Tell Me Something Real Page 15

  Mrs. Albright takes the seat next to mine. “What did your dad say about the conservatories?” she asks.

  “I haven’t told him yet. I can’t up and leave for boarding school. I wish that Point Loma and the San Diego Conservatory hadn’t rejected me. Maybe I could go to the Coronado magnet arts school? I know it isn’t a conservatory, but I could take more piano classes there.”

  I reach for one of Mrs. Albright’s cherished pencils and doodle on my class schedule, spirals, tendrils, and waves. I want to transfer—no question—but I couldn’t do that to my sisters. Or even to Dad. I find myself thinking about the conservatories at random times: in the shower or while I’m cleaning the house or braiding Marie’s hair. How could I transfer when the guilt of leaving would strangle any joy and creativity I have? I wish I could escape to music camp for just a week. If I ever get the chance, maybe I’ll move to Idyllwild, high in the mountains. I’ve always been happy there, safe and enveloped in music, surrounded by others who love it as much as I do.

  Conservatories and camp and the mountains are meant for the future. Not now.

  Gently, Mrs. Albright plucks the pencil from my hand. “They’re not that far away,” she says. “Both are in driving distance, just up the coast. You have a gift, Vanessa. Music is a part of you. Every few years, I have a student like you, except you’re different. You’ve been through something none of them have. I want you to have the opportunity to play through your pain.”

  “It’s too much to figure out,” I say.

  “Did I ever tell you what inspired me to learn the piano?”

  I shake my head.

  “When Beethoven started to lose his hearing, he sawed off the legs of his grand piano. Then he lay on the ground right next to it, and pressed his ear to the floor and played. Imagine going to such lengths to hear a single note of music. I couldn’t believe someone had that much passion. I wanted to feel that way.

  “I’m not saying transferring will be easy, but I see something in you. I worry that you’ll lose it if you don’t devote yourself to music.”

  When I gaze out the window, I see the boys’ cross country team running around the field. They resemble Canada geese, flying in formation, migrating to their next destination. Some of the guys run without shirts. A few of them are as tall as Caleb, others runty. All skinny, but not skinny like Caleb, whose body shows hints of his past health, his broad and once muscular shoulders, his chest temporarily concave. I look away.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll talk to my dad.”

  She nods her head, serious instead of smiling. “As your teacher, that’s all I ask.”

  When I leave the music room, I hear Adrienne all the way down the hall. I rush past everyone, the entire junior class lining the lockers, trading summer vacation stories. Her shouting is urgent as a fire alarm. They all start turning their heads, craning their necks to see what’s going on: my sister shoving her boyfriend against a locker.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” she screams. “How could you do this to me?”

  I drop my backpack and run to her, functioning like a human shield so she won’t hurt Zach. I stare straight into her eyes, absorbing her fury. She looks right through me.

  “Let’s go,” I say. “We can go to the beach. Anywhere you want.”

  “I want to kill my stupid EX-boyfriend!” she screams. Her face contorts with rage.

  I turn to Zach, who stands guppy-mouthed and shocked.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “I told Tina and Kim that they shouldn’t bring up your mom. I thought that would be easier on Adrienne, you know, if they knew what was going on.” His voice shakes and I realize that I’ve never seen Zach upset. Bummed about beach closures and bad pop quiz scores, but not upset.

  And I’ve never seen Adrienne this angry.

  She pants, out of breath like she just finished running a marathon. “You had no right to tell anyone anything about me. I can’t believe I ever went out with you. Don’t ever talk to me again. Don’t call me. You can go fuck a donut for all I care!”

  I yank her arm and drag her to the front entrance, past the reviled senior English teacher, Mrs. Hacker, who shouts for us to stop.

  The door slams shut and I release Adrienne, leaving fingerprints on her skin from where I clutched her arm.

  “Come on,” she says. It’s her turn to pull me along, and I’m never more grateful to go to a huge high school. I don’t recognize half of the people we pass, blending in with thirty-five hundred other kids, a cover of anonymity.

  We stop at the art classrooms, at a patch of grass protected by several giant eucalyptus trees. Adrienne pulls me to the ground. I hate the way she gasps for breath. She’s never looked more like Mom.

  “You know,” she says, “the whole school will find out by lunch.”

  “Maybe it won’t be that bad.” I know she’s right, though, and I already imagine all the eyes on me, the whispers, the pointed fingers. She’s the one with the crazy mother.

  “God, he had to tell Kim and Tina of all people? They’re the ones who told everyone that Bethany Carson got knocked up. I love them, but they’re shitty friends when it comes to stuff like this. He’s so stupid. I can’t believe he did this to me.”

  I lose some of my sympathy for Zach. Our lives are going to be a living hell. I don’t know how I’m going to face everyone in class, not if they all know.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  Adrienne surprises me by shaking her head. “Not yet. We can’t let them scare us off that easily.”

  “Wait,” I say. “No one did this on purpose. Zach was trying to help.”

  “You need to wake up, little sister. People are going to be assholes, and some of them will try to use this against us. Me, anyway, and I’m going to go all West Side Story on them when they do.”

  “Give me the car keys,” I say.

  “Are you going to go joy riding with your permit?”

  “I need a place to go, Adrienne.” Already, my chest feels boa constrictor tight. Mrs. Albright will let me stay in the music room as much as possible, but she won’t permit me to miss all of my classes.

  She tosses me the keys. “I’ll meet you right here. Don’t be late.”

  I’ve driven Dad’s car, a cream-colored Mercedes, not at all a family car. Even after two years, it still smells new, barely used compared to Mom’s Datsun, prematurely aged from our countless border crossings. Sticky from spilled soda and road trip snacks.

  When I slip into the driver’s seat, I place my hands in the same position that Mom does, just above the center, at ten and two o’clock. Always in the same spots, even when she drove through the storm. Precise, but then again, liars rely on precision.

  I expect to feel like her, somehow, by occupying her car, her seat. I glance in the rearview mirror. She would have seen me in the reflection, always sitting behind her, always hoping she felt well enough for the trip. But I only feel nerves as I head north on the Pacific Coast Highway.

  The empty stretch of sand never seemed so desolate. Not a single surfer dots the waves, nor a fisherman on the rickety pier. I don’t bother locking the car. The man recognizes me and waves. After years of buying food from him, did Mom ever ask his name? I offer a polite hello, but otherwise wait for the clams in silence.

  My feet freeze midstep. I intended to eat the clams at the end of the pier, something Mom and I used to do. But when I look at the ocean, at the endless expanse of blue, I can’t will myself to walk. The planks creak beneath my weight, and in between the worn wood, I watch the water wash to the shore, covering the creatures burrowed under the sand. Gulls caw overhead, scavenging for scraps, and a hollowness fills me, something so deep and desperate that I think I’ll never escape.

  I toss the clams into the water.

  I’m seized by the desire to drive her car off the pier, not to commit suicide, but to destroy her vehicle of deceit. It was a mistake to come back here, to think that I could take comfort in nostalgia, even
something so commonplace as fried food on the beach. She robbed me of that.

  Slamming the car door shut, I smack the center of the steering wheel with my open palm, a slap that sounds the horn. The glove compartment gapes open, sending paper to the floor. I reach for the clinic brochure, black-and-white, with photos of the courtyard, the welcoming fountain, and the grounds like it’s a hotel. The text tells a different story.

  The Laetrile molecule chemically reacts with healthy enzymes of noncancerous cells before effectively destroying active cancer cells. This process produces results in a matter of months, but in some cases, a matter of years.

  To accompany the therapy, patients must adhere to a strict diet, including taking the following dietary supplements.

  Within weeks of Laetrile therapy, most patients show signs of increased energy and activity, pain relief, fall of blood pressure, and improved appetite.

  Sitting in her seat, placing my hands on the faded traces of her fingerprints, won’t help me understand. Just like tormenting Dad won’t give me answers. Only Mom can tell me why she did this, how she decided her children are disposable, are nothing to her. I crumple up the brochure and toss it out the window, hoping the wind will carry it to the water for a sailor’s burial.

  The music comes slowly, an unconscious tapping on the steering wheel. I rush out of the car to chase the brochure, rolling down the cement sidewalk like a tumbleweed. I could pull my notebook from my backpack, but this paper, these words and images, are my accompaniment. I scrawl notes in the margins. I scribble over words of false hope with my first piece of music, writing until it’s time to meet my sister.

  Adrienne scrambles out of the car before I turn off the engine.

  “I mean it, Zach. Get the hell away from my house. GO!”

  She tosses her backpack at him, which he dodges with ease. He picks it up, doing his best to act like everything is normal. But I see the pain in his eyes, and it reminds me of why I like him. Zach is good and pure-hearted, a guy from a book, the goofy, cute sidekick. And in his case, in this moment, profoundly stupid.

  “Okay, A, I’m going to let you calm down.”

  When she storms past him, I half expect to witness an act of violence. He steps aside, standing still even when she slams the door in his face. Through the window, I see his profile, the way he closes his eyes.

  “Jackass,” Adrienne says.

  I turn away. I want to tell Adrienne everything, about the conservatories, about Mrs. Albright, but she needs space. I wish she could put her anger aside long enough to really talk to me. I need her to listen without exploding. I want her to hear my dream of going—really hear me. But she can’t do that now. She’ll be fine if everyone leaves her alone for a little while. I just have to be patient, like Dad is doing with her. Adrienne turns on the radio, some rock song by Queen. I try to block out the sound, replacing it in my mind with the notes I conjured at the beach. No matter how painful, driving there unlocked something deep inside me, something that was missing all summer long. A certain quality of playing, a power almost beyond myself, when the music roots me completely.

  “Mind if I practice?” I want to keep the music alive in my mind.

  Adrienne turns off the radio. “Go for it. I want to sketch, and your music will make me feel better.”

  I tug her sleeve. “You know he didn’t mean to hurt you, right?”

  Adrienne stares at me with eyes full of fury. “It doesn’t matter. He shouldn’t have done it. I thought you had to practice.”

  “I do.”

  Adrienne joins me in the dining room, spreading out her sketchbook and evaluating her work, the dramatic Mexican landscapes and something new, a scary portrait of Mom, her face cadaver thin with Medusa hair full of writhing snakes.

  Before I have a chance to sit down, the doorbell rings.

  Adrienne looks up. “Can you get it? Can’t deal.”

  “Sure.” I open the door to Zach, who runs a hand through his hair.

  “Has she cooled down?” he asks. “I heard music. Music relaxes her.”

  His face holds several expressions at once: confusion, concern, and sadness. I hear Adrienne’s determined footsteps.

  When she sees Zach, she says, “How many times do I have to tell you to leave me alone? Seriously, I don’t want you here. Leave now. NOW!”

  Zach, in his seemingly endless valor, doesn’t descend the stairs, but takes a seat at the top, his long legs stretching out in the sun. “Nope.”

  Adrienne slams the door with such force that the floor shakes like an earthquake’s aftershock.

  I look at her. “Don’t do this.”

  Adrienne peeks through the curtain. “He’s still there,” she fumes, and storms into the kitchen.

  I hear the sound of the faucet and Adrienne returns with a pitcher full of water. I stare at her, knowing there’s nothing I can do to stop her. So I take a seat at the kitchen table, putting aside my urgent need for music, and listen to Zach’s shocked yelp.

  She rushes back to the kitchen.

  “Adrienne, please,” I plead. “Stop.”

  “No. Don’t make me cry. I can’t fucking cry.”

  I try to hug her, but she holds up the pitcher to block me. Mom’s wedding crystal. Adrienne hurls it across the kitchen, barely missing the window, and the crystal splits into shards the way everything in our lives is shattering.

  “Leave it,” she says with tears streaming down her face. “I’ll clean it up. Get out of the kitchen. You’ll cut yourself. Okay?”

  I stand there, dumbfounded.

  “Vanessa! Did you hear me? Get out of the kitchen.”

  I nod, my eyes volleying between Adrienne and the broken glass. She might not get over this. We all might be broken—always. Collateral damage, the price for Mom’s lies.

  Dad carries Marie into the house like she’s a toddler again. He lifts her up with ease, all seventy-five pounds of her, and holds her tenderly. She wraps her legs around his waist, crossing her bare feet, and rests her head on his shoulder.

  “Down you go, baby,” he says.

  As soon as her feet touch the ground, Marie tugs at her new dress, the one Adrienne bought for her first day of school. She clutches her rosary and walks down the hall, humming to herself. I hear Adrienne open her door and the two of them talking.

  “Did she have an okay day?” I ask.

  “Come.” He gestures to the door. “I picked up some groceries.”

  The afternoon sun evaporated the water, evidence of Adrienne’s assault on Zach. I almost tell Dad, but the idea of Adrienne turning her anger on me stops me cold. She swept up the crystal in silence, and we resumed our music and drawing for the rest of the afternoon.

  Dad reaches into the trunk and hands me a gallon of cold milk, the handle wet with condensation.

  “I didn’t tell Marie’s teacher or the principal,” he says. Another omission, but this one feels right. He sees my flicker of support and smiles. I smile back. “I thought I’d give her some time to settle in.”

  If we can spare Marie from a few days of hovering teachers, that will be a blessing. I wish Adrienne and I could share that luxury, but Zach’s carelessness destroyed that.

  I transfer the milk from one hand to another. “Any news about Mom?”

  He meets my eyes before shaking his head. “Nothing to report. How about you? How was your first day?”

  “Exactly what you’d expect.”

  “I think our lives are beyond expectations, don’t you?” He stands with resolve, and while I see his pain, it seems distant now, as though he stashed it in the back of a cupboard, safe from view, and only takes it out at night. On our way into the house, he squeezes my shoulder, his touch light and fleeting. My feet stop midstep and I half hope he’ll pick me up like Marie.

  In her room, I comb through Marie’s drawers to find her something to wear. She says she hates the dress, the fabric feels like fire, like it’s burning her skin. Only holy clothing from now on. Adrienne hides her
disappointment, not a surprise, since she’s always gentle with Marie. I unfold each of her saint shirts, displaying them on the floor for her to pick. Marie doesn’t bother looking.

  “I want my Joan of Arc one,” she says, pointing to her most gruesome, her favorite.

  I smooth out the green fabric and hand it to her.

  “She’s your favorite today?” I ask.

  Marie smiles. “She’ll be my favorite from now on. See?”

  She displays the underside of her arms, covered with made-up prayers, haiku-short, that she’s written on her skin.

  Adrienne and I exchange a startled look.

  “My teacher doesn’t like them,” she says. “I have to wash off the ink or she’s sending home a note, so I’m writing where she can’t see.”

  “What are you talking about?” Adrienne asks. “Where?”

  Marie wiggles out of her dress so we can see her chest and belly, inscriptions written in permanent marker: If I am not, may God put me there; and if I am, may God so keep me.

  “See, Joan rode into war for God. Just like Joan, I will do whatever God tells me.”

  I pick up her arms, reading the quotes she inscribed: I am not afraid . . . I was born to do this. Act, and God will act.

  “You can’t write on yourself,” I say, shuddering. “Come on, we need to wash it off.”

  “No, please let me keep it,” she pleads. “It’s my protection.”

  “I have an idea,” Adrienne says. “How about you take a bath and I can make you a shirt instead? That way you can wear it without writing on your skin.”

  Marie sits on her bed, unsure, clearly carrying on an internal debate, closing her eyes, moving her lips in prayer. I wrap my arms around her, wanting her to talk to me rather than send her words up to Joan or God. I wonder if this is how she spent the day, at her desk and on the playground, reciting quotes and prayers in the hope that someone divine will hear, will consider her voice worthy.

  But we aren’t worthy, not to Mom. Of all her sins, this is the greatest.