“I wasn’t the one who told the police about it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” D.D. says. “I didn’t tell them about that fight Rory and Arden had, either. It must have been Whitney. She doesn’t know how to keep her mouth shut.”
“I know they sometimes argued,” I begin, but D.D.’s shaking her head.
“I’m not talking about an argument, Mrs. Falcone. I’m sorry, but I’m not. This was a fight. We could hear them yelling all the way down the hall. When we got there, we had to pull Arden off Rory. She was so angry. She really hurt Rory.”
“She did?” I say, stupidly.
“Rory was bleeding.”
It’s impossible. Rain patters against the window in a sudden gust. “I don’t understand. Arden’s not a fighter. She’d never hurt Rory.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Mrs. Falcone. I saw it for myself. I wasn’t the only one.”
Arden must have felt terrible. The two of them must have really been miserable about the whole thing. Was this what Arden had called to talk about? I should have seen it in her eyes, set down my car keys, shooed the boys into the other room, and pulled up a chair.
“Look, Mrs. Falcone. I know Rory can be a real bitch sometimes, but still. Arden was wrong. I’m sorry, but she was. Very definitely uncool.”
“You’re right. There’s no excuse for hurting someone.” Does Detective Gallagher know about this? Does he think Arden has a violent streak?
She frowns. “I’m not talking about that.”
The conversation has changed direction and I’ve missed the cues. “Of course not,” I say, but it’s too late.
D.D. pushes back her chair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, no, it’s okay.” But it’s not true. “What were they fighting about? Please tell me.”
She picks up her plate scattered with crumbled pieces of muffin. “I have to go. I don’t want to miss my bus.”
My phone vibrates at my hip. I yank it from my pocket. Theo, with news? But it’s my mother. “I don’t want to alarm you,” she says.
Arden
AM I AWAKE, or is this a dream? Everything is dark around me.
Images suddenly appear in the distance and swim toward me, flashing past: Hunter’s face and the way his mouth turned up the first time he really saw me. Rory staring down at her phone, the perfect line of her profile and the shining ripple of her hair, her lower lip caught between her bright white teeth. He’ll call. He won’t call. Me, sitting in the small crowded shop with my bare arm extended watching the tip of the needle dart in and out. There had been blood, quickly wiped away only to bubble up again. My mom looks horrified when she sees the result. What did you do, Arden?
I couldn’t help myself.
—
Hunter’s voice rises like smoke in the distance. “Hey, Arden. Hold up.” I spin around and there he is, separating himself from a laughing group of guys shoving one another on the sidewalk across the street. He jogs toward me and I wait, self-conscious in my baggy rolled-up sweatpants, my decrepit nylon swim bag slung over my shoulder, my loose hair frizzy and reeking of chlorine. No makeup, my blond brows almost invisible, my lips the palest of pinks. Rory leaning close to the mirror to say, I’m getting my eyelashes dyed.
Hunter’s been at baseball practice. He has his own gear bag over his shoulder and his curls are shower-damp, his blue eyes friendly. The scent of soap rises from him. “Headed back to your dorm?” That smile. How does Rory stand it? “Want company?”
He’s only on his way to see Rory, but my voice goes squeaky. “Sure.” Rory’s got a special voice for when she talks to boys, her words flowing rich and sweet and slow like maple syrup. I don’t know where to look, so I focus on the sidewalk squares and let them lead me along as Hunter talks.
He’d played shortstop in high school, but he’d probably have to start out at second base. His mom would be disappointed. His baseball coach was okay, though he was calling a lot of practices. This morning’s pop quiz in art history had been a ringer—what the hell was that lumpy stone thing?
“A doorstopper,” I say, and he looks at me, surprised, then grins. I duck my head, my cheeks burning. The purple sky’s streaked orange, the sun gone with a soft sigh. Yellow lights are popping on everywhere. Charcoal shadows slide across the pale path and disappear into the black grass.
“My dad has a gallery in Baltimore,” Hunter says. “You should check it out.”
Not even a real invitation, so why is my heart pounding so hard? “What kind of art?”
“Outsider, mostly. You should see our house. My mom swears if he brings home one more thing made of barbed wire, she’s making him sleep in the garage. She’d never do it, though.”
“Really?” I wish I could see his house, see him walk around in it, claim his space. I’ve never been in a guy’s bedroom. What would it look like, feel like? Rory says Blake’s room was disgusting, dishes under the bed, clothes lying everywhere. She said it reeked.
“Never.” He groans. “My parents actually like each other.”
“I know what that’s like. I can’t even walk into a room without finding them all over each other.” They always kiss goodbye in the morning, even when I’m in the room.
“They couldn’t wait for me to leave for college. I’m surprised they didn’t just make me take the bus.”
“He leaves her love notes on her pillow.” I’d lain down on my mom’s side of the bed one night to do my homework once and heard the crackle of paper beneath my ear.
“She wears thong underwear.” His voice soars high with horror. “I told her please, please. Don’t make me do the laundry again.”
I bend over, I’m laughing so hard. He’s laughing, too, and I think, This—I hadn’t even known. “I’m glad my mom has my dad,” I say when I can breathe again. I didn’t mean to go there. It just burst out of me. I can’t leave that hanging out there sounding dorky, so I add, “She’s going to lose her restaurant.”
My mom smiling at me on Skype as she leans against my dad, Henry jumping up and down behind the sofa yelling HiArdenHiArden, Percy rigidly perched on my mom’s knees with his long brown head facing away and his eyes nervously rolling back to track me. I’m laughing at him and cooing and finally he’s had it and jumps down. Aunt Gabrielle was here, I begin, and my mother’s face tightens and I chicken out. I just don’t want to tell her that Uncle Vince is moving on and leaving her behind. The easy smile on her face will vanish and she’ll have a million questions. I don’t know, I’ll have to tell her, because I don’t. It isn’t my business anyway. I’m just the one who got caught in the middle of it all. She brought us dinner, I ended up adding lamely.
“That blows,” Hunter says.
It’s stupid to feel sad. Double’s just a building with doors and windows, floors covered with anti-skid mats. But it’s not. How to explain the spread-open hollowness of it first thing in the morning, an emptiness that draws in on itself as the day wears on, filling with motion and sound and smell until it’s a warm, tight fist at night? My mom might have another restaurant someday, but Double’s the only place I’d ever seen her look up from what she was doing to smile at me with pure joy.
“Must be awesome having a mom who’s a chef.”
It’s all I know. What do you think? my mom will ask, extending a fork on which is balanced a bite of filet, a flake of crab, or a spoon dipped into creamy pea purée. No one ever says what my dad does is cool. It’s embarrassing to admit my dad’s headmaster at an all-girls school. People kind of avoid talking about it and I can’t blame them. Sometimes I’d hear his voice in the hall and duck into the stairwell. He always tries to act cool when he sees me, but he never gets there. His face always changes, brightens, and I feel like a total dweeb. “What does your mom do?”
“Nothing, really. She helps my dad with the gallery. She’s never really had a job or anything.”
We’ve reached my dorm. Distant laughter, some kids crossing The Bowl, shadowy shapes. Someone yelps, mor
e laughter. Someone’s playing The Killers, too loud. Up against the night sky, the loud yellow rectangular glow of my window. Rory. He stops, staring up.
“You coming up?” I ask.
It’s too dark to see his eyes. Is he smiling? He adjusts his bag over his shoulder and I feel the air charge with electricity. Does he feel it, too? He’s not saying anything. No one can see us standing right outside my building, right beneath the towering trees. We are hidden from each other. A fraction of silence and then he says, “I’ve got an early practice tomorrow. Tell Rory I’ll catch up with her later, okay?”
Something loosens inside me and floats free. “Yes,” I say, knowing I won’t. Things are changing. I can feel it. I’ve walked across campus with Hunter as the sun stretched along the horizon, setting everything on fire, and it had been enough for him, too. I stand motionless, waiting for it all to swirl around me and fly.
Rory
CHELSEA LEE’S WEARING maroon today, a fitted leather jacket over a matching silky top. It’s an outdated color. She looks right past me as she walks to the lectern at the front of the auditorium, then her gaze skitters back and holds. Hunter slides into the seat beside me and I turn to him and smile. “Miss me?” he says. He’s acting cool, but I’ve seen him walking past my dorm and looking up at the window. He does it all the time. Is it a little creepy?
After class, I stroll down the steps to where Chelsea’s gathering her slides and talking to students. I lean against a desk with my arms crossed and wait for the last student to leave, a girl with limp, ashy-brown hair that waves down to the middle of her back. Sad, really.
Chelsea knows I’m here, but she doesn’t look over. She doesn’t hurry the girl along, either, even though she’s just rattling on about Romanesque architecture. Finally, Chelsea pats the girl on the shoulder and turns to me. “Rory?”
I unfold myself. “You said you’d think about it.”
“And I have.” She switches off the little lamp on the lectern. Is she going to say anything? She’s just like my mom, timing her edicts. It sets my teeth on edge. It makes me want to ball my hands into fists, but living with my mom’s taught me a few tricks, like faking patience when all I want to do is grab her stupid maroon leather shoulders and shake her. “Why don’t you walk with me back to my office and we’ll talk.”
Hunter’s waiting for me in The Bowl. Things have been a little weird between us lately. He’ll be upset when I don’t show up, though he won’t say anything the next time I see him. He’ll just look at me with puppy dog eyes. But I say, “Sure.”
I follow her up the worn carpeted stairs to the back of the room, where she reaches for the light switch and flips off the overhead lamps one by one by one. The room falls into darkness as she holds open the door for me.
It’s a pretty afternoon, the trees turning colors. Kids are everywhere, walking to class, playing Frisbee, working on their tans. When our parents dropped us off, Aunt Nat had been excited about how nice the campus looked with all the trees and grassy lawns and brick buildings, but my mother had been silent. What she’d been looking for was harder to see.
“Explain to me why you object to writing a paper for this class.” She’s slid on her aviator sunglasses again, mirrored ovals that throw twin images of my frowning face back at me.
I smooth my features into my usual mask. “It wasn’t listed in the class description online. I wouldn’t have signed up for your class if I’d known.”
“Part of attending college is learning to adjust and accommodate. And, frankly, I’m surprised it’s an issue for you, Rory, given that you’re a Bishop girl. Certainly you’ve written your share of papers in high school. I’m sure you can handle a full roster of term papers at EMU.”
She’s looked me up. What else has she learned? “Does that mean you haven’t changed your mind?”
“It’s not fair to the other students for me to make an exception for you.”
“It’s not fair to me.”
“Is there something else going on?”
“Like what?” Her eyes are covered, but she can see right through me, I’m sure of it. I wait for her to call me on my shit, but instead she says, “You do know you could drop this class. It’s not too late.”
I’m majoring in math. I’d spent all spring convincing my mother it would make me stand out to law schools and she’d pored over the course descriptions, Googled each professor, talked to her friends at her tennis club. She crafted the perfect schedule for me and she’d insist on knowing why I wanted to drop this class. My father would just agree with whatever she decided. But I’m already taking freshman English, a required class I can’t get out of. Eight papers strung over the course of the year, and I’ve calculated the number of hours I’ll need to devote to each one. A midterm and a final paper for this class means I’ll have to take time away from my other classes. It means a B instead of an A. “And replace it with Woodworking 101?”
She glances away, but not before I see her small smile. “I’ve corrected last week’s pop quiz,” she says, and I think, Here we go. “It was tough, I know. I threw in a couple of questions on material we haven’t covered yet. I forced everyone to think outside the box. There was only one perfect grade. Yours.” She turns her mirrored eyes back to me, and this time I see the surprise on my face I can’t hide. How had that happened? I’ve never once gotten a perfect score on a timed test.
“Look, Chelsea,” I say, and she hikes up an eyebrow.
“Professor Lee.”
Whatever. “Does that mean you’ll reconsider?”
“It means I won’t have to. Let me know what you decide about dropping the class.”
She walks away, leaving me standing on the path. She’s wearing spectator pumps with a square heel. She wouldn’t have lasted three seconds at Bishop.
—
I’m on my bed with D.D., an unlit bong teetering on the comforter rucked up between us. I play with Aunt Nat’s slim silver lighter. I’ve gotten good at thumbing up the tiny spurt of flame. I am determined to conquer this.
D.D. has more weed in a Baggie, and I’m trying to remember how much is in there. I could have asked her, but she’s talking, so I just let the picture of the plastic Baggie hover in front of my face. A teaspoon? A tablespoon? Fuck Hunter. Fuck everyone. I push the Baggie aside and stare at the crappy ceiling and wonder why there are always holes in acoustic tiles.
“Sorry,” D.D.’s saying. “I mean, I know she’s your cousin and all, but she’s such a dweeb.”
The doorknob turns and Arden comes in. D.D. immediately stops talking. I choke down laughter. We don’t dare look at each other.
Arden dumps her backpack on her chair and gives me a dirty look. “You can smell that all the way down the hall.” She fans her nose with her hand.
“My bad.” D.D. cackles, like she’s done something rude. I crack up, and then so does she. The bong topples over, splashing dirty water all over us. D.D. squeals and kind of rolls away, and we just laugh harder.
“Seriously?” Arden says. “The RA’s up here all the time. You’ll be in real trouble if he finds out.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Because we don’t have enough for him.”
“Oh, my God,” D.D. says and gasps. “It’s so true.”
We’re clutching our stomachs with laughter.
“You’re such children.” Arden kneels on her bed to shove the window sash up along its tracks.
“Happy children,” D.D. says. “Happy, happy, happy.”
I put my head back weakly against the headboard. Weed isn’t Arden’s thing, but I hold out the bong and wiggle it. “It’s good,” I promise, but Arden shakes her head. “No, thanks.” D.D. slides me a little glance that says See?
I shrug. She has a point. But I’m not giving up on my little cousin just yet. “Get this. Kyle asked D.D. out.”
“Second-floor Kyle?” Arden asks. We only know one Kyle. She’s just buying time to try to figure things out. D.D. confuses her. For someone who’s so messy,
Arden strangely likes things mentally labeled and organized. D.D. doesn’t fit in a box. She’s kind of a train wreck, already on her third guy and just as many girls. There’s no label you can slap on D.D.
“Yep.”
Arden glances to D.D. “So…congratulations?”
D.D. sighs. “Kyle’s okay, but he’s no Hunter.”
“Don’t talk to me about Hunter,” I say. “Jerk.”
“He can’t help that he has practice all the time.”
The only time he’s not around is when he’s playing baseball. Otherwise, he’s always there. And even when he’s not there, I’m always looking around, nervous that he’s about to turn the corner and walk smiling toward me. “I wish that were the problem,” I say, and Arden glances over at me. “What?” I challenge her, and she looks away.
“I thought you and Hunter were getting along.”
“Doing it isn’t the same as getting along,” I tell her, and she blushes.
“Ooh, what’s the matter?” D.D. asks me in a fake way. “Are you over him? Can I have him?”
“Sorry. But Arden has dibs.”
I expect Arden to turn bright red with embarrassment, but she surprises me. “Thanks so much, but I’ll pass. There won’t be anything left once you’re through with him.”
“Guys,” D.D. says. “You have to help me decide about Kyle. Should I go out with him or not? No more random hooking up. I’m getting a rep.”
“Too late,” I say. D.D. tosses a pillow and I duck.
Arden’s opening and closing her dresser drawers loudly. She’s not looking at us. It’s so obvious she wants D.D. to leave. “What are you looking for?” I ask. It’s her fault she can never find any of her things.
“My bathing suit.”
“Your orange bikini? I think I saw it on the floor of your closet.”
“My blue tank.”
“Your old swim-team suit? Seriously.” That horrible one-piece she’d worn way back in ninth grade that flattened her boobs and rode too high on her hips. I’d suggested she sew in bra cups and she’d retorted, I’m swimming laps, not trying out for America’s Next Top Model. But I’d seen her finger the material thoughtfully.