No one said another -word to her until she was packing up to go home, absurdly grateful she was only -working one shift today.
It was Effie, standing on the back step, towering over her.
“Don't come back,” she warned.
“It's my job,” Jo said bravely. She didn't step back or look away.
“Nobody wants you here.”
“It's still my job,” Jo said, and she turned and walked home.
In her quiet house, Jo sat in the kitchen, staring at nothing for a long time. She moved into her room and stared at nothing there for a longer stretch of time.
She looked at her trundle bed and thought of Polly. What she would give to have Polly there now.
She thought of her dad, alone in their other house. She pictured him surrounded by little white cartons of take- out Chinese food. He had been to China in his twenties, before he'd gotten married to her mom, and he always tried to order dishes in the restaurant by their proper Chinese names. She'd thought that was impressive when she was little and embarrassing -when she was older.
She wished she had called him.
Polly arrived home from here fifth babysittng job in the five days, her heart trotting at the sight of the mail stacked on the hall table. She riffled through the pile, letting everything that wasn't from the IMTA glide to the floor.
It was here! Her nervous fingers were sloppy ripping the envelope open and unfolding the letter. A return card and envelope fell to the floor, but Polly was too agitated to pick them up.
It began:
Dear Polly,
We are pleased to invite you to the twenty- third annual convention of the International Modeling and Talent Association.
That was it. She was in. She'd been accepted. She wasn't -wrong to think she could do it. She'd been invited.
She scanned the rest of the page. It gave dates and directions and hotel information and payment instructions and blah blah. On the back of the page was a list in small print of all the modeling and talent agencies that would be represented. There were hundreds of them.
She had to go.
She ran to the phone in the kitchen and called Dias studio number. When her mother didn't pick up, she called her cell phone. She got voice mail there as well. She hated leaving voice messages for Dia. Explaining herself seemed a guarantee that she wouldn't get a quick call back. Uncertainty and possible- emergency fears -were her best chance. She called the studio number again. She hung up again on her mother's outgoing message.
Polly stared at the kitchen clock. She wished herself back in time to when she could call Jo or Ama anytime she liked—when they were happy to hear her voice. She wished she had somebody to tell.
She glanced out the front window. She probably would have told the neighbors or the garbageman if she could've. The mailman, of course, had already come and gone.
She even thought of calling Uncle Hoppy, at his old- age home, and he couldn't hear -well enough to talk on the phone. He was a lip- reader. That idea seemed ridiculous to Polly -when she pictured it.
She really needed to talk to Dia.
She stuck a ten- dollar bill and her house key in the front pocket of her jeans and strode out the door. Her mother's studio was at least three miles away, but Polly knew how to get there, and anyway, the walking -would be good for calorie burning.
Dia had to say yes. She had to. Polly could pay for almost the whole thing if she kept babysitting at this rate. She'd earned $210 in the last five days alone. She'd put up flyers at the A&P for dog walking. She'd tell Mrs. Rollins and her other customers that she was available for even more babysitting. She'd go door- to- door in her neighborhood looking for -work if it came to that.
Polly kept her mind busy calculating for most of the -walk. First she calculated how many more hours she would need to work (eighty- five) to have enough to go to the convention ($1,160, including hotel and train tickets). When she'd figured that out she calculated the number of calories she'd eaten that day (340, so far) and the number of calories she could eat each day (1,100) in order to get to her new goal weight (102) by the day of the convention.
Entering the door of the building that housed her mother's studio, Polly suddenly stopped in uncertainty. The lobby surprised her, in part, by being small. Had it been so long since she'd last been here? She couldn't even think how long. The hallway, in all its flecked linoleum and sherbet- green plainness, was -wrong- sized and shrouded in the murk of old memory.
The most recent picture she could dredge up of herself here was of her -wearing the -white beret she'd -worn nearly every day in fourth grade. It couldn't really have been that long, could it?
Polly -went on tentatively. She knew the right number of stairs to climb. That memory-was in her legs. She knew the feel of the cold stairwell door's knob, though her height relative to it had changed. She felt its center lock, loose like a belly button against her palm.
The path to the studio door took fewer steps than it used to, but they -were slower steps this time. She used to rush down this hall, its contours speeding her along the -way the -walls of a canyon sped a river.
She took her mother's doorknob in her hand, -wondering -whether to turn or knock. She knocked.
She realized she still had the letter, the invitation for the IMTA, clutched in her hand. She crushed it into her back pocket. She stood in a nervous hunch, picturing the studio on the other side. She pictured her mother coming to the door, not as she -was now but as she used to look -when Polly had come here a lot—before Dia had gotten her second and third tattoos and pierced her nose, -when her hair was longer and she tied it back in a pink bandana when she -worked. Polly remembered the loose purple bottoms Dia had called her harem pants, furry clogs, clay smudges drying into pale powder on her black turtleneck.
Polly knocked again. “Dia?” Her voice came up as a croak through layers and hours of quiet. She cleared her throat. “Hey, Dia? Are you in there?”
Did she hear something? A rustle? A-whir?
She knocked a third time, and when she heard no answer, she tried the knob. It turned, though she wasn't expecting it to. She pushed the door cautiously open. Sunshine poured in the tall windows, -whiting out her vision for a few seconds. She took small steps in.
“Dia? Hello?”
She looked around, -worried for a moment that she hadn't remembered the -way after all.
This couldn't be her mother's studio, because that -was so full, and this place -was empty. Polly scanned the -walls for the familiar piles, but they -weren't there. She saw two armatures by the back corner on the left, caked -with old clay but unused.
Her mother's studio -was packed -with sculptures and supplies and papered -with sketches. Where -were they? Where -were the huge bins of old broken cell phones, batteries, wristwatches, and computer parts? Dia spent almost every day of Polly's life in the studio. Why -weren't her things here?
Slowly Polly turned to look to the right. She pushed her eyes along the wall until they reached the little desk, her old desk, -where she'd drawn pictures -while her mother -worked. That -was still there, though it had only a laptop on it now. Pushing farther, she saw the old cot in the right back corner, -where she used to sleep. And feeling like the baby bear in Goldilocks, she recognized -with a dawning strangeness that her bed had someone in it.
“Dia?” Polly's voice -was small and her mother didn't stir.
Her mother-was asleep in the little cot, curled at the middle, bare feet hanging past the foot of it, her face turned away, toward the back -wall.
Besides the desk and the cot there -was a TV sitting on an old nightstand a few feet past the foot of the bed. And besides those things, Polly saw that there -were bottles lined up two deep along the back -wall. They -were mostly -wine bottles, uncorked and empty.
Polly suddenly felt scared to be there. She -wanted her mother to comfort her and explain -what -was going on, but it -was also Dia she -was scared of. It -wasn't quite her mother in this changed place -with her
back to her, but Polly felt that if she turned and Polly could see her face, Dia -would be her mother again.
“Dia?” Polly heard the tears in the back of her voice. She ventured closer on soft feet. Come back. Don't be mad at me.
Her steps took her close enough to see into what had once been the storage closet. Polly remembered many years ago when her mother had removed the hinges with a screwdriver, -wrested the closet door from its place, and carried it down to the street, with Polly helping and cheering her along. The floor space had become a little alcove -where her mother had showcased pieces of her-work. Polly had been amazed that you could just do that—just join a closet to a room -with your own hands. Her mother could.
Now there -were piles of books covering the little rectangle of -wood floor, and above them, hanging in a vertical row of three, -were drawings on paper, her mother's only -work on display. They showed three different views of her, Polly, sleeping. They -were from a long time ago, the -way she used to be.
Jo sat at the computer for a long time that afternoon composing an e-mail. It-was handy, in a-way, that there -was no one in her house after her lunch shift. It gave her the freedom to cry as much as she felt like -without anyone seeing or hearing her. Also it gave her time to try all the possible versions of her letter. She tried the nice version, the practical version, and the well- written version and finally settled on the honest version.
To: PollyWog444
From: Jobodobo
Subject: shame and woe
Dear Polly,
I am sorry for what happened when you visited. I know you must have overheard the things I said to Bryn, and I feel miserable every time I think of it—which I do a lot.
The truth is I really didn't want you to visit. I know that's mean and I'm ashamed of it. I was so caught up with the scene at the restaurant and these older girls and this guy I was kind of hooking up with. I just thought that was the most important thing and that you would get in the way of it. Even though it's not really fair to you, that's what I thought.
It's kind of scary to be so wrong. In fact, it's really scary. But I was. Those people weren't important. They weren't real friends at all. But you are. I understand that better now. No matter what happens, I will always know what a real friend is because of you and Ama.
I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't really think you should. But I just want to tell you the truth, because what I said to Bryn was a lie. You are my friend. Even if we never talk to each other again, you have been a better friend than I have ever deserved.
Love,
Jo
“I don't think he's coming back,” Richard, the manager, said about Zach.
“What do you mean?” Jo asked.
“He hasn't shown up for three shifts in a row. That means we've seen the last of him. Anyway, if he did come back I'd probably have to fire him.” Richard punched a few buttons on his phone. “It happens in August. Waiters at a beach- town restaurant aren't the most dependable people in the world.”
Jo nodded. “They aren't, are they?”
Jordan must have done the schedule again. Jo found herself back in Effie's section. What a bitter sense of humor he had.
Jo withstood the glares and hisses. She was getting used to the averted eyes and the whispers. Even Bryn -was trashing her to the older girls, delighted at last to have something to offer them.
By nine o'clock Jo's feet were aching and she suddenly -worried she was going to cry.
She walked out front, where none of the waitstaff took their breaks. She went all the way across the sand and down to the surf, flung off her shoes, and wet her feet. The enormity of the ocean made her feel meaningless, but today that was a comfort. Zach -was meaningless and Effie was meaningless and this stupid summer -was meaningless too.
When she walked back up she saw a young -woman -waiting on the bench by the restaurant's front entrance.
“Hi,” Jo said for no particular reason, other than that the young -woman had a striking and sympathetic face.
“Hi,” the young -woman said back.
“Are you -waiting for someone?” Jo asked. She -was starved for company, she knew. Strangers -were friendlier than so-called friends.
“One of the -waitresses. Do you know Effie Kaligaris?” she asked.
Jo took that as her cue to get back to -work. She ran into Bryn by the lockers. “There's a girl out front -waiting for Effie,” she told Bryn, even though Bryn -wasn't speaking to her. “I think she's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.”
Bryn couldn't resist knowing something. “That's Effie's sister. Her name is Lena. She just came back from Europe.”
“Her name is Lena? Are you sure? Are you sure she's Effie's sister?”
“Yeah.”
“You're kidding.”
Bryn rolled her eyes. “And I would be kidding because why?”
“I think she's one of the Sisterhood. You know, with the pants. I think she's one of those girls.” Jo was almost breathless. She felt like she'd seen a movie star. She suddenly -wanted to call Ama and Polly and tell them. She wished she could.
Bryn narrowed her eyes. “Simmer down, sister,” she said mockingly.
Jo stood on her tiptoes to catch another glimpse of Lena, but she had gone.
“No wonder Effie's so sour,” Jo murmured.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“How would you like to have a sister like that?”
For the last hour of the shift, Effie was more pleasant. Or less radically unpleasant. Maybe she was cowed by the presence of her sister, Jo conjectured. Maybe she was realizing -what a complete wretch she was being. Maybe the worst of it was over.
That was what Jo thought until she was carrying a tray of drinks on one hand and a wipe rag in the other toward table four. Her feet were hurting -worse than ever and her hand was shaking under the weight of the heavy tray.
She maneuvered herself to the right spot at the side of the table and began lowering the tray. She silently cursed herself for carrying the rag, because she couldn't put it down anywhere and she needed the second hand for balance. She bent her knees and leaned over the four- top, between a pregnant woman and a man, presumably her husband.
This was when Effie passed by, more shadow than person. Effie took corporeal shape only long enough to sense the moment of Jo's greatest instability and knock her in the hip. Jo felt herself going down, and there was nothing she could do. Time spread out so she could see and suffer every aspect of the catastrophe.
It wouldn't have been so bad if the drinks she'd flung at the table were seltzers, say, or ginger ales, rather than three very full glasses of red wine and one cranberry spritzer.
It wouldn't have been so bad if they had just crashed to the floor rather than shattering and bouncing on the table in such a way as to produce a literal cascade of red liquid and glass shards.
It wouldn't have been so bad if the shoulder of the man she had grabbed for balance was healthy and normal rather than in a sling because of having been recently dislocated.
After the droplets and bits of glass had finally been carried down by gravity, the five of them—Jo and her four customers—along -with all the other people in the restaurant, froze in blinking disbelief, making sure no glass had landed in their eyes or mouth.
Jo found her voice, eventually, and soon after that her hands. She began apologizing and brushing the glass from arms and shoulders.
The man -with the bad shoulder groaned and clasped it -with his good arm. The other three stood all at once, sending lapfuls of glass bits to the floor.
While the rest of the staff stood dumb and motionless, Carlos appeared with a roll of paper towels under one arm and the broom and dustpan in the other.
“Thank you, Carlos,” Jo whispered in a voice just this side of a sob.
He patted her arm. More glass fell to the floor. She wondered if she was allowed to cry yet.
Richard, the manager, marched out, closely followed by Jordan. Jordan -w
as shaking his head.
There were a lot of apologies. Jo heard herself making most of them. There were guarantees of dinner on the house and all that. The four diners were in a pretty big hurry to get out of that place. They could have yelled at Jo even more than they did but for their hurry.
She heard Richard ominously assure the departing diners that he would “take care of her.” What did that mean? Was he going to order her out back and shoot her?
She watched the four diners file out under the care of the fast- talking Richard, all of them more or less covered with dark red liquid.
God, it looked grim. It looked like a scene from a horror movie—at the end, not the beginning. It wouldn't have been so bad if the pregnant woman hadn't been -wearing a white dress.
“Polly?” Dia sat up, disoriented. “Polly! What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”
Polly felt numb and jointless. She didn't know whether to go forward to her mother or step back. “Everything is okay.”
“How did you get here?”
“I walked.”
The alarm retreated from Dias face and her reorientation began. She looked around the studio and back at Polly. “What are you doing here?” she asked again, in a different tone.
“I—I …” Polly touched the balled- up paper in her back pocket. “Nothing. No reason.”
“You walked all the way here for no reason?”
“My … I thought …” Polly couldn't think of why she'd come. She couldn't think of the name of the convention she'd wanted to go to. “I'll leave,” she said.
“Polly.” Her mother-wrapped her arms around herself, as though it was cold, even though it was hot.
Her mother had missed countless lunches and dinners. She had missed drop- offs and pickups from school. She'd missed the soccer games where Polly mostly sat on the bench and twisted grass in her fingertips until they turned green. She'd missed Polly's plays and playdates. She'd left off scheduling things like dentist's appointments and piano lessons, because she had to, had to get to the studio. Polly had imagined there would be sculptures, hundreds of sculptures, for all the things she'd missed. Where were they? What did it mean? What did her mother do when she came here?