Starry Night

  “Mrs. Noorlander, I asked Wren if I could come home with her to talk with you and Mr. Noorlander about last night.” I wished I could have taken one of her needles and stuck it in my eye. I looked up and saw Dad standing behind Mom, holding May’s collar so she wouldn’t jump all over all of us.

  “Dinah, go upstairs and start your math, darling. We have to talk with Wren,” Dad said totally calmly. Too calmly. The dog was not calm.

  “But!”

  “Go!” Mom barked at Dinah, who deserved it for being such a smart-ass.

  “Aw!” Dinah stamped her moccasin-slippered foot and ran upstairs as Nolan and I started stripping off our outside clothes, me like a guilty dog, and him like he lived there and nothing out of the ordinary was happening. After he hung up his scarf on the hook, Nolan turned around, stuck out his hand to my father and said, “Mr. Noorlander, I don’t believe we got a chance to meet last night, sir, but I’m Oliver’s friend, Nolan Shop.” They shook hands.

  “How do you do,” said my father solemnly.

  “Sir, that was a fine party and show you put on last night. Thank you very much for having me.” I gave my mother a quick glance to see the look on her face. Gob-smacked.

  “Why don’t you two come in. Nolan, this is Wren’s mother, Mrs. Noorlander.”

  “We met yesterday, David.” My mother did not have a “how do you do” for Nolan.

  “Hi, Mrs. Noorlander,” Nolan said cheerfully. Mom looked at him like he had just belched loudly. Dad led us into the kitchen and leaned against the island in the middle. Mom stood next to him. I sat down at the round table and looked at Nolan to sit down next to me, but he didn’t. He stood right up in front of my parents. I could see the staircase from where I was sitting, and Dinah’s red head was peeking through the balusters at the very top.

  “Well, I am at a loss.” I detected a slight New Jersey accent from my mother, like she was so upset she had turned into one of the Real Housewives.

  “This is such a nice house,” Nolan said warmly.

  “Thank you, Nolan,” my father said politely. “Nolan, we were expecting to speak with Wren alone this afternoon. Wren is our daughter, and I think this is business that belongs in the confines of our family.” I looked at Nolan to see how he would return this cannon of a serve.

  “I understand, sir.” The respectful and steady tone he used is totally how to talk to my dad. “I just wanted to speak to you and Mrs. Noorlander before you spoke to Wren. I know she is in trouble, but it is my fault, sir.” I saw my father give my mother a very subtle are-you-kidding-me? look.

  “You held a gun to her head and took her downtown last night?” my father said.

  “No, sir, I didn’t, but I don’t believe Wren would have ever left the party if I hadn’t come up with many reasons why it would be a good idea.”

  “So Wren has no voice of her own? No common sense? No consideration of others? Is that what you are saying?” my father shot back.

  When he takes the reins my mother is quiet.

  “No, sir.”

  “Wren? What do you have to say to this? Do you blame this boy for your actions or do you want to take responsibility for making everyone’s night far more difficult and unpleasant and worrisome than it had to be?” I looked up at the stairs and Dinah was gone.

  “I take responsibility, Dad.”

  “I should SAY SO, young lady!” My mother couldn’t control herself any longer.

  “Nan.” That is all Dad has to say to get her to pipe down again.

  “Sir, if I may just say something? And then I will respect your wishes and butt out, but may I just say one thing?”

  We all were looking at each other in a little bit of amazement that this guy was daring to speak. His brown button-down sweater with suede patches on the elbows and worn blue jeans looked like a suit of shining silver armor to me. Dad held out his hand, saying it was okay for Nolan to take the floor.

  “I am not suggesting that Wren has no mind of her own. In fact”—he reached out his hand like a politician making a salient and moving argument—“last night, when she was describing why she loved that picture you have of that girl on the second floor…”

  Dad and I looked at each other. I mouthed, “The Vermeer.” Dad nodded and turned his focus back to Nolan, who continued. “It was her disarming point of view in particular and her sharp mind that made me want to spend as much time as I could with her, to get to know her better.”

  “So why not get to know Wren’s beautiful mind down in the party where she belonged?” said Dad.

  “Well, I get that. In fact, I question myself why I would want to leave that great party, but I can be impulsive. Sometimes I don’t think things through, and when my childhood friend, who is by many accounts a flat-out musical genius…” My father and mother raised their eyebrows, and I almost said something to stop him going down the musical genius road. Neither of my parents approve of the word “genius” unless you are describing Mozart or Darwin.

  “I thought Wren would dig it, and I wanted to bring her.” I started to smile. He said “dig it.”

  “I made a miscalculation by thinking it would be okay to have her back at home in the same time frame that she would be home from the party, and that was a misjudgment and a mistake. I didn’t think it through, and I guess neither did you.” He looked at me. “Right?” I nodded like Scooby-Doo. “I mean, Wren, you were worried, for sure. But what I wanted to say was that, even though it was a mistake and we definitely messed up—we both had a strong instinct to do something”—he paused, looking for the right word—“exciting.”

  I took in a big breath, besotted.

  “We gave into something that, frankly, Mr. and Mrs. Noorlander…” He looked at my mother. “I can’t really describe. But I want you both to know, the impulse came from someplace good.” He put his fist to his heart like he was pledging allegiance to the flag. “Not bad, even though it was ultimately wrong.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” I said. Mom put her knitting down and walked around the butcher-block island toward the stove, wrapping her long gray cashmere sweater around her middle.

  “Does anyone want tea?” she said flatly.

  “Wren, you must think these things through. You must slow down, and think,” Dad said. I have heard these two sentences my entire life. Oliver is slow—it takes Oliver ten minutes to put his shoes on. I am fast, too fast. I started to cry, knowing he was correct. In. Front. Of. Nolan.

  “I feel bad I worried Bennet.” I really did feel so terrible about that.

  “I bet you do. Maybe you should go see him sometime soon and apologize.” He turned to my mother. “I’ll have a cup, lovey. Or write him a letter.”

  “I’ll do that, Daddy.”

  “I will too, Mr. Noorlander.”

  “I don’t think there is a need for that, Nolan. I’m not sure Bennet knows who you are,” he said with a dismissive formality as he took from my mother a steaming oversize greenish purple-ish kid-made mug. “It is Wren who put him in a terrible position.” He pulled the tea bag string up and down in the boiling liquid. “And it is Wren who has let him down.”

  “Nolan.” My mother turned back to the stove. “I admire what you said.”

  “Well,” Nolan started to reply. Mom turned and silenced Nolan with her hand.

  “But I think you should go now. Wren needs to start her homework and we still must discuss what the consequences of her impulsivity will be. Then Mr. Noorlander needs to go back to the office.”

  “I understand.” Nolan looked at me sweetly and then back at my father. “Thank you for hearing me out. I really am sorry.”

  I stood up and watched as Nolan walked back to the coatrack, wrapped his scarf carefully around his neck, pulled on his army jacket parka, picked up his guitar, and strapped it on his back. While he leaned over to pick up his backpack, May wiggled and lifted her stubby front legs off the ground for a pat, which Nolan obliged. He even let her lick his cheeks.

  “Bye,” he sa
id, standing up. I put my hand up as still more tears fell out of my eyes.

  * * *

  I was grounded until Thanksgiving, which was a little more than two weeks away. No socializing, certainly not with Nolan, and no phone until then. I was suspended from wearing any of my mother’s clothes until she decided otherwise, and I had to once again write a letter to apologize for being unthoughtful and taking advantage of a situation, but this time it wasn’t to the seventh grade, it was to Bennet.

  31

  That night Dad had a work dinner so it was only Dinah, Oliver, Mom, and me who sat at the kitchen table and plowed through leftover Viking stew almost in silence. Viking stew is lentil and sausage stew that my mother makes copiously once the weather turns cold. In order to get Oliver and me to eat it as children (Dinah would try anything in that high chair of hers) she told us it was so good for you and hearty that the Vikings ate it before going into battle. That sold Oliver, and as long as she crumbled the sausage instead of sliced it, and used the little black lentils instead of the big green mushy ones, I would eat it too. Dinah stole the dish for the “Winter Comfort Food” episode in her first season on Bravo.

  “Isn’t a two-part show on Thanksgiving slightly bor-ing?” Dinah said, breaking the silence as she ground more black pepper into her bowl. As far as I know, she is the only person under twenty-five who seasons her food with ground pepper.

  “What did Wendy say?” asked my mother as she took the pepper grinder from Dinah and started going at it into her own bowl. Wendy is one of the producers on Dining with Dinah.

  “She said Thanksgiving has the biggest ratings in all of food television and we have to make hay while the sun shines.”

  Mom’s face contorted at the making-hay comment. She’s not so crazy about Dinah talking about making money at age ten (I think she thinks it’s crass). But she swallowed it.

  “Fair enough.” She poured herself a splash more of red wine.

  “Turkey, turkey, turkey.” Dinah rolled her eyes and looked around the table for a reaction.

  “Do like three stuffings, that’s the best part anyway.” This offering was the first thing to come out of Oliver’s mouth since he got home. I gave him a meaningful look—about everything that didn’t have to do with stuffing, like Nolan and Reagan.

  “What?” Oliver said defensively. “Stuffing is the best part.” I didn’t respond. Before dinner, Mom had told me that tonight I should just be quiet and think about my actions. I did think two things: one, that Oliver is right about stuffing being the best part of Thanksgiving, but two, that had I given Nolan a meaningful look, he would get it and not just think about ripped-up, seasoned bread.

  “Wren, are you finished?” Mom asked. “Because I think there is plenty of homework you could be doing upstairs.” I hadn’t said a word and she was annoyed at me just for existing.

  “Yeah, I’ll get on it.” I took a piece of bread from the basket in the middle of the table and placed it in the bottom of my bowl to soak up the last of my Viking stew.

  “Oliver, help me clean up supper, okay? I want to talk to you.” My mother was totally going to talk to Oliver about Nolan, and I would have to be three flights away wrestling with math.

  “Come talk to me after, will ya?” I said sotto voce to Oliver. He looked at me blankly.

  “Wren, I think you should spend tonight staying on target and let Oliver do his own work.” The woman has the ears of a wolf.

  I gave Oliver another meaningful look, hoping he would tune in and come up anyway, but for all I knew, he was still thinking about stuffing.

  Trying to be a very good girl, I cleared my bowl, rinsed it, and put it in the dishwasher. Dinah rooted around in the freezer, probably looking for these tofu ice cream bars called Cuties that she loves.

  “Okay,” I said, lifting the dishwasher door closed and making the dishes inside rattle too loudly. “I’ll be upstairs.”

  “Don’t you want a Cutie?” Dinah asked.

  “No thanks, Dinah.”

  She came up really close to me and said under her voice, “Nolan is cute.”

  I smiled.

  “Yeah, right?” She beamed and nodded.

  Oliver passed us, opened the freezer, and grabbed two Cuties. “I’ll come up later.”

  “Okay.” Thank goodness he’s not entirely clueless and stuffing obsessed.

  On my way up to my room, I grabbed my backpack that I had leaned against the bottom step when Nolan and I had come in from the park. As I rounded the banister on the last flight of stairs before I got to my floor, a book fell out of the backpack, and then three folders, and a bunch of papers. I had forgotten to zip it. I collapsed on the ground to gather everything that had tumbled out and saw the Shoppe Boys disk that Farah had downloaded for me at school. I picked it up quickly and got a pang because I remembered Farah was mad at me and I couldn’t text her to make things right between us. (Being phone-less in the 2000s just doesn’t work.) Then I was overcome by the need to get upstairs to listen to the CD. I looked down again and saw an unfamiliar folded-up piece of lined paper sitting on the floor with my name written in blue ballpoint pen. I put the disk in a pocket of my bag and slowly reached out to touch the paper as if it were a butterfly and a sudden move would cause it to fly away. When my fingers touched the stiff edge, I felt a tremble deep in my gut. I took a steady breath in, pulling the note closer to me as I sat up on my knees to open it and look inside. On one side, the little pieces of fringe where the paper had been attached to a spiral notebook had gently tangled, and I had to tug a bit to open it. Inside, it said:

  Dear Wren (I still can’t get over that name),

  Here are the lyrics to a Bruce Springsteen song called “Rosalita.” Actually, just go get on your computer (if your parents haven’t impounded it yet) and Google the song—get it on YouTube. It’s the greatest love song ever written. One of them anyway. No, I think it’s the greatest one. In the particular circumstance you are in at the moment, this is the song I would write for you. I toyed with writing you my own, but we are in such deep shit I thought only Bruce could get us out.

  Anyway, I want to liberate you and confiscate you and I want to be your man.

  I’ll find you.

  Nolan

  PS: If you can get to a landline, my house number is 212-555-5467

  The breath that I was holding didn’t slowly come back out of my body—it rushed out like someone had just punched me. It pushed my back against the wall, my feet digging into the hardwood floor, my hands pressing the paper onto my chest. I wanted to shriek, or cry, or hyperventilate. I read the note again and again. Do what you have to do to hear “Rosalita.” It’s not a slow, goopy love ballad. It’s frenetic, it pounds, it writhes, it yells and sweats—it’s wired and fast. It’s hot—it grabs you from wherever you are and throws you way far away into the ether. In concert footage, people listening to this song look like they are going mad. If this were a movie, this song would be playing over images of me losing my shit on the landing of the staircase, laughing to myself, feeling my heart pound, and jamming books back into my bag.

  I clutched the note to my chest, ran up the last flight of stairs to my room, turned on the light next to my bed and the light on my desk, and got back down on the floor with the note again. Forget my homework; if I couldn’t talk to anyone, if I had to be alone with all the crazy, unbearable feelings, I had to draw. I got up, took the Shoppe Boys disk out of my bag and slid it into the side of my computer on my desk. The opening notes and chords of the first song were hard driving. There must have been three or four guitars, there was an organ and drums and maybe even a horn section. It was big, bigger than I had expected—it was more alive and more exciting and it made me feel all wound up. I hovered over the computer and waited for Nolan’s voice. Every note that sounded got me closer and closer to him, and then I heard the words “Wake me in the morning Daddy, when the big old sun shines in the sky. We’ll go outside, take a ride, and wait for breakfast to come.” And Nolan
was in the room with me. His voice, raw and unbridled, almost hurt my feelings. It got to me. I was listening to it the way you drink water in the middle of the night. I felt something boil up inside me, as if someone had jammed a needle of Adrenalin straight into my neck. I pushed the volume button as high up as it could go and twirled around to draw.

  I tore off a giant-size piece of drawing paper from a roll that stands in the corner of my room and pulled the huge piece of cardboard that I keep behind my bed to use under the paper so my charcoal doesn’t catch on any imperfections on the wooden floor. I laid the paper on top of it, fastening it onto the board with jumbo black paper clips. I lurched over to my desk and pulled open the drawer where I keep supplies. I grabbed a brand-new box of Conté compressed charcoals, ripped the cellophane off, slid the box open, lifted a perfectly square stick out of the box, then folded myself down onto the ground next to my note with the music all around me. I spent the next long time lost, feverishly drawing a barn owl rocketing into the night sky, shooting up, wings spread wide, soaring up up up and off the paper with one hundred of her feathers fluttering in the headwinds.

  If Oliver came upstairs, I didn’t know it. He might have come up and decided not to bother me. I was somewhere far away.

  32

  Farah was lost too. Really, that night at the museum pushed all of us off our course, but mostly Farah. She didn’t think she was lost. She thought she was exactly where she should be, wrapped in the arms of Cy Dowd, who was old enough to be her father. Farah, like an anorexic hiding her food compulsion, kept most of us in the dark about this romance as much as she possibly could. But what I learned that semester is there is only so much a person can hide in the dark; a lot of times, you can still see.

  “And then what happened?” Reagan said. I was retelling the Nolan-confronting-my-parents story to all the girls at the lunch table in school the next day.

  “Then he left and my parents took away my Internet, locked away my phone, and grounded me until Thanksgiving.”