Balance of Fragile Things (4 page)

She lifted his face under the light. His nose had been broken. Black eyes were forming. His cheek was bruised and swollen. Maija began to cry without a sound. This was the work of a villain. “Oh, my baby!”

“Mama, can we talk about this later? Ouch!” Vic's voice was nasally, and Maija pushed him to sit at a kitchen stool and turned his face this way and that. She looked into his nostrils, cut pieces off a new sponge, and carefully shoved the sponge inside. Then she piled a bag of frozen lima beans on his face and told him to sit still.

“Oh dear, does it hurt much?”

He did not respond.

“Where is your sissy Queen Isabella?” Maija asked while nervously dumping a pile of ibuprofen into her hand; a few fell to the floor, and she didn't pick them up.

“Rehearsal. The play.”

“Ah, yes, will Michelle give her a ride home, then?” She tried her hardest not to say anything about the fight because that was Paul's department, though it was difficult. “You know, you are lucky to have such a nice little sissy, Vicki; you should take care of her. Ninth grade can be very difficult for kids these days.”

Maija's fountain of parenting knowledge reached the end. She considered the archetypes she'd learned from television, including the troubled teens, pregnant teens, druggy teens, and even prostituting teens. Just earlier that day, she'd watched a special on the Internet and teens, and she was thankful neither of her children spent much time on their one family computer in the kitchen, except when papers were due. Oh yes, Vic had an obsession with a video game that had something to do with building a city, an entire simulated world. That and his blog he told her about. This sounded nice to Maija—so creative, not destructive—but Vic would never show his mother his creations.

“Please don't call me Vicki, Mama. Call me Vic.”

“Oh yes. Sorry,
mazs dēls
.” Maija put her hands on Vic's cheeks and concentrated in an attempt to see something, anything—but the other world gave her nothing, as usual.

“Mama, quit it!”

“Who did this to you?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Your father will fix it.”

“It's like I'm asking for it, wearing this stupid thing on my head and all.”

“Vicki!”

“There isn't even a
gurdwárá
in this town—why should I have to wear this?”

“You want I should start one? You're lucky I don't send you to Latvian camp. There's one in Pennsylvania, you know. Or maybe you'd rather.” Maija's cold eyes found Vic's pupils.

He looked unfazed. “You don't get it. Do kids in Latvia wear this?”

“I know how difficult the teen years are.”

Vic went to his room without looking back at his mother. She knew he wouldn't emerge until his father requested his presence in the backyard later. She knew he thought it was unfair that his sister didn't have to display an element of their father's orthodox religion. But wasn't that part of being a teenager, thinking the world's against you and wondering why it's so unfair?

Maija wondered how having a grandparent in the house would change her children. She went to his bedroom; the door wasn't closed all the way, so she peeked inside. His hair was flowing down his back in curls, rebelling against the turban. He looked small under all that hair. He was sitting on the edge of his bed reading a comic. She wanted to go in, wanted to talk, but she wouldn't. What was he reading? A story about a rabbit samurai? She couldn't read the rest of the cover.
Ach
, she wanted to enter, but she remembered hearing somewhere that it was best to give space to teens. She just hoped he wasn't imagining what it would feel like to hold a sword in his own hands. But then she remembered his aversion to sharp objects and felt better.

T
he stage was a collection of loosely assembled wood, nails, and glue, its floor covered in thick black paint, dulled and scratched by a thousand feet that crossed it in productions of
A
Midsummer Night's Dream
and
The Crucible
. Behind the curtained walls: four metal chairs, six bowler hats, broken track lights, a working stepladder, and a podium. Stage left: a wooden cutout of a leafless willow tree painted black and gray. Stage right: petite Isabella Singh, with long black hair and caramel eyes hidden behind glasses, and sixteen-year-old Erik Fritjof, who looked like a scrawny descendant of Vikings.

Isabella's surroundings were standard as far as high school theaters went, but she had never been inside a real theater. The Royal Cineplex 5 didn't count; that was where she'd sneak in the back door with a bag of sour gummy worms tucked in her pocket and stay all day long, bouncing from one movie to the next as if it was her job. This theater was different. Its smell, for one thing, was a combination of dense mothballs and Elmer's glue. Isabella imagined that the stage was pasted together and wondered if it might collapse under the six drama club members and one rotund teacher. She estimated the distance to the exit was thirty seconds away at a sprint, and she wondered, if she ran fast enough, whether she could defy the space-time continuum and go back in time to three weeks earlier and not join the drama club.

“Are we square? One more time.” Mr. Tewkesbury rubbed his belly over his red flannel shirt. Mr. Tewkesbury's Worcester accent caused him to avoid Rs as though they were arsenic, so his
square
sounded like
sk-way
.

Isabella adjusted the bowler hat tipped on her head. The black circle drawn over her left eye with face paint was running down her cheek. Rumor had it that the face paint was left over from when Tewks had done a stint in the circus as a clown. That was after his off-Broadway days, which he reminded his students of often. They'd been practicing the scene from
Waiting for Godot
because it would, as Tewks put it, help them intellectually understand his own play,
1,001 Cries
, which they would be performing in three weeks. Each week, he'd cast a different actor as Vladimir or Estragon. Now it was Isabella's turn as Estragon.

Isabella read her line. “Where are the leaves?”

Erik said, “It must be dead.”

Isabella said, “No more weeping.”

Tewks screamed, “No, no, no! You both sound like robots. Put some feeling into it. Remember what I told you earlier.”

Isabella pushed her glasses higher on her nose. The rest of the club held its breath, too afraid to express their lack of comprehension. “Um, no, Mr. Tewkesbury. What do you mean by ‘defiling plot,' and what does, er, something about ‘rupturing representations of reality' mean?”

He growled and clumsily cleaned his round spectacles on the edge of his shirt. “I knew my gift to you all would go unappreciated.” He twisted his copy of
Waiting for Godot
into an object appropriate for hitting students, then spread his hands and pushed outward at the students, as if through this action he could blast them all off the stage and out the rear door. “The author is a postmodernist. He is destroying the grand narrative.”

“I get it, Mr. Tewkesbury. They don't, but I do.” Tracy Finch's voice was cotton candy.

“No, I understand that part,” Isabella said. “It's minimalist. But what's the point? Is it a play about nothing?” Isabella moved closer to Erik for support. Michelle, her best friend, moved toward her as well.

“Well—in a way.” Tewks squinted.

“Like
Seinfeld
?” Erik ventured.

“Nothing like
Seinfeld
. Take five.” Tewks clapped his hands, then pointed to Tracy, and they both went toward his office.

“Fun, fun,” Michelle said to Isabella.

“What's he thinking, anyway? High school theater is about the big five.” Erik shrugged.

“Big five?”

“
The Crucible, A Midsummer Night's Dream, A Christmas Carol, Beauty and the Beast
, and of course, if you're daring,
Arsenic and Old Lace.
I didn't sign up for postmodern drama. I hate the way that Tewks is forcing it down our throats. And, like, we should be spending time rehearsing
1,001 Cries.”

“Yeah, and what's up with Tracy? She's so obviously his lap dog.” Michelle tousled her blonde pixie haircut and stuck her finger down her throat in a faux gag.

Isabella nodded in agreement. She thought about Tracy. Isabella found herself hesitant around Tracy, always afraid she would see signs of the girl who had lived next door when they were children. What if Isabella got the urge to remind Tracy of the day they'd played hide-and-seek and Isabella had lost her pink My Little Pony in Tracy's backyard? What might happen if she mentioned the time they'd dressed in Mrs. Finch's clothes and pretended to be mommies to their baby dolls?

Reminiscing was only meaningful between two friends. Isabella would be a fool to ask Tracy how she liked living in the Heights, across the river. She would be even more foolish to ask how her life had changed since PMI closed and her father, who was a PMI director, was laid off and given enough severance to begin building the Heights development. The Finch flock had sold their house next to the Singhs on Peregrine Court, moved to their gated community across the river, and ascended the social ladder into the upper echelon of Cobalt. Isabella's father used to obsess about what Mr. Finch did to receive such a massive severance. It gave him little comfort to know the Finches had inherited the land on which they'd built the development from Mr. Finch's great-grandfather.

As Tewks and Tracy returned, Isabella looked at Tracy—in spite of the downpour of doubt, not because of it. Tracy's golden hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her slender back. Aside from the hair and eyes, Isabella couldn't find a trace of the girl she had known five years earlier. It was strange to realize that so much time had passed, yet this was the first moment Isabella had studied her ex-friend unabashedly. The sightings in the school halls were fleeting. Getting a good look at Tracy was like trying to spot a gazelle in a field of reeds. The divide between the microcosms of student society didn't allow them to interact.

Tewks had returned with a stack of paper, sweaty with determination. The students gathered around him eagerly.

“This should be good.” Erik nudged Isabella's arm. She felt sparks all over her body.

Michelle gripped Isabella's arm. “Isabella, I have to tell you something.”

“What, Michelle?”

Her friend looked nervous.

“Now,” Tewks said, “I have to reassign the lead role, since the lead will no longer be with us. No complaining, no trading, and no crying.”

Tracy scowled at Isabella.

“Isabella,” Tewks continued, “since you've shown some promise, and I assume you've spent time with Michelle as she worked on this role, you will play Samantha from now on.”

Gasps rose from the group.

“What? Me? Why?” Isabella turned to her friend. “Michelle?” Samantha was the President's daughter, who during the play was trapped in the bomb shelter with the Vice President, trying to talk him out of pressing the doomsday button.

“You will be perfect.” Tewks grinned and clapped his hands together, making it so.

“I'm sorry,” Michelle whispered. “I just found out and wanted to tell you before this, but all my teachers got a letter from my dad. I'm moving.”

Isabella felt as if she'd been hit twice by a truck: Her best friend was moving, and she had to take her role. She'd signed up for drama club for three reasons: Michelle, Mrs. Stein, and Erik. First Michelle had wanted her to join. Then Mrs. Stein had ultimately convinced her to join after Isabella had neglected to turn in a paper about Charlotte Brontë. Isabella had tried to use “religious holiday” and “my grandmother's sick” as excuses, but Mrs. Stein had seen through it and suggested that she join the drama club for extra credit, adding that this extra credit would, in fact, be required in order to receive a decent grade in the class. And then Isabella had met Erik and decided she wanted to stay.

“You've made a mistake,” Isabella said to Tewks. She was fine with a bit part like Girl #3 or the Explosion, which stood to the rear of the stage and didn't have to do much but scream
Bam
and shake a tambourine at a particular moment.

“Why, are you not comfortable playing the lead?”

“No, it's just—”

“Look, figure out if you want it by tomorrow morning. I'd really like to see you as Samantha. She's the Lolita of the play, okay, and you're perfect for the part.”

Isabella blushed. Erik whispered, “That's hot.”

“I'll have to think about it.” She fought the urge to vomit; her heart raced.

“Okay.” Tewks rolled his eyes. “You have one day. The show is scheduled to begin in three weeks. And now that we've changed things, we are in a crunch.” He continued reassigning a few of the smaller roles.

Dammit! Isabella's thoughts were so loud she wondered if others could hear her. She couldn't possibly manage the lead role. She couldn't even remember her homework, much less an entire script. It was Tewks's fault they were behind schedule; now they all were going to be punished for his lack of connection to reality.

“No, not okay, Tewks.” Tracy was the only student who had the permission to call him by his nickname. “She's all wrong for the part. I should be Samantha. Look at her! She totally can't even handle us looking at her right now. How is she supposed to manage an entire audience?”

Isabella laughed nervously. Her nose, which was a smaller, feminine version of her brother's, turned scarlet. When she was born, Isabella had looked just like her father's second cousin's mother—a woman named Rani who everyone said was
sohná
. When Isabella was eight, she began to look more like her mother's side of the family; her eyes appeared more unintentionally intense day by day. Now, as a teen, she finally looked like herself, independent of the Singh or Mazur tribes, aside from the nose.

“Shush up, Tracy. Samantha's Best Friend is a great role for you.” He turned back to Isabella. “We'll have to do something about that overly responsive nose of yours. Do you have contacts?”

“You'll be great,” Erik said before tossing his backpack over his shoulder and leaving with the other students.

In the hallway, Michelle held her hand and said, “Remember that time we told our moms we were sleeping at each other's houses and went to the haunted house in Oswego instead?”

“Yeah, brilliant idea. We didn't even make it until dark.” Isabella rolled her eyes.

“And we thought we were going to sleep there through the night and take pictures of the old woman ghost.”

“Mrs. Fletcher. Yeah, that was super creepy.”

Then Michelle changed the subject. “I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to tell you first,” she said. “My dad had to tell Tewks because he's a teacher.”

“What's going on?”

“It's my immune system. They don't know what's wrong with me. They think I'm—”

“Don't even say it.”

Michelle had been sick for months, but Isabella had just assumed it was mono or the flu or something that teenagers get. She never thought it was serious.

“I don't know. Maybe I've got something bad in my blood.”

“Where are you going?”

“New York City. My dad got transferred there so we can be close to NYU and Columbia hospitals. I'm scared, Iz.”

Isabella hugged her friend. “It'll be okay. I know it will.” She said a prayer in her mind. She held Michelle's hand as they walked. “The city isn't far. I can take a bus there in three hours.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. I'll ride the bus even if I have to sit next to a weirdo.”

“You're gonna do great as Samantha.”

“I can't.”

“You can. Do it for me.”

Isabella's stomach turned, and her head shook no.

“You want to come over?”

“I should head home. Mom's all into QT together. I'll walk.”

“I have to pack anyway. I'll call you before I leave.”

“I can't believe—” Isabella stopped, her words flat in her mouth.

She walked the long way home from school. The cold air was heavy with moisture. Isabella let the tears come without fight. They rolled warmly down her cheeks and around her mouth, then collected at the delicate point of her chin. She wished her run-down suburban surroundings were a desert, ocean, or forest. The houses she passed in the neighborhood around Cobalt High seemed to be watching her, judging her with their chipped-paint faces. Instead of inducing visions of comfort and apple pie, the word
neighborhood
twisted Isabella's stomach into knots.

She ducked into the clearing that ran between an old factory and the river near the Flats. Nature ignores us, she thought; it doesn't watch us. The wild had reclaimed the factory-turned-brownfield. Concrete slabs, rebar, and other remnants of the booming assembly of computer parts were almost fully appropriated. Tall grasses, young sycamores, and ivy sprouted from gaps in the walls and tilted cement blocks. A steel rod stabbed an oak tree that had grown too close to a wall. How slow the pain must have been, Isabella thought. The bark looked as if it had parted and made way for the metal that embedded itself into it—but it grew beyond that point; its branch made a detour around the steel. The tree continued.

She slowed her steps and peered into a glassless window of the factory. It smelled sweet inside, as if the last person who'd left had dumped a barrel of clover honey on the floor. They must have left quickly, she noted, because telephones, folders, desks, and other typical office equipment were still inside, as if an atom bomb had vaporized all the humans. She heard the
whoo-whoo
of a barn owl that was perched high in the rafters. It stared down at her with its ghostly, heart-shaped face. Humans leave permanent stains on the spaces they use, she thought, then turned her back to the brownfield and walked toward the thicket.