, too? You didn’t truly believe that a guy could like you, did you?

  I once told Nick about imagining her blue faced from poisoning. But that was always unreal, a fantasy. I let my imagination run free because I never expected to have power over Raleigh anywhere but in my own mind. I never expected she would have any real vulnerability—to me, least of all.

  For now, there’s comfort simply in holding this information to myself. Cradling it, weighing it. Tasting every drop of its rich bittersweetness.

  twenty

  Hard as it is to eat lunch alone on the days when Sylvie has a club meeting, it’s not much easier to eat with Nick and Vanessa.

  They show up together in the cafeteria the day after I learn Raleigh’s secret. Sitting across from me, they eat off each other’s plates. It’s like tagging along on a honeymoon, and I want to bury my head in the giant tub of cafeteria coleslaw. Instead I smile, and chew my food, and answer Vanessa’s questions. Lunch lasts approximately seventy-four thousand hours.

  “You should try the French club, Maggie,” Vanessa says. “It’s a lot of fun. We’ve seen a couple of French films, and next week we’re going to Brasserie Claude.”

  “No, thanks.” The last thing I want is to spend more time with Vanessa. It’s not her fault, but I can’t stop picturing her with Nick.

  She tries another subject. “Nick says you play the piano.” “Yes.”

  “He says you’re very good.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, you are,” Nick cuts in.

  “Well, my teacher said I didn’t challenge myself enough.” “What kind of music do you play?” Vanessa asks. “Classical.”

  She’s exhausted her list of questions. I don’t ask her any, so

  the conversation collapses, an almost-visible heap on the table between us. I probably seem rude, but they don’t know how much effort it takes for me to sit with them. It’s all I can do to stay put and swallow my sandwich, tiny bite by tiny bite.

  Nick sends me a dark look, but he doesn’t say anything until we’re alone in his car later, after dropping off Luis.

  “Vanessa thinks you don’t like her,” he says.

  “It’s not that I don’t like her.”

  “Can’t you be nicer to her?”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Well, she deserves better treatment than you gave her at lunch.”

  Maybe she does, but—doesn’t he realize this might be the slightest bit difficult for me? Is it so easy for him to forget we ever kissed? Sometimes I still can’t believe how quickly he moved from me to her.

  It’s hard enough to see them together, though I can grit my teeth and get through it, as long as I can keep some distance between Vanessa and me. But if I’m going to have to become one of her best friends—if Nick wants me to go out of my way to be open, enthusiastic—that’s too much to take. “It’s just— weird to see you spending so much time with someone else. Especially after that day in your room when we . . .”

  He skids to a stop at a red light. “What are you bringing that up for?”

  “Well, you know. After what happened with us, to see you kissing another girl is—”

  “Jeez, Maggie. Are you kidding me? What do you care? You acted like you wanted to wash out your mouth after I kissed you.”

  What is he talking about?

  “You ran out of the room like your hair was on fire, and then you told me you wanted to be just friends. So fine, we’re friends, but don’t expect me never to be with another girl. Especially one who manages to stay in the room after I touch her.”

  I’m breat
hless, stunned by his version of events. He thinks I’m the one who didn’t want him? Is that why he didn’t call me?

  I’ve never thought anyone would worry about being rejected by me, would even see that as possible. I assumed Nick wasn’t interested because I assume no guy is interested in me, ever. Because I’m ugly old Maggie, the girl who washes her hair in the toilet.

  The driver behind us honks; the light has turned. Nick’s car jerks forward.

  I can’t believe how tangled up we’ve gotten. If only we’d had this conversation weeks ago. If only I’d listened to Sylvie and called him right away.

  Because now there’s Vanessa.

  I clear my throat, searching for my voice. “Nick, I—this is complicated, but . . .”

  No, forget complicated. Forget trying to fix the past, trying to compete with Vanessa.

  Stick with the simplest truth.

  “You’ve been my best friend for years. And I . . . miss you.”

  His face relaxes. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” For a minute, I think we’re okay. Until he adds: “But things can’t stay the same forever.”

  The familiar streets stream past my window. I chew on the inside of my cheek, telling myself I will not cry.

  Ordinarily, we’re good at being quiet together, at talking without words. It works on the trail, where all we need to communicate is when to pause for water or check the map. But today, we might as well be on different planets. In spite of all we’ve said about staying friends, I can’t stop feeling that we’ve lost something we can never get back.

  “Maggie,” he says, his voice warmer now. “I still—”

  “Forget it,” I cut in. I don’t want to hear that he still likes me as a friend and will try to fit me into the spare moments of his life. I can’t stand thinking about what might’ve happened between us if I hadn’t been too scared, if I hadn’t made too many wrong assumptions.

  We turn onto my street. “Just—give me some room,” I say. With enough space to collect myself, maybe I can keep from cracking apart right in front of him. Get used to his being with Vanessa, never let him know how much more I wanted. Maybe I’ll get to keep a scrap of dignity.

  “That’s what you want? Room?”

  “Yes.”

  We stop in front of my house.

  “You can have all the room you want,” he says as I get out. He drives off without a good-bye.

  I lie on my bed, thumbing through my mushroom guide, but in my head I’m still in the car with Nick. Maybe I haven’t been fair to him, but he hasn’t been fair to me, either. If the situation were reversed, would he find it so easy to watch me drool over some other guy?

  I stop, staring at a page without seeing it. What if I were with another guy? If I’d been the first one to move on—if by some miracle I’d found someone else to move on with—how would I want Nick to act?

  The truth is, I would want him to welcome my boyfriend. I would want him to be happy for me.

  I would not want him to sulk, or glower at my boyfriend, or

  act like someone had invaded his territory.

  Groaning, I put down the book. I find my phone and text

  Sylvie. She doesn’t answer.

  But even without Sylvie’s advice, I know what I have to do.

  I text Nick. forget what i said. i’m happy for you and i’m

  going to be nice to vanessa. I have no idea how I’ll manage this, but I’m going to try. It’s what a friend should do.

  I expect him to text back, but he doesn’t.

  He calls.

  “Got your message,” he says.

  “I meant what I said. If you really like her, then I’ll—” “Yeah, I like her. I wouldn’t be with her otherwise. But—” That word hangs in the air.

  “But what?”

  “Nothing. I like her. She doesn’t play games, and she knows what she wants.” Unlike you, is the unspoken message.

  I gather every ounce of brightness and bravery I can scrape up. “Fine. If you like her, I like her.” I still don’t know how I’m going to deal with this. The thought of being around her— watching her touch him—hurts. But I’m trying. “I’ll be nice to her.”

  “Thanks, Maggie.”

  When we hang up, I go downstairs and pound through some scales on the piano. My playing has been getting sloppy, and my teacher used to say that there are times you have to go back to basics. Order and precision, I tell myself as my fingers march through the monotonous octaves. Mastery. Perfection.

  “For Pete’s sake, Maggie, that’s maddening,” Mom says. I jump, not realizing she has entered the room. “Can’t you play a song instead?”

  “I’m warming up my fingers.”

  “Well, surely they must be warmed up by now.” She drops onto the couch with a groan and elevates her feet. “I was going to fix that leak in the kitchen faucet, but frankly I’m not in the mood. My legs are killing me. These young girls I work with, I tell them to wear tight stockings, anything to support their leg veins, and they laugh at me. I wish I could trade legs with them for a day.” She brushes hair back from her forehead. “Why don’t you play that moonlight song?”

  “‘The Moonlight Sonata’?”

  “Yes.”

  It’s a relief not to have to answer questions about my future, my ambitions. Maybe she’s too worn-out for that right now. And I love this sonata, too.

  So I play the first movement of it. There’s so much pianissimo that it quiets me, the sound spreading over us like moonlight pouring over a lake, as Beethoven must have intended. It’s dark enough for my mood, and quiet enough for my mother’s. At the final soft chord, which is repeated once, we both exhale.

  At lunch the next day, I carry on a real, live conversation with Vanessa. I don’t promise to join her French club or help her decorate for her upcoming Halloween party, but I manage to speak to her without strangling.

  “You’re coming to the party, right, Maggie?” Vanessa says. “I’m not sure. I have to ask my mom.”

  Nick stares at me, because he knows my mother only wishes

  I would go to more parties. But he doesn’t call me on it. “Don’t forget, you have to wear a costume,” Vanessa says.

  “It’s more fun that way.”

  Ugh. Dressing up tells the world Look at me! when all I’ve

  ever wanted is to blend into the walls. Costumes raise my selfconsciousness to near-fatal levels. The only thing worse than

  standing in a room full of people who barely acknowledge my

  right to exist—and watching the boy I like huddle with his girlfriend—would be doing all that while wearing a costume. And then I realize that if everyone has to dress up . . . “Wait. Are you telling me Nick’s wearing a costume?” “Yes.”

  I can’t help laughing. “Good luck getting him into one.”

  This might almost be worth going to the party for. “Hey, it’s already taken care of,” Nick says.

  “How?” I ask. “What are you doing, just wearing your

  basketball uniform?”

  “Of course not,” Vanessa says, but his face reddens. “Oh no,

  you’re not!” she tells him, nudging his arm. “You have to wear

  a real costume.”

  “We’ll see,” Nick says, examining his sandwich rather than

  meeting her eyes.

  “I’ll help you if you need ideas,” she says.

  “Me too.” I grin at him. “I have lots of ideas.”

  “You’ve been enough help already,” he says with a sour smile, stealing a pickle chip from my lunch.

  I walk past Raleigh’s table on my way to drop off my tray. I hug her secret to myself and even dare to glance at her, when usually I would avert my eyes. I almost wish she would look up. But she doesn’t notice me. Not this time.

  twenty-one

  After school, I send a few messages to Sylvie, dying to talk to her since I’m feeling farther than ever from Nick.

  sylvie , you there?

  can you t
alk?

  sylvie, call me when you get this.

  But I don’t hear from her.

  It’s Dad’s birthday, so I take the box I’ve made (working in snatches of time in the afternoons when he was still out feeding the grid) and place it in the middle of the kitchen table with a red bow on it.

  Mom has bought him a set of drill bits, some shirts, and tickets for the two of them to a film festival, where there probably won’t be a single movie in color. Dinner is meat loaf, which I could really live without, but it’s one of his favorites.

  Dad holds up the box I made. “Beautiful job, Maggie.” He opens it, trying the clasp and the hinges. I’m still proud of the way those hinges open. “You’re getting better and better.”

  “Oh, and Benny sent this,” Mom says, setting down a bottle of honey-colored whiskey.

  “Too bad he’s not here to help me drink it,” Dad says.

  Dad goes out sometimes with a few guys at work, but he has one close friend—a guy to whom he’d probably give a kidney if it was necessary—and that’s Benny. They grew up next door to each other, and then Benny moved two hours southeast of their hometown, and my dad moved two hours northwest. So we only see Benny every couple of years or so. Every time we see him, he’s heavier, his hairline farther back, but he always has the same grin. And even though he and Dad don’t see each other much nowadays, when they get together, they fall instantly into talking and joking, as if the years apart are just pauses in an ongoing conversation.

  Looking at Benny’s bottle, I can’t help thinking about friendship. About my own birthday, and my gifts from Nick and Sylvie. About how Nick is so busy with Vanessa now, and Sylvie has been even more distracted than usual with Wendy and all her activities. I miss my friends, even though they’re technically still around.

  “Everything all right?” Dad asks me. Mom has slipped into the next room to assemble the desserts. Dad would rather have strawberry shortcake than birthday cake, so that’s what we’re having.

  “Fine,” I say automatically. Then: “Do you ever wish you lived closer to Benny, or closer to where you grew up?”

  “Well, I’d like to see them all more often, Benny and my folks. But no, I don’t want to live anywhere else. I know Benny always wanted to live closer to the water, where he could have a boat and go fishing all the time. And I always wanted to live out here where there’s more trees and less traffic.” He turns my box to face him, as if it’s helping him think. “It’s good you’re getting out into the state parks, into the mountains. That’s one reason I’m glad we live in this area. It’s what I wanted, for my kid to be able to enjoy nature.”