Infinite in Between (8 page)

MOM JUST TOLD
me that she and Dad saw a custody mediator today,
Alicia texted.

Whitney adjusted the band on her yoga pants and looked around to make sure no one else had seen that. She and some other people from the chorus were in the back of the auditorium at a rehearsal for
Grease
. They were chatting and swapping shoulder rubs. Whitney
so
didn't want to think about her parents' divorce right now. These days, rehearsal was the one place she felt good. She didn't even care that she didn't get a big part. The chorus had become really close. Plus, the choreographer was putting her in front for all the dances.

Okay . . . whatever,
Whitney texted her sister. Hopefully, that would shut her up.

The custody stuff was probably Alicia's fault. After they split up, their parents had agreed that Whitney and Alicia would divide their weeks between their mom and dad. Except then Alicia decided she hated their dad and was refusing to go there. That left Whitney alone to haul her stuff back and forth every three days and eat takeout Chinese alone with her dad and hear all about his tropical fish.

No, it's worse than that,
Alicia texted back.

Worse than what?
Whitney wrote, but instead of keeping up this conversation with Alicia, she tucked her phone under her leg. Alicia needed to get a life. It was like she enjoyed making Whitney upset.

“Did you know that today is the Ides of March?” Gus asked. He was a sophomore and a three-season jock. A hamstring injury had kept him out of basketball this winter, so he'd tried out for the play and had gotten into the chorus. He also happened to be Whitney's boyfriend.

“What's that?” Laurel asked.

“March fifteenth,” Gus said. “The day that Brutus killed Caesar.”

Whitney positioned herself behind Gus and squeezed her fingers into his wide shoulders. He stretched his neck from side to side. She and Gus had been together for two weeks. He was cute with short curly hair and he'd just gotten his license. They made out in his car after they dropped Laurel off every night.

Laurel was definitely Whitney's best friend now. When Kyra didn't get cast in
Grease
, not even in the chorus, she stopped talking to Whitney. A total freeze-out. Kyra sat at a different lunch table and turned her head when she passed Whitney in the hall. Whitra was dead and so was Kyrney.

Whitney's phone pinged under her leg. She ignored it. It pinged again and then again.

“I think someone's trying to text you,” Laurel said.

Whitney leaned in and kissed Gus's neck. He moaned a little and squeezed her thigh. Maybe she'd let him go to second base after rehearsal tonight.

“Want me to see who's texting you?” Laurel asked, reaching for Whitney's phone.

“No!” Whitney said, pulling away from Gus. The last thing she wanted was to have anyone see those texts from her sister. She slipped her phone out.

You wanna hear how bad it is?
Alicia had written.
They went in to fight over custody of our DOG. I hate them.

Whitney was aware of her friends, chatting happily around her, totally oblivious.

Custody of Vic?
she wrote to Alicia. That was their white Jack Russell terrier. Since her dad had stayed in the house after the separation, he'd gotten the dog.

Are there other dogs in the picture?
Alicia texted back.
Of course Vic.

Why can't they just figure it out on their own?
Whitney asked.

Because they're immature infants,
Alicia wrote.
I hate them both.

“Do you ever wonder what Caesar thought?” Laurel asked, taking a sip of water from Whitney's bottle.

Whitney set down her phone. Her head felt woozy. “What he thought when?” she asked. She wanted to pretend things were normal, that her parents weren't going through a divorce and fighting over a dog and her sister didn't hate everyone. She wished she could live in this world of
Grease
and never leave.

“When Brutus was coming at him with a knife,” Laurel said.

“It wasn't just Brutus coming at him,” Gus said. “It was the entire Senate.”

“Brutal,” Whitney said.

Everyone laughed. When her phone pinged again, she turned it off.

GREGOR DID
NOT
see this coming. At least they were doing dishes so he didn't have to look his dad in the eye.

“As I imagine you know,” his dad said, “there are several brands. When you do need a condom, I recommend starting with a conventional maker like Trojan or Lifestyle.”

At least his mom and Erica weren't home. They were searching for prom dresses at the mall. He and his dad had made burgers and eaten in front of the TV. Things had seemed normal until . . . this. Gregor's cheeks felt feverish, and his ears were ringing.

“Do you know about lubrication?” his dad asked, handing him a sudsy plate.

Gregor stooped over the dishwasher, taking extra time to fit the plate in.

“I guess,” he finally managed. “It's moisture, right?”

“Exactly.” His dad handed him two forks. “A condom with lubrication will be more comfortable for your partner . . . and for you. Spermicide is important too. I'll buy you some condoms to try on when you're ready. It's good to have practice.”

Now his dad was going too far.
Way
too far.

“Dad.” Gregor's voice was barely a squeak. “I'm kind of dying here. Can we change the subject?”

“Too much?”

“Maybe a little,” Gregor said. “Maybe a thousand times more than a little.”

“Got it.” Gregor's dad tossed him a sponge to clean the counters. “Here's a good story for you. This is an embarrassing one from when I was in high school.”

“It's not about condoms, is it?”

His dad shook his head and then squeezed dishsoap into the frying pan. “One morning my mom was dropping me off outside the band room.”

Gregor tried to picture his grandmother as a mom, driving her son to school. Nana Margaret had gotten her license taken away a few years ago when she'd knocked over three mailboxes in a five-day period.

Gregor's dad continued. “She was driving a green Oldsmobile station wagon with a bumper sticker that said
My Child Is An Honor Student
.”

“Sounds bad,” Gregor said, grinning. He was still recovering from the condom talk, but he liked stories from when his dad went to Hankinson.

“I opened the passenger door, got my oboe case, and stepped out. Just at that moment, Nana Margaret backed up, rolling over my foot. But instead of continuing to reverse, she braked to remind me I had an orthodontist appointment that afternoon.”

“She drove over your foot? Were you okay?”

“No!” Gregor's dad laughed. “But just as I was about to scream, I saw three cute girls on the path going into school, watching me.”

Gregor groaned. He tried to imagine that happening to him. It was too horrible to think about. “What did you say?”

“I said ‘Back it up, Mom.'”

Gregor winced. “You said it like
that
? What did the girls do?”

“They were laughing like crazy.”

“How was your foot?”

Gregor's dad smiled as he turned off the faucet. “Two broken toes. I couldn't run cross-country for the rest of the season. But the girls seeing it was probably worse.”

Later that night Gregor sat on his bed with his journal open in his lap. No denying it, his dad had been a dork in high school. The “Back it up, Mom” story was total proof.

He chewed on his pen cap. He could hear his parents
oohing
and
aahing
in the other room as Erica modeled her prom dress. Russell was a junior, which was why Erica was going to the prom even though she was only a sophomore.

The thing was, Gregor's dad
had been
a dork, but he'd eventually grown taller and gotten his braces off. He went to Reed College out in Oregon and then Cornell Law School. That was where he met Gregor's mom. They got married and moved back to Hankinson and bought a house and had kids and this really nice life.

Gregor imagined a similar situation playing out for him. That was what he was planning to describe in his journal, except when he started writing, this was what came out instead:

April 11

Condoms

He scribbled that out so that no one could ever see it. Even the word
condom
freaked him out. Sure, he got boners, but to imagine needing a condom was insane. That would mean a girl was in the picture. And whenever Gregor thought of a girl, he thought of Whitney. Which was even more insane.

“YOU NEED A
thing,” Aunt Jane said to Zoe.

They were hanging out in the kitchen, waiting for the mac and cheese to finish baking. Zoe had made the béchamel sauce by herself.

“What do you mean?” Zoe picked a chunk of Gouda off the cutting board and popped it into her mouth.

“Interests,” Aunt Jane said. “Sports, music, a cooking class. You need to do something, start hanging out with other kids. Your grandmother loved cooking, you know. She passed it on to me. I can look into some classes. . . .”

Zoe shook her head.
No,
she wanted to say.
I'm not ready. I can barely make it through seven hours of school without wanting to fall asleep.
That was how it had been since she'd gotten back from California. She was even supposed to return to Hankinson, but then New Year's happened and everyone decided it was better for Zoe to be here while Sierra figured her life out.

Her phone rang. It was Whitney Montaine.

“A girl from school,” she said to her aunt.

“Go ahead and answer,” Aunt Jane said. “We're not eating for a few minutes.”

“No, it's okay. I can—”

“This is what I was just saying. You need
things
in your life. Answer your phone.”

Zoe hurried into the living room so Aunt Jane couldn't listen in.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Zoe? How's it going?”

Of all the girls at Hankinson, Whitney was definitely the nicest. Whenever Zoe braved the cafeteria, which was maybe once a week, Whitney waved her over. Whitney picked her in gym, and she was always inviting her out with her and her friends. But Zoe never said yes. Whitney was too gorgeous and perfect. Being around her made Zoe feel blurry.

“A few of us are going to the mall tomorrow night,” Whitney said. “They're having a sale on prom dresses. But it's not like we're only looking at dresses.”

Zoe knew from the lunch table that Whitney was going to the prom with a popular senior, Tripp, who was Brock Sawyer's older brother. She'd broken up with Gus when Brock's brother asked her to the prom. Brock was the cute guy who used to go out with Kyra. Kyra used to be Whitney's best friend, but they didn't talk anymore. Or maybe they were talking again. It was exhausting to keep it all straight.

“That sounds cool,” Zoe said, sitting on the piano bench. She definitely didn't want to be stuck at the mall with Whitney and her friends.

“My mom is driving us. It'll be me and Laurel and maybe Kyra if she's talking to me tomorrow.” Whitney giggled. “We can also hang out, try on bikinis. Can you believe it's almost summer?”

Zoe scratched at a pimple on her arm. She'd been trying on a bikini in London when Sierra flipped out and screamed at her. That was what had started all of this. Or maybe not. Maybe things were going to fall apart no matter what.

“I'm sorry,” Zoe said. “I'm busy tomorrow night. Thanks for asking.”

“That's okay,” Whitney said. “I just thought I'd ask. Wish me luck with the dress search.”

After they hung up, Zoe played a little Chopin on the piano. She didn't want to face Aunt Jane. She didn't want a
thing.

“What's wrong with helping her shop for dresses?” Aunt Jane asked over dinner. “It'll be fun. If you want, I can drive you separately and wait at that bookstore.”

“It's just . . .” Zoe served herself more mac and cheese. “I don't feel like it.”

“The girl who called you . . . Whitney? Did you say her last name is Montaine?”

“Yeah . . . why?”

Aunt Jane nodded. “Her dad is a chemistry professor at the college. People say he's brilliant.”

“Of course he's brilliant,” Zoe said. “Whitney's perfect.”

“I doubt that. Besides, look at your mom. People probably think that about you, too.”

Zoe shook her head.

“What? You don't think so?”

Ever since Christmas break, Zoe's face was disgusting with zits. It was almost as bad as that guy James, the one who used to sit next
to her on the bus last fall. She never saw him anymore. He probably got his license and was driving to school now.

“People look at me and think
what happened
? I don't look anything like my mom.”

Aunt Jane shook her head. “You're so pretty, Zoe. You don't see that? You've got a Laybourne chin and those adorable freckles.”

Zoe rolled her eyes. “All everyone cares about is asking how my mom is and whether she was in rehab. I never know what to tell them.”

“What about the truth?”

“Yeah, right.”

Aunt Jane wiped her lips with a napkin. “Here's the deal. You go with those girls to the mall tomorrow or you go to Al-Anon. There's a meeting downtown at seven. I'll drive you.”

Zoe's stomach started churning. She wished she hadn't eaten so much mac and cheese.

“I know it's tough love, but you're free-floating,” Aunt Jane said. “We need to start grounding you.”

The next evening Zoe zipped up her raincoat and texted Aunt Jane that she was going with option two.

By the time she got downtown, the rain had stopped. She sidestepped a puddle and wandered into a café called Bean. She sipped hot chocolate and leaned against the brick wall. A few people looked over at her. Most people in Hankinson knew who she was by this point. Now and then people posted photos of her around town. Zoe put on some music and pulled on her headphones.

A little before seven she made her way to the church. But as soon
as she got to the gray metal door, she froze. No way could she do this. Maybe it was anonymous for
most
people, but if word got out that Sierra Laybourne's daughter was at a support group for families of alcoholics, the media would flip out. Max would murder her.

“Hey . . . Zoe, right?”

Zoe spun around, her heart racing.
Oh no, no, no.
It was a girl from her global studies class. She had springy black hair and flushed cheeks. Last week she'd done her oral report on sweatshops in China.

“I'm Anna Kimball,” she said. Her neck was turning purplish and blotchy. “I didn't think I'd see anyone from school. No one can know about my dad, is the thing. He's a doctor and could lose his license. Even my mom doesn't know I'm here. I told her I was going to Bean to do homework.”

“I was just at Bean,” Zoe said.

They both stood there for a moment. If Anna told people that
she
was here, it would be New Year's Eve all over again. Back in the hospital, Max had pulled her aside and yelled at her for calling 911. He'd squeezed her upper arm, his fingernails digging into her skin. And then those photos hit the tabloids. For all of January, Zoe jumped whenever her phone rang.

“I won't tell anyone you're here,” Zoe said.

Anna smiled weakly. “Me neither. I mean, I know who you are. Of course I won't tell.”

Zoe opened the gray door, and they headed down the stairs together.